Chapter Ten: Denouement
Disclaimer: No money made here. All for love.
Carol Marcus stands at the front door of the Vulcan Ambassador's apartment and presses the door chime. Glancing uneasily at the dark, lowering sky, she turns up her collar against the cold wind.
Suddenly fat raindrops splatter across the sidewalk, and then the sky opens up and water falls in sheets. The canvas awning over Carol's head buckles and bends in the onslaught.
The famed San Francisco microclimates—on the other side of the city the sun is shining.
Carol presses the doorbell again with more urgency than she ordinarily would. Did she misunderstand Commander Spock's message? Pulling her comm from her pocket, she checks the time. So much for Vulcan punctuality.
Stepping to the door, Carol presses her ear against it, listening for footsteps. A useless effort—the rain is far too loud to hear anything else. With a sigh, she steps back and considers what to do next.
She could wait here and hope the rain ends soon, or she could make a dash for the hover stop at the end of the street and catch the first bus back to her father's apartment in the Mission District. Wrapping her coat more tightly around her, she's about to head into the rain when she sees a figure running down the sidewalk. A woman—obviously drenched—and vaguely familiar. As Carol watches, she recognizes Lieutenant Uhura.
"Sorry I'm late!" the lieutenant says as she scoots under the awning and up the steps. She reaches past Carol and taps in an entrance code on the number pad beside the door chime. A loud snick and the door snaps open half an inch. Lieutenant Uhura pushes forward and stands for a moment on a small carpet square in the entranceway, water running off her clothes in little rivulets.
"Did you get wet?" she asks as she ducks out of her overcoat. Carol shakes her head.
The ambassador's apartment is as Carol remembers it—spare and calming. She slips out of her coat and Lieutenant Uhura holds out her hand to take it.
She disappears down the hall and Carol takes a slow spin around the room, looking more closely at the art on the walls. Although nothing identifies it as such, Carol feels certain that most is by off-worlders. Something about the aesthetic sensibilities displayed feel alien, unusual—but strangely appealing, too. She makes a mental note to ask the Commander about it when he comes.
If he comes. Lieutenant Uhura's presence is unexpected. Again Carol wonders if she misunderstood the message. But no, Commander Spock told her he would meet her here. Something must have delayed him.
A rustle in the hallway and Carol looks up as the lieutenant comes back, now wearing a floor length black robe, her bare toes showing at the hem. She's holding a towel and leaning to the side, squeezing the water from her hair.
"Have a seat, Dr. Marcus," she says, and Carol perches on the sofa. "I'm sorry you had to wait. Can I get you some hot tea?"
The way the lieutenant knows the access code to the apartment. The fact that she has civilian clothes here. Her bare feet, her casual use of the towel. The easy way she makes her way to the kitchen and opens up the cabinet to pull out two mugs.
With a start, Carol realizes that the lieutenant lives here. With the Commander.
She's so startled by the revelation that she doesn't answer. Lieutenant Uhura backtracks to the door of the kitchen and says, "Dr. Marcus? Tea?"
Giving herself a little shake, Carol says, "Oh, uh, no. I'm fine. Is the Commander coming?""
"He was called to a meeting at Headquarters," the lieutenant says, "but he hopes he won't be long. Sure you don't want anything to drink? I'm really cold!" She starts back into the kitchen and stops abruptly.
"Oh, I know!" she says with a grin. "I have some Belgian hot chocolate! And some whipped cream. How about that?"
Hot tea is one thing. Hot chocolate is quite something else. Carol nods her approval.
She listens as Lieutenant Uhura bustles in the kitchen and returns in a few minutes with two steaming mugs.
"I never get to drink hot chocolate anymore," she says, handing Carol a mug and then parking herself on the other end of the sofa. "Spock doesn't mind, of course, but when I drink it in front of him, I feel like someone eating candy in front of a diabetic."
"He doesn't like it?" Carol asks, mystified, her mind still reeling at hearing the lieutenant call him Spock instead of Commander.
"He likes the taste fine," Lieutenant Uhura says. "It's the effects he objects to." She glances up after taking a sip and Carol shoots her a confused look. "Chocolate is an intoxicant for Vulcans," Lieutenant Uhura says. "So I guess a better metaphor would be to say that I feel like I'm drinking a glass of bourbon in front of an alcoholic. Er, well, you know what I mean."
In fact, Carol has no idea what the lieutenant is talking about. To avoid answering, she lifts her mug to her lips and drinks.
For a few moments the two women drink their hot chocolate in silence, the distant patter of rain against the window the only noise. Then the lieutenant shifts and sets her mug on the small table beside the sofa.
"Professor Artura's on his way back to Earth," she says. "He sent a report ahead, though he said you would be able to fill in the details."
Carol hesitates. Should she wait and explain what happened when Commander Spock is present? On the other hand, she doesn't know when or if he will arrive. If Lieutenant Uhura couldn't be trusted with the entire story, she wouldn't be here now.
For the next half hour Carol lays out the chronology of her time on Andoria. At first her recitation is stilted, as if she is writing a formal Starfleet report, but the lieutenant interrupts her occasionally with such insightful questions that Carol finds herself loosening up, adding more of her personal reactions to her commentary. When she finishes at last, she's both relieved and surprised that she's shared so much of herself in the story…including her recent question about whether or not she made a mistake in resigning from Starfleet.
