She took all his classes at the Academy. She sat close enough to catch each almost-expression clearly, to notice the pull of muscles in his throat when he spoke, the grace of movement that was just that extra degree of precise to take it beyond the realm of human norm.
It took her approximately two months to determine that she was in love.
She had never really understood what people meant by "falling in love," an expression she considered trite and hyperbolic. She would be reading, or studying. She would talk with the others girls about dates or crushes, but she never shared her own feelings or had many feelings about the boys at their school in any case. But she did not have another word for the way he took over her mind. She thought about him when she walked to class, when she sat down to study, when she purchased the Vulcan prayer mats and began her study of Vulcan history.
Professor Spock was nothing like anyone she had ever met. He was half Vulcan—already interesting enough, as before she began at the Academy she could have counted on one hand the number of aliens she had met. But it was not just that. It was the way he handled every task with cool competence. The way he handled people and commanded respect without raising his voice, just be earning it.
So she thought what it would mean to stand beside that strength. She could see herself there. She began cultivating a Vulcan-esque aversion to the more distracting emotions. At times, perhaps her weaker, mind-wandering times, when she was practicing meditation in her room rather than out with her roommate or cousin attending the loud parties or unnecessarily fine restaurants that sprouted up like noxious mushrooms around the Academy, she imagined that he would approve.
The first two years pass in the same routine. Then the third began.
"Fancy meeting you here."
Leonard McCoy slid into the seat next to hers. She liked him because he was smart and practical and no-nonsense, and got jobs done when he said they would be done and got teams working together when they did not want to work together. So she was not unpleased when he sat next to her on the first day of the new semester.
"I wasn't sure that I would see you in advanced xenosurgical procedures," he said. "Glad I was wrong about that."
"I may one day be called upon to save some other life form. It would be short sighted to confine my studies to those with the traditional humanoid anatomy."
"Right. Won't get any argument from me," McCoy said. "Hey so I was thinking, if you have time later, you might want to get a head start on the—"
But Christine raised a hand. The professor had entered the room. The set of his shoulders, the cut of his uniform, the arch of his brows. Unbidden an image of what that face might look like gripped by passion passed before her, and she banished it. She schooled her features into what she thought might be an approximation of Vulcan clam. She was only grateful Vulcans required touch to reach your mind. Then immediately had to repress thoughts of being touched by those hands. Beside her McCoy cleared his throat and shifted.
She had decided she would write her thesis on the comparison of the different blood systems of humanoids, focusing particularly on the differences between Vulcan and human. It was a practical subject, bound to be useful on whatever ship she was assigned, but clearly also influenced by her regard for one specific Vulcan / human hybrid. But that was fine. On day she might be on his ship. The idea made her heart flutter. One day she might be on his ship, she might be called on to save his life. Then she would want this knowledge to come as easily as breathing.
She was devoted to her choice of topic. And she knew just the person to be her advisor.
She stood outside his office, clutching her data pads and rehearsing her request. She knew he was behind that door. She heard him, once, moving a chair or some other heavy object on the other side. When she entered that door they would be alone. But then Nyota Uhura rounded the corner. She knew Uhura because everyone knew her—she was friendly and intelligent, in communications so had a way with talking to people.
"Christine," Uhura stopped, smiling her easy smile. "I have an appointment to see Spock. Were you waiting for him?"
"I'm-" Jealousy was, unnecessary, unhelpful. Illogical. She would be calm, reasonable, cool under pressure. She would not allow things such as bitterness or regret sneak into her consciousness. "I'm not waiting."
Uhura gave her a brief puzzled smile, before pressing the panel to enter the room, stepping across the threshold with an easy confidence. Christine watched the door slide shut behind her, seeing him clearly sitting at the desk, standing when Uhura entered. There was some large object on the ground next to his desk, which Christine recognizes as a model of a klingon bird of prey.
Christine supposes they think it is a secret. And it is, subtle. But Christine notices it. When Uhura starts waiting outside of class. When she seems them walking down the hall. Once, when she sees them eating together at the mess hall. Seeing them together Christine is beset by what ifs. What if she had done something, she had been the one to speak with him after class, go to his office, make that astute observation or complete that extra project? If she had done something, some unknown thing, could it have been her on his arm now, sneaking intimate conversations in turbo lifts and exchanging looks with an intimacy that she had never hoped to see?
Christine had hoped but not really believed that he would do something as mundane as date. Her research had suggested that Vulcan's did not engage in casual relationships. And she had told herself, convinced herself, that he would never date a student. He spent all his time at the Academy and there were few women and no Vulcan's of his own position, age and marital status she had thought herself safe from the possibility of her not-crush being involved in a romantic entanglement.
But she could not ignore the physical, tangible evidence that this was wrong.
She wonders when it started. Was it that day in the hallway? Christine learned later Uhura had asked him to be her advisor. Spock had not take on any more students after that, he had decided sixty-seven advisees was enough and, though unfortunately arbitrary, he had to determine a numerical cutoff. That was how he had explained it to Christine, when she finally asked him a week later and he had gently, logically turned her down. What if Christine had been the one to enter his office, she had been the one he had invited to discuss things further over dinner?
