A/N: I wouldn't have dreamt of this pairing but for djinn_fic's story, Quantum Lust. But once I'd read it I couldn't get it out of my head. It's just so darned wrong, and in djinn's hands, scorching hot. I hope to get a similar result. I wondered after reading her fic how exactly Spock would have broached the subject of having sex with a one-hundred-fifty-five year old Vulcan to a twenty-something female. This story bookends djinn's. I'd definitely recommend reading Quantum Lust first. Also inspired by Soup on the Wall by saavikam77.
Transgression by snarkypants
This Christine Chapel bit her fingernails.
He didn't know if it was in reaction to the events surrounding the Narada, or if this were merely a variant of the habits of the woman he had known.
She looked at him now with wide, blue eyes, the tender skin beneath bruised with stress and lack of sleep. "You seem to be recovering well from the frostbite, Ambassador," she said. "The doctor has prescribed a vitamin and electrolyte regimen for you, in addition to the anti-necrotic drugs."
Spock nodded. "That is acceptable."
She loaded the hypospray with the appropriate doses; he could feel her fatigue through her fingertips as she pressed the instrument against his neck. "This won't hurt a bit," she said, and discharged the hypo. "There, not so bad, right?"
"No." He straightened the collar of his robes. "Miss Chapel, may I ask you to accompany me to the recreation lounge for a cup of tea? I am having difficulty orienting myself to this ship."
"Of course, Ambassador," she said, smiling her gentle, practiced, 'nurse' smile. "Doctor, I'll be back after my break."
McCoy waved her on. "Take your time, Christine." The doctor looked at Spock, and something in Spock's demeanor must have struck him as odd, for the doctor narrowed his eyes. Spock arranged his features into benign blandness, befitting a harmless old man, and followed the nurse into the corridor.
He watched her as they walked; there was something coltish in her, something awkwardly and beautifully angular that pierced him now just as it had all those years ago.
"What kind of tea would you like, sir?" she asked as they walked into the nearly empty recreation lounge; beta shift was not yet over and ordinarily there would be several late-night patrons in the lounge.
"I am fond of jasmine tea," he said, and waited for her surprised smile.
"Oh, that's my favorite," she said, beaming at him.
She went to the food processor to place the order for their drinks. She pressed a button, and nothing happened. She pressed another button, and again, nothing happened.
"Ensign, the food processors on levels F and G are offline for maintenance until 0330," a crewman called from across the recreation room.
Spock allowed some of his regret to pass across his face. "That is unfortunate. Miss Chapel, I fear I've taken enough of your time for one evening."
Christine was nothing like inscrutable; every thought passed through the filter of her expressive face. First there was disappointment – about the tea, most likely – then concern for him, then the resigned politeness of a good Southern girl, a good nurse. "Sir, I have some leaf tea and a kettle in my cabin; it's just one level up."
He paused, as if considering it. "That would not be quite… proper, Miss Chapel." His expression was rueful rather than pedantic; if he had been the sort to wink, it would not have been out of place.
She hadn't quite thought of it in that way, he saw; the young did tend to look at the old as being gender neutral. "Oh… well, would you promise to be on your best behavior, sir?"
He paused for a moment, considering. "I will."
"I will be on my best behavior, as well," she said with an ingenuous smile. "Please join me."
He nodded and gestured towards the door, indicating that she could lead the way.
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Spock looked around Christine's cabin with an interest bordering on avidity, but there was nothing of the woman herself on display.
"Please, take a seat. I know, it's not very cozy; we didn't have the time to move in properly when we deployed," she said. "After we've returned to Earth I should be able to move in some of my personal things."
He sat in one of the chairs, next to the table. She filled a kettle with water and set out two teacups and a crockery teapot. When the water boiled she poured a small amount into the teapot and swirled it around, warming the pot. She tipped that water out into the sink, sprinkled two measures of tea into the pot, and filled it again with water.
"I'm afraid I don't have a strainer, so you'll have to, uh, drink around the leaves."
