Her:

You're sitting in your favorite bar, wondering what Spock is doing, when you smell a familiar perfume and feel someone sliding into the booth beside you. "Oh, you've got to be shitting me."

You start to turn to face her, but feel her hand on your shoulder, soft this time.

"Are you going to knock me out again?" If she does, at least you know the antitox trick. It was startlingly effective after about fifteen minutes—your head stopped hurting halfway to the hotel you've been staying in since you walked out on Spock.

"No, I'm not going to knock you out but I do have a phaser. It is not set on stun so I suggest you act naturally or I will shoot." She lets go of your shoulder. "I know that I hurt you. I know you would like to hurt me back. Thus, the phaser. Now, you can turn around if you wish."

You turn and study her. "You don't sound human anymore."

"The jig, as they say, is up, is it not?" She is smiling but now that you know who she is, the expression is jarring. Her hand is under the table, and you tilt your head slightly and see that, yes, she is holding a phaser but you can't tell what it's set to.

"You did not believe me?"

"I had to check."

She smiles again. "You remind me of Kirk in some ways."

"Well, we're both human, so..." You want to launch yourself at her. Claw her eyes out. Take the phaser and pull the trigger until she's dead.

You do none of those things. "Is there a reason you're here, Valeris?"

"I wanted to clear the air."

You can't help it. You laugh. "What? Let me guess—you want to tell me you were fucking Cartwright while I was with him?"

"The admiral? No, I was not. You were everything to him."

"Well, I think I took second place to a massive conspiracy."

She nods, her face falling into an expression that finally looks Vulcan even with human features.. "Yes, but other than that, you came first."

You aren't sure what she expects you to do, and you flinch back when she leans in.

"Christine, why do you never call him Matthew anymore? Does it work? To distance yourself by only referring to him as Cartwright? Am I still Leslie to you—or simply the traitor?"

"You were never Leslie."

She cocks her head and seems to consider that. "I was never only Leslie, but there was no other Leslie Harris whose life I took over. So, in actuality, I was Leslie. I was your friend."

"You're sick."

She doesn't answer, just shifts a bit as the waiter comes up. "I'll have a tonic water please. With lime. And my friend will have another of—whatever that is."

"I'll switch to what she's having." Once the waiter is gone, you study her. "You morph into human with astounding ease. Even contractions—I'm impressed."

"I always had a back-up plan, Christine. I kept a surgeon with limited scruples but great skill on retainer. I'd mapped out escape plans in case I ended up in any number of detention facilities. Even Rura Penthe—Chang was not the only Klingon who opposed peace, and photos are so easily doctored."

"Nyota said you were easy to be around." Actually what she told you was that Valeris was scarily human at times without ever not being Vulcan. You should have remembered that.

"It was a skill I cultivated. Learning human behaviors—the way you speak and your little pet sayings—was important to me since I knew I might have to pass as one. I was, after all, part of a conspiracy that I believed logical in its goals and means, but which had a not insignificant chance of failure." She leans back as the waiter brings the drinks. Once he is gone, she says, "Admiral Cartwright wanted to bring you in. He hated having to lie to you."

"He...what?"

"I told him not to. From what I knew of you, I did not think you would be sympathetic."

"Got that right, toots."

She smiles and you're struck by something. "Oh my God. You look like her—like Leila Kalomi. Why didn't I see it?"

"You weren't expecting it and I modified it somewhat. She was his first love, you know. Not T'Pring. Have you met T'Pring? She is unpleasant."

"We're not going to sit here and chat about Spock's exes."

"Why not? We are both his exes, I think. Did you not leave him after he let me go?"

You look away. "He was tainted."

"Then turn him in." She smiles in a gotcha fashion. "But you love him, so you will not." She plays with the drink, swirling it so the ice spins around the glass without spilling a drop. "Do you know why he let me go?"

"Because you were probably holding a phaser just like now? People tend to repeat behaviors."

"That's a logical answer, actually. I can see why you please him. But no, while that might be a reason to let me escape the apartment, it does not explain why he has not alerted Starfleet that I am alive." Her tone is like that of a teacher to a group of pre-schoolers, and it angers you, as you think she intends.

"He let you go—he continues to let you go—because you're getting rid of the members of the conspiracy. But that's something he could have done if he just let Starfleet catch you. He could meld with you the same way he did before."

You see the same pitying expression on her face as Spock wore when you told him that. What is so flawed with your logic?

"That will not work, unfortunately for you. I know the names of very few of the members who are left. I took what I could from Cartwright before I killed him."