It was near the end of the semester and she was sitting in McCoy's room working on a project. The rest of their group had left. They lingered over a problem. He insisted he needed her help. She wasn't so sure, but she did not mind spending time with him. McCoy was smart and kind and occasionally insightful without being invasive about it. A good manner for a doctor, and she liked him. She liked his room too. Though she was glad his roommate was out.
They sat at the table, looking at the diagrams of the cells and compounds. They needed to predict the reaction when certain medicines were used on slightly altered humanoid forms, to anticipate any adverse reactions. They had solved all, but one, a messy mix of carbon blocks sprawling over the page, was proving more complicated.
"It might interfere with this link, here, causing this entire chain to potentially switch off," McCoy said. Christine crinkled her brows.
"I think it more likely to interfere here," Christine moved her finger to the center of the page. "Affecting more than just the link, it could cause the entire thing to break apart."
McCoy was nodding when the door slid open and an exuberant shout invaded the room.
"Bones pack your overnight kit because you and I are going to meet some ladies tonight-" McCoy's roommate stopped. Though she generally avoided him, Christine remembered his name because all the girls knew his name - James Kirk. He was cocky and loud and attractive and that George Kirk's son, but standing grinning in the doorway he was just making her uncomfortable with his laughing blue gaze. "Maybe you don't want to go out tonight?"
McCoy had already been glaring at his roommate and now his look turned mutinous.
"Not especially, no. You know I am working on a project."
"A project. Right," Kirk's grin widened. Christine wondered if they really thought her dense enough not to decipher their little code. Christine supposed she could see what some of the other girls saw in him. On a purely aesthetic grounds, she could see the appeal. It was particularly apparent now, in the way his eyes turned serious as he looked over at the pads on the desk, flickering quickly over the images.
"Going to solve our project for us, Jim?" McCoy said sarcastically.
Kirk was technically in their class, though he rarely made an appearance. Presumably he did the assignments. But this was a special project the professor had assigned them as future members of the medical corp. Kirk should not have been familiar with these compounds. Yet his eyes glinted with concentration, not confusion.
"Well, this protein looks like a modified form of an Orion RNA strand. Looks like it's been modified for immunity to the red pox," he said after a moment. McCoy let out an annoyed breath. "And here," he lifted the pad with the medical compound, flicking his fingers to magnify, "You would never want to give something like that to an Orion who already had this kind of modification, it would break the whole chain apart."
His finger traced the line that would unravel, and Christine could see he was right. She looked from the finger on the pad to the blue eyes of its owner, and knew she should feel impressed but instead felt mildly annoyed. They would have reached the answer in a moment. Maybe, a suspicious part of her whispered, Kirk staged this whole thing in some way to impress her. But that was unfair. She squelched the offending emotion and forced a smile. Kirk placed the pad back on the desk.
"Now, how about you both come out with me? We're going to the Narwhal, I promise Bones it will be only the classiest of evenings, we can even have mint juleps."
McCoy was looking at the data pads, his mutinous expression not diminished for one moment."There is still more work to do on the project, Jim-"
"Come on, a little fun will help you with your project," Kirk's eyes glinted.
She was tired, Kirk had been right about the answer and there was no reason any longer for her to stay. She stood, slipping the data pads into her bag as she did so.
"It is getting late. I think I shall return to my room. We have early class tomorrow," she looked pointedly at Kirk. She suspected he had no plans to attend. "I think you have your answers, McCoy. Let me know if you need help writing them up for the group."
"You're really leaving? You won't come out with us?" Kirk seemed genuinely surprised his invitation had been refused. She added arrogant assumptions that others would inherently share his desire to "go out" to the list of things about him she did not like. She told herself it was a dispassionate list of a psychological observations.
"Yes. I'm really leaving."
"Is there somewhere you would rather go?" Kirk seemed pretty keen on keeping her there. She supposed it had something to do with his ego and had an irrational pleasure in disappointing him.
"You don't have to change your plans for me. Enjoy your evening. McCoy, I'll see you tomorrow."
Kirk watched her incredulously as she exited the room. There was something strangely satisfying about it. Undermining his expectations. As the door closed she could hear McCoy talking rapidly, and a couple aborted replies from Kirk. In the hall outside two girls were waiting, no doubt, for Kirk to reemerge from his room. She knew their names. Both were dressed to go out in the city, in short dresses with shiny bangles on their wrists.
"You can probably go in." Christine said to them.
"Oh no. James was really clear his roommate would have a fit if we went inside," one of the girls said. Christine wondered if they were students. She had never seen them before. The idea that Kirk would get girls from the city and bring them here, to the Academy, was disproportionately irritating.
Years later she would remember that night. It was the last time she had talked to James Kirk before he was the Captain. Before he was a hero. Before he was connected in her mind with anyone except McCoy, and that connection to McCoy tenuous at best, a friendship she did not fully understand. When James Kirk was just a solo, womanizing presence rubbing like an irritant against her existence.
Walking back to her room her thoughts turned, as they inevitably did when she was alone, to professor Spock. It would irritate Spock to have a student like Kirk. She crinkled her brow. Though she had cultivated an understanding of Spock and was pleased to think she could anticipate his reactions, she found she could not imagine a conversation between him and Kirk. They seemed to inhabit different spheres, like planets rotating around different suns.
