Ship Olympics: Event - Triathlon: Team Chapel Het
Title: Perfect In My Mind
Creator(s): Team Chapel Het (fic: medie, art: winterover, ideas & input by everyone)
Universe: TOS post-movies/AOS
Word Count: ~4600
Rating: PG
Summary: Christine finds herself thrown into a new universe. But she isn't alone.
Disclaimer: This is a fanwork for entertainment purposes. We do not own Star Trek. :(
*
I don't have forever, but I'll live like I do
Feels like endless summer with the light shining through
All I have is borrowed, my skin and my bones
All I have is borrowed, but I wear these summer clothes
Everything is just fine
Everything is just fine
So long as I'm by your side
It's perfect in my mind
Gold Motel - Perfect In My Mind
*
There was a day, once, when Christine Chapel believed nothing was impossible. A day when she served on a ship that made it easy. Miraculous resurrections, body swapping, last-second saves, and the occasional rewriting of the laws of physics. Nothing was impossible on the Enterprise, and she'd carried that belief with her when she'd left, transferring to Emergency Ops to pull off a few miracles of her own.
For a while, it worked. But only for a while.
Then, Jim-and Scotty. Christine winced. She didn't know which one hurt worse. Losing Jim had ripped her heart out, knocked her cold, but watching Ny grieve Scotty and the life they'd been planning was almost impossible to bear. Maybe, for some of them, it had been. Janice and Hikaru had taken the Excelsior out on a deep space mission, Chekov was somewhere near the Klingon border, last she'd heard, and Spock...
Spock's name was everywhere, but he seemed to be nowhere at all. The diplomatic service was making the most out of their newest member and his talent for the most impossible of negotiations. It seemed as though he completed one assignment then dove straight into another without so much as a break. It was strange just how much that bothered her. She and Spock hadn't spoken in years, not since before Jim's disappearance, but now she felt his absence more keenly than ever.
She didn't know why, but there it was. Impossible things existed.
"Commander Chapel."
Christine lifted her head to smile, albeit reserved, at the young Vulcan woman before her. A junior member of Intrepid's medical staff, T'Kai was a recent transfer from Seleya. A healer fast-tracked through the Academy and Christine's latest poaching target. She supposed that she should be embarrassed at her tendency for running amok through Starfleet, stealing officers every chance she got, but Emergency Ops was a demanding department. She needed the best, and it wasn't as if Admiral Nogura had forbidden it.
He'd just implied she be subtle about it, and Christine had learned from masters in the art of subtlety. Okay, Spock and Len, maybe, but Jim had come in handy there too. Whatever he might have done, she did the opposite. It worked out swimmingly.
"Yes, Lieutenant?" Sitting up with her tea, Christine tipped her head at the chair, waiting for the young woman to sit. "More questions for me?"
T'Kai shook her head, holding up a mug of her own. "I thought you might wish company. You seem troubled, Commander."
"Thinking of transitions," Christine said with a sigh. "It might be the way of life, but that doesn't make it any easier." She looked at the girl in front of her and the ship that surrounded them both. She remembered the original Intrepid and Spock's reaction to its loss.
She wondered if he'd even noticed this version's launch. She'd attended, but she hadn't seen him.
"No, it does not," T'Kai agreed. She looked down at the mug in her hands and said nothing further. It was a comfortable silence, however, born of a Vulcan temperament, and Christine had long since adjusted to them.
She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of her tea, and decided Spock would like this ship. It was a pity he wouldn't be seeing it any time soon. They were headed out to one of the colonies near the Klingon border, where an unknown plague seemed to be raising hell with the Terran and Klingon populations alike.
Christine let herself sink into her memories of the file, mulling it over, contemplating her plans of attack. It was a tricky problem-sorting out the medical, political, and plain old societal problems of the mixed-bag population she was presented with-and just the sort of challenge she'd come to thrive on.
It was also, she suspected later, the reason for her ungainly sprawl on the floor when the ship lurched. It was violent and Christine didn't have a chance at catching herself. The last thing she heard before she smacked her head off another table was the klaxon of a red alert, and the last thing she saw was T'Kai bending over her, awash in red light.
*
She woke to voices and a head that throbbed like the worst hangover she'd ever had. Captain T'Voikh's voice, cool and confident, overlaid with that of T'Kai and Sopal-the Chief Medical officer-and-
Christine bolted upright.
"Spock?"
He turned around to face her and she gasped. "Spock?" It didn't seem possible, but he'd aged a lifetime since the last time she'd seen him. Years. Decades.
For his part, Spock seemed-relieved to see her. Happy almost. Christine blinked at that. He'd never looked like that. The last time she could remember an expression like it on his face had been at Vulcan, so many years before. Back when he'd thought he'd killed the captain, only to come face to face with a grinning Jim.
That moment had fueled more than a few fantasies for a few years. Long enough to carry her through the worst of the damage Roger's betrayal had wrought. Time she'd needed to heal. Christine smiled as she thought about it, and blinked again when it looked like Spock might return it.
Instead, he moved closer and held out a hypo. "I believe this should alleviate your discomfort."
She took it, pressing it against the soft skin of her neck, and sighed in relief as the headache slowly began to dissipate. It was then that she took in the state of the ship around her. Sickbay was a mess, every bed occupied, but at a glance she saw nothing more than concussive injuries. All right, so she wasn't the only one who'd gotten knocked around.
"What happened?"
"That, Commander, we are still attempting to figure out." T'Voikh cast a glance at Spock, a look that wasn't quite disbelief, and Christine raised an eyebrow at them both. "Our sensors indicate that we encountered some sort of anomaly."