"Such are the hazards of the service," he said in a dry voice, with barely a lift to his eyebrows.
She looked at him uncertainly.
"That was an attempt at humor, Miss Chapel," he said.
"I wasn't quite sure, Ambassador," she said, chuckling. She felt the rough edge of a cuticle on her thumb, and without thinking chewed on it.
"You bite your fingernails. The Christine Chapel I knew did not have this habit," he said.
She blushed, shoving her hands underneath her thighs. "Before the Narada I hadn't bitten my nails in years. And then during the attack I broke so many nails, and rather than take the time to find a file I just chewed the ragged edges off, and haven't stopped."
"I did not intend to make you self-conscious. I am intrigued by the differences between the people in my timeline and their counterparts in this one."
"You knew me, in that timeline?"
"I did."
She poured tea into their cups, and he watched the unfurled leaves sink to the bottom. "Would you like sugar?" she asked as she handed him his cup.
"A little," he said, and she retrieved a small sugar bowl and spoon from the cupboard. She followed his hands with her eyes as he sweetened his tea, but her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.
"Is there something you would like to ask me?" Spock asked. He took a sip of his tea, filling his head with the scent and flavor of jasmine.
She shook herself a little. "Are you allowed to answer?"
"That depends upon the question."
"Of course," she said. She sweetened her tea, stirred, set aside the spoon. "It must strange to spend time with people you must know so well and now they don't know you at all."
"One might argue that they never knew me in my timeline, either."
She acknowledged the truth of that with a small shrug.
"But, yes, it is, as you say, strange." His voice deepened, and his gaze bored into hers. "Many of those people have no idea how very important they are to me."
She froze in the act of drinking her tea. Her wide blue eyes searched his. "Perhaps you should tell them."
"Yes," he said.
"Was I…" she began, and stopped, clearing her throat. "Was I always a nurse? In your time?"
"I presume that you were a child first," he said, and this time she knew he was teasing her. "In my time, at your present age you were finishing an advanced degree in biochemistry. You entered the nursing field to get a billet on Enterprise."
"I've wondered if this was what I should be doing with my life."
"You are a brilliant nurse in both timelines, Christine," he said, and she ducked her head almost shyly. "And in my time you became a brilliant physician."
Her blue eyes lit with enthusiasm. "Really? I finished medical school?" He nodded solemnly, and she gave him a wide smile. "So I can do it."
"Without question. You were my chief medical officer during my tenure as captain of the Enterprise."
"Thank you, Ambassador," she said, her face fairly glowing; even the circles under her eyes were diminished.
"I cannot accept thanks for truth," he said.
"Thank you for telling me. I've thought for some time that I was capable of handling greater responsibility."
"You are. Your continued education will benefit Starfleet—and yourself—immeasurably."
She hugged herself briefly, and Spock was touched by her exuberance; the Christine he knew had been older, more guarded.
"I'm sorry, sir; I've just been kicking around the idea of applying to med school, and it feels good to know I'm on the right track."
Spock nodded and put down his cup, leaving a half inch of tea and leaves at the bottom. "Thank you for the tea, Miss Chapel," he said. He rose to his feet, smoothing his robes.
"Why did you tell me all this?" she asked, close behind him.
He turned, looking down at her; she was nearly his height, but he still had the advantage. He smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear, and placed his hand on her cheek. He could feel anxiety and curiosity spiraling in her thoughts.
"What was I to you?" she asked; she thought she was beginning to have a pretty good idea.
"Regret. You were my regret," he said in a broken voice; he could feel her surprise. He caressed her cheek as he took his hand away. He bowed his head in a quick salute and stepped through her door and out into the corridor.
--------
She entered the visitors' area at the Vulcan embassy. The room was cavernous and her footsteps echoed on the marble floor.
This was a place in which Christine felt utterly gauche and human and out of her depth. Surely no one else could ever have walked into this room with fog-frizzy hair and a dress hanging limp and damp. What was she doing here?