The first time she saw them interact was at Kirk's disciplinary hearing. She thought it strangely appropriate. Kirk had somehow hacked the simulator—programmed by Spock—and won that unbeatable Kobayashi Maru scenario they subjected everyone on the command track too. In the weeks leading up to the hearing everyone talked about it. Alice admired Kirk's skills and made sure everyone knew it. Bill tried to figure out how Kirk had broken the codes, and was a constant mess because of his failure to do so (and Kirk's refusal to tell him how to do it). Overall there was consensus it was a creative solution and mostly respect for the cadet who had carried it out—but undergirding it all the slight current of a disapproval not untouched by resentment.
Then the hearing was interrupted when the attacks happened, the fleet was mobilized and she was being sent up in a starship.
"Christine," McCoy grabbed her arm. Around them cadets hastened to their new posts, new duties, new lives. It was exciting and nerve wracking all at once. "Where did you get assigned?"
"The Farragut," she said, telling herself she was pleased that she had been assigned such a fine ship not upset that he would be going on the other one, the flagship one, that stood shiny and new and state-of-the-art in the hanger bay. Of course she was not quite good enough to be assigned to that ship, her marks, though respectable, were nothing extraordinary and she was not distinguished in the way that brought assignments to flagships.
"How would you like to switch to the Enterprise?"
Christine blinked. "What?"
"The Enterprise. They have me on there, the nurses are decent but I would rather work with you. I think I could work the switch. So, how about it? Like a switch?"
Absolutely thank you I can't believe this. "Yes."
When the other ships in the fleet were all destroyed, she knew that by switching her to the Enterprise McCoy had saved her life. She caught him looking at her, once, after they had survived the attack at Vulcan, and she said only, "Thank you."
That Vulcan was destroyed she could not believe it. The implications of it were too enormous. She wanted to go to Spock, to be with him and support him. But of course he did not want, need or expect that of her. He probably did not even know she had been assigned to the Enterprise. But she looked for him and thought about him and hoped somehow her thoughts would help, though it was illogical to think they would.
"What's happening?" She asked McCoy, when he entered grimly into the sickbay after being somewhere – on deck, talking with the command team, tracking down crewmembers. At some point he had become part of the command team on this ship and she was happy for him but it was difficult not having him here.
"Spock's stepped down. Jim's in charge now. Seems the pointy-eared professor was feeling emotionally compromised."
"How is that possible?"
"Jim provoked him, got himself beat up, then got himself promoted to Captain."
There was something awed in McCoy's voice. Whatever Kirk had done to provoke Spock must have been extreme. And at this time, after all that had happened to him. Her pulse quickened and a pressure built behind her eyes, and it took her a moment to tell what it was: anger. As they worked she learned more of the story from McCoy, how Jim had appeared on the bridge, how he had confronted Spock, gotten himself punched in front of everybody. How Spock had snapped when Jim mentioned his mother. Christine didn't like to be angry, she tried not to get angry, but every new detail made her anger towards their new acting captain grow.
She had not been present when the fight occurred, but she could not believe that Spock was actually emotionally compromised enough not to be the best pick for captain, now Pike was captured, and certainly not enough that stepping down and handing command over to a reckless cadet who just hours before had been jettisoned from the ship was a good idea. And what exactly was he doing back anyway? But the important thing, the thing she kept coming back too, was that now Spock had given up command of the ship he was alone. And he no longer had anything to think about except one thing.
When the injured were stable enough and she could no longer work through the pressure behind her eyes, she left sickbay. McCoy watched her go but he did not say anything, for which she was grateful.
She found Spock on the observation deck. He was looking out at the stars, strangely peaceful after the chaos of the last couple of days. But of course Spock could not be feeling peaceful right now. Though it was illogical her heart felt heavy, an ache that though she knew it to be psychological still felt as real as lead in her chest. Christine wanted to talk with him. She wanted to touch him, to wrap her arms around him and offer that comfort she could. But there were so many reasons she couldn't do that. Firstly, he wasn't alone. With him was Uhura. She was talking.
Her feet were carrying her forward and it was inappropriate to interrupt but nothing about this situation was appropriate. So she stopped four feet back, and waited for a pause in Uhura's soft speech. Uhura noticed her first and smiled, giving a soft greeting.
"Professor Spock," Christine said. He looked up, seeing her but not. She was both sorry and happy she was there, unsure what to say but needing to say something. "I'm so sorry. I can't even imagine what it must be like, and you should know, we are all here for you. I am here for you."
Spock said nothing, just continued looking out at the stars. It was Uhura that said, "Thank you."
"McCoy told me what happened, on the bridge. There is no doubt in my mind that you are the superior choice for Captain."
Now Spock did look at her. She thought she saw thankfulness in the slight creasing of his eyebrows, though it was possible she was projecting. He certainly looked strained, and tired, and there were still hairs out of place, physical evidence of his recent distress. Of his ongoing distress. Her anger at Kirk surged. Spock deserved their support right now, not to be the target of vicious power struggles.
There was so much more she might have said. But instead, she left. She went to her room, and tried to mediate before her next shift.