"Encountered and passed through," Spock said. "I believe it to be an echo of one created many years in the future. The same one I was caught in and brought here." He seemed perturbed by that, and Christine nearly laughed. She had a niggling, ominous feeling that the world was about to get yanked out from beneath her in ways she didn't want to consider, but still that look was so familiar. "It should not be possible, and yet you are most certainly here."
"And where is here?" Christine asked, swinging her legs off the side of the biobed. "And do I really want to be asking that question?"
"I do not believe so," T'Voikh said. She presented Christine with a padd. "It would seem, Commander Chapel, that we are no longer in our own time."
Christine read the data before her and looked up. "Spock?"
"Come with me," he said, and held out his hand.
*
Vulcan. Spock told his story quietly, hauntingly, and Christine felt every word with the force of a torpedo strike. Vulcan. Romulus. Coming from a century in the future-and god-to end up here, back in the beginning, alone, only to watch your homeworld die.
Sitting across from him, Christine lowered her head to give herself an opportunity to control the tears. She sniffed a bit as she held back an unexpected laugh. How many years had gone by? Decades for them both, a century for him and, still, here she sat like the reputed Nurse Chapel of old. She battled back another laugh with the thought. How many times had that story been told, and how distorted had it gotten by the end? The woman from those stories had always seemed a stranger to her. Even more so at that moment.
"You need not hide your pain, Christine," Spock said, his voice weary. She felt it then, hearing it in his voice, the true depth of his sorrow and loss and the tears began again.
"Perhaps not from you," she said, her own voice thick with exhaustion and pain enough for them both. "But the others." She didn't want to dump her emotions on Vulcans unaccustomed to such displays. She thought of them, then, and found herself battling back more emotion still. "The others-Spock, we're trapped a century in the past, in an alternate timeline, and there's no homeworld for them to go back to. Everything they know and love in this world is gone and there's no chance to save it." She thought of T'Kai, T'Voikh, so many of the others that she'd been getting to know on this trip. It was ridiculous to complain about the unfairness of it all, but she wanted to anyway. They deserved better than this and it infuriated her that she couldn't do anything about it.
"True," Spock agreed. "The loss of the second Intrepid. Most unfortunate."
Something in his voice caught her attention and her head snapped up. "Spock."
He surprised her then, by laying a hand over hers. "Many years ago, Christine, from my view, the Intrepid upon which we sit disappeared with all hands en route to a colony near the Klingon Border. Starfleet sent several ships to investigate, but no explanations as to her disappearance were ever found. I-grieved your loss most deeply."
There might have been a day when Christine found that thought romantic. As it was, however, she felt empty. Hollow.
Never been found.
She was as trapped here as he was-and the entire crew of the Intrepid with her.
"Excuse me," Christine said, "But I think I need a moment." This said, she yanked her hand from his and fled the room.
*
T'Voikh and crew, as expected, took the news as Vulcans. Which was to say that Christine didn't get so much as a hint of the turmoil one would expect in humans. It helped, she supposed, that an all-Vulcan crew made it easier to serve with one's spouse, particularly since no one aboard needed explanations as to certain biological impulses and the necessity of proximity-she shook her head, cutting off the thought.
No.
This wasn't any bit easier for them, and she was being unfair to pretend otherwise. Friends, family, older children. They'd lost just as much, maybe more, than she had, but they were Vulcans. They were processing it differently.
Never been found. Christine curled her arms around her knees, staring down at the Vulcan colony before her. If Jim-her breath caught with the thought of him and the loss of him. They'd been so close, just figuring things out, and then-she closed her eyes, letting the desert wind steal her tears before they could fall.
"If Jim were still alive, he would have come after us."
Spock settled beside her, looking down on the colony as well. She looked at him and saw the faint suggestion of sadness there. She was tempted to ask, but she also felt she wasn't ready for the answer. There wasn't much more she could take at the moment.
"Yes," Spock said, as if her words had only just penetrated. He looked at her. "I thought-" For an instant, she thought he might smile. "The young Starfleet officer I mentioned? The one who came to me?"
"No." Christine leaned in. "Jim?"
"This reality's equivalent, yes," Spock nodded.
"What was he like?"
"Brash, angry, impatient. Nero-Nero emerged into this timeline years before me. In the course of doing so, he caused the death of George Kirk."
Christine winced. She'd liked Jim's Dad. She'd met him once at the funeral of his elder son. Charming, friendly, and proof positive that Jim was his father's son. Without him... "I don't think I like this reality much at all, Spock."
"Indeed," Spock said. "Until your arrival, I might have said the same."
She tried to stop her laughter, but couldn't. At his raised brow, she shrugged. "And I was just sitting here feeling sorry for myself. It's a bit ridiculous when we compare situations." A thought occurred to her and she brought a hand to her mouth, feeling a fresh wave of guilt. "Did you-Spock, were you-"
"If you are inquiring as to whether or not I have a family, then the answer is yes." Spock looked away. "I have not sensed Saavik's presence since arriving here. I would assume the same can be said of her."
This time, Christine was the one to lay a hand on him. His shoulder. She was careful to touch the heaviest part of the fabric, not wanting to add her own emotional turmoil to whatever he was already dealing with. "I'm sorry."
"Saavik is a most capable woman. She will adapt far better than I, and our children have long since reached maturity. They will, no doubt, assist." Spock looked at her. "I am sorry, Christine. I did not follow you here to discuss my emotional state."
"Maybe not," Christine said, mustering up a smile, "but you are and, maybe, this helps me as much as it does you. Moping is not logical, Ambassador, but we humans indulge in it from time to time. Reminding us of a world beyond our skin's a good way to kick us out of it." She squeezed his shoulder, feeling the firm muscle beneath.