"Why did you kill him?"

"He wanted to kill Spock. He was always jealous of him because you loved him. And Spock ruined everything—a greater crime in the admiral's book. He gave the orders to kill Spock from the detention center on Earth to a select few of his faithful. But he didn't tell me until we were on our way to Rura Penthe. He knew I wouldn't allow Spock to be hurt."

You try to square the Cartwright you lived with against this version of him. Obsessed. Petty. But why not—his hard-on for destroying Klingons was at the root of this entire conspiracy.

"So you know what Cartwright knew and Spock can rip out what you know the same way he did before. I don't see the problem."

"And then...?" She is smiling—a condescending expression. "There are more, Christine. More known only to each member. Conspirators they brought in to add to the web. I get those names before I...dispose of the problems." She leans in. "Do you have any idea what Spock did to me? To pull those names from a mind that way? The...violence of the act."

You refuse to look away. "It wasn't as if you didn't deserve it." You imagine the meld Ny told you about. The way Spock ripped the names of the conspirators from her, the pain she seemed to be in.

"Perhaps not. But it did not just hurt me. It injured him in a far more lasting manner."

You look away.

"I have lived in the twilight world of expediency. Despite what Spock thinks, there is no black or white for me, only shades of gray. But he... He is idealistic. It is part of his charm—and an element of his essential personality."

You close your eyes, sighing heavily as if you can drown out her voice.

"Christine, look at me. If he were to stop me, he would have to take on the burden himself. How many forced melds do you think he can do before he loses himself?" She puts down her glass. "You love him for who he is. But will you love him for who he would become?"

She smiles, and it's Leslie's smile, the gentle, forlorn smile of your new friend, and you hate that it makes you feel soft and hurt. She used you—that's all. The same way she did Spock. She was never your friend.

"Christine, I know you. You, also, live in a world of gray. There are no absolutes in emergencies."

That was one of Cartwright's favorite sayings. But he got it from you: he latched on to it after you said it to him during a particularly bad mission. He always gave you credit, though. "As Commander Chapel is so fond of saying..."

"What do you want, Valeris?"

"I need to know that you will maintain your silence. Spock I am sure of, but you...?" She sighs. "You see, I lied to him. I told him the admiral would make you both pay by having you killed. That they would never stop and that I had the better chance to neutralize the threat. Spock did not let me go because he was in danger, but because I told him you were. Even though you don't seem to fully realize it, you are his world now."

You have no answer for her; you think she knows you won't.

"But you and I both know that the admiral would never have hurt you. You were his world, too—other than the conspiracy. It's Spock he's after, as I said." She slides the phaser into a pocket and smiles gently. "Do you know why you're going to let me go? Why you will not tell Starfleet anything about this either?"

"Do tell."

"You know I'm the best person to keep Spock safe."

You stare at her, hating that she's right. Wishing you could tell her to go to hell—or better yet to reach for your communicator and hit the combination that sends an emergency message to security and your location.

But you don't.

"Why come here, Valeris? Why tell me all this? You want to rub it in? That I'm as tainted as Spock is?"

"No. I came for the same reason I didn't kill you in Spock's apartment. I like you. You were kind to me—a stranger—when you didn't have to be. I think, under different circumstances, we would be friends."

You laugh, a bitter sound that you can see hurts her. "Have you ever had a friend?"

"Yes. I killed him on Rura Penthe."

You close your eyes.

"And I had you. For a brief time. I realize that time is over. What will you do—let me go or turn me in?"

You pull out your comm unit and snap her photo.

Her eyebrow goes up, but not very well, not in a way that looks Vulcan. Still, you have clearly surprised her. "And what will you do with that, Christine? Send it to security? Or will you add it to your scrapbook? Will you label it Leslie or Valeris?"

"Maybe I'll give it to Spock. His one true love." You know you sound bitter and angry and you wish you could say it in a more matter-of-fact way, but you can't. You hate this woman.

And you don't.

She glances at the screen. "That's blurry. Take another one. I want you to have a better one to remember me by."

"Really?"

She nods, so you do, rolling your eyes.

She checks it. "Much better." She smiles. Leslie's smile again—does she practice it in the fucking mirror?

"This could all be one big mind-fuck. You think I don't know that. You may not be hunting anyone. There may be no one to hunt."

"You are exceedingly clever. If you look, you'll find them. I've already started."

"Hunting?"

"Well, that's the nice way to put it."

"Why should I believe you?"

