Tainted Love by Djinn

Her:

You watch as your lover is led away, the screen showing you a man you don't even recognize.

"Cartwright was your mentor, wasn't he?" someone asks and you nod, numbness filling you.

He still is your mentor. A goddamned traitor is your fucking mentor.

And sometimes it feels like he's your only friend anymore. Ny is on the Enterprise still and Janice is with Sulu on Excelsior. You could comm, but they're usually too busy or tired to talk long. It hurts. You managed to multitask to handle their various personal crises when you were first in ops and overwhelmed and tired. Why are they so hands off with yours? You know Jan really is busy—Sulu depends on her and she's on an important ship. But Ny? She's in a a job she can do in her fucking sleep.

"Commander." The voice isn't one you recognize, but you know the sound behind it. Security. Here for you.

You turn and nod.

"We just need a word." They are being gentle and giving you respect. They must not think you're part of this. Just doing due diligence because you were living with one of the architects of a goddamned conspiracy.

How many people will think you're part of this? You and Cartwright had a long association, although you waited until he wasn't your boss before starting a more physical relationship. That was your idea; he'd been in love with you for years, but you hadn't wanted to be involved with yet another boss.

Well, that wasn't the only reason. You had to let go of the idea of Spock ever wanting you before you could let Cartwright in.

Sad that surrendering to the inevitable has proven a less prudent route than just hanging on to the unrequited love.

You lead the security men into your office in ops and close the door. "I had no idea he was planning any of this. What do I need to do to prove that?"

"Standard measures for now."

You nod. You know the standard measures well. Everyone with special clearances knows them.

"We may also require a meld."

You nod again, not caring about the loss of privacy this will entail. Or caring but not having the luxury of protesting.

You just want to clear your name. As soon as possible.

Because with the man who was supposed to be a good part of your future gone and your friends emotionally AWOL, your career is all you have left.

Him:

You sit numbly as the Khitomer conference goes on around you. You have saved the day—you and Jim and Sulu and the others.

But you have lost so much. Valeris was—she was everything to you. Protégé, friend, lover. You thought you had finally found happiness in a way that no Vulcan could ever condemn.

But she was...a traitor.

The meetings finally wrap up and you see your father conferring with someone from Starfleet security. Your father is...furious. You are stunned to see it so clearly from him, even if you think the security officer has no idea.

"Father, what is it?"

Your father moves closer, as if he is trying to shield you. You cannot remember a time he has done this. "It would seem Starfleet security requires you to undergo some...screening."

You nod because you expected this. "I was involved with a member of the conspiracy, Father."

"You prevented war." Your father is clearly frustrated that you can be so sanguine. Is this not what he has taught you?

You finally murmur, "The needs of the many..."

He nods. Defeated. And steps out of the way. "Will you do it here? When he needs to mingle? To show his faith in the peace he has worked so hard for?"

The security officer looks down. She is only a lieutenant commander. Not prepared to face down a Vulcan with the status of Sarek.

You take pity on her. "Perhaps when I return to Earth?"

She looks torn. Sarek seems angrier. You just wait.

You can hear Jim coming up behind you. "Spock, you're needed." Then he seems to read the tension. "What's going on?"

You meet the security officer's eyes. "It is nothing. Just something I must do once we arrive home."

She gives up on taking you in now. You can see it in her eyes.

"I am not going anywhere, Commander. I have work to do here." You say it to soothe her, because she did not decide to bring you in on her own, and you imagine all of the conspirator's close associates will be brought in for questioning.

Someone might have known something. It is the ultimate embarrassment that you had no idea. Valeris played you.

She loved you; you could feel that from the meld you forced on her—the only meld you two ever shared. She loved you dearly. But she played you, with great effectiveness and, to your dismay, enjoyment.

Her:

You are coming out from your session. Your head hurts and you feel betrayed all over again. As you leave, they call a friend of yours from ops in—another of Cartwright's favorites.

You hope this is the last time you will see this place.

As you lift your eyes to the exit, you hear a soft, "Christine."

You turn and frown, because while you have learned that nothing they will ask you in this place is a surprise, it's shocking to see Spock in the waiting room.