With anyone else, she might have added a cheerful assurance that Saavik would rip time and space apart looking for him. It might even be true, if, that was, Saavik had any idea her husband was still alive, but that was the problem. As far as she knew, Spock had died with Romulus. Just as no one was going to find her, no one was going to look for him and he knew it. He was, after all, a Vulcan. Pragmatism was coded in the genes.
She squeezed once more and then withdrew her hand. "Have you told Starfleet about us yet?"
If Spock's thoughts were running in similar directions to hers, he didn't show it. Instead, he nodded. "They are considering the matter."
"You don't think that's necessary, do you?"
"Intrepid's systems are advanced. Not to the extent a later ship's systems would be, but there is still the matter of the Temporal Prime Directive. Any service within Starfleet will be hamstrung by that reality. Their recommendation will not come easily or soon and, at any rate, is superfluous. They can only advise. It will still, ultimately, be Captain T'Voikh's decision."
"She'll want to stay with the colony," Christine said. She didn't know the captain all that well as of yet, but she could guess. She did have some experience with Vulcans and their obligations, after all. "If there's no way back for any of us, then they all will."
"Yes-a permanent assignment to this sector of space does seem likely. The remnants of our fleet are in need of a flagship and with Intrepid unable to fully integrate into Starfleet, I see few other options available."
Christine nodded. She didn't know yet what she was going to do here. Somehow, the idea of being trapped here forever seemed impossible to grasp, however much the intellectual part of her brain could accept it. She knew T'Voikh and the others would try, they had to try, but she found the idea of them succeeding where Spock had failed to be as difficult to take in as being trapped here.
That was a depressing thought-Spock failing. She couldn't imagine how hard it must have been at the beginning. Reeling from the loss of the bond, knowing his wife and probably his children were out there grieving him, and failing to find a way to traverse the gap.
She took in an uneven breath and turned her face into the wind for a moment. Just long enough to banish the thought and get her emotions back under control. If only for the sake of her hosts, she needed to brush up on that.
"I believe," Spock said, carefully, as if not to upset her, "the colony could benefit greatly from your experience. There are few Starfleet officers so knowledgeable in Vulcan culture who also possess the same depth of experience in Emergency Operations."
She turned to him, forcing a grin she didn't quite feel yet. "Trying to butter me up, Ambassador?"
Seeming to pick up on the humor in her voice, Spock arched a brow in familiar fashion. "Why should I wish to waste food in such fashion?"
"Cute." Christine got up, brushing sand from her uniform. "No one at Starfleet will know me, Spock. Half the battle at Emergency Ops is who you know."
Spock rose as well. "Admiral Pike will see to your connections." He looked thoughtful. "There will be, of course, the small matter of an alias. Christine Chapel is, at present, serving on the Enterprise."
That hit her like a punch. She hadn't even thought of that. "Have you seen her?"
"No," he shook his head. "I-was curious."
"Ah." Something about that soothed the sting. It shouldn't have hurt, the idea of this younger Christine, but it did and she felt a little foolish at the realization of it. "Poor kid. Len still terrorizing them?"
Spock's eyes softened with the same affection coloring her tone. "I believe so, yes."
"I should call her, offer some tips." She turned away, walking back down the path. Like avoiding certain pointless crushes when there were better options afoot. Granted, it had taken her and Jim years to figure things out. Years of bad relationships, awkward career choices, and enough drama to give Shakespeare pause, but in the end they'd had a great time. Not enough, but it had been great.
She breathed deep, despite the thin air, fighting against the sadness his loss always evoked in her. She hated the universe sometimes. She really, really hated it.
"Christine."
Spock's voice stopped her in her tracks and she turned around, realizing there were tears on her cheeks as she did so. His face was dry, but she saw the same pain reflected in his gaze. It was something she'd never thought to see, and she tried to imagine those years for him. Building a family around the hole where his best friend was supposed to be, all those stories of children and spouse and adventures that he couldn't share, and trying to carry on despite it.
"I know, Spock," she said, too aware of all the things he couldn't say. "You miss him too."
His hand closed around hers in one brief, fierce grasp and then they were walking again. By the time they reached the colony's outskirts, she was as dry-eyed as he.
*
Working with the colony meant relocating. She could have stayed on Intrepid and beamed back and forth, but that didn't feel right. The survivors were going to need to get to know her if she was going to work with them, and that meant being accessible.
Spock solved the housing debate before it even started by offering her a spare room. Christine tried to imagine the same exchange happening between the Spock and Christine of old and laughed herself sick. He offered no commentary on the matter, but she had a feeling he appreciated the humor just as much as she did.
For all he'd been through in those decades between them, Spock had come out the better for it. "You're different," she said, one night after dinner. They were bent over plans for the new Academy that was Christine's second project for the colony.
"Naturally," Spock said, not looking up. "As are you."
She laughed, reaching for her coffee. "Yes, but that's not what I mean and you know it, so belay any caustic comments about stagnation and the natural order of the universe, mister, or I'm dumping my hard-earned coffee over your head."
He did look up then, brow raised just enough. It was a familiar look. Spock-speak for 'bullshit'.
Making a face, Christine got up for a refill. "Fine, fine, I wouldn't waste it." She headed for the small kitchen, aware he was right behind her with his own mug in hand. "I would, however, replicate a very bad cup and carry out my threat just the same."
Spock considered it. "Yes, you would." He put his mug beside hers and went to said replicator. Christine had cheated just a little when she'd moved in, bringing one down from Intrepid with her. Good coffee grounds were just not happening with the older models the Vulcans were using, and she was going to need the good stuff. "Very well. Consider said comments permanently belayed."