She nods, as if she understands the quandary you're in. "I love Spock. I say that as easily as I do because I would have been proud to be his bondmate. Ours was a union of true esteem not logic. I hoped, once the conspiracy succeeded, once I would no longer have to postpone our bonding, that he would find it in himself to forgive me. To see that I had insured the future of the right side—for us and our children. But now. Now I know he will never forgive me. And...now he has you."

"You aren't jealous?"

"What logic is there in that?"

"That's not an answer."

"Then yes, I am. If I allow myself to be. But I also will work tirelessly to ensure his well-being. I could not kill him when I had the chance on the Enterprise and I won't let him die now." She slides out of the booth. "If you let me go, then you are as tainted as Spock, and thus there is no longer any logic in staying away from him. You see, even now I look out for him—sending you back to him. Perhaps I am the more noble of we two?" She turns and walks out, as if she is not a fugitive, as if you could not send the picture you just took to security. They'd have her new face on every monitor in the quadrant so fast she'd never get off world.

Then again, she probably has a back-up plan for her back-up plan. Who will she look like next? Zarabeth? That Romulan bitch? You?

You stare down at your communicator and sigh. Finally, you send the picture to Spock with a one-line message: "If you still want to talk, I'm ready."

You bring up the picture again, and your finger hovers over the delete key, but you press "Save" instead.

Him:

You sit at a terminal in your father's study, running a facial recognition search on the picture Christine has sent you. You are using Vulcan resources because you do not want Starfleet to have any record of this.

To your annoyance, old pictures of Leila keep coming up. Valeris, no doubt chose to resemble Leila on purpose. Not just someone who was important to you when you were young but also a scientist in her own right, a well-known one in botany circles who appears repeatedly in the search results.

It was a jab at you that also muddied the search—most logical.

Finally, you find one that is not of Leila or some other blue-eyed human with long blonde hair, and you bring it up. Security footage. It is Valeris. But why only this one?

"Is there a reason you're looking at pictures of that Kalomi woman?" Your mother sets a plate and glass down next to you. Your favorite fruit juice and a grilled cheese sandwich fixed the way you've preferred since you were a child.

"You once liked her, Mother."

"I pretended to, Spock. Because you liked her." She sits next to you. "Why are you looking at her—or is that her daughter?" She points at the date on footage you have pulled up.

"She is neither. She is a...subject matter expert I have been told to consult for my next mission. I do my homework, as you know."

"Yes, just like your father." She sighs—dramatically. "When are you going to make up with Christine? I miss her."

"We are meeting tonight to talk at our—my apartment."

"Oh." She leans in and studies you. "You don't look very happy about that."

"As I am unsure what the result of the meeting will be, I see no logic in displaying premature satisfaction."

"Are you afraid she just wants to meet to get something she left behind? Women usually don't bother coming over to do that. She'd probably just send a messenger."

You feel a bit buoyed by that idea. Christine would certainly not subject herself to time with you if she wasn't willing to forgive you.

Or perhaps you just hope that is the case.

You close the terminal. Valeris has been careful. The footage you found is the only one available to your resources. You think she wanted to be seen since the footage came from a transporter station in Philadelphia, in the departure lounge where those waiting to beam up to the orbiting shuttle stations wait their turn in relative comfort.

You doubt she has left Earth.

"Has my father ever done something you considered grievous enough to not want any further association with him?"

She reaches over and rubs your hair, and you lean in because it reminds you of your childhood, when things were simple and it was your deepest form of safety to find her alone in the house and let her be...human with you. "Of course not or I'd be gone."

"Not even Sybok's exile?"

"That wasn't just your father. T'Pau was pushing him. And he was on such thin ice with her at the time for marrying me. Insisting on a love match when she'd wanted him to marry T'Pring's mother."

This is news to you. "Is that why he pushed my bonding with T'Pring?"

"Yes. He wanted to please the matriarch. Everyone did, Spock. It was how the family was back then." She frowns. "Did you do something—you didn't cheat on Christine, did you?"

"Of course not, Mother."

"Then what would be so unforgiveable?" She gestures to the screen. "And is your so-called expert part of this?"

You ignore her question and take a bite of the sandwich. You chew slowly and make some happy boyhood sounds both to make her smile and to get you out of having to answer.

She rolls her eyes and stands, giving you a quick kiss on the forehead. "Grovel, if you have to. I want Christine back in the family. So does your father."

You do the nod-shrug that Jim taught you can mean just about anything.