She was surprised when their "Captain" had not gotten them all killed. It seemed they had saved the Earth from suffering the same fate as Vulcan. This was obviously a good thing, so when she attended the ceremony where Kirk was commended she was able to feel whatever else, he deserved some commendation. She felt altruistic. She had not seen the heroism spoken of, but she suspected Spock had as much or more to do with their survival than Kirk.
She was surprised when the cadets were given the ship, the shiny flagship Enterprise, after the battle. She thought it should have been Spock who was given the command golds. But in the following months she took to calling Kirk the Captain in her mind, though there was occasionally still a bit of distain in the title. The first couple weeks passed in the shining halo of shared success. But it soon became clear there was tension in the command chain. Not hostility. But tension. She heard about the arguments. There was talk among the crew—Spock questioning and calculating the chances of the Captains plans. Once the Captain had left a meeting, she heard, because he was so annoyed at Spock. Well. She was sure Spock was right all those times, and mostly credited him with keeping them all alive.
The tension between the command team bled over into the crew. Christine herself has a chance to observe the problems herself, the couple of times she was on the bridge. Spock would point out in smooth cool tones the low probabilities of success and flaws in plans, often while not even looking up from his counsel, and the Captain would get the look of a kicked puppy. Nevertheless he seemed to have an almost masochistic habit of asking Spock's opinion about most major bridge decisions. It was a dynamic that could be painful to watch. She heard Sulu and Chekov complaining about more than once.
"It's like they are in the midst of a messy divorce," Sulu said once. "And we're the children being asked to chose who we love more."
She could not believe Spock though a Vulcan could forget the usurpation, that he should be Captain. Vulcans did not show their emotions, but she had read they might have resentment run deep, and after all Spock was half human and living among humans. It would be only natural for him to be angry, even if on the surface he fulfilled his duties as first officer.
Though the Captain seemed to expect something more.
"He's driving me mental," the Captain said, two months in, on a non-health related visit to sickbay to talk with McCoy. He made these visits occasionally, and when he did she knew something was serious was on his mind—it was almost always Spock. Christine would remove herself from the room and let the Captain vent to his friend. But that did not mean she did not listen. "You would think he couldn't do anything without performing thirteen separate calculations. I don't even know how someone can live like that."
The sound of crashing from the other room suggested the Captain had knocked something off the table.
McCoy's voice was heavy with a sigh. "Now Jim, don't go taking it out on the equipment."
"It's that he doesn't trust me. That's what it is."
"Well, have you given him reasons to trust you?"
"My plans work! He knows they work."
"But he's right that most of the time they probably shouldn't. Hey, don't look at me like that—you want me to lie to you? Look, Jim, I get you are frustrated and I would be too with some of the things he says. But I think you need to take this up with him, not come make a mess of sickbay."
"I can't have him keep undermining me. And it's not just about me, it's bad for the crew. They have to be confident in their Captain," the Captain's voice went quiet. "And it doesn't make any sense. It doesn't make sense that he makes me feel, inadequate, so often."
"If he's hurting your feelings, Jim, at least you can be certain he doesn't mean too. He's probably just not aware of the feelings of us lesser beings. Not being burdened by them himself."
"He does feel, Bones," Where before his voice had been angry now it was laced with weariness.
"How can you be so sure?"
There was a silence in which Christine glanced into the room. The Captain was standing facing towards her, his back to McCoy, but she could see his face and she would remember it later—his brow crinkled, looking like a man many years older, shoulders bent like there was a weight on his back.
"I'm sure. He just deals with them differently than us. And I can't get him to feel right about me, no matter what I do."
"You can't control other people, Jim."
A week later she was actually part of a similar conversation, when she found herself sitting with Uhura and Spock in the dining hall. There had been a whole group at the table but slowly they had all left, until it was just the three of them remaining. Spock was talking.
"His decisions are often so illogical as to be nearly symptomatic of a death-wish."
"That is why he needs you," Uhura said. "We all do. We need you two together to keep things around here working."
Christine found herself saying, half because she believed it and half because she wondered what Spock would say. "Some might say it is an accident Kirk is the Captain now, that it should be you."
Spock regarded her coolly. The flush crept along her skin and up her cheeks, but she did not look away.
"It was not an accident. I removed myself from command. However irregular the circumstances, Kirk was next in the chain of command."
"I think you would be a good Captain."
Spock was looking at her strangely now and Christine resolved to drop the topic. It was not that she did not like Kirk or thought he was doing a poor job—she had to respect the energy and commitment he brought to the position. But it was just so obvious to her that regardless of Kirk's qualities Spock would be a superior choice to Captain a ship such as the Enterprise.
Uhura looked between the two of them. "Be that as it may. Kirk is Captain now, and he is doing the best he can. And you know I am not president of the Jim Kirk fan club, but he is doing pretty well so far. We should be supporting him. I know more than anyone he can be irritating," Uhura smiled, reaching forward to run a finger down Spock's cheek. "But we have to admit, he's occasionally brilliant sometimes too, right?"
"More than occasionally. I would say the thing I find most irritating is that he finds it necessary at most times to minimize intelligence. He would be more appealing were he to more explicitly explain how he is deploying his capabilities."