"Atta boy." Christine refilled both mugs and then turned around. "What I meant was you finally grew into those ears of yours." She grinned as, back to her, he stopped moving. She had a feeling his eyebrow was somewhere in the stratosphere, and wasn't that a fun little realization. No wonder Jim and Len had devoted so much of their time to yanking his chain.
"Jim," Spock said after some moments had passed, "was a bad influence on your vernacular, Christine."
"Yep." She leaned around him to take one of the bowls he'd replicated. Fruit. Her favorites, too. "Why, Ambassador, have you been reading up on me?"
"No."
Christine looked at the bowl and then at him. "Then someone's been paying far more attention than he's let on."
In the low light of evening, it was difficult to tell, but she thought that maybe, just maybe his cheeks tinged a little greener than usual. "It was difficult not to," he said, his voice somewhat stiff. Formal. The kind of tone and mannerism he adopted when he was uncomfortable, embarrassed, and didn't that just present some interesting ideas. "However impossible acknowledging it was at the time."
'At the time'. That night in his cabin, the Pon Farr, on the way to Vulcan when she'd come to tell him. Christine's body heated with the memory of his eyes on her. She'd never, ever had a man look at her like that and she could never quite convince herself it had just been about biology, however ridiculous that fantasy had seemed at the time.
"T'Pring."
He inclined his head. "Had I not been so bound at the time," he cleared his throat, "I believe events might have unfolded quite differently."
She turned away. "Forgive me for asking this, Spock-"
"It is not my time yet," Spock said, bland. Great, about that he wasn't the least bit embarrassed. "I believe I have a number of years before it becomes a consideration. This is truth, Christine."
"Fine," she said, just a little flat. "What about after?"
Spock looked almost amused. What kind of perspective could a century bring? "I was afraid. You had endured much because of me and-" he made a noise that might have been impatience. "I was afraid. I should not have been."
"No," Christine smiled, "but I can hardly condemn you for a little fear." She couldn't resist letting a little teasing note enter her voice, "It's only human."
*
Rebuilding an entire civilization took time. The introduction of nearly a thousand new inhabitants lessened the workload on the rest, but time still slipped away easily to be eaten by project after project. Falling into a routine with Spock was almost an afterthought. He always woke first, always prepared breakfast, and she always came home first in the evenings and always made the evening meal. It was comfortable, familiar, and she began to enjoy it-and that was where things got complicated.
She hadn't been in a relationship since Jim's disappearance, but that didn't mean she'd missed the obvious. The way the colonists treated them.
"They treat me like your wife," she said, one evening, bringing a bowl to the table.
He was just behind with a pitcher of water in hand. "I am aware," he said. "I had hoped you were not."
Christine laughed. "Thought I'd be embarrassed?"
"After a fashion," Spock waited for her to sit before taking his own seat. "No one has given you cause, I trust?"
"No," she smiled. "I think they're wondering when we're going to get on with it, though."
With the light above the table, there was no hiding his blush this time. It was faint to be sure, but it was there. "You refer to children?"
"Would I refer to anything else?" Christine sat back in her chair. "You're trying to rebuild a civilization here, Spock. If you're not having children with me, they must be wondering why you aren't having them with anyone else." She tempered her amusement with understanding. "They don't know about-about Saavik, do they?"
"They know little at all. Some of them are aware of my true name." He nodded. "The rest believe me to be a Vulcan elder named Selek. I have not told them of Saavik, but they believe my wife died with Vulcan and I have seen no reason to disabuse them of this notion."
"They were giving you the space to grieve," Christine realized. "And now with my presence-" She raised a brow. "There are a number of crude references I could make, but I'll be nice."
His expression said he was well aware of more than a few of those references. What an education Len and Jim must have been. "Thank you, Christine."
"You're quite welcome." Christine looked at him. "I wouldn't be averse to the idea, you know." She smiled. "Children, that is."
Spock raised a brow. "Indeed. I would not be averse, either. I would, however, expect certain formalities to take place." He considered it. "And on the matter of children there would likely need genetic intervention."
"True," Christine said. Spock's genetics were a somewhat tricky matter. In practice, his biology was more Vulcan than human. One or the other did have to take some precedence and, she imagined, in this case especially so. "On the upside, we could probably do most of the work ourselves." As far as she knew, the experts involved in Spock's birth had not survived the cataclysm. She shook her head. "What romantics we are."
"On the contrary, Christine," Spock said, his fingers stealing across the space between them. "I find this situation to be most stimulating indeed." His eyes gentled. "It is not any woman who would make such considerations-you are, and have always been, a rarity, Christine. One might say a treasure." He hesitated, then corrected himself, "I would say such a thing."
Christine didn't make any mention of their history. Somehow, when a Vulcan was virtually proposing to you, it didn't seem right to bring up your god-awful past together. Instead, she looked at the hand he was offering, aware of the gesture she should be making, and let her fingers close the distance between them. "Since you're making the same considerations of me, I should say the same of you."
Amusement not her own flooded through her when their fingertips brushed. Christine gasped with it and the other emotions which followed-desire, grief, happiness, sadness, a jumble that was impossible to sort out. She let it move through her in a burst, wonder in her eyes as she stared at the slight contact between them. "I'll never look at another Vulcan couple the same way again."
More amusement. "I suspect not," Spock said, his fingers winding together with hers. "I cannot promise this will be easy, Christine."
"Neither can I," she said. "I still miss Jim and you still miss Saavik."
Spock's eyes held hers, warm and full of things she'd never thought to see from him. "And yet-" he said, grip tightening.
