Her experiences on the Tomahawk happened five years ago.. Now, today, Christine is in her quarters, but she is getting ready to finally make her move on Spock. A real move this time, not just a desperate attempt to get him to notice her, to see her for the desirable woman she knows herself to be – and would know, she thinks with a flash of irritation, even if that drunken lech, Leonard McCoy, wasn't constantly telling her so in any number of his transparent attempts to get into her pants.
The last time she tried to catch the elusive Vulcan commander's eye hadn't even been voluntary on her part; she'd only been on the ship for a year when an alien virus had broken out on board, causing the entire crew to start acting out like a bunch of drunken teenagers. She'd tried to kiss Spock, and he'd rather coldly rebuffed her. She'd spent the rest of that evening crying in her quarters and so had missed out on the ship's spectacular near-destruction before Dr. M'Benga stepped in saved them all by finding a cure – which McCoy, of course, had just as promptly taken credit for.
She tried to avoid Spock in the immediate aftermath of that humiliating moment. Up until she tried to shove her tongue down his throat, he'd treated her exactly the same as he did every other woman on the ship – as if she didn't exist except when he needed her assistance. However, since discovering her credentials after The Roger Incident – she was studying to be a neurobiologist, after all, and had been very close to finishing her degree before being shanghaied into Starfleet – he has requested her assistance on several different projects.
It is a good sign. She adjusts her strategy, tones down the naked longing she feels for him, the desire to scratch that logical, Vulcan exterior and see exactly what he is hiding deep within. She is the very essence of cool professional in his presence, and now, it seems, her patience might actually be paying off.
Like anyone else in Starfleet, she has her allies and her spies, and one of them has whispered in her ear that Commander Spock requested emergency leave to Vulcan, only to be turned down flat by Captain Kirk.
Kirk, who is still alive in spite of being on Item No. 2 on Christine Chapel's Secret List, and who she has reluctantly concluded will probably never die by her hand. The fact that he was instrumental in the death of Roger Korby and his femme fatale robot girlfriend, Andrea, has certainly helped make his own death less of a priority in Christine's mind.
That, and his curious relationship with Spock.
When Christine first came on board, she assumed the two were lovers, or that Kirk was at least using the Vulcan as a sex toy to keep him in line, but careful observation made it quite clear to her that the two of them had a purely professional relationship. Strange, but not impossible even in Starfleet. What it came down to was amazingly simple: Spock had no desire to captain the ship, was actually content with his rank and dual duties as First Officer and Science Officer, and Kirk was extremely satisfied to have a second-in-command who wasn't gunning for his job.
This works out in Christine's mind as: Kirk in charge and alive = Spock not being elevated into a position he clearly doesn't want = Christine Chapel not avenging her sister's death.
Simple mathematics. If she wants Spock, she has to let Kirk live. Because the only way she doesn't want Spock noticing her is when he is torturing her to death for murdering a superior officer.
She is sitting on her bed in her Spartan quarters as she reviews her reasoning, a private room because of her rank, which has risen to Chief Nurse in the last year. Mostly because she has saved McCoy's ass more than once, without once demanding credit or turning him in for incompetence. She hasn't had to resort to outright blackmail, either; he is smart enough to recognize what she's done for him and what she expects to receive as a reward, and makes sure she gets it.
She knows McCoy expects her to give in to him one day, give him a pity fuck if nothing else, or to suddenly become stupid enough to allow him to find a way to blackmail her into it, but she knows she won't. Ever. No matter what threats or blackmail he threatens her with.
Besides, if things go as she plans with Spock, then she will have a powerful protector and possibly even a way out of Starfleet.
She rises to her feet, carefully smoothing her uniform over the curve of her ass and brushing imaginary wrinkles from the front of her extremely short, blue skirt. She regards her reflection in the mirror with a critical eye, makes a minor adjustment to her low-necked halter top – tugging it down to expose more of her cleavage – and tucks her personal dagger into the top of her right boot. Then she readjusts the boot, tugging it up so it sits straighter on her thigh.
When she starts inspecting both black leather boots for smudges, she knows she is stalling. Spock won't care how she looks, if she's timed the situation correctly and if the rumors are actually true and he's about to go into some kind of mating frenzy.
She doubts it's anything that animalistic; this is a Vulcan they're talking about, after all. But after hearing how his temper been erupting the past few days as if he were fully Human instead of only half (another rumor, one she's taken the time to check into and have confirmed); after witnessing first hand his destruction of the Tri-D chessboard in the rec lounge the night before when he lost a match to Captain Kirk – his first loss ever, to her knowledge – she admits to a slight flutter of nerves.