Your mother smiles and says, "That's my good boy" and leaves the room, fooled just as easily as McCoy always was when Jim used it on him.

You are not willing to grovel, but you consider how far you will go to get Christine back. You close your eyes and picture her naked, head thrown back, mouth open slightly, just about to climax. It is one of your favorite mental images.

You, too, want her back. And not just for the sex—sex that far surpassed anything you ever had with Valeris.

Her:

You stand in front of the apartment you picked out and consider whether you want to palm yourself in or not. Finally, since you don't live there anymore, you ring the chime.

Spock answers it at the door instead of just calling entry. He seems to be drinking you in, and you try not to let that affect you. "You are still on the door, Christine."

"I thought maybe I was. But it didn't seem right."

He nods and moves aside. "Please."

You feel a pang as you take in your beautiful place. The view, the lovely furniture, the smells of Spock's incense and your favorite candles.

"She came to me," you say before he can start off on some other tack. "Your girl."

"She is no longer 'my girl.'"

You turn. "You got the picture I sent?"

"Yes. And I used Vulcan facial recognition software on it from a computer at the embassy."

"Smart."

"She was picked up on a camera in a waiting lounge to beam up to a shuttle station. There was nothing else. If she wanted us to think she left the planet, she failed."

"What if I could give her back to you?" You move closer, trying to read him, trying to see if he still loves her. But all you see is the way he's looking at you. The way he's reaching out for you.

You back up.

"What do you mean?"

"What if I could find her? You and I know she's Valeris, but no one else does. I won't tell if you won't. You and she can...start over."

"With her?" There is a note of horror in his voice that makes you laugh against your will. "This is not why I wished to talk to you." He moves closer. "I have been missing someone, but it is not her."

The heartfelt way he's saying it makes you stand still as he reaches for you, makes you wrap your arms around him as he pulls you to him and kisses your hair. "She said she would keep you safe from the people Cartwright sent against us, Christine. I do not believe I can do it with the same effectiveness or I would have taken on the job myself."

"And forced the meld? Over and over?" You pull back so you can see his face. "That would destroy you." Reaching up, you cup his cheek. "And she lied to you. They aren't after me. They're only after you. You're what she cares about. Not me." You move closer and whisper in his ear, "I truly think she would give anything to have you back."

"And I would give anything to have you back." He moves so your lips are on his, so you're pressed against him, so he can open his mouth to you and you respond. As he lifts you up, you wrap your legs around him and let him carry you to the bed.

But you pass a picture she found in a pile at an antiques store, then the console table that sits in the hallway that she saw on a day you were at work. She sent you a picture, and when you loved it, she went back to the store and reserved it so it would still be there when you came to look at it in person.

"Spock, she's never going to go away." You stop his hands, his questing lips, and force him to put you down. "No. Wait."

He pulls away, but holds your shoulder, his fingers slipping under your collar to your skin—so he can read you, no doubt. "Christine, I understand this is upsetting you. What she did—has done. What she will continue to do—for us, but also for herself, if we are honest. These people she is hunting may eventually discover she did not die at Rura Penthe, especially as more and more of them die."

You've thought of that. "Did Cartwright really threaten either of us or is she just trying to get what little bit of a life she can by destroying all the other players?"

"A very good question. We can agree her reasons for being here are undoubtedly not entirely altruistic. But given all that: is she our enemy? We know who she is, and yet she has not moved against us."

You think about it. "No. But she's the enemy."

He nods. "It is a distinction I can find myself living with. Can you? Can you let her go?" He presses his finger down, clearly taking in the myriad emotions you are feeling and no doubt broadcasting.

"I was so lonely. For a friend, I mean. And she knew that."

"I am not sure that she did. I think she wanted to know who you were, this person who had taken her place."

"Why not just kill me and take it back?"

"Because...she feels affection for you." He shrugs in a way that would do a human teenager credit. "I am at a loss, Christine, but she is...alone. In a way no Vulcan ever is. No family, no homeworld, no mate, no place for her katra when she dies. Even her Vulcan features are gone. You were lonely, but I think she was as well. I do not think I was part of what went on between the two of you, other than in the abstract."

You think about that. How...grateful she seemed at times for your friendship. "Was your Mom mean to her?"

He sighs. "My mother did not entirely approve of her."

You study him. "She approves of me."

"She does. She wants us back together. She has told me so in no uncertain terms."

You move toward him, letting him enfold you in his arms. "And you? You want me back?"

"And not just as the woman I live with. I wish for you to be my mate."