A perfectly put-together Vulcan female appeared from seemingly nowhere. "May I be of assistance?" she asked.
"Christine Chapel to see Ambassador Spock," she said in a low voice.
The woman's face didn't betray even a flicker of interest. "He is not available."
"He sent me a message, inviting me to tea."
"The Ambassador has a prior engagement and is not available." She raised her eyebrows; clearly the discussion was over.
"Oh. Okay. Thank you," Christine said. She turned to leave, more confused than anything, beginning the long, loud walk to the door.
She was halted by the sound of booted feet moving fast. "Miss Chapel." She would have recognized Spock's gravelly voice anywhere. He was walking far more quickly than she would have expected from a Vulcan, from a man of his age; his outer robes flew behind him.
"Ambassador," Christine said; she felt as though she should curtsey or something. She settled for smiling politely.
Spock gave the Vulcan woman a stony look, which she returned impassively.
"I regret that you were kept waiting, Miss Chapel," he said. "I believe I owe you tea."
"Yes, sir," Christine said.
"I require a groundcar," he said without preamble to the Vulcan woman; she nodded and sailed off to do his bidding.
Christine clasped her hands behind her back, waiting.
"Thank you for meeting me," he said. "Is this your first visit to the embassy?"
"Yes, it is."
"Allow me to show you some of the oldest and most-prized relics of Vulcan culture," he said. "Of course, until recently these were only minor relics, but they are now inestimably precious to us." He extended a hand, guiding her toward an alcove containing a statue behind a sheet of transparent aluminum.
"Is that Surak?" she asked.
He nodded, meeting her eyes, and his expression conveyed not merely agreement but also approval.
--------
They did not speak in the groundcar as it transported them to the Palace Hotel, where Spock had made reservations for afternoon tea. After the vehicle left them and drove away, he guided her into the Victorian building with one hand at the small of her back; if he were a human man she would have interpreted the gesture as sexual, possessive, but she didn't know what to make of it from Spock.
The restaurant was beautiful, bright and airy despite the gloom outside. It was sheltered by a Gothic glass conservatory, and beautiful plants flowered in obscene abundance. The host seated them at a secluded table surrounded by greenery. If she had felt self-conscious at the Vulcan embassy about what the weather had done to her hair and clothes, this place, despite its grandeur, was warm and gloriously imperfect, and she was immediately comfortable.
"Have you been here before?" Spock asked.
"No," she said, looking around. "It's beautiful."
"My mother told me many years ago that this restaurant had the best afternoon tea in San Francisco."
"It's a far cry from my humble kettle and unstrained leaves."
"It is, but that had its own charm." He gave her a long, level look. Despite the fact that his gaze didn't dip lower than her shoulders—at least as far as she could tell—he was definitely thinking about sex. She shifted in her seat a little, unsure whether she was nervous or turned on.
"Miss Chapel… Christine… I will be direct. I desire you sexually."
Her face flamed, and she had to force herself to maintain eye contact with him. She nodded. "I had wondered… something like that," she said in a low voice.
"You need feel no pressure to comply with my desires. I am aware that my advanced age is an impediment to your reciprocation of those desires. However, as with most Vulcans my age my sexual function is undiminished, and I will ensure that you achieve more than one satisfactory climax."
Christine's jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. "That is… an intriguing proposal," she said. God, I sound just like him. "May I have some time to consider it?"
His courtly nod was a peculiar contrast to the subject of their conversation. "Of course; please enjoy your meal."
The waiter came to the table, breaking the spell. Spock ordered cucumber sandwiches for himself and duck breast sandwiches for Christine. The meal would be accompanied by sliced pears and bleu cheese and an assortment of pastries. They would share a pot of jasmine pearl tea.
"I had assumed that we would have tea at the embassy," she said, casting about for something to discuss other than sexsexsexsexsex…
"The embassy is not the best place for me to entertain guests," he said. "I do not care to have my personal affairs recorded and disseminated."
She blinked. "Really?"