Christine squeezed back. "And yet," she agreed.
*
Creator(s): Team Chapel Het (fic: medie, art: winterover, ideas & input by everyone)
Universe: TOS post-movies/AOS
Word Count: ~4600
Rating: PG
Summary: Christine finds herself thrown into a new universe. But she isn't alone.
Disclaimer: This is a fanwork for entertainment purposes. We do not own Star Trek. :(
*
I don't have forever, but I'll live like I do
Feels like endless summer with the light shining through
All I have is borrowed, my skin and my bones
All I have is borrowed, but I wear these summer clothes
Everything is just fine
Everything is just fine
So long as I'm by your side
It's perfect in my mind
Gold Motel - Perfect In My Mind
*
There was a day, once, when Christine Chapel believed nothing was impossible. A day when she served on a ship that made it easy. Miraculous resurrections, body swapping, last-second saves, and the occasional rewriting of the laws of physics. Nothing was impossible on the Enterprise, and she'd carried that belief with her when she'd left, transferring to Emergency Ops to pull off a few miracles of her own.
For a while, it worked. But only for a while.
Then, Jim-and Scotty. Christine winced. She didn't know which one hurt worse. Losing Jim had ripped her heart out, knocked her cold, but watching Ny grieve Scotty and the life they'd been planning was almost impossible to bear. Maybe, for some of them, it had been. Janice and Hikaru had taken the Excelsior out on a deep space mission, Chekov was somewhere near the Klingon border, last she'd heard, and Spock...
Spock's name was everywhere, but he seemed to be nowhere at all. The diplomatic service was making the most out of their newest member and his talent for the most impossible of negotiations. It seemed as though he completed one assignment then dove straight into another without so much as a break. It was strange just how much that bothered her. She and Spock hadn't spoken in years, not since before Jim's disappearance, but now she felt his absence more keenly than ever.
She didn't know why, but there it was. Impossible things existed.
"Commander Chapel."
Christine lifted her head to smile, albeit reserved, at the young Vulcan woman before her. A junior member of Intrepid's medical staff, T'Kai was a recent transfer from Seleya. A healer fast-tracked through the Academy and Christine's latest poaching target. She supposed that she should be embarrassed at her tendency for running amok through Starfleet, stealing officers every chance she got, but Emergency Ops was a demanding department. She needed the best, and it wasn't as if Admiral Nogura had forbidden it.
He'd just implied she be subtle about it, and Christine had learned from masters in the art of subtlety. Okay, Spock and Len, maybe, but Jim had come in handy there too. Whatever he might have done, she did the opposite. It worked out swimmingly.
"Yes, Lieutenant?" Sitting up with her tea, Christine tipped her head at the chair, waiting for the young woman to sit. "More questions for me?"
T'Kai shook her head, holding up a mug of her own. "I thought you might wish company. You seem troubled, Commander."
"Thinking of transitions," Christine said with a sigh. "It might be the way of life, but that doesn't make it any easier." She looked at the girl in front of her and the ship that surrounded them both. She remembered the original Intrepid and Spock's reaction to its loss.
She wondered if he'd even noticed this version's launch. She'd attended, but she hadn't seen him.
"No, it does not," T'Kai agreed. She looked down at the mug in her hands and said nothing further. It was a comfortable silence, however, born of a Vulcan temperament, and Christine had long since adjusted to them.
She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of her tea, and decided Spock would like this ship. It was a pity he wouldn't be seeing it any time soon. They were headed out to one of the colonies near the Klingon border, where an unknown plague seemed to be raising hell with the Terran and Klingon populations alike.
Christine let herself sink into her memories of the file, mulling it over, contemplating her plans of attack. It was a tricky problem-sorting out the medical, political, and plain old societal problems of the mixed-bag population she was presented with-and just the sort of challenge she'd come to thrive on.
It was also, she suspected later, the reason for her ungainly sprawl on the floor when the ship lurched. It was violent and Christine didn't have a chance at catching herself. The last thing she heard before she smacked her head off another table was the klaxon of a red alert, and the last thing she saw was T'Kai bending over her, awash in red light.
*
She woke to voices and a head that throbbed like the worst hangover she'd ever had. Captain T'Voikh's voice, cool and confident, overlaid with that of T'Kai and Sopal-the Chief Medical officer-and-
Christine bolted upright.
"Spock?"
He turned around to face her and she gasped. "Spock?" It didn't seem possible, but he'd aged a lifetime since the last time she'd seen him. Years. Decades.
For his part, Spock seemed-relieved to see her. Happy almost. Christine blinked at that. He'd never looked like that. The last time she could remember an expression like it on his face had been at Vulcan, so many years before. Back when he'd thought he'd killed the captain, only to come face to face with a grinning Jim.
That moment had fueled more than a few fantasies for a few years. Long enough to carry her through the worst of the damage Roger's betrayal had wrought. Time she'd needed to heal. Christine smiled as she thought about it, and blinked again when it looked like Spock might return it.
Instead, he moved closer and held out a hypo. "I believe this should alleviate your discomfort."
She took it, pressing it against the soft skin of her neck, and sighed in relief as the headache slowly began to dissipate. It was then that she took in the state of the ship around her. Sickbay was a mess, every bed occupied, but at a glance she saw nothing more than concussive injuries. All right, so she wasn't the only one who'd gotten knocked around.
"What happened?"
"That, Commander, we are still attempting to figure out." T'Voikh cast a glance at Spock, a look that wasn't quite disbelief, and Christine raised an eyebrow at them both. "Our sensors indicate that we encountered some sort of anomaly."
