You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club. – Jack London
Christine turned the padd over in her hands, wondering who on Earth – or off Earth, for that matter – had left it there. It had obviously been left for her. It had been sitting there on her desk, turned on, the quote on the screen in bold writing.
'That's all very well,' she murmured, 'but clubs aren't really my style.'
She wracked her brains to think who might be fond of Jack London. It was Call of the Wild he wrote, wasn't it? White Fang. Books like that. Novels for adventurous boys. She hadn't read things like that as a child. She'd enjoyed a certain amount of adventure, but she had always been encouraged towards Louisa May Alcott, L. M. Montgomery – that kind of thing. Her fingers had itched to pick up the 'boys' books in the library, but mom had wanted her to be a little girl, not a tomboy. Even Roald Dahl felt somehow illicit.
She switched the padd off and turned it over. With a whole bunch of crew records to go through, checking on their immunisations and recent health, she didn't have time to mess around with anonymous messages. Leonard would be on her like a sehlat on meat if she didn't get this done by fourteen-hundred hours.
She sat down at her desk and turned on the screen and started to scroll through the details of each crew member. It was funny seeing people like this – people that she was friends with, that she saw every day in the corridors and mess rooms. To see them as statistics and facts in some way dehumanised them, but in some way made them deeper, richer personalities. Some of the people who smiled at her in the corridor were concealing all kinds of things – recurrent migraines, stress, depression, old injuries taking their time to heal.
After a while sitting at the computer her eyes were starting to glaze at each scroll of information. She passed her hand over her face, trying to rub tiredness away. Even McCoy would tell her to take a break after this long staring at a screen. But by fourteen-hundred the medical ailments and details would start to take on flesh as the owners of those names and details started to come in for their checks. She needed to be sure there wasn't anything flagged up that needed talking about or treating.
She looked at the roster for the medical checks again. Twenty appointments between fourteen-hundred and the end of her shift. And the last one? Spock.
She groaned. It was always an awkward business seeing Spock in a medical context. He never liked to have his personal details pried into anyway, let alone by Christine Chapel. They were both painfully aware of her feelings for him, and although both always remained strictly professional, the knowledge was like the elephant in the room.
Oh well. Nothing to be done about that. She would just have to plough through all those people, in the computer and in reality, and hope she was not late for Spock's appointment. No matter how much he professed stoicism he was always bothered by lateness.
Nineteen patients into her day, and she was running almost fifty minutes late. She had contacted the bridge to let Spock know that his appointment would not be on schedule, but still she knew he would be irritated. She was irritated too. She enjoyed her job, but she was tired today of the patients who wanted to talk and gossip and offload their fears and hopes as if she was on the other side of a confessional. There wasn't much difference between medical professionals and priests in some ways.
As she ushered Spock into the room she could see the slight impatience in his face. She shut the door and gestured him to a chair.
'I'm sorry for the lateness of your appointment, Mr Spock,' she said in a conciliatory tone.
Spock sat with careful dignity. His eyes moved between the computer screen and the padd that was still on the desk, upside down, as if Christine was trying to deny the anonymous message that she had been sent.
'I assume that there are no problems with my file,' he said, nodding towards the computer. 'This should take very little time.'
'Thankfully no,' Christine smiled. She usually tried to mute her emotions around the Vulcan, but she was unable to contain her joy at the thought of being able to sign off on this one quickly and go off duty.
'I take it you are off duty very soon?' Spock asked.
'Oh – yes, thank God,' she said. She glanced at the records on the screen. 'As you said, Mr Spock, there are no problems with your file. You have two immunisations upcoming, but we can arrange an appointment for those closer to the time. Everything else is just fine. If I can just do a quick scan to check?'
Spock nodded mutely and she raised her scanner and passed it over his body. All readings normal, except a slight elevation in heart rate. She looked at the figures, and frowned.
'Did you hurry to get here?' she asked him. That might have been the case. He had been biding his time on the bridge until he was called.
'Not at all,' Spock told her.
'Oh... Well, your heart rate is a little up,' she told him.
Spock raised an eyebrow. 'Fascinating. It would seem that my ability to control physiological responses is not as advanced as I would hope.'
'Is there something worrying you, Mr Spock?' Christine asked, concerned.
Spock leant forward in the chair. Suddenly they seemed very close. All Christine could focus on were his lips, a little parted and very near to hers.
'Mr Spock, are you all right?' she asked him.
He leant closer still, and suddenly his lips were against hers, his hand against her back, his other hand touching her hair. Christine almost recoiled in shock, but his hand was firm against her and she melted forward into the kiss.
Finally he sat back, his eyes seeming to sparkle with light.
'You can't wait for inspiration,' he told her softly. 'You have to go after it with a club.'