In this waiting room because it's only for these sessions. Unless he's here because he needs some new clearance.

It takes you a longer moment to realize he addressed you by your first name.

You make your way to him. "Are you here because of her?"

You don't have to say her name. He nods and you can't read his expression. Which is not to say that it's just the normal Vulcan stone-face because those you've learned to read. You just see too many emotions running across Spock's face—albeit in Vulcan fashion—to pick one.

He motions for you to sit, so you do. "You are here because of Admiral Cartwright? You were his protégé just as Valeris was mine."

"I was his lover. Wasn't Valeris yours?" It is more direct than you would usually be with him, but your filters are shot by this latest four-hour session of unrelenting honesty with Starfleet security.

"She was." His filters are apparently nonexistent too.

"I'm sorry."

"I as well—for you." He frowns. An actual frown. "And for myself."

"You loved her?" You've always wondered. Even if you tried to put Spock into a little mental box labeled "Done" when you gave finally said yes to Cartwright.

"I did. And you? You cared for the admiral?"

You nod, because it's fair to say you cared for him. You didn't love him, not the way you would have loved the man sitting next to you, but that was a trade you made consciously.

Some loves are stronger because they're imaginary. Because being unrequited, they suck up all the energy you have to give and never send it back in ways that hurt, or leave you unsatisfied. Imaginary lovers never forget to put things back in the chiller or use up the last of the shampoo and forget to tell you. They're...perfect.

You meet his eyes, and say, "I'm not involved in the conspiracy."

"Nor am I. But we were the closest to them. How could we not know?"

"I don't know." It's something you've asked yourself far too many times. "I hope this is my last time here," you whisper.

"Have they hurt you?"

"No. It's just...embarrassing. I imagine for you, too."

"I believe I have more freedom on what I choose to tell them. Most of their methods do not work well on Vulcans."

You laugh softly. "Of course." Reaching over, you grab his hand. "I'm clean of this." You want him to read you, to feel your innocence, but you can tell you are making him uncomfortable so you drop his hand. "I'm sorry. For...everything."

And then you are up and to the door and you hear him saying your name again.

But then he is being called and you turn to meet his eyes. He's ignoring the person calling him, is watching you go. You hold up your hand halfway, a weak goodbye, and then flee.

When you get home, you check the time and comm Nyota—she transferred right after Khitomer to the Cirrus. She's first officer, a big step up—except it's a tiny ship with a limited mission. She may be asleep but she won't be on duty.

She definitely was asleep. "Christine?" She rubs her eyes. "What is it? It's really late."

"I just...I just needed to talk to you." You feel stupid now. Because while you need to talk to her, it's not about anything in particular. You just want to feel part of something. The old gang—you and Ny and Jan.

She sits up, sighing. "What's wrong?"

"Does something have to be wrong? I mean we used to just talk?"

"Okay. Sure. What do you want to talk about?" She sounds like she's humoring you, but maybe you're giving off crazy-friend signals. Before you can think better of it, you say, "I saw Spock."

And you see her shut down—what the hell? "Wow, that didn't take long. So was it worth waiting for?"

You stare at her for a long time, then say, "I saw him in the—never mind where I saw him, but it was a work thing. I didn't mean I was with him. Why are you being so mean?"

"I'm not being mean." But she's looking away the way she does when she's hurt. "So...you're not with him?"

"No. But he called me by name. He never does that."

"Christine, when will you stop grabbing at straws?"

"When will I...? Ny, are you interested in him?"

"Would you care? You called dibs on him and Jan on the captain and I was left out. That's how it worked, right?"

You aren't sure what to say, so you sit, looking no doubt very stupid, until she leans in and says, in a voice more like the friend you remember, "I'm sorry—I'm dead on my feet and I don't even know what I'm saying. I have to get some sleep. We have meetings all day tomorrow." She looks desperate to get off the comm line, but you don't think it's because of meetings.

"I'm sorry I bothered you." You reach for the terminal to cut the connection.

"Christine? If you and Spock—that's great, okay? Just...just ignore me. Change is hard for me and this assignment is a big change. Plus, I thought I could get off for the launch, but it turns out I can't. I really wanted to be there for Ji—for the captain, you know? So I guess I'm cranky Nyota. I love you, but I have to go."