"I have reason to believe that my quarters and my communications are being monitored," he said. "My presence—and my loyalty—is suspect to my people." He gave her a tiny smile. "'Even paranoids have enemies,'" he quoted.
"I'm surprised… someone with your experience, with your insight… they're not working with you?"
"Their home world was destroyed because of me. They will keep me close but they will not trust."
"It was your home world, too," she said, feeling immeasurably sad; she touched the back of his hand.
"I know that in my time line Vulcan continues to thrive; this is… a consolation to me." He stroked her hand. "You are beautiful, Christine."
She blushed, looking pleased but embarrassed.
The waiter came to the table. "Would you care for champagne?" he asked.
"I would not, but perhaps Miss Chapel would." Spock looked at her, and she looked back at him, trying to gauge whether he'd mind if she indulged.
"Yes, I would like a glass," she said. The waiter filled the champagne flute in front of her, and she took a sip.
"I have tried to convince my…" he looked about, searching for the appropriate word, "counterpart that you are important for him, but he is intent upon another." Spock looked briefly annoyed at the other Spock's lack of vision, and Christine felt a quick, mean stab of satisfaction at the beautiful Uhura's expense—at being preferred by this wise and accomplished Vulcan.
And that was what did it. That was what tipped the scales for her. She was vaguely ashamed that she could be so easily led by vanity. She still felt a little squeamish, considering intimacy with someone so… old, but surely it would only be the one time, she reasoned. One time, in which she would bask in the light of his presumed adoration, give him a damned good memory and hopefully enjoy herself. It was her choice, and she thought it was a good one.
"Ambassador," she said, and despite her resolve her voice wobbled a bit.
"Yes, my Christine?"
"Where would you… if we… where…" Her faltering speech was embarrassing. She gave him a significant look.
"I will secure a room here," he said, sipping serenely at his tea.
Her pulse seemed to triple, and not with fear. "If they're monitoring you at the embassy they're surely watching you here."
"Indisputably. But they won't have recording devices installed here."
Recording devices…Christine bit her lip. "Could I get into trouble with Starfleet over this?" she asked. "You're a representative of a foreign government…"
"I shall take care of anything that may arise."
She sneaked a look at him, wondering if he meant that as a double entendre.
"No, it was not intentional," he said. "But I do approve of the turn your thoughts have taken."
She laughed out loud. "How do you do that?" she asked.
"Do not take up poker, Christine," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Right." She took the napkin from her lap and put it to the side of her plate. "Shall we?"
"We shall, after we have finished our tea."
Christine started, taken aback at his didactic tone. Oh, really? she thought. She selected a cream puff from the tea tray and took a dainty bite, even as she managed to ensure that a dot of whipped cream remained on her lower lip. She dabbed at it with the tip of her tongue before meeting his gaze and sucking off the cream.
"Christine," he said, his voice even rougher than before.
"Yes, sir?"
"I have imagined intercourse with you for nearly a century without the slightest hope of success. You can assuredly wait until we have finished here." His eyes seemed to glitter at her, and she realized that he was growing aroused. She barely restrained the impulse to look at his groin to confirm it.
"Yes, sir."
"Please call me by my name."
"Yes, s-Spock."
He made a soft, low rumble in his chest that might have been the Vulcan equivalent of a belly laugh. He made a quick gesture with his hand while looking over her shoulder and within moments the server was at the table with the bill for their meal. Christine let him take it without demur; he signed for the credits charged, and then rose to his feet.
"Will you join me, Miss Chapel?" he asked.
"Of course I will, Ambassador." She was having more fun than she would have thought likely, and he hadn't so much as kissed her.
--------
The desk clerk raised his eyebrows briefly at the two of them when Ambassador Spock requested a room, but nothing was said about it. This being San Francisco, he had certainly seen stranger things.
"I believe the traditional explanation is that I'm your 'niece'," she said in an undertone as they walked to the lift.
"I shall keep that in mind for the future."
--------
The room was large and decorated in a soothing palette of blue-grays that matched the foggy skies outdoors.