Uhura laughed. "Appealing? Are you considering asking him on a date? Because there is definitely a line which I am most definitely at the front of."
"There is no such line. I am merely observing that his designs often only become clear in retrospect, a clearer explication in the beginning might allow others in his crew to form a clearer picture of his designs."
"You kind of just said you're angry because you don't always understand his plans until later. Maybe you are upset his brain might be as big as yours?"
"If you are suggesting this has anything to do with jealousy . . ."
"I am not suggesting anything. Just translating a bit from Vulcan-speak."
"I am speaking standard."
"I didn't mean literally."
Christine had left this conversation with a feeling that Spock was right, and Uhura wrong. That the Captain should be explaining himself more fully, should be more careful about his plans and directions. And also that Uhura should be more supportive of Spock and less apt to challenge him.
Three months in and Christine heard mumblings—well, McCoy talking about—the Captain and Spock assigning themselves to different shifts on the bridge. Christine might have said she had known this would happen. James Kirk and Spock were just too different. She began to think about transferring to a different ship when Spock made his inevitable change. It seemed only a matter of time.
Spock didn't have to be here. With his skills, his experience, his background, he could have his own ship. He should have his own ship. Christine wanted to see him move up through command and though she had developed a grudging respect for the Captain and would certainly miss McCoy, she was planning on putting in a request to transfer when Spock did get that new ship. She was looking forward to it.
Then came the first away mission to go horribly wrong.
"What the hell happened down there? Tell me how this happened!" McCoy was yelling, as they rolled a badly bleeding Captain into sickbay. He had ballistics wounds in his arm and chest, and was losing blood rapidly.
Christine worked to stop the bleeding. His side was a mess and he had long sense lost consciousness, his breaths coming in barely-there shallow pulls. Spock stood with his shirt soaked with the Captain's blood, explaining precisely and economically what had happened. How they had been attacked by a group of natives whose technology had been further advanced than they had anticipated. The projectile weapons they had employed were fast and effective. Spock's voice got softer at the end.
"Judging by the projectory, the shots were meant for me. The Captain stepped in their path."
McCoy paused for just a moment, hands red with the Captain's blood. "He saved your life. I will do everything I can to save his."
Spock nodded and left. If the situation with the Captain had not been so dire, the look on Spock's face would have made Christine follow him. But the Captain was bleeding from three different puncture wounds, and pieces of metal were still embedded deep in the organs of his chest. This would require surgery and concentration, and she was next to McCoy in sickbay all night.
The ship was near New Vulcan, and they had stopped in for extra supplies, and to drop off some items. Some of the Vulcans came aboard. One came to visit sickbay, and older Vulcan with a peaceful expression. She liked him immediately. He went to the Captain's bed and stood some moments, not speaking.
"You expect your Captain to make a full recovery?"
"Yes. We hope he will wake up soon."
"That is good."
"Spock?" the Captain's voice came from behind them, tired, she might have said plaintive.
"He is not here, Captain, but I can send for him. I am sure will be pleased to know you have woken." She moved towards the communicator but the elderly Vulcan stopped her.
"It is alright, nurse. I believe he wishes to speak with me."
"Commander Spock is our first officer."
"I am well aware of that," the hand on her own was warm, and serene eyes regarded her with a depth of kindness that embodied everything she most admired about Vulcans. "You see, I am Spock as well."
She might have thought he was joking. But Vulcans don't joke. "How is that possible?"
"He is Spock. But not the Spock on this ship. A different one. A better one." The Captain said. He sounded like he was still in considerable pain, though the drugs should not yet have worn off. Christine stood still for a moment, looking between the young man on the bed and the elderly Vulcan.
"It is all quite complicated. But suffice it to say I am indeed an older version of your own first officer."
"I need to talk to him," the Captain said. Vulcan that was also Spock but not Spock? Time travel? Or parallel dimensions, like the one from which Nero had emerged? Probably, but this was clearly not something which concerned her. So Christine nodded and left the room. But she kept listening as she moved about sickbay. "I wanted you, and you are here."
"Of course, Jim. I will always come when you need me."
Like the tone of voice the Vulcan had used when he addressed her it was kind, but there was much more heaviness and familiarity in it as well. Christine wanted to know more about this older Spock, where he had come from and why he was here to see the Captain. But she could not ask. Instead she began preparing some pain medication for the Captain. And she listened.
"You are sure this is what you want?"
"I stepped in front of bullets for him, and he doesn't even like me."
"Jim, I can assure you-"
"Don't, please. I can't handle any of that right now. Just, take it back. I cannot live with—two of you, in my head. You know, the other day when we were on the bridge, I almost put my hand on his shoulder? I almost reached out and made contact with his skin. We don't do that. It's not a thing that we do. He would have freaked out. I need you to take it back, or I am going to do something ridiculous like that."
"You are both so young. I hope you can forgive him one day."
Though Christine did not know precisely what she heard that day in sickbay, afterwards there was a definite shift in the Captain. He became even more confident. Well, he had been plenty confident before, but this was even further internalized. And he was less inclined to puppy dog around Spock.