You narrow your eyes. "Is that supposed to be a proposal?"

"It is. On Vulcan. Your response is yes or no. We value simplicity."

You smile. "I value it, too. But if I say yes, we're going ring shopping. I like garnets."

"Whatever you wish." He holds your face between his hands, his skin hot on yours. "Are you saying yes?"

"If I am, she is not going to be in the wedding party."

"There is no wedding party in a Vulcan mating ceremony. Just witnesses. Unless you wish a human wedding?"

"Oh, God, no. But I want the honeymoon. Tahiti or Paris or somewhere romantic."

He begins to unfasten your uniform. "Will it be romantic if I am there?"

"Yes, despite your best efforts." You giggle as he picks you up and kisses you, backing to the wall, moving so you can lift up his robe and slide down just...there.

He moans and you kiss him as he thrusts, as he murmurs, "Mine, mine, mine" until you come, clutching his back, probably leaving marks. "I have missed you so, Christine," he whispers, and the longing in his voice, the sweet way he is kissing your neck, is the most romantic thing in the world.

But you take in the lovely antique mirror across the room. You found it at a street fair in Sausalito with Valeris.

He pulls away enough to study you. "I cannot read what you are feeling."

"Our bedroom is full of her again."

"Then we will remedy that."

You know that means you will; he's a horrible shopper. But it's a sweet sentiment.

Him:

You sit next to Christine on the banquette in the bar that Leonard has chosen for this impromptu reunion and memorial. Excelsior is back for refits and Nyota is on Earth for training. Only Scott is missing. The memorial is as much for him as for Jim.

You see Nyota eye Christine's hand, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the ring, then meeting yours. You gaze back, keeping your expression even. It gratifies you to see that Christine is making no special effort with her, and Nyota seems unsure what to do with that.

Withholding: another key tactic of diplomacy.

Although for her sake, you wish she did not have to. You would prefer that she felt comfortable, that she could sit with her, their heads together, looking as if they were conspiring about any number of no doubt inappropriate things. But if she also wishes this, there is no outward sign.

It occurs to you that Valeris may have been closer to Christine of late than either of her friends now in this room.

Christine is also making no effort to show off the ring, and you appreciate her restraint—and that she is not trying to make this day about her despite how happy you know she is about both the engagement and the ring. You enjoyed watching her design the setting—surprised that she wanted a specific kind of garnet—rhodolite. A very dark pink, nearly red. There were diamonds flanking the main stone but only because your mother gave you some to use. Family heirlooms that Christine loved.

It pleased you to pass the stones to her; you do not think your mother would have given you them if the ring were for Valeris. Then again, Valeris would never have worn a ring so it is a moot point.

But it pleases you to see the ring on Christine's hand. To know what she has chosen and why, but to let it mean, at its most basic level, that she is yours.

You see that Chekov has finally arrived and the stories begin, some you know and others you don't. Both of Jim and Scott. You add your own; you've learned over the years how to tell a tale in a way humans find droll. You admired both men, Jim, of course, knew what he meant to you but you doubt that Scott realized the depths of your esteem. He was the finest engineer you have ever known.

You meet Leonard's eyes and you know yours are sad. You wish that the two of you were closer. But it was Jim who brought you together and this crew that keeps you coming back, not a bond between the two of you.

The night goes on, as these things do, and alcohol is consumed in large quantities. Finally, McCoy stands and says, "Well, I for one am sick of sad things. Little lady." He points his glass at Christine, his bourbon sloshing. "You are wearing a ring."

"Women do that, Len." Her voice is teasing and he rolls his eyes.

"But it's a new one, isn't it? And on a certain finger."

"Women buy new rings. And it has to end up on one of the fingers, why not that one?" She winks at you and you want to pull her to her—this lightness is what you both have needed.

"Oh, for God's sakes, they're engaged, Leonard." Nyota's voice is far from warm and you see Rand frown as she looks from her to Christine, who is...ignoring the coldness.

In fact, Christine laughs and rolls her eyes and says, "Yes, we are. Which I guess means drinks are on us this round."

You think it does not mean that. But you admire the way she has just shut down whatever Nyota was doing. Rand comes over, telling you to move the hell over, so you get up and take her place by Sulu. You glance at Nyota and she murmurs, "Sorry."

"I am not the one to say it to."

That earns you a glare. You decide to follow Christine's lead and ignore it. You turn instead to Sulu.

"Congratulations," he says with a grin. "Good choice."

"Indeed she is."