"Encountered and passed through," Spock said. "I believe it to be an echo of one created many years in the future. The same one I was caught in and brought here." He seemed perturbed by that, and Christine nearly laughed. She had a niggling, ominous feeling that the world was about to get yanked out from beneath her in ways she didn't want to consider, but still that look was so familiar. "It should not be possible, and yet you are most certainly here."
"And where is here?" Christine asked, swinging her legs off the side of the biobed. "And do I really want to be asking that question?"
"I do not believe so," T'Voikh said. She presented Christine with a padd. "It would seem, Commander Chapel, that we are no longer in our own time."
Christine read the data before her and looked up. "Spock?"
"Come with me," he said, and held out his hand.
*
Vulcan. Spock told his story quietly, hauntingly, and Christine felt every word with the force of a torpedo strike. Vulcan. Romulus. Coming from a century in the future-and god-to end up here, back in the beginning, alone, only to watch your homeworld die.
Sitting across from him, Christine lowered her head to give herself an opportunity to control the tears. She sniffed a bit as she held back an unexpected laugh. How many years had gone by? Decades for them both, a century for him and, still, here she sat like the reputed Nurse Chapel of old. She battled back another laugh with the thought. How many times had that story been told, and how distorted had it gotten by the end? The woman from those stories had always seemed a stranger to her. Even more so at that moment.
"You need not hide your pain, Christine," Spock said, his voice weary. She felt it then, hearing it in his voice, the true depth of his sorrow and loss and the tears began again.
"Perhaps not from you," she said, her own voice thick with exhaustion and pain enough for them both. "But the others." She didn't want to dump her emotions on Vulcans unaccustomed to such displays. She thought of them, then, and found herself battling back more emotion still. "The others-Spock, we're trapped a century in the past, in an alternate timeline, and there's no homeworld for them to go back to. Everything they know and love in this world is gone and there's no chance to save it." She thought of T'Kai, T'Voikh, so many of the others that she'd been getting to know on this trip. It was ridiculous to complain about the unfairness of it all, but she wanted to anyway. They deserved better than this and it infuriated her that she couldn't do anything about it.
"True," Spock agreed. "The loss of the second Intrepid. Most unfortunate."
Something in his voice caught her attention and her head snapped up. "Spock."
He surprised her then, by laying a hand over hers. "Many years ago, Christine, from my view, the Intrepid upon which we sit disappeared with all hands en route to a colony near the Klingon Border. Starfleet sent several ships to investigate, but no explanations as to her disappearance were ever found. I-grieved your loss most deeply."
There might have been a day when Christine found that thought romantic. As it was, however, she felt empty. Hollow.
Never been found.
She was as trapped here as he was-and the entire crew of the Intrepid with her.
"Excuse me," Christine said, "But I think I need a moment." This said, she yanked her hand from his and fled the room.
*
T'Voikh and crew, as expected, took the news as Vulcans. Which was to say that Christine didn't get so much as a hint of the turmoil one would expect in humans. It helped, she supposed, that an all-Vulcan crew made it easier to serve with one's spouse, particularly since no one aboard needed explanations as to certain biological impulses and the necessity of proximity-she shook her head, cutting off the thought.
No.
This wasn't any bit easier for them, and she was being unfair to pretend otherwise. Friends, family, older children. They'd lost just as much, maybe more, than she had, but they were Vulcans. They were processing it differently.
Never been found. Christine curled her arms around her knees, staring down at the Vulcan colony before her. If Jim-her breath caught with the thought of him and the loss of him. They'd been so close, just figuring things out, and then-she closed her eyes, letting the desert wind steal her tears before they could fall.
"If Jim were still alive, he would have come after us."
Spock settled beside her, looking down on the colony as well. She looked at him and saw the faint suggestion of sadness there. She was tempted to ask, but she also felt she wasn't ready for the answer. There wasn't much more she could take at the moment.
"Yes," Spock said, as if her words had only just penetrated. He looked at her. "I thought-" For an instant, she thought he might smile. "The young Starfleet officer I mentioned? The one who came to me?"
"No." Christine leaned in. "Jim?"
"This reality's equivalent, yes," Spock nodded.
"What was he like?"
"Brash, angry, impatient. Nero-Nero emerged into this timeline years before me. In the course of doing so, he caused the death of George Kirk."
Christine winced. She'd liked Jim's Dad. She'd met him once at the funeral of his elder son. Charming, friendly, and proof positive that Jim was his father's son. Without him... "I don't think I like this reality much at all, Spock."
"Indeed," Spock said. "Until your arrival, I might have said the same."
She tried to stop her laughter, but couldn't. At his raised brow, she shrugged. "And I was just sitting here feeling sorry for myself. It's a bit ridiculous when we compare situations." A thought occurred to her and she brought a hand to her mouth, feeling a fresh wave of guilt. "Did you-Spock, were you-"
"If you are inquiring as to whether or not I have a family, then the answer is yes." Spock looked away. "I have not sensed Saavik's presence since arriving here. I would assume the same can be said of her."
This time, Christine was the one to lay a hand on him. His shoulder. She was careful to touch the heaviest part of the fabric, not wanting to add her own emotional turmoil to whatever he was already dealing with. "I'm sorry."
"Saavik is a most capable woman. She will adapt far better than I, and our children have long since reached maturity. They will, no doubt, assist." Spock looked at her. "I am sorry, Christine. I did not follow you here to discuss my emotional state."
"Maybe not," Christine said, mustering up a smile, "but you are and, maybe, this helps me as much as it does you. Moping is not logical, Ambassador, but we humans indulge in it from time to time. Reminding us of a world beyond our skin's a good way to kick us out of it." She squeezed his shoulder, feeling the firm muscle beneath.