"Yeah. No. It's fine. I'll talk to you later." As you cut the line, you realize you haven't told her you're being questioned. You could send a time-delay message. She'd get it tomorrow when she got off shift. You open up a message, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and then close it back up.

You doubt she'd care much anyway.

Him:

You sit, waiting, always waiting, and finally you look up at the commander studying the readouts from your latest session and ask, "Are we done?"

If he hurries, you can make it to the launch of the Enterprise-B. You can stand with Jim as he says goodbye to his former life. You can somehow make it up to him for being such a...

You exhale slowly, the most basic of the control disciplines: mastery of breath.

For being such a trusting fool.

"I'm sorry, sir, but no. Your readings..."

"Are standard for Vulcans." You go through this every time they test you on these machines and, given the level of access you have, they test you frequently. "Please compare them to my baselines."

"I have, sir. It's inconclusive. We've called in a Vulcan on our staff. I hope you won't mind a meld?"

No, why should you mind that level of violation? You feel anger rising but force it down. "Which Vulcan?" Not your father. Your mind is a mass of chaotic emotion. "Surely Sarek has better things to do?"

"No, not him. That would be a conflict of interest, sir."

Yes, of course it would.

"What if I refuse?"

"Refuse?"

"Yes. What if I refuse? I was instrumental in stopping the conspiracy. Why would I do that if I were part of it?" You stand. Surely they cannot be serious. You have indulged this idiocy long enough.

The commander hits something under his desk. The doors open and guards stand just outside, weapons pointed at you.

You feel a moment of actual panic. "I must accompany Captain Kirk at the launch of the Enterprise-B. I will return if you insist, but I must do this."

"You are going nowhere, sir." The commander motions to the guards. "Escort Captain Spock to a holding cell."

You want to yell. The impotent rage you have felt at Valeris is swirling up, threatening to overtake you, the way the fire of the challenge did on Vulcan, the way being sent into the past did on Sarpeidon.

You pull yourself away from that ledge and follow the guards, fighting for the most basic level of emotional mastery.

It does not come. You sit and...fume in the holding cell. Until later that day, when the commander comes to your door, his expression stricken. He drops the force field and hands you a padd. "I'm sorry, sir."

You read the headline three times before it makes sense to you. While you were held here, for a crime you did not commit, your captain—your friend—was dying.

You step out of the cell.

"Sir, I thought you should know but I'm afraid you're not cleared to leave yet."

"We are quite done here, Commander, and if you do not wish me to leave, I suggest you shoot to kill. I cannot guarantee what my actions will be if you use less than deadly force." You turn and meet his eyes. "Or you can take the more prudent route and unlock the doors between the exit and me and allow me to leave." There may be a maelstrom of emotions inside you, but you know your face is giving nothing away. "I have no time for this. He might still be alive. They have not found a body."

It is a slight chance but all you have to hold on to.

The commander finally leans down, hits the intercom, and calls in a guard. "See that Captain Spock is not impeded on his way out."

You take a step toward the door but then turn. "Commander. I hope for your sake that our paths never cross again." You are not given to threats but you want to rip this man apart—you might have made a difference had you been at the launch. Failing that, you might have died in place of Jim. It would have been a fair trade for all he gave you.

Fear flickers across the commander's face.

Good.

Her:

You're in your office and you hear the kind of murmuring from the bay that means someone important just walked into ops. A moment later, Spock appears at your door.

He nods as if unsure what to do now that he is in your space.

You stand, going to him but stopping short of the spot you know is too close for comfort. "Oh, Spock...what happened to Jim. I'm so sorry."

He closes his eyes, as if you have said exactly what he wanted you to. You have the sense he would like to lean in, put his forehead on your shoulder, and let you comfort him, but of course he doesn't do that.

He was out searching for him. You saw that on the various logs that pass by your desk. He was out without orders—nearly without permission.

You wouldn't want to be the one to try to stop him from looking for his friend.

"I could not find him, Christine."

"Do you want to sit?" You reach for his shoulder and touch it gently, since he seems unsure. "Or walk? We can walk?"