Her pulse raced as he closed the door behind them. This was it.
"You look like an animal in a trap," he said. "You have every right to change your mind, my Christine."
She shook her head, mute, and stepped into his arms. His hands were rough on her bare arms.
"As a scientist, perhaps you are curious about how a Vulcan makes love?"
She gurgled a laugh. "I tend to be an empiricist. Are you curious about how humans make love?"
"No. Just how you do."
I just hope it's not like kissing my grandfather, she thought, and he exhaled a quick burst of air, almost a laugh. He cradled her face in his warm hands and kissed her.
It wasn't like kissing her grandfather. For one thing, Papa Chapel had smelt of Old Spice and old teeth. This Spock didn't smell old to her; the odors of his clothes, his body, his breath, were subtly alien and pleasant.
His lips were soft against her mouth, but she could feel the hardness of teeth behind them. Just the darting of the tip of his tongue against her upper lip, and she opened her mouth to him, sighing as he tilted her head back and up. She hadn't been kissed like this since… since she couldn't remember when. He kissed her as though they had all night, as though it was all he had ever wanted, would ever want.
He pressed her against the wall, his hands skimming over her body, mapping her by touch. Her legs trembled. God, he was good at this.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. "Christine, do you know that I am a touch telepath?"
"I do now," she said. She had meant to sound cross, but her comment came out as a satisfied sort of purr. "So you can tell what I'm thinking of with just a touch?"
"Yes," he said, and kissed her again.
She concentrated hard on picturing in explicit detail exactly what she wanted him to do to her, and she was gratified to feel the tremor that passed through him.
"The bed, now," he said.
He guided her backwards, still kissing her, until the backs of her legs hit the bed, and then, with more strength than she would have imagined, he lowered her gently. She kicked off her shoes and parted her thighs, leaning on her elbows and looking up at him from under her eyelashes, inviting him to cover her.
He removed the outer layer of his robes, his gaze never leaving hers, and she shivered. The belt holding his tunic closed soon joined his outer robes on the side chair, revealing his undershirt and loose trousers. He was clearly aroused, she saw. He shrugged out of the tunic.
"Come to me, Spock," she said. And he did. He knelt on the bed, a knee between her legs, and stretched out on top of her, pressing his erect member against her sex. She sighed and writhed beneath him, her arms around his back, behind his head, holding him closer. He stole her breath with another heart-stopping kiss, and she gradually became aware that the skirt of her thin summer dress was wadded up around her waist.
"Let me take this off," she said, and he pushed himself up to sit next to her. She unbuttoned her dress and lifted it over her head. She was glad she had decided to wear attractive (and matching) underwear, in eau de Nil silk with café au lait lace.
She hadn't known what to expect, but it appeared that Vulcan males (and half-Vulcan males) were just as entranced by tits as their human counterparts. She straddled him, climbing into his lap so her breasts were in his face. "Do you like 'em?" she asked, but she didn't really have to. He put his arms around her waist, holding her closer.
Christine pulled his head down so he could cool his face between her breasts. There was the faintest scratch from his beard. He kissed the soft swelling above the cups, and touched her with almost reverent fingers. "Like marble," Spock said, his voice slightly muffled. "Cool and white."
He unfastened her bra, pulling it over her arms and tossing it to the side. He lifted one of her breasts and suckled the crown while caressing its twin.
She worked her hand between their bodies and palmed his dick. He made a noise deep in his chest, and she squeezed. "I want you," she murmured to him, and he held her even more tightly.
He lifted her up, and laid her on her back, stretching on top of her again. "Take your clothes off," she said in a husky voice.
She had not expected to be moved by the sight of his naked body. While his flesh didn't have the plumpness and sheen and springiness of youth, he was not unattractive. She could easily imagine what he had looked like in his prime, but she wouldn't have to resort to her imagination to enjoy fucking him. His chest hair was less grey than the hair on his head, and his pubic and armpit hair was still dark. His sex jutted out impressively, faintly green with his blood.