Spock and Kirk. If she wants the one, the death of the other has to be permanently removed from her list. Is she ready to take that step?
She nods firmly to herself and mentally crosses him off the list. As she exits her quarters and starts purposefully down the corridor, she allows herself the optimistic belief that the third item on her list will soon be crossed off as well: get Spock into her bed and keep him there as long as possible.
oOo
She makes one stop on her way to Spock's quarters: the Officer's Mess. She has bribed Chef O'Brien to allow her access and has utilized her rusty culinary skills in order to cook up a Vulcan specialty: Plomeek soup. It has been simmering for most of the evening under Chef's supervision, and when she makes her way back to his domain – the Captain and department chiefs are all served real food, not the reconstituted crap the rest of the crew has to endure – she finds the soup waiting for her, exactly where Chef told her it would be when she bribed him into letting her cook it.
Chef is one of the few truly neutral members of this cutthroat crew of near-pirates, under the personal protection of Captain Kirk – and considering how conveniently many of the Captain's enemies simply vanish after incurring his wrath, it is a protection that has never been tested.
It makes Chef O'Brien arrogant, of course, but his demand for both cash and the use of Christine's body were expected and willingly handed over. She knows, in exchange, that the soup will not only remain untouched by anyone with sinister designs on the First Officer, but will no doubt be subtly enhanced by Chef's own personal brand of culinary magic.
However, Christine Chapel is nobody's fool; therefore she fishes the medical scanner she has pilfered from Sickbay out of its hiding place in her halter top and surreptitiously checks the soup over.
No one has tampered with it. Good. Not that she expected anyone to dare touch anything Chef prepares, but still. It doesn't hurt to be careful; she has no desire to inadvertently act as someone's personal assassin against the man she intends to seduce.
She also knows that if she does anything to the soup herself – if she tampers with it and poisons Spock – that Chef will not hesitate to turn her over to the Captain himself. It is a delicate series of checks and balances, one she knows better than to upset.
She places the bowl of soup on a small tray, covers it, flashes Chef a seductive smile, then saunters out of the Officer's Mess, tray and soup balanced easily on one hand.
She reaches Spock's door without incident – which, on a Starfleet vessel, simply means that she endures her share of propositions and lewd comments but disdains to respond to any of them. She is a woman on a mission, and will not be dissuaded.
Unless, of course, Spock rejects her again. If he does, she isn't sure how she'll react; perhaps she'll throw the soup at him, she thinks sourly.
She hesitates only a second before depressing the comm button and announcing her presence. Spock is one of the few members of the crew who occasionally dismisses his bodyguards when off-duty, and considering how volatile his temper has been lately, she's not surprised to see his door unguarded tonight.
After a long pause, long enough to make her uneasy, to wonder if he isn't there after all, the door slides open.
She responds to that silent invitation by striding confidently into the dark room…
…and stumbles to a stop at the searing heat that slams into her as she does so. She finds herself gasping for breath; not only has Spock set the environmental controls to something approaching Vulcan's desert heat, but he has adjusted the gravity to slightly above Earth-normal. Not enough to cause more than temporary discomfort as she adjusts to the sudden heaviness in her body, but disconcerting and alarming in conjunction with the blast-furnace atmosphere she is now enduring.
The door slides shut behind her, and she peers into the darkened room, feeling a thread of unease at how alien Spock's quarters seem to her – dark, lit only by what look like candles encased in red glass lanterns, the heavy gravity and intense heat, the scent of incense… "Mr. Spock?" she calls out, hating the uncertainty in her voice as she peers around, looking for him. "I've made you…"
"Plomeek soup." His voice is raspy, deeper than normal, and startles her enough that the tray slips on her hand. Before it can fall to the floor, Spock appears from behind the divider that hides his sleeping area from the sitting room of his quarters and deftly grabs the tray out of her shaky grasp. "Why have you brought me this, Nurse?"
She steels herself; he has taken the soup, kept it from falling, placed it on the corner of the desk that separates them; he hasn't thrown her out, so she considers that a good sign.
The sweat beading his forehead, the volcanic intensity in his dark eyes as he stares at her, however, are less than reassuring; has she timed her attempt at seduction when he is suffering from some strange Vulcan illness, is that what the rumors are really about? "Mr. Spock, are you all right?" she asks, the trained medical professional instinctively taking over. She reaches up to place her hand on his forehead, but he grabs her wrist before she makes contact.