He goes to your window instead and stands staring out at the view. You love your view. It's just an inner courtyard but still pretty. Flowers blooming, birds landing in the trees, a few intrepid squirrels. "Are they finished with you?" he finally asks and you think he means security.

"I guess so. They haven't called me back." That's how they work. No one is ever clear, they just stop calling you in and eventually you quit waiting for a summons. "You?"

"I believe it was inconclusive. I—I refused to cooperate." He shakes his head but still doesn't turn around. "I should have been at the launch. I might have been able to save him."

You move toward him, standing next to him without touching. "You don't know that. You both might have been killed. Or just him despite your help. Or just you."

"All of those options seem preferable to having been detained for no logical reason and thus missing the launch." He sounds angry.

"But it was logical. We're the most likely co-conspirators, Spock. Lovers know things. And we didn't just sleep with them—we lived with them. It makes no intuitive sense to either of us because we know each other—we know we'd never do that—but security doesn't give a shit about our gut reactions."

He closes his eyes and sighs audibly. "What you say is logical, and yet I do not wish to hear logic from you."

"You want comfort?" You touch his face softly and he leans into your fingers. "The old me would have given you that without a moment's thought. But I let her go, when I got good at this job—and when I said yes to Cartwright."

"Is that Christine really gone? Your touch is soothing, so perhaps she is still within you." He looks at you so intently it's as if he's trying to peer inside you. "Did you love him?"

"I wanted to." It's out before you can call it back, before you can say something more fair to your former lover. But it's out and it's true, so you let it stand.

"That is not a yes."

"I know."

"Do you still love me?"

You think this is an unwise road to journey down so you drop your fingers. He is hurting. He has lost so much. And you are some strange sad constant in his life. So you answer with, "Did I ever really love you? It was just a crush."

He turns away but his mouth actually turns up. "You forget. We shared consciousness. Do you think I forgot that in the fires of the refusion?"

You sigh.

"You loved me then. I think you still do." He reaches for your cheek and cups it, his touch more tender than you've ever felt it. "I know you still do."

"You need a friend right now, Spock. Not a lover. But I'm not sure you want me to be your friend. Maybe...maybe ask Len?" God, this is killing you. You're effectively telling him to go away.

"And what if I do not wish to ask Leonard?" He lets go of your cheek. "What if I want you to spend time with me?"

"Then I guess..." You stop talking, ordering yourself to use your brain, not your heart. Ordering yourself to be logical for once when it comes to him, but you say, "Then I guess you should ask me to."

"This weekend. I have no plans. Have you any?"

You're off duty. He doesn't know that, though. There's still time to bow out gracefully. But again your mouth is moving in concert with your heart instead of your head. "I don't."

"Where would you like to go? I have an abundance of transporter credits."

You smile. "I don't know. Where would you like to go?"

"Wherever you will be."

You smile because it's romantic even if it's probably the highest truth he knows right at this moment. He is hurting and you are distracting him. You are a distraction. You have to remember that when he gets over needing one. That you knew this going in.

That this isn't a romance. Not really.

"Buenos Aires," you say, because there are shops there you love to go to and a restaurant that serves the best steak—if he wants to spend time with you, he better get used to you being a carnivore. You don't plan to change for him even if you are ignoring the part of you that is screaming this is a horrible idea.

"I have never been there."

"Then I'll be your guide." It sounds sexual, the way you say it, and you don't mean it to, but you see his lips tick up again.

"Then we are agreed." He looks supremely self satisfied. But the triumph seems...impersonal. Like he needed to do this, to move on, to reach out. But does it matter that it was you at the other end reaching back?

"Please don't hurt me, Spock." The plea is out before you can call it back. You're normally so good at saying the right thing at the right time, but you've been put through the wringer, and you're sad over Jim and not at your best. "Please, please don't hurt me."

"I do not intend to." His look is concerned. "Do you believe I will?"

"I don't know. I think you won't mean to—that it's not what you're setting out to do, but...things can change."

He looks frustrated. As if by questioning his intent, you've ruined everything.

Maybe you have. Maybe he has no idea what to do with his time without the man he served with and the woman he loved.

Not loved—loves. You don't fall out of love because someone's a traitor. Just as he won't fall in love with you just because you're not.