There seemed to be a shift in Spock as well. His eyes more often had that thoughtful expression she had seen come over him in sickbay, when he had stood coated in the Captain's blood. The tension between the two eased, and the crew relaxed.
Christine watched them. She imagined she could see a careful caution beneath the Captain's friendly smiles, beneath Spock's smooth expressions. There was definitely something unspoken there. Like they were sizing each other up, thoughtfully, as though each were plotting some action and wary lest they misjudge the other's response. She thought at first there might be another physical fight. But it seemed to channel into sparring — both verbal and physical.
She was there once, two months after the Captain had been shot, when he had correctly identified the cause of some malfunction in the air ducts that had been bothering Spock for a week and been causing an irritating smell and the occasional burst of purple spores.
"It seems you were correct, Captain," Spock said, dusting the purple dust from his hands. It turned out to be from some spores they had picked up a few planets back, which had grown into clusters of round, fuzzy looking plants lodged in the upper corners of the air ducts.
"I was what, Spock?" The Captain was grinning.
"You were correct," Spock said again. And then, "Perhaps you should consider having Doctor McCoy check your hearing?"
"Oh I think I will be fine, after hearing you say that a couple of times. You can get them out?"
"They will be gone by tomorrow."
"Fantastic. And Spock," the Captain had placed a hand on Spock's shoulder, which Spock could not have liked, and was smiling that too cocky smile. "Next time, feel free to bring the problem to me sooner. Let me help you out."
"It is not your job to help me out. I shall endeavor to keep any similar problems from inconveniencing you."
And then Spock had sneezed, the Captain had overreacted (Christine suspected he was exaggerating on purpose), and sat with Spock making jokes about Vulcan sensitivity to purple pollen as McCoy had run his scans and Christine had checked the tests. Spock was having a reaction to the spores, but it was nothing more than a minor allergy. Though there was something too sharp in the Captain's concern, almost invasive in the way he touched Spock's arm and invaded his space.
It was a relatively little thing, but Christine remembered it. It and the joking and the tone between the two—it was a shift, and she didn't know it then but what she was seeing was not an oscillation but a linear progression.
At some point they began to spend time together when they were off shift. Eat together in the mess hall, walk through the halls, talking quietly. This was such a change from their prior behavior that the entire crew felt it. Moral improved. They had successful diplomatic missions, successful transport missions, successful first contact missions. She began to be proud to be on the ship, to be part of the crew, enjoyed the reactions when she told others her ship's name and they said oh, you mean that Enterprise, the one with the famous Captain, the young captain, the handsome captain? The one with the Vulcan first officer?
The tension had not gone. Spock would occasionally second guess the Captain, but the Captain's vent sessions with McCoy had dwindled. Spock's relationship with Uhura remained, though Christine thought she started to see some frissons in that connection. The time that Spock began to spend with the Captain seemed to be borrowed from time he used to spend with Uhura.
Christine could not help thinking perhaps the cooling between Spoke and Uhura meant she still had a chance. Her romantic attachment to Spock had not diminished. Even after nearly two years serving together, she had not lost the increased heart rate when he entered a room. Every time they spoke she felt happier. It was like his voice was a warm soothing blanket wrapping around her.
She didn't say anything, because he would not want her too. It would make him uncomfortable to be subjected to her confession, and that was reason enough to stay silent. He was with Uhura, and while that was true she had no chance.
Then Spock almost died at Nibiru.
Christine had not known anything about the plan until they brought him into the sickbay with a burned thermal suit, fingers both burned and frozen and clearly merely seconds away from something much worse. And she was sure, a part of her was sure that Spock's injuries had to be the Captain's fault.
The tears at the edges of her eyes were natural, as she tended him, stripping off the suit, taking readings and healing the skin where the rips in the suit had seared his skin. She was sneaking the slightest of touches, not to skin because that would cause him discomfort but to edges of fabric, a hand on the warm table where he had lain, and she had to take the touches because they made the burning behind her eyes just a little bit better. She had long sense ceased to worry they might be inappropriate, unprofessional, they were just how things were and it would not hurt anything of no one noticed, even if McCoy occasionally gave her a too-knowing look.
Then Uhura came in. And Uhura looked angry.
What followed was a cool not-fight conducted in Vulcan, a language of which Christine had only gained rudimentary control even after many years of clandestine studying, for though she could memorize peptides and medicines quickly her skill for language was less innate. So she listened to the unfamiliar sounds, and though the jealousy was familiar it still brought a blush to her cheeks.
Then Uhura swept out. Spock stood, signaling with a hand palm out in her direction that her help was not needed and with a slight nod at her that she would not analyze repeatedly that evening, left.
"Wonder what that pointy eared hobgoblin has done now," McCoy said from beside her, and she jumped. McCoy smiled at her a bit too apologetically, and she attempted to expunge any inadvertent emotions from her features. "He may be a scientific genius or something, but he is still crap at understanding other people have feelings."
"He understands feelings, he just deals with them differently than us."
McCoy shot her a sidelong glance, and she realized she had echoed words the Captain had used once. "He nearly died, and doesn't seem to care that it might have an effect on other people."
"I am glad he is not dead," Christine said. "That should be enough for anyone."