With anyone else, she might have added a cheerful assurance that Saavik would rip time and space apart looking for him. It might even be true, if, that was, Saavik had any idea her husband was still alive, but that was the problem. As far as she knew, Spock had died with Romulus. Just as no one was going to find her, no one was going to look for him and he knew it. He was, after all, a Vulcan. Pragmatism was coded in the genes.
She squeezed once more and then withdrew her hand. "Have you told Starfleet about us yet?"
If Spock's thoughts were running in similar directions to hers, he didn't show it. Instead, he nodded. "They are considering the matter."
"You don't think that's necessary, do you?"
"Intrepid's systems are advanced. Not to the extent a later ship's systems would be, but there is still the matter of the Temporal Prime Directive. Any service within Starfleet will be hamstrung by that reality. Their recommendation will not come easily or soon and, at any rate, is superfluous. They can only advise. It will still, ultimately, be Captain T'Voikh's decision."
"She'll want to stay with the colony," Christine said. She didn't know the captain all that well as of yet, but she could guess. She did have some experience with Vulcans and their obligations, after all. "If there's no way back for any of us, then they all will."
"Yes-a permanent assignment to this sector of space does seem likely. The remnants of our fleet are in need of a flagship and with Intrepid unable to fully integrate into Starfleet, I see few other options available."
Christine nodded. She didn't know yet what she was going to do here. Somehow, the idea of being trapped here forever seemed impossible to grasp, however much the intellectual part of her brain could accept it. She knew T'Voikh and the others would try, they had to try, but she found the idea of them succeeding where Spock had failed to be as difficult to take in as being trapped here.
That was a depressing thought-Spock failing. She couldn't imagine how hard it must have been at the beginning. Reeling from the loss of the bond, knowing his wife and probably his children were out there grieving him, and failing to find a way to traverse the gap.
She took in an uneven breath and turned her face into the wind for a moment. Just long enough to banish the thought and get her emotions back under control. If only for the sake of her hosts, she needed to brush up on that.
"I believe," Spock said, carefully, as if not to upset her, "the colony could benefit greatly from your experience. There are few Starfleet officers so knowledgeable in Vulcan culture who also possess the same depth of experience in Emergency Operations."
She turned to him, forcing a grin she didn't quite feel yet. "Trying to butter me up, Ambassador?"
Seeming to pick up on the humor in her voice, Spock arched a brow in familiar fashion. "Why should I wish to waste food in such fashion?"
"Cute." Christine got up, brushing sand from her uniform. "No one at Starfleet will know me, Spock. Half the battle at Emergency Ops is who you know."
Spock rose as well. "Admiral Pike will see to your connections." He looked thoughtful. "There will be, of course, the small matter of an alias. Christine Chapel is, at present, serving on the Enterprise."
That hit her like a punch. She hadn't even thought of that. "Have you seen her?"
"No," he shook his head. "I-was curious."
"Ah." Something about that soothed the sting. It shouldn't have hurt, the idea of this younger Christine, but it did and she felt a little foolish at the realization of it. "Poor kid. Len still terrorizing them?"
Spock's eyes softened with the same affection coloring her tone. "I believe so, yes."
"I should call her, offer some tips." She turned away, walking back down the path. Like avoiding certain pointless crushes when there were better options afoot. Granted, it had taken her and Jim years to figure things out. Years of bad relationships, awkward career choices, and enough drama to give Shakespeare pause, but in the end they'd had a great time. Not enough, but it had been great.
She breathed deep, despite the thin air, fighting against the sadness his loss always evoked in her. She hated the universe sometimes. She really, really hated it.
"Christine."
Spock's voice stopped her in her tracks and she turned around, realizing there were tears on her cheeks as she did so. His face was dry, but she saw the same pain reflected in his gaze. It was something she'd never thought to see, and she tried to imagine those years for him. Building a family around the hole where his best friend was supposed to be, all those stories of children and spouse and adventures that he couldn't share, and trying to carry on despite it.
"I know, Spock," she said, too aware of all the things he couldn't say. "You miss him too."
His hand closed around hers in one brief, fierce grasp and then they were walking again. By the time they reached the colony's outskirts, she was as dry-eyed as he.
*
Working with the colony meant relocating. She could have stayed on Intrepid and beamed back and forth, but that didn't feel right. The survivors were going to need to get to know her if she was going to work with them, and that meant being accessible.
Spock solved the housing debate before it even started by offering her a spare room. Christine tried to imagine the same exchange happening between the Spock and Christine of old and laughed herself sick. He offered no commentary on the matter, but she had a feeling he appreciated the humor just as much as she did.
For all he'd been through in those decades between them, Spock had come out the better for it. "You're different," she said, one night after dinner. They were bent over plans for the new Academy that was Christine's second project for the colony.
"Naturally," Spock said, not looking up. "As are you."
She laughed, reaching for her coffee. "Yes, but that's not what I mean and you know it, so belay any caustic comments about stagnation and the natural order of the universe, mister, or I'm dumping my hard-earned coffee over your head."
He did look up then, brow raised just enough. It was a familiar look. Spock-speak for 'bullshit'.
Making a face, Christine got up for a refill. "Fine, fine, I wouldn't waste it." She headed for the small kitchen, aware he was right behind her with his own mug in hand. "I would, however, replicate a very bad cup and carry out my threat just the same."
Spock considered it. "Yes, you would." He put his mug beside hers and went to said replicator. Christine had cheated just a little when she'd moved in, bringing one down from Intrepid with her. Good coffee grounds were just not happening with the older models the Vulcans were using, and she was going to need the good stuff. "Very well. Consider said comments permanently belayed."