"I'm sorry," you say, but you're not sure if you're talking to him or to yourself.

He finally nods. "Do you wish to wait, then? Another weekend?"

No, screams your heart. But you nod before that stupid part of you can take over again. "Yes. If we both want to go in a week, then we'll go."

He nods, and you want to read disappointment in his expression, but you think it is just annoyance that you ruined his plans. "Yes, in a week." He studies you for a long moment then turns and walks out of your office.

You hear the hush of ops as people watch him leave. He is famous and handsome and brilliant and people adore him.

And you just turned him down. What if he never comes back?

Then you'll know, right? That you made the correct choice. If he never comes back, it was never meant to be.

What if he goes to someone else. You think Ny would welcome him with open arms.

What will it be like to see him with her?

Damn it. This is not productive.

It is a long time before you can concentrate on work again.

Him:

You lie in bed, smelling Valeris's scent on your sheets. It is an illogical indulgence to have not washed them—or better yet, thrown them out—but you miss her.

You have not commed Christine or stopped in at ops for another emotionally induced visit. She was wise—the more logical of the two of you and that would shame you if you thought she would hold it over you, but you do not think she will. She may think she has changed, but you still see a caring person.

Although you know she is not lying in her ex-lover's scent. She moved out of Cartwright's house. McCoy told you, when you sought him out. Christine was also wise in that—you needed a friend, not a lover.

A friend who thinks now is probably not the time to pursue her, not that you indicated you would.

"You're both just too damn raw, Spock. Give it some time. I don't want her hurt."

It is ironic to you that both he and Christine think you will hurt her. And yet you are the one who is still reeling emotionally from betrayal. She appears to have moved on.

Although moving out and moving on are two different things. But you suspect the latter is helped by the former. This was your apartment to begin with; Valeris moved in with you. It would be illogical to move simply to flee unpleasant associations even if it might help you turn your life—and emotions—in a more positive direction.

You hear the chime that means someone is at the door. You expect no one and are not dressed, so you ignore it.

If it is Starfleet security, they can break in if they wish to resume questioning.

The chime continues to go off and you feel anger fill you. Is it not apparent you are not here? Or at least, not interested in answering?

Suddenly your intercom buzzes, and Christine's voice fills your room. "I know you're in there. I need to talk to you. I can use my medical override, but I'd rather not."

You tell the door to let her in. Let her come to you if she is so intent on conversation.

A moment later you hear her footsteps on the wooden floor. She is not sure where you are and has never been here; you are not helping her find you.

But it is not a large apartment and she does eventually find you.

"Something wrong with your legs?" She sounds...angry. Then she tosses a padd to you. "You never saw this, understand? I never showed you this."

You decide to see what it is before answering. You open the message she has queued and see—

"I thought you needed closure. I know I did. I'm—I'm sorry, Spock. I know you loved her."

Valeris and Cartwright lie on slabs. There does not appear to be a mark on Cartwright but his head is at an angle that indicates a broken neck. Valeris's throat is cut and there is blood on her right hand and forearm.

"She killed him, then herself."

You nod. It is the logical escape from an inescapable prison.

"I need the padd back. I can't let you keep the picture. I'm sorry." She looks down. "Do you want a moment—in private with it—her?"

You hand it back to her. "No need. Valeris has been dead to me since her role in the conspiracy was made clear. This is just a formality."

"That's a swell attitude, but it's also a lie." She gestures toward the bed. "Have you washed them? When Roger disappeared I kept the sheets on until I couldn't smell him anymore. Then I put them in a box and stored them on a high shelf. Couldn't bring myself to throw them away. She's not dead to you, Spock. She's got you by the throat." She looks down at the padd.

"You do not seem similarly afflicted."

"I loved you. I tried to love him. There's a difference." She turns and heads for the door.

"Christine."

She stops but doesn't turn.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." And then she is gone.

The image of Valeris's corpse is burned into your brain. You close your eyes and let yourself sigh, a long, human sigh.

Christine is not wrong that you feel this pain—that Valeris is not dead to you. You thought you had found your life mate.

You were wrong.

