She sat cross-legged, staring into his rich, brown eyes. She slowly took stock of his body. A touch of pudgy fluff sat on his midsection and his chest was covered in a sparse patch of dark hair. Thankfully she was too drunk to feel shy.
Leonard McCoy was… new. He was funny and charming in a way that should have been annoying but wasn't. And then there were his hands.
She felt almost sad that she would have to let him go.
She took a swig straight from the wine bottle and laughed.
"Your turn," she slurred, passing it to him. "Would you rather… live in a world with no problems or live in a world where you ruled?"
"Darlin', a world I rule has nothin' but problems," he grinned.
She wasn't sure if it was the alcohol in her system or in his, but his accent seemed to be growing thicker.
"Drink," she smirked, snapping her fingers at him.
He did as she asked and handed back the wine. It was 0230 and they were in between bouts of sex and well into their third bottle of wine and umpteenth round of "Would You Rather?"
"Ok… ok," Leonard mused. "Would you rather have no one show up to your funeral or… have no one show up to your wedding?"
Her jaw drifted open and she stared at him listlessly. Suddenly, things stopped feeling so funny.
She thought of Roger, who left to go on that stupid expedition just days before they were supposed to get married and never came back. Everyone had been excited to show up to that wedding – everyone but the groom. She thought of her 416 dead Constellation crewmembers, sorry that she'd missed their funerals when mortuary affairs sent the bodies back home. Those funerals had probably been small, because most of the people who would have shown up were busy having funerals of their own.
"Christine?"
It was probably just the alcohol, but tears started to prick the corners of her eyes. She set the bottle on the tousled sheets and looked away. No one liked an emotional drunk.
"Great," she thought angrily. "Now I just made things weird."
His thumb and forefinger caught her chin a soft pinch, and he leaned forward to deliver a tender kiss. His hand slid along her jaw and cradled her cheek and she leaned into him, desperate to feel any kind of companionship.
"I'm sorry," he whispered in between kisses. "I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry."
He tasted like bitter white wine, but she didn't care.
"I need you," she whispered. "Please."
She pulled him on top of her. The fourth time was different: tender, like the intersection between loneliness and comfort.
When her morning alarm went off at 0600, her legs were tangled with his, her face was resting on his chest, and a string of drool hung from her mouth. Her head was in agony.
"What is that?" Leonard screeched, cupping his hands over his ears.
"Computer – alarm off," she yelled, sitting up to a wave of nausea. "Oh God."
She managed to turn just in time to heave most of the watery contents of her stomach into the automatic waste reclaimator by her bed. The angry pulsing in her temples raged harder. It had been years since she'd had a hangover, but then again, it had been years since she'd had more than two glasses of wine in one sitting.
She pulled herself up onto all fours, noting tenderness in her quadriceps, abdomen, and virtually all of her upper body. She sat on her haunches and contemplated the naked man twisted up in her sheets. That probably explained the sore muscles.
She gingerly stretched her arms over her head and inhaled several sharp breaths, fighting another spell of queasiness. Leonard's chin dipped into his chest and he began wheezing. How could he go back to sleep so easily?
She rose from the bed and examined her naked body. They had been rough with each other, that first time. She winced as she palpated her oblique muscles, wondering exactly what sexual position would make them hurt. She pivoted her neck to gaze at the sleeping man behind her, feeling awash with affection and regret.
There was the regret that she wouldn't have the chance to get to know him better, and the regret that she'd slept with a complete stranger just because he had a delightful accent, strong opinions, and gentle hands. No, not regret exactly. Perhaps it was more correct to say she was angry with herself.
How could she already have feelings for someone she barely knew? It wasn't exactly the first time that had happened, but she thought she'd learned her lesson after Jim Kirk and Roger Korby.
Scenes from hours ago flashed through her mind; she remembered thinking of Roger and the Constellation, crying like a pitiful child, and Leonard's cool and nonjudgmental demeanor. He held her, and then made love to her in a way that made her feel both sad and fulfilled at the same time.
She rolled her eyes at her own sentimentality. She shuffled to her drawers, pulling her fingers through her tangled hair to smooth it down. There was a residual soreness in her right ankle from the sprain, but she had to admit, he'd done a pretty bang-up job. She stepped into a pair of clean underwear and grimaced from the aches riveting her body.
Ah!"
Christine wheeled around to see Leonard sitting upright and clutching his head. He blinked furiously at her, peering through sticky eyelids. He yawned and fell back onto the mattress, massaging his face with his fingers. "Why did you let me drink wine?"
