His Hearth, His Sky, His Home
Pike again righted his attention, directing it to Mia and the status data required by Command, wrenching it away from remembered sensations from last night: touch offered without expectation, sensual, intimate beyond the physical, beyond the erotic. A simple massage that patched more than his spasming back.
His mind refocused on the ship's fuel efficiency.
Face to face with Aalin, his hand caressed her cheek. She slept in his arms, her head tucked under his chin. The scent of her hair, the softness of her skin, the warmth radiating from her body. The quiet sighs she uttered when snuggling closer. Her breasts grazed his chest as she shifted.
His mind refocused on maintenance statistics.
Spooned around her body, his head resting on her shoulder.
His mind refocused on supply inventories.
Certainty she was his hearth, his sky, and his home. Not Montana. Not Enterprise. Her.
You're a grownup, not a lovesick teenager, his thoughts chided. A practical inner voice added, Should write that last one down, have it in my back pocket for the right moment. Eyes searched the preternaturally neat work area for stylus and tablet, or pen and paper.
"Need something?" Mia asked.
"Looking for …" Why didn't I request desk drawers? "Want to make a note."
Among a series of recessed buttons on the desk's surface, she pressed record. "Go on, dictate."
"Ah … no … I'll tend to it later." When the notification chimed sounded, grateful for the interruption Pike said a beat too fast, "Come."
Spock entered the ready room. "A moment of your time sir?"
"Granted. Mia, the rest will wait until tomorrow. Given the two-month subspace communication transit time, a couple of days late won't matter for these routine reports."
"I asked Lieutenant Matthews to join us," the Vulcan said.
As if vocalizing the name summoned the woman, Aalin glided through the doorway, nodded to the departing yeoman and Spock, then flashed a brief, almost imperceptible smile at Pike before taking a seat at the conference table where the captain and science officer had settled.
Her hair, loose from a typical low ponytail or chignon, fell in soft waves over shoulders and back; its caramel-honey strands, silken like fine sand, reminded Chris of the golds and browns found in the desert of his childhood, a place of unique beauty and stillness (inadvertently and unnoticed by the others in the room his fingers passed lightly across the table's surface as if stroking those tresses.) Her uniform, while not tight, hugged curves; its blue color with silver accents accented aqua-green irises.
And those eyes. They communicated a range of nuanced emotions most overlooked but not he; this felt like a privilege gifted and responsibility entrusted to him (his pride, the elated kind, puffed up.) Then and there Chris decided a lifetime and beyond wasn't enough time for gazing into those eyes. He moved his head, a tiny right, left, and back motion. This gesture didn't break the spell.
Aalin entwined her fingers, folding her hands with a lightness, without tension, and rested them on the table; Chris mimicked the motion (and thought, our hands fit together as if carved by a talented sculptor … really should be writing this down.) Her eyes settled on her colleague, granting Spock complete attention (this stirred envy in Chris.)
He studied her profile, traced its delicate lines with virtual fingertips which then skimmed full lips warm to the touch …
And his body responded to her. He shifted in his seat. What the hell?
He signaled Spock to begin his presentation, employing distraction for cover. This didn't help. Chris squirmed. She noticed, and her eyes found him, he answered with a quick head shake communicating through silent gesture, Nothing wrong.
The universe has a wicked sense of humor. This, this is the moment hard, Chris' visible cringe drew a raised eyebrow from the Vulcan and a puzzled expression from Aalin; his thoughts continued, this is the moment self-examination and therapy pay their dividends. Awkward teenage memories were recalled; he didn't miss those days. A hand scrubbed his chin. Another shift in the chair sought a comfortable position. In the absence of a cold shower, minute detail would have to serve as remedy. "Please step through the analysis confirming the Cycladian proto-language hypothesis."
"As Lieutenant Matthews constructed the proofs, she will explain," Spock said.
Hearing Aalin's voice wasn't the tonic for his … problem? … condition? … not entirely unwelcome reaction? Pick a label another time. Instead, Pike articulated a forceful, loud, "No!" An inhale and exhale calmed the volume and edge in his tone. "Mr. Spock, I'd like your perspective, your evaluation of the work. A lot is riding on this." In more ways than one.
Not the time for jokes Christopher.
"Of course, sir." The introductory sentence lasted fifteen minutes. Not the Vulcan's record, but one of his top three. His next grammatically self-contained unit pushed the first out of medal contention.
Spock's monotone delivery and narration of dry facts worked. Chris' posture relaxed; the vise grip of his clasped hands released. He rested palms on the table and resisted indulging a lengthy sigh.
The science officer began stepping through parabolic partial differential equations.
In the skill and habit necessary for not only receiving simultaneous updates from multiple crew but also issuing orders for situation A, while considering situation B, while listening to data about situation C, and keeping tabs on a four-dimensional space battle, the captain's mind compartmentalized; one slice followed the mathematical proofs, the others, with glee, resumed their original subject. Blood returning to the captain's brain u-turned and rushed south. Damn and blast. An image formed in Chris' mind's eye of Aalin bent over a book. She wore one of his shirts, unbuttoned yet demure; her lips brushed his jaw when he leaned down, and her cheeks blushed as she whispered in his ear a language he didn't speak. His imagination translated the suggestion.
"Let's jump over the formulas," he croaked.
A trio of three-dimensional plots displayed on the conference table. Aalin said, "We believe the Cycladians followed a rapid, lateral colonization path." She pulled up a star map and traced a line from east to west. "Likely in this series of star clusters."
Chris' thoughts drifted. He heard her lyrical voice reciting from memory the matriarchal and patriarchal lineages of his horses. More blood rushed south. Another squirm. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Considered calling an unscheduled drill requiring a red alert. No, only a genuine emergency will nip this in the bud. He grimaced at the metaphor.
"Captain?" Her head tilted as if evaluating him. "Doesn't feel like I have your attention."
You have no idea. He disguised an ironic snort as a cough, cleared his throat, then decided a quick dismissal best-served self-preservation. "All right, well done. Spock, work with navigation and plot a speed course with a four-week outbound limit to one of the central systems in that quadrant. We'll survey the area, and compare any manuscripts found to the proto-language you've pieced together, evaluating its veracity. If it holds, we'll push out from there, backtracking their migration. And bring the historical linguist in anthropology up to speed." He turned to Aalin. "Expand your Cycladian vocabulary and finish that translation matrix. Any questions? If not, I'm due in Engineering."
Pike didn't stand as was his custom when crew departed a meeting. Once alone he faced the window, leaned back, and chuckled. Discomfort and embarrassment aside, this, he waved a hand, this is ... Words failed, he snickered again. One day I'll tell Aalin the story.
First, I have a seduction to organize.
Leave the studbook until she agrees to move into your quarters.
Or your fifth anniversary.