Her:

The first thing you think of when you wake is Spock's face, how it looked when you told him his love was dead. You were angry when you went to him. Angry at him for not picking you in the first place. Angry at him for listening to you when you sent him away. Angry at him for still being so clearly in love with Valeris.

So you went to him and hurt him. If Starfleet security finds out you shared restricted information they will finally have something to grill you on.

You aren't this person. You aren't petty and cruel.

But you were. Yesterday you were.

You're quick to snap at people once you get to ops. Your deputy starts coming in for things your team members would normally ask directly. You're being that big a bitch.

At lunchtime, Starfleet releases the information that Cartwright and Valeris are dead. You hear murmuring in the bay so you check the comms to make sure it's relatively quiet and walk out.

The room goes silent.

You walk to the party cabinet, open the locked shelf and drag out three bottles of twenty-five-year-old Laphroaig. "Could someone grab the glasses?"

Your deputy rushes to help you. You pour as he lays out the glasses.

"We've never talked about Cartwright. Not formally. I know many of you never knew him as head of ops, but a lot of us did. So we're going to send him off. The way we'd send off any lost member of our family. Anyone who has a problem with that can leave; I promise there will be no judgment."

No one gets up and drinks are passed down the line and around the room.

You hold up your glass. "It's tradition for the person who knew the deceased best to talk. I think you all know I lived with him. That should mean I knew him best, but I didn't. I never saw this, and I've sat many a night trying to figure out what I missed."

You hear murmurs of "Me, too" and "It wasn't your fault."

"Maybe he was just that good at hiding stuff. And at lying. At the end of the day, he was a goddamned traitor. But he taught me everything I know about working here, about how to run this place—hopefully in a better way than I've been doing this morning. I'm sorry I've made myself unapproachable today."

More murmurs: "Totally understandable" and "It's okay" and even a "We love you."

"I cared for him. He was my mentor. Ultimately he betrayed everything I believed in and almost got friends of mine killed in the very place he died. So, to Cartwright: the enigma, the asshole, the corpse." You sip and the others follow suit. "And to Cartwright: the good man, the honorable man, the one I loved." You drink because even if you weren't in love with him, you did love him.

The others drink too.

Your deputy goes next. He knew Cartwright nearly as well as you did. His words aren't that different than yours. None of you can figure out how a good man went so wrong.

You pass the bottles around so people can refill as they toast, but less people than normal speak and it seems no one is going to get very drunk. Which is good because you haven't checked the antitox stash in a while, although people here usually keep it ready to go.

You look around the room, waiting to see if anyone else wants to go. Before the silence can get uncomfortable, you pour a new glass and walk it to the front, to the ledge where another glass sits, the whisky nearly gone now. The person who placed it there will remove it without comment once it's empty.

As you set it down, you say: "Admiral Cartwright: you will always be ops even if your path took you places no one should travel. Once ops, always ops."

Your team's voice is strong when they echo back: "Once ops, always ops."

You decide not to tell them this tradition doesn't go back as far as they think. Cartwright started it, but said it was from the early days. He cared so much about his people, about making you all the best team possible. That was the kind of man he was.

But a traitor was also the kind of man he was.

You pour yourself more of the Scotch and gesture for people to enjoy it rather than putting it back. You think they need it.

Your deputy looks concerned, like he might follow you into your office and want you to talk to him about your feelings, so you wave him off. You need some space and he's too good at reading you. He nods and goes back to his office.

You sip, wondering what kind of goodbye Spock will give Valeris.

Him:

You stand at the spot on Command grounds where you've been told Starfleet intends to put up Jim's memorial. It's too soon for there to be anything constructed, but it's the closest thing you have to a grave for him.

Ripped from you—both of them have been. Jim by that ribbon of energy, Valeris by her own hand—figuratively and literally. There is a bench near the spot and you sit and wonder at your inability to...weather this. It is illogical to be so mired in emotion.

It is no doubt the human side of you.

But you feel immediately sorry for thinking that. Jim was human and he moved on. Tragedy after tragedy and he moved on. Or he found a way to make it right. You are doing neither.

You hear steps coming and steeple your fingers, staring down at them as if you are in a deep Vulcan meditation, but the person doesn't go by you, they sit next to you.