"Shhhhh!" she hissed, making a face and feeling her headache begin to throb harder. "You don't have to yell."
"Who's yelling?"
"You are."
He propped himself up on his elbows to watch her fasten her bra. His eyes started to focus, and she noticed his eyebrows trending upward as he seemed to be recalling the events from the night before.
"What time is it?"
"Around 0600," she grumbled. "Good morning, by the way."
He squinted at her and worked his tongue around in his mouth. "Well, you're half right."
"What is that supposed to mean?" she scowled, pulling her arms up to slip on a loose, light blue t-shirt.
"It means I haven't had a hangover like this in a few years," he explained, staring at the empty wine bottles on the floor.
"Me either," she admitted, stepping into a pair of black pants. "Say, doctor, any chance you have access to hydrocortilene?"
"A woman after my own heart," he murmured, sitting up and rubbing his hands over his face. "Yeah, there are pre-synthesized stocks at the clinic."
She put her hands on her hips and stared at him, really considering him for the first time without desperation and alcohol clouding her judgment. She smiled a little to herself – she hadn't done too badly.
He looked around the room, and apparently realizing his pants were out of reach, he stood, allowing the thin sheet to fall from his waist. A bright flush spread across his cheeks. She smiled. No, she hadn't done badly at all.
The silence lingered between them like a weight and for a minute, the only sound came from the metal jingling of his belt buckle and the rustle of fabric as he dressed. She crossed her arms, leaning against the wall panel to observe his movements. He sat to put on his shoes, and as he finished tying the left one, she inched forward.
His gaze shifted from his footwear to her face. He paused when their eyes locked and Christine's heart beat a little faster in an annoying, girlish way. Why was he making her feel so nervous?
She offered a weak smile and ran her fingers through his messy hair to tame it down. He craned his neck upward; his face was almost touching her breasts. What made him look so kissable?
"You reek of booze," she crooned.
"Because you smell like fresh cut grass after a spring rain?" he mocked.
She gave him a pointed look. "True enough."
"Don't suppose you mind if I replicate myself a toothbrush?" he drawled.
"Please." Though she tried to keep her face serious, it refused to comply and a tight smile spread over her lips.
He followed her to the lavatory and they stood huddled over the tiny sink in the corner, neither of them eager to look in the mirror. Her head still felt heavy and sluggish, and sudden movements threatened to bring up more bile.
"Let's go," she said, pitching her toothbrush on the counter.
He headed for the door while she tossed her PADD in her bag and slung it over her shoulder. Her stomach turned again and she clapped her hand over her mouth for a brief moment.
"You alright?" Leonard asked.
She nodded and gave him a once over, then reached forward and buttoned the top button of his shirt. His frown turned into a sneer, which transitioned into a lopsided smile.
"I don't want this walk of shame to be any worse," she explained.
His eyebrows flicked and the corner of his mouth flipped into a scowl as he reached across her to hit the door release button. If she didn't feel like a chubby baby was kicking her in the head, she might have been compelled to kiss him.
"Ladies first," he said, holding out a hand to allow her to pass.
What a lot of old-fashioned nonsense. It was still cute when he did it though.
She walked into the hallway with a slight limp, flexing her right foot to see if she could stretch some of the soreness out.
"How's the ankle?" he asked, squinting against the hall's bright light.
"Fine," she admitted. "I guess I'm willing to concede you might be a good physician."
"Thanks for your vote of overwhelming confidence."
Traffic was light in the corridors at 0615 on a Saturday morning, but Christine still felt judged by every person they passed and chose to keep her arms crossed and her eyes on her feet. The walk-in clinic was two levels up and one unit over and was thankfully closed on weekends so they didn't have the prying eyes of staffers dissecting their presence.
Leonard showed her inside and she instantly recognized the intersectional layout of the clinic. It was t-shaped: nurses' stations on one side, physician's offices on the other with exam rooms located in a long hallway in between. It allowed doctors and nurses to have some independence but allowed for some proximity. Christine hated it, viewing the design as an attempt to segregate two critical healthcare functions into cliques.
She looked right and left, and judging the left side to be more happily decorated and less-prison like, she turned to the right, because that's where the doctors would keep their offices, and where the doctors were, the drugs were.
"You sure seem to know your way around," he mused.
She explained the logic in her choice as they walked to the dispensary, earning her a quizzical look from the good southern doctor.