Christine shimmied out of her panties and tossed them on the growing pile of their cast-off garments. He paused, giving her a look that turned her blood to a superheated vapor.
Before she knew what he was about he was on top of her, playing the head of his dick around her slick labia before he slid home.
And then stopped moving altogether. She looked up at him quizzically, raising her hips, teasing him. He held her in place with his hands; she thought she might have bruises tomorrow, but she kept pushing.
"Wait," he said. "I wish to attempt a meld with you. Do you consent?"
She nodded, and his long fingers spread across one side of her face like a starfish. He adjusted and re-adjusted the pressure of his fingertips as though he was playing an instrument, and she supposed he might be. His gaze bored into hers, and she found herself wondering what all the fuss was about.
And then… starting slowly like the dull patter of rain against the windows, he was in her head. Through the connection with his fingers she received his thoughts, his feelings and oh! Suddenly it was too much… too much desire, too much regret, too much loss… she began to recoil from him.
He kissed her, holding her steady about the waist with his other arm, grounding her within the meld, and she came back to herself. He thrust and she felt both her pleasure and his. The things he said to her in her mind made her toes curl, and she rolled her hips under him, pulling him closer and closer and closer…
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Afterwards she lay next to Spock, her breathing and pulse returning to normal. He was on his side, touching her, tracing the shape of her nose, her chin.
"That was…" she began, but couldn't finish. "I've never come with just penetration before," she said.
He didn't speak, and his face didn't seem to change, although the expression in his eyes was smug in a purely masculine way that transcended species and culture and age.
Impulsively, she kissed him. "You said 'more than one satisfactory climax,' right?"
--------
After two more mutually-agreed-upon satisfactory climaxes, she decided to give him a bit of a rest.
"Ah, here's a constant to the universe," she said, raising her head.
"What do you mean?" he asked; his pupils were dilated and his color was high.
"Balls smell like balls, no matter what species," she said, and, lifting his cock out of the way, sucked one of his testicles into her mouth.
"Based upon your survey of only two species?" he asked in a tight voice.
She released him for a moment, and he sighed. "The Pearson stat looks pretty good so far. Still smell like balls." She returned to her task.
"I hope that is not—ah!—a source of difficulty," he said, every muscle taut, his body straining against the mattress.
She chuckled, and the vibration made him groan. So, of course, she chuckled again, and sucked him harder.
"Christine… Christine…" he murmured, before lapsing into a different language. He might have been reciting the formula for correlation coefficient in Vulcan, for all she knew, but he was certainly enjoying himself.
She had always liked giving head; the intimate, mushroom scent and the vegetal textures and shapes, the sense of power involved in rendering a man incoherent with her mouth, the sense of weakness involved in assuming such a submissive position, the man's hands in her hair, directing her movement. She released his testicle with a wet, smacking sound, and he relaxed.
But not for long: she raised herself on hands and knees and sucked his cock deep into her mouth. He tasted of himself, of his skin and his come, and also of her. Her hand gripped him tightly at the base of his penis, while she caressed the head and shaft with her lips and tongue.
He came soon thereafter, gasping and clutching at her. "T'hy'la," he murmured at the end.
--------
Six Weeks Later
"A man asked me to dinner tonight," she said.
"I presume you told him that you had other plans."
She laughed and kissed his bare chest. "He'll be picking me up here in about fifteen minutes; I do hope you don't mind."
He chuckled, stroking her back. "Who was he?"
"He's an archaeologist of some sort, named Korby."
Spock went still.
"Spock?" She raised her head to look at him. "What is it?"
"It is nothing," he said.
"Right," she said, not fooled. "So you won't mind if I have dinner with him some other time."
"Do not, Christine," he said, warningly.
Her eyebrows went up, in unconscious imitation of his. "You're getting married, Spock. You have no right to insist on exclusivity."
"Not him." He sighed, and made a conscious effort to soften his tone. "I know that you had no particular interest in him until I objected; why you would embark on a disastrous affair just to spite me?"