You smell Christine's perfume, then the familiar aroma of Scotch, and it makes you miss Jim all the more.

"I'm sorry, Spock. I think—I think I wanted to hurt you when I showed you that padd yesterday."

"I would not have wanted to hear the news for the first time in an all-hands announcement. Whatever your motives, I am grateful that you told me." You look over at her. "You have been drinking on duty?"

She smiles but you can't tell what emotion prompts the expression. "We have a tradition. A ritual of sorts. For ops officers who die. Once ops, always ops." She suddenly slides closer until she is almost against you, her hand finding yours in a way that your robe will hide the contact. "I'm so angry at him."

And you feel the anger. You feel the hurt and the sadness but not as much grief for him as you expect. It is possible she is angry at Cartwright for what he stood for her and what his actions have done to those memories—and her own career—and not because she loved him.

It is something you do not expect from her. It does you no credit but you have always held her in your mind as someone whose affection was guaranteed. Your...fallback, Jim would have deemed her.

Jim, who often told you that you should have pursued her. That Cartwright was a lucky man. You assumed that meant she had transferred her love to him. But she had not. Jim had not understood.

Just as he had not understood your attraction to Valeris. And he was right. You should have listened to him.

You sigh. Christine holds your hand more tightly.

"You're floundering, Spock, aren't you?"

"I am." It is not in your nature to admit weakness with such ease. But the way she is holding your hand, the...love and concern you feel coming off her for you, make you want to be open. "It is not just about Valeris. It is about Jim, too."

"Of course it is. Why do you think I came to this spot?"

You settle for nodding, unsure what to say.

"Do you think he would have liked it here? It's so quiet and he wasn't."

"He was, actually. He worked hard to be outgoing, to be caring and warm and present. But he needed time alone."

"To recharge?"

"Yes."

"I never realized that. I thought he was one of those extroverts who just sucked strength from a crowd and pitied poor introverts like you and I."

"It was a common misconception. Just as many thought him shallow but he was quite complicated."

"That I got." She smiles and it's a more genuine expression.

You feel something in you calming. Talking about your friend while this woman you've never wanted is touching you, is sending you support in so many ways—ways she may not even be aware of—is helping you.

"I never knew him as much as I would have liked." She leans back and closes her eyes and you study her.

She has never been a beauty, but she has appeal and you were never unmoved by her. You wanted her when the burning was upon you that first time; you think she has no idea how close you came to taking what you wanted.

She laughs softly and is watching you watching her, and then she shakes her hand and you realize you are gripping her quite tightly. "Big thoughts?"

"I am assessing you." You are relatively certain this is a terrible thing to say to a human female.

But she only smiles. "What's the criteria? Face? Boobs? Fertility factor? Or is this not an attractiveness thing? Are you assessing my mind or my command presence?" She lets go of your hand and you realize she probably does not want you to be able to read her reactions. But she does not move away and you do not tell her to give you space.

You...enjoy how close she is sitting. "I should have chosen you."

Again the strange laugh. "You would never have chosen me, Spock. Not when a full Vulcan wanted you."

You nod to show her she is right.

"But I'd have been better to you than she was. I wouldn't have betrayed you for some grand conspiracy. So yeah, you should have chosen me, you dimwit." Her tone is light; her expression is not.

You want to pull her to you. Her energy, even if it is somewhat chaotic, calls to you. You want to take her home and undress her and push her onto your bed and let her body and her perfume and the scent of her shampoo erase the last vestiges of Valeris from your bedroom.

She is watching you as if she knows what you are thinking.

"I wish to spend time with you. But I cannot guarantee I will not hurt you."

She takes a deep breath, seems to be considering, but then she smiles, and you can tell by the smile what her answer will be.

"No," she says as she stands. "Come to me when you absolutely will not hurt me."

"Can anyone promise that?"

"Of course they can't. But they can at least start out thinking they won't. Your way: we're half over before we've even started."

She leans down and kisses you, and you should push her away because this is not done—even if this is a quiet path, someone might come—but the slight taste of whisky and the feel of her lips is soothing. "I love you," she whispers as she pulls away.

Then she is gone and you are left staring at ground that will mean nothing until someone breaks it.