McCoy looked at her for a long moment. Then he grunted and shifted his grip on the hypo in his hand, holding it with a new determination.
"Well, as long as that's settled, I have a Captain to track down."
Christine poked at her dinner in the mess hall. Everyone was tense with this new mission, the torpedoes in their hanger and this unpredictable terrorist. She was eating with Alice and Terri, two engineers with hair pulled back and grease on their uniforms. They had been on the ship from the beginning and Christine liked them. The three of them watched Spock and Uhura pass by, hardly acknowledging the other.
"They hardly ever eat together anymore. And you know Nyota isn't one to talk about it, but you can tell she is hurting. Do you think they broke up?" Terri said.
The doors had opened to admit the Captain, who was standing now talking to Spock near the entryway. Alice eyed the pair of them. "Though I know the Commander's attractive, I never really saw the appeal. He's too cold."
"I suppose there are others on the ship more to your taste," Terri said.
Alice looked down at her plate, moving a replicated green glob around with her fork. There must have been something wrong with the replicator, collard greens should never look like that.
"Remember how he dealt with the delegation back on Trilon IV?"
"And the way he resolved that colony dispute? It may have prevented a war."
"Commander Spock was the one who concluded those negotiations," Christine couldn't help but say. "Without him, we certainly would have been unable to decode the delivery location and the alliance would have been impossible."
"That's true, though it was the Captain that did all the talking. I thought they were all half in love with him by the end. That certainly made a difference."
Christine knew most women on the ship were a little bit in love with their Captain. And Christine understood, she really did, the draw, so young and bold and brave, so willing to risk himself and brilliant in that way that made impossible plans become possible then reality with moments to spare. He was handsome too, the blue eyes and sandy blond hair and especially the smile that promised so much if only you could dig beneath that cocky exterior. Some women loved that stuff.
She could understand the other women and their obsession with a perhaps-one-day fated romance. Though it must be exhausting to hold such views of a man who was bound to give any partner constant cause for concern, both as to his fabled infidelity and his propensity for putting himself in life-threatening situations practically weekly.
At some point the new science officer Carol Wallace had come in and she was talking now with the Captain. Christine watched Spock, who was now watching the Captain with a contemplative expression. She might have said resentful. Though that was probably her projecting again. Wallace's sudden chumminess with the command team (particularly the Captain) had not made her popular with the other women on board, and Christine listened as the talk turned to the Captain's rumored sexual adventures, fabled throughout the ship though confirmable by few. Christine thought how different Spock was. He had been faithful to Uhura for over two years. They had been a couple, in a long term relationship, under difficult circumstances.
Christine supposed she should have wondered why Spock and Uhura broke up, but that hardly mattered next to the fact that Spock had proven through this multi-year relationship not only the capacity but the desire to be in a relationship with a human.
Christine talked to Uhura. They had never been friends, but they were friendly enough Christine felt alright mentioning, one day when Uhura was in sickbay for a minor pulled muscle.
"You could have had the Commander look at this," Christine said, carefully neutral.
"I prefer speaking with you. Spock and I are no longer together." Uhura rotated her shoulder, smiling grimly at the restored range of motion. It was an opening. And it was now or never.
"Would you be resentful if he began a relationship with another crew member?" Christine asked.
Uhura was silent for a long moment. Her eyes shone with too much understanding. But that was fine. If things went according to plan everyone would know, and she had wanted to speak with Uhura first. Christine kept her expression carefully calm.
"If he finds happiness with someone on this ship, I would not begrudge him that," she pressed her lips into a thin line. "But I do not wish to see it paraded in front of me. Nor do I wish to see him pining for something he cannot have."
Christine nodded and pondered these words. Of course she would not want to see Spock with someone else so soon, and it must have been painful to watch him pining for the home world he had lost. That much pain might be too much for some women to handle.
"I do not think Spock is in a stable condition at the moment. Things have been difficult for him, and he is feeling confused. Don't ask too much of him."
Christine nodded and finished the procedure in silence. There was no doubt Uhura understood Spock, but Christine thought she might be able to adapt to Spock better. And she was going to try. She would try to make Spock fall in love with her.
In the next few days she was able to speak with Spock exactly nine times - three lunches, two meetings in the hall, once in the recreation rooms, twice on the science deck, and once when he accompanied the Captain to sickbay after lunch. They were nearly at Qo'nos and tensions were already high, to which Christine attributed the tension in Spock as he stood beside the Captain's bed.
"I feel like shit, Bones."
"No wonder, you're burning up." McCoy's brows had crinkled together as he ran the Captain's tests.
"Spock stop staring at me—yes, it started this afternoon," the Captain started explaining his laundry list of unpleasant symptoms, and Spock turned away.
"How are you doing?" Christine asked him.
"I am recovered from recent events," a pause. "Though I believe the Captain is still upset with me for reporting on our mission at Nibiru."
They had talked about this, briefly, when they had met in the science deck. Spock had been unusually communicative at the time, and Christine had felt the thrill of a wall crumbling to be admitted into such confidences. She felt the thrill again here.
"You were right to include all details in your report. It was your duty."
In the background McCoy poked at the strange rash that had broken out over the Captain's arm, muttering under his breath about crazy Captains and their uncooperative immune systems. Spock did not speak immediately, and when he did it was to change the subject.