"Who says it would be disastrous?"
"You were engaged to him, in my time, and it was disastrous. He ran off with his lab assistant; he killed two of our crew members and he tried to kill both you and Captain Kirk when you found him."
She just looked at him, and started to laugh. "Your time was fucked up," she said.
He pushed her hair from her eyes. "Not Korby, Christine. Please."
"All right," she said. "You're lucky, though, that I didn't find him all that attractive." She laid her head on his chest again.
"It is not fair, what I ask of you. I know this, and I ask it anyway." He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair.
"How can you want me to go with you to the Vulcan settlement? You've told me what it was like growing up half-human on Vulcan; what would it be like for your child, being taunted about his father's human mistress? What would it be like for your wife? I don't want to feel pity for her—whoever she will be—but I do."
"The difficulty of my childhood may well have been the making of me."
"Oh, then, by all means, continue to plan the emotional torture of your wife and offspring."
"Christine—" he began.
"I can't be that cruel, Spock. Not intentionally."
He sighed again. "Then we are at an impasse."
"Yes." She blinked hard against the tears that threatened.
He rolled to his side, kissing her mouth. "Christine. My marriage will serve only to ensure biological diversity for future generations of Vulcans. It will be nothing to us."
"I will be going with Enterprise when she ships out," she said; it should have been a non-sequitur but it wasn't. He didn't stop kissing her. "Did you hear me?"
"Yes."
He was stiffening against her thigh, and her response was near-Pavlovian. She shifted, opening her thighs to him, guiding him inside her. They took each other brutally, without tenderness, not even bothering with the meld, and it was over in a few short minutes. His shout of completion was still ringing in her ears when she pushed him aside.
"Shouldn't you be saving your 'biological diversity' for your wife?" she asked him nastily. "I'm going to take a shower." She rolled out of the bed and stalked into the bathroom without a backwards look.
She was rinsing her hair when she heard his feet on the tiles.
"You said you could not be cruel, not intentionally." His voice echoed against the marble surfaces. She looked over her shoulder at him. "You seem to have little difficulty with cruelty when it comes to me."
Her eyes were red. "I know."
He stepped into the shower with her, and took her into his arms. The water rained down on them, and she wept against his chest. "I don't want it to be over," she said brokenly.
"It does not have to be."
"Why can't you just give them a semen sample for god's sake? Why do you have to marry someone?"
"That is not how Vulcan society works."
"Perhaps Vulcan society will just have to adapt to their new reality. And since when do you care about how Vulcan society does things?"
"T'hy'la…"
"Don't call me that."
"You are my beloved, my lover. That will not change."
"Spock… my father was constantly unfaithful to my mother. It hurt her, and it hurt us kids because we knew what was going on. I can't do that to someone else."
"If I were marrying a human this would be a valid concern. I am not."
"You're marrying a woman; she will hate this, regardless of her species. It doesn't matter," Christine said, defeated, sitting on the shower bench.
He sank to his knees before her.
"You'll hurt your knees," she said, her voice flat.
"I will be fine." He leaned in, lifting her thigh over his shoulder.
"No… no more…" she said, but weakly; he knew by touch that she was not opposed.
He bit the inside of her thigh, soothing the bite with his tongue. Her sex was rosy and plump, gleaming with water and the remnants of his semen. He sealed his mouth over her clitoris, and pulled and sucked at her, tonguing her, until she came apart in his arms, clutching at his head, her heel digging into his back.
When she had regained her breath, she moved her leg from his shoulder. "Thank you," she said formally and turned off the water. "Need a hand up?" she asked him. He shook his head and climbed to his feet.
She dried herself and dressed silently. He sat wet and naked on the bed, watching her. She went into the bathroom and dried her hair. She sat at the desk and put on her shoes.
She stood, looking at him for a long time; her face showed nothing. "Goodbye, Spock." She didn't touch him, and he didn't reach for her.
"I will not say goodbye."
"Suit yourself," she said, and the heavy door slammed shut behind her.