She gasps at the feverish heat coming off his body; he is normally warmer than a Human but this…this is definitely not normal for him. Not at all. "Mr. Spock, you need to come with me to Sickbay," she says, all thoughts of seduction abandoned – for the moment. He needs medical help, and the scanner she brought with her won't do more than confirm the symptoms she can already see and feel.
He does not release her wrist as he moves around the desk, nor does he remove his searing gaze from her face. "Why," he demands, his voice deepening into a threatening snarl as he moves with unexpected speed and pins her against the wall, "did you bring me food?"
She twists in an attempt to free herself, then stops as she feels his hand on her thigh. He has grasped her dagger and pulled it out of her boot, leaving her defenseless; she watches as he brings it up to her throat and repeats his question.
"I thought…I wanted…I know the Captain won't – can't – divert the ship to Vulcan," she stammers, hating to show weakness, but knowing herself to be in very real danger right now. Spock looks as if he could as easily slit her throat as toss her out the door, and it is both disturbing and strangely arousing to see the normally staid, controlled First Officer losing control like this. "I thought maybe you'd like something, something that would remind you of home…"
"You are not simply offering me food, Nurse Chapel," Spock growls – yes, growls! – at her. He leans his head forward and sniffs her, like some kind of animal. Again, terrifying – and incredibly arousing. The hand holding her dagger drops to his side; she hears the weapon clatter to the thinly-carpeted deck and feels relief washing over her. "You are offering me yourself," Spock concludes as he pulls his head back in order to once again meet her eyes.
She nods, having no other response to that – accusation? Or simple statement of fact? It is the truth, either way.
The only question is, what will he do with that information?
Before she can do more than form that thought it is answered. Spock darts his head forward again, this time to plant a searing kiss on her lips.
When the kiss ends, she finds herself gasping for air – and fighting off panic. "Mr. Spock, wait!" she cries as he appears intent on repeating his actions. "You're sick, you need help –"
"My condition is not contagious," he responds in a sudden return to his normal, dry, clipped form of speech. "It is not an illness in the sense you mean, Nurse – Christine," he corrects himself, and she feels a thrill pass over her at the sound of her name on his lips. "It is only logical that you understand what to expect now that you have offered yourself to me – and now that I have accepted your offer."
With that, he reaches up and plants his fingers on her face, forcing a meld on her so intense she nearly passes out before he withdraws his mind from hers.
Heat. Desire. Desperate, urgent NEED, thrumming through his veins, drowning his intellect. A wife, waiting for him back on Vulcan, ready to submit to that need, to burn with him in the fires of Pon Farr. Kirk, refusing to divert even for a short period of time; some scheme of his is time-sensitive and he will not give up the reward he intends to take from whatever unknown planet they are currently racing toward.
The images of Kirk are fleeting, irrelevant once it is clear he will not give Spock what he needs – he is aware of his First Officer's peculiar biological situation but simply orders him to "take care of it" as best he can on board the ship.
Christine understands that Spock has always been aware of her desire for him, even before she expressed it so ineptly while under the influence of that alien virus – and he is equally aware that her desire has never waned. So when Kirk turned down his request – demand – to return to Vulcan, Spock knew it would take very little time for Christine to become aware of the situation.
After that, he'd waited for her to come to him. Exactly as she'd done.
There is more, much more, information exploding through her mind carried on a wave of emotion so intense she can barely process it.
One thing, however, is as clear as glass, clear as the purest dilitium crystal; the intense, nearly overwhelming sensation of pure, animal lust she feels lurking behind Spock's logical, rigid façade.
He must take a mate, or die. The Pon Farr, everything it encompasses, all it truly means, has been made clear to her.
He needs her; he selected her deliberately when he understood that his Vulcan wife was not going to be available to help him through this chaotic period in his life. If Christine had not come to him, he would have been driven to seek her out.
She has saved him that effort, and now all his energies are focused on her. He used the last of his shattering self-control to enter into that meld with her; it wasn't the attack she first assumed it to be, only the most expedient method of showing her what she could expect for the next 72 hours of her life.
She feels his lips and teeth worrying the base of her throat, and retains enough presence of mind to slap the privacy lock on the door. She manages to push him off her just long enough to send a quarantine notification to Dr. McCoy's computer, including herself in the coded message, then Spock is all over her, his hands tearing at her uniform, his mouth on her body, one knee jammed between her legs, his erection burning against her midsection.
She has endured rough sex before, but knows that even the most brutal rape she endured at the hands of Captain Bush will be nothing compared to the ferocity of mating with a Vulcan deep in the thrall of Pon Farr.
A thrill passes up her spine at the thought and a predatory smile touches her lips.
She can hardly wait.