"How are you progressing on your paper, Chapel?"
"I am nearly halfway complete." She was pleased he had remembered. When they had met on the science deck she told him of her research. She had been looking at some of the Earth plants, drawing samples. "The suggestions you had made on how to read and store the sequences have been very helpful. Did you mean it when you said you would read and offer comments?"
"It would be my pleasure."
Spock's eyes had returned to the Captain, who was protesting a hypo McCoy had produced - what are you doing, trying to make this thing worse? - pushing against the doctor's hands. Sometime during the examination the Captain had removed his shirt, and Christine could see the angry red dots were running down his neck, fanning across his admittedly well-formed chest in what looked to be painful welts. Spock had noticed it too, and the corners of his lips had come down in a frown, halfway between concern and concentration.
Then, even as they watched that the Captain's face went white and he toppled backwards onto the bed. Spock was at his side in an instant, holding him steady as McCoy quickly checked vitals and took some of the Captain's blood.
"Christine, check this please," he handed her the blood. She caught a glimpse of Spock's intent face, fixed on the Captain, running over his face, neck, arms, chest, as though searching there for the answer to this sudden collapse. Of course it would irk a scientist like Spock to come in with his Captain for a rash only to see the man topple over like he was felled by some serious fever.
As McCoy and Spock worked to revive the Captain, Christine looked at the results for his blood. Her eyes widened. She knew what was wrong. She prepared the hypo and rushed over, shouldering herself between the two men and pressing the hypo to the Captain's neck. She jerked once and she felt Spock beside her surge with tension, but then the Captain coughed and opened his eyes, too blue, and squinted up at them.
"What the hell was that?"
"Have you been eating collard greens?"
The Captain stared at her blankly. It was an unusual enough look on his face, and never as of yet directed at her, that she couldn't help but smile slightly.
"How about it, Jim?" McCoy said gruffly, forcing something around the Captain's arm. "Been eating collard greens?"
"I think I had some yesterday."
Christine nodded. "The reaction wasn't due to the hypo at all, but to a reaction to a certain type of replicator glitch that makes some proteins more difficult to digest. You had an, extreme reaction, more extreme that I have ever seen. But you should be feeling better in an hour or so."
The Captain made to stand up, and McCoy restrained him with a hand on his arm. "She said an hour, Jim. At least wait ten minutes."
The Captain scowled and leaned back against the bed. He looked down at his chest, and sure enough the welts were fading. He looked up towards her and there was real gratefulness in his eyes. Christine felt a surge of pride.
"How did you know what was wrong?" he asked. She glanced at Spock.
"It relates to a paper I am writing. The Commander has been helping me."
The Captain broke into a grin, and Spock hissed in a breath beside her. She hoped she had not overstepped her bounds by including him in the attribution. It was true he had done little more than talk with her, yet, about the topic, but his comments had been helpful and she fully intended to ask him to review a draft.
The Captain shifted on the bed. She guessed he would attempt to get up again soon, even though it had only been five of his ten minute. Never mind her past hope for an hour.
"Then I should thank Spock as well," the Captain said.
There was something too sharp about his look as he turned to Spock. Christine thought it was not fair, that Spock would be uncomfortable being the target of such open attention. And she was right. A slight green tinge touched the top of his cheeks.
"I have done little, Captain," Spock sounded almost annoyed about it. She resolved to be extra solicitous of his opinion while he reviewed her paper. She hoped that would make him feel better.
When she walked back to the table to place down the hypo she felt a hand on her arm, hot. It was Spock. This was the first time he had ever reached out to touch her volitionally, and she felt the excitement of his touch thrumming through her.
"Yes, Commander?"
They were standing close, McCoy's protests about engineers and their captain-poisoning replicators humming behind them. Spock's eyes were on her, a light green flush on his cheeks, and she might have thought that with the heat of his hand suggested a fever if she did not know that Vulcans generally ran warmer than humans. They were out of sight of the rest of the room. Standing close. She could see individual strands of dark hair, the slight tint of green veins beneath his skin. It could happen, here. She leaned forward just slightly.
"Thank you," he said.
That was all. No further touch, though when he removed his hand her skin burned and she could have sworn there was a feel of arousal which passed between them at his touch, heady and almost animalistic. She spent the next few days reading anything she could find on Vulcan sexual arousal, feeling a little silly about it but liking everything she read. Slight flush. Possible to sense through touch. Difficulty with focus, sudden uncharacteristic seeking of skin-to-skin contact. She imagined she had seen all the signs and was going to bed happy every night.
She had impressed with her intellect—the way, she was sure, to Spock's heart. Had proven helpful and logical in a crisis. In addition to the signs of arousal she had seen something in Spock's face that day. Something deeper, more personal. It was like she could see him pushing down the emotions before her eyes. The slight increase in breath and dilation of eyes was like seeing another person break into effusions of gratitude, stress, or love.
She thought she had made a breakthrough that day. A few more talks, and she would ask Spock to eat dinner with her. Then she would ask whether he might be interested in pursuing a relationship of a romantic nature.
But first Kahn attacked.
And the Captain died.
And everything flipped upside down.