"Sounds like you've already made up your mind about re-enlisting," Lieutenant Uhura says as she gets up and takes Carol's empty mug to the kitchen. Carol rises and follows her, watching her set the dishes in the washer.
"That's what Selek said," she says. An unreadable expression crosses the lieutenant's face.
"He would know," Lieutenant Uhura says. A mystifying comment, one Carol is hesitant about asking her to explain.
"Be that as it may," Carol says in a rush, "I have…other…concerns about re-enlisting. As appealing as it is to apply for a position on the Enterprise, I'm not sure the captain would agree."
"Because of what happened?" Lieutenant Uhura says. "With your father?"
Carol feels her face heat up.
"Because of what happened since then," she says. "I saw the captain on New Vulcan and we had a chance to talk. I know I shouldn't say this, but I felt…something."
Turning, she heads back to the sofa and sits, angling her face away when the lieutenant sits down, too. Suddenly she's sorry she's said anything, but what's left unsaid is more worrying. She forces herself to continue.
"I mean," she says, struggling to find the right words, "I feel drawn to the captain in a way that makes the idea of working together difficult."
"You think you couldn't have a personal relationship and remain professional," the lieutenant says, her tone a cross between a question and a statement.
At this Carol looks up and is surprised to see a hint of a smile on the lieutenant's lips.
"I'm not sure such a thing is possible," Carol says. And then she adds, "Is it?"
"This is the 23rd century," Lieutenant Uhura says, her smile breaking out in full force. "You don't have to compartmentalize your life that way. Sure it can work. It just depends on how much you want it to."
A rustle at the door and Carol looks up to see Commander Spock walking in. He takes her in with a glance but his eyes travel swiftly to Lieutenant Uhura. If Carol weren't watching closely, she would have missed it—a subtle change in his eyes, in the cant of his head. Pleasure. No, something more profound. Joy. Sneaking a peek at the lieutenant, Carol sees his happiness echoed there.
"You missed all the fun!" Lieutenant Uhura teases. "Dr. Marcus and I just had some hot chocolate."
"Then my tardiness was fortuitous," he says, his own voice as playful. With a rush of gratitude, Carol realizes that she is privy to a private moment because of their trust in her.
"She just finished telling me about how she saved the day on Andoria," the lieutenant says, and once again Carol blushes.
"Not at all," Carol hastens to say.
"She's being modest," Lieutenant Uhura says. "And she's also weighing what to do now. Help me talk her into coming back to Starfleet."
"I suspect," the Commander says, the look on his face oddly familiar, "that someone else would be more convincing."
X X X
Carol stands twenty feet beyond the finish line of the Bay Area Half Marathon. As it often is, the weather is chilly and damp, dark clouds scudding across the sky. Feeling one raindrop, then two, Carol pulls the hood of her jacket up and steps around a group of onlookers obscuring her view of the finishers.
The leaders of the pack are long gone and the weekend runners are limping their way across the finish line before Carol spots Jim Kirk in the distance. As he gets closer she can see that he's loping in pain, his hair sweaty and matted. He's wearing an old gray Academy t-shirt with the sleeves cut out—which, Carol notes, allows her to see that his biceps are—
Giving herself a little shake, Carol takes a deep breath.
"Carol!"
Waving to her, he grins sheepishly and adds, "I mean, Dr. Marcus. What are you doing here?"
Without waiting for an answer, he runs forward a few yards to a table with cups of water and electrolyte replacement beverages. Grabbing one, he upends it and shuffles back to where Carol stands awkwardly, wondering how to answer.
Why is she here?
Before she can come up with something to say—she has a friend in the race, she was just passing by—he says, "Admit it. You came to see me."
To her horror Carol feels her face turn red.
"No, I—" she stammers. The captain grins widely and all at once it seems foolish to lie to him. "Ah, well, yes, in fact I did. Someone told me you were racing and I wanted to make sure you were okay. That you have…recovered."
"So your interest is purely medical," Kirk says, still grinning. Carol realizes she is being chaffed.
"Primarily medical," she says, teasing back. "Though I have other reasons as well."
"Such as?"
"This probably isn't the time or place after all," she says, matching his pace as he makes his way through the milling crowd of runners and spectators to the sidewalk leading out of the park.
Ruffling his hand through his damp hair, the captain says, "But you came all this way."
They've walked to the edge of the grassy strip along the marina that attracts families with children and people walking dogs. On the other side of the street is one of the Academy gyms. After a hover bus passes by, Kirk darts across the street and calls back to Carol.
"Give me five minutes to get a shower," he says, "and then let's grab some dinner. I want to hear what you came to say."
Carol opens her mouth to tell him not to worry, that she'll catch him some other time. But even as she does, she knows that if she lets the moment pass, she won't make another one happen. The old idea of seizing the day—carpe diem—that fueled some of the raciest ancient poetry. Does she really want to risk this?