He opened the door with his access code and showed her in, and after a cursory glance, she headed for the first cabinet to locate a hypospray while he inventoried the lockers for hydrocortilene.
She could hear him clicking through the glass vials of pre-synthesized stocks and watched over his shoulder as he sorted. She primed the hypo and took a seat on a nearby stool, closing her eyes against the thundering in her head.
"Not very organized, is it?" she poked.
"This isn't my clinic," he shot back. "My sickbay is organized."
"Your sickbay? What, are you the sheriff?"
"Do you love bein' a wiseass or is it in your genes?" he retorted, putting an unusual amount of stress on the final word.
Funny how his accent got worse when he was irritated, like two scoops of adorable topped with moonshine and barbecue.
"Sorry," she said, offering a look of apology.
Her sincerity almost seemed to confuse him. He shook his head, and then remembering he had a hangover, winced and pinched his forehead with his fingers.
"Do you mind if I have a seat so I can get at the computer and check the inventory logs?" he groaned.
She stood without saying a word, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall. He slumped onto the stool, swiped his finger across the monitor and began sifting through a number of programs.
She heard a muffled ding in her bag and extracted her PADD. A message from Commander Zograf.
She frowned and pursed her lips, feeling her finger shake as she clicked on the screen to open it.
She skipped through the administrative headers at the top and saw the words USS Enterprise-A in bold midway through the message. She was going to another Constitution-class starship: back to dangerous missions and deep space. She sighed and tapped the back of the PADD against her thighs in contemplation.
She had known this was coming, but now that it was real, a lot of old anxieties began to surface. The pounding in her head was becoming unbearable and all she wanted was to go back to sleep.
She summoned the courage to finish reading her orders, but the further she read, the worse her physical reaction became. Her heart thumped harder, her mouth was dry, and her knees starting shaking.
She was leaving in a little more than twenty-four hours on the USS Enterprise-A under the command of… Captain James T. Kirk.
How could this happen?
Jim Kirk – her first love, her first heartbreak, the man who drove her into the arms of Roger Korby, who also later went on to break her heart. She'd dated Jim for three months when they were both cadets at the Academy, but he'd hooked up with some Orion girl and casually tossed her aside. It had taken months to pick up the pieces of her life after that, and now he was going to be her boss.
Her wounds had healed: it had been five years and she hadn't really thought about him in a long time. But how was she supposed to work with a guy she'd had sex with – and they'd had a lot of sex – and then later dumped her? This was why she'd decided not to date people in Starfleet. It was a huge organization with more than a million personnel, but somehow still small enough to make things messy.
She closed her eyes and slid her back down the wall to come to a squatting position. She heard Leonard shuffling around and opened one eye to observe him.
"You ok?" he drawled.
"I- yeah," she said, not wanting to drag the skeletons from the closet and parade them around.
He held up an aluminum vial of hydrocortilene and studied her. She sighed and held out her hand, slipping it into the hypo's chamber and adjusting the dosage. "Is 10 ccs good?"
"Should do it," he agreed.
The computer dinged. A few seconds later, it dinged again. And again. And again.
"Sounds like you've got a fan club with all those messages," she smirked.
He rolled his eyes and helped her to her feet. He was strong and overcompensated, causing her to fall forward into his chest. He caught her and they exchanged weak smiles. It might have been romantic if they didn't feel so terrible. She gave him his injection and recharged the dose for herself. He gave her a strange look, making her suddenly feel self-conscious.
"What?"
"Didn't even feel it," he replied, rubbing his neck. "Maybe I should admit you might be a good nurse."
She scowled, but despite everything, her face refused to be annoyed and her lips started to crack into a smile. The computer continued to chime new message alerts.
"You should probably check those," she said, injecting herself with 10 ccs of the analgesic.
He rubbed his face vigorously and collapsed into the stool once again. The hydrocortilene was already working its magic and she could feel the throbbing and nausea beginning to recede.
"Oh, great," he seethed. "Of course. They took their time in fillin' my personnel roster and now I've got less than forty-eight hours to process 78 people."
"Huh?"
"They think they can just-"
"Who is they?" she interrupted, wondering what had him so bothered.
"Personnel resources! They just do whatever they want."
She could see him internally lamenting his woes as he scrolled through a long list. Then he froze.
"Christine?"
"Yeah?"
"Christine Chapel?"
She didn't remember telling him her last name, but she had been pretty drunk. "Yeah? What?"
He whipped around on his stool. His face was white and for once, he seemed rendered speechless, until he said, "Oh my God."