"Atta boy." Christine refilled both mugs and then turned around. "What I meant was you finally grew into those ears of yours." She grinned as, back to her, he stopped moving. She had a feeling his eyebrow was somewhere in the stratosphere, and wasn't that a fun little realization. No wonder Jim and Len had devoted so much of their time to yanking his chain.
"Jim," Spock said after some moments had passed, "was a bad influence on your vernacular, Christine."
"Yep." She leaned around him to take one of the bowls he'd replicated. Fruit. Her favorites, too. "Why, Ambassador, have you been reading up on me?"
"No."
Christine looked at the bowl and then at him. "Then someone's been paying far more attention than he's let on."
In the low light of evening, it was difficult to tell, but she thought that maybe, just maybe his cheeks tinged a little greener than usual. "It was difficult not to," he said, his voice somewhat stiff. Formal. The kind of tone and mannerism he adopted when he was uncomfortable, embarrassed, and didn't that just present some interesting ideas. "However impossible acknowledging it was at the time."
'At the time'. That night in his cabin, the Pon Farr, on the way to Vulcan when she'd come to tell him. Christine's body heated with the memory of his eyes on her. She'd never, ever had a man look at her like that and she could never quite convince herself it had just been about biology, however ridiculous that fantasy had seemed at the time.
"T'Pring."
He inclined his head. "Had I not been so bound at the time," he cleared his throat, "I believe events might have unfolded quite differently."
She turned away. "Forgive me for asking this, Spock-"
"It is not my time yet," Spock said, bland. Great, about that he wasn't the least bit embarrassed. "I believe I have a number of years before it becomes a consideration. This is truth, Christine."
"Fine," she said, just a little flat. "What about after?"
Spock looked almost amused. What kind of perspective could a century bring? "I was afraid. You had endured much because of me and-" he made a noise that might have been impatience. "I was afraid. I should not have been."
"No," Christine smiled, "but I can hardly condemn you for a little fear." She couldn't resist letting a little teasing note enter her voice, "It's only human."
*
Rebuilding an entire civilization took time. The introduction of nearly a thousand new inhabitants lessened the workload on the rest, but time still slipped away easily to be eaten by project after project. Falling into a routine with Spock was almost an afterthought. He always woke first, always prepared breakfast, and she always came home first in the evenings and always made the evening meal. It was comfortable, familiar, and she began to enjoy it-and that was where things got complicated.
She hadn't been in a relationship since Jim's disappearance, but that didn't mean she'd missed the obvious. The way the colonists treated them.
"They treat me like your wife," she said, one evening, bringing a bowl to the table.
He was just behind with a pitcher of water in hand. "I am aware," he said. "I had hoped you were not."
Christine laughed. "Thought I'd be embarrassed?"
"After a fashion," Spock waited for her to sit before taking his own seat. "No one has given you cause, I trust?"
"No," she smiled. "I think they're wondering when we're going to get on with it, though."
With the light above the table, there was no hiding his blush this time. It was faint to be sure, but it was there. "You refer to children?"
"Would I refer to anything else?" Christine sat back in her chair. "You're trying to rebuild a civilization here, Spock. If you're not having children with me, they must be wondering why you aren't having them with anyone else." She tempered her amusement with understanding. "They don't know about-about Saavik, do they?"
"They know little at all. Some of them are aware of my true name." He nodded. "The rest believe me to be a Vulcan elder named Selek. I have not told them of Saavik, but they believe my wife died with Vulcan and I have seen no reason to disabuse them of this notion."
"They were giving you the space to grieve," Christine realized. "And now with my presence-" She raised a brow. "There are a number of crude references I could make, but I'll be nice."
His expression said he was well aware of more than a few of those references. What an education Len and Jim must have been. "Thank you, Christine."
"You're quite welcome." Christine looked at him. "I wouldn't be averse to the idea, you know." She smiled. "Children, that is."
Spock raised a brow. "Indeed. I would not be averse, either. I would, however, expect certain formalities to take place." He considered it. "And on the matter of children there would likely need genetic intervention."
"True," Christine said. Spock's genetics were a somewhat tricky matter. In practice, his biology was more Vulcan than human. One or the other did have to take some precedence and, she imagined, in this case especially so. "On the upside, we could probably do most of the work ourselves." As far as she knew, the experts involved in Spock's birth had not survived the cataclysm. She shook her head. "What romantics we are."
"On the contrary, Christine," Spock said, his fingers stealing across the space between them. "I find this situation to be most stimulating indeed." His eyes gentled. "It is not any woman who would make such considerations-you are, and have always been, a rarity, Christine. One might say a treasure." He hesitated, then corrected himself, "I would say such a thing."
Christine didn't make any mention of their history. Somehow, when a Vulcan was virtually proposing to you, it didn't seem right to bring up your god-awful past together. Instead, she looked at the hand he was offering, aware of the gesture she should be making, and let her fingers close the distance between them. "Since you're making the same considerations of me, I should say the same of you."
Amusement not her own flooded through her when their fingertips brushed. Christine gasped with it and the other emotions which followed-desire, grief, happiness, sadness, a jumble that was impossible to sort out. She let it move through her in a burst, wonder in her eyes as she stared at the slight contact between them. "I'll never look at another Vulcan couple the same way again."
More amusement. "I suspect not," Spock said, his fingers winding together with hers. "I cannot promise this will be easy, Christine."
"Neither can I," she said. "I still miss Jim and you still miss Saavik."
Spock's eyes held hers, warm and full of things she'd never thought to see from him. "And yet-" he said, grip tightening.
Christine squeezed back. "And yet," she agreed.
*