She has an image of Commander Spock and Lieutenant Uhura at the Ambassador's apartment, some ineffable communication buzzing between them when they were physically close, some subterranean energy like a bubble excluding everyone else. Whatever they have is working.
Carol isn't looking for that sort of intimacy. A job, a way to be useful. An opportunity to make a difference. No sense in jumping ahead of herself with wild speculations.
"I suppose I could," she says, but at that moment a flitter with a rattling condenser passes by and Jim Kirk lifts his hand to his ear.
"I can't hear you!"
"I said—" she begins, and then swiveling her head from left to right and judging the speed of the traffic, she darts across the street to where he stands on the sidewalk.
"This is better," the captain says as she joins him, and she wonders if he's not just talking about where they stand now, but where they might stand in the future.
She blushes at the thought. Nothing's going to happen.
"Just something quick," she says, and instantly she feels him deflate. She hesitates a moment and then adds, "I mean, I have things I have to do."
Even to her own ears that sounds like a lie. The captain—Jim—apparently thinks so, too. He brightens up immediately.
"Five minutes!" he says, holding up one hand. "Wait right here!"
Before she can protest otherwise, he darts away into the gym.
Carol's first impulse is to leave. Feeling foolish as she shifts and waits, she considers sending a message to his comm with some excuse—something came up and she was called away, she suddenly remembered another appointment—anything to give her time to slow down and think through whether or not she really wants to talk to him.
But another part of her is genuinely relieved to see that he is—if not completely whole—getting there, at least well enough to finish the race. If his face is slightly drawn, if he looks a little underweight, he's clearly on the mend. At least she can stop beating herself up about his health. With that burden lifted from her shoulders, she is surprised to find that she doesn't feel so uncomfortable in his presence—that she might, in fact, enjoy a meal with him.
But only a meal. And only something casual and friendly—that's all.
He's back in less than five minutes wearing pressed chinos and a blue button down shirt, a retro fashion that looks surprisingly good on him. With an easy motion he touches her elbow as they head back across the street toward the marina.
"So," he says as they walk, "what is it you came all the way to say to me?"
Careful not to meet his eyes, Carol looks straight ahead. "Right, well, I've just gotten back from a trip to Andoria—"
"The missile crisis," Jim says. "You solved it. Good job, by the way."
Carol is so flustered that for a moment she can't speak. "You know about that?"
"I have my sources," he says, grinning. Spock and Uhura, of course. He is, after all, their captain. She should have known they would tell him everything.
"Yes, well," she stutters, her face growing hot, "that trip made me reconsider my resignation from Starfleet. I wanted your input on whether or not I should re-enlist."
The grin fades from his expression and he looks thoughtful and serious.
"That's a big decision," he says, and Carol's heart falls, not because of what he says but for what he doesn't say. No endorsement, no encouragement. Perhaps he can't get past what happened—past her father's involvement and her own deception, the way she lied to get aboard the Enterprise.
The thing to do, she thinks, is to accept that and move forward. She might re-enlist and she might not—but even if she does, his lukewarm response means she won't be serving on his ship. Taking a deep breath, she prepares to thank him and make some excuse to leave.
"A decision that big requires some serious discussion," he says, touching her elbow again to herd her toward a small brick cafe at the end of the pier. "A long discussion," he adds, "over wine and lobster."
Stopping in her tracks, Carol says, "But I thought—"
What did she think? Suddenly she isn't sure. That he was still angry with her? That he blamed her? He takes a step closer to her and she's suddenly aware that his eyes are an unearthly blue. He's so close that she gets a whiff of his aftershave, feels the heat roiling off his body. To her horror, she feels herself flush—and worse, become genuinely aroused.
"You thought," Jim says, his eyes narrowed in concentration, "that I might not want to work with you again. That I might think that someone talented enough to keep the Andorians from killing each other wouldn't want to serve as a mere science officer."
"Well, no—"
"You said I had a reputation," he says, leaning in slightly, "so maybe that worries you."
He's looking at her so intently that her breathing becomes labored. "That was a joke," she murmurs. "About your reputation, I mean."
Jim's gaze travels to her mouth and for a moment Carol is convinced that he's going to kiss her. Her heart beats so hard that she hears it in her ears.
Does she want this? With a start, she realizes that she does.
He doesn't move, and Carol knows he is waiting for some sign that he has her permission. It's such a courtly notion—such an endearingly old-fashioned attitude—that Carol smiles.
"What's so funny?"
"I'm just suddenly very, very hungry," she says. A flicker of disappointment ripples across his expression, replaced almost at once with amusement. He straightens up.
"Save some room," he says, his voice coy, his grin lopsided, "for dessert."
A/N: The End! I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing and recommending it to other Star Trek fans. And a special thanks to everyone who went into this unsure how you felt about Carol Marcus as a character but willing to give this story a chance anyway!
Thanks to StarTrekFanWriter for her suggestions. They improved the story immensely.
I'm busy writing a story in the "Elementary" fandom these days. I've always been a Sherlock Holmes fan (and am convinced Spock is his 23rd century incarnation) in all his iterations. If you are interested, check out my finished story, "Sherlock Goes to School," or the WIP, "Sherlock Goes to Dixie."
It's always good to hear from you!