"Although..." He looks at you, his eyes merry and light—command has not robbed him of that. "Given your last girl..."

"There is no comparison." And for that you are very thankful.

Her:

You are using a free afternoon to wander the city, stopping at furniture stores you did not go to with Valeris. You keep thinking you see blonde hair, but when you turn, there's never anyone there.

How long will she haunt you?

You end up in a new shop, and tell the clerk you're just getting ideas so he'll stop following you.

A moment later, you hear someone else say the same thing to the clerk. In a voice too familiar. You turn, not believing Valeris is really there—the balls on this woman.

"Hello." She says it as if you're the kind of people who say hello in a store. As if you aren't on the verge of pulling out your communicator and turning her in—to hell with the danger from whatever remnants of the conspiracy may or may not exist.

You try to push past her, but she grabs you, her grip like iron. You expect a threat. You expect a taunt. You expect a long-winded lecture on expediency and shades of gray. What you don't expect is her voice to tremble slightly as she asks, "Are you really replacing what we bought together?"

"Are you really sad about that? What is wrong with you? You're the bad guy."

"Villains are determined by outcomes."

"No, villains are determined by actions." You drop your voice lower. "You kill people."

"And you save them. So of course my actions are anathema to you. We are opposites on the scale."

"Yes, sane and not so."

"Is it a sign of insanity to say that I enjoyed the time I spent with you?" She lets you go. "And I must point out that what we selected were lovely pieces."

And the hell of it is, she's right. You adore the way the apartment looks.

You flop into a nearby chair.

She studies your hand. "That ring is new. I believe you and Spock have returned to each other. And perhaps that signifies more?"

You nod. Is she actually happy for you? What world are you living in where your friend is a bitch about it and Spock's psycho ex is waxing rhapsodic?

"The ring is lovely. It is different than those I saw in the Academy. I like that you would pick something different."

"I just love rhodolites—that's a garnet—and with the dia—God damn it. We are not going to talk about my fucking engagement ring."

Her eyes are dancing, and you think she wants to laugh but is holding it back out of habit. "May I make a suggestion?"

"May I tell you to jump in a lake?"

She does laugh at that. "Pretend there is a Leslie. Pretend she exists and it was she who helped you with the furniture, not Valeris. She who admires your ring, not Valeris. Tell yourself that there is no Valeris."

"There will always be a Valeris."

"But you didn't even know me then. By that logic, should there not also always be a Leslie? The woman you did know."

"The woman with a fake husband and mother-in-law." You sit up, staring at her. "They are fake, right? There is no real Martin and Lorraine, thinking they have a human living with them, not some psychotic Vulcan?"

"I am not psychotic." She looks sincerely offended.

"That's the part you're going to focus on?"

"They are not real. Christine, please. You have made a career out of helping others: going from nurse to doctor to emergencies. The most logical way to attract your attention when we first met was to be...in need." She perches on a coffee table near the chair. "Making them up—well, part of it was Amanda and how we interacted, as I imagine you know or will come to—but part of it was simply...enjoyable. I had fun living that life, being that woman—getting to know you."

You push yourself out of the chair and head for the door.

She catches up easily, but she doesn't grab you this time. "And you had fun knowing that woman."

"I won't argue with that. But she's not real. Now, get the fuck away from me or so help me I will call security."

She must see something in your expression, something that says finally, "Don't goddamn push me."

She holds her hands up and backs away. "I will not approach you this way again."

You leave before you lose whatever is finally making you scary enough for her to pay attention to.

Later that day, a comm appears. "A friend is sorry" is the subject line and it's from one of those places that sends all-occasion electronic cards. You open it and a picture of a sad looking cat stares back at you. "Oh, come on." It's so kitschy it almost makes you laugh. You touch the cat to open the message and see a gift card is included from the store you saw Valeris in. The message reads: "I am truly sorry. If you really do not like the furniture because of its association with me, buy something new. My treat."

You cannot believe she thinks this is how a human disassociates. You forward the gift card to a charity that helps out displaced families, and send the card to trash.

Then you look around at the gorgeous rooms you've put together. You as in you and Spock but also you and her. You don't want to get rid of your pretty new stuff. Besides, what would it serve? Memories are like cat hair: no matter how you try, you'll never get rid of them completely. And you love these pieces, not because of how you got them but for the memories you'll make on them with the man you've loved for what seems like forever.

To hell with her. She doesn't run your life. She never will.

Spock comes in and finds you lounging on the leather chaise. He almost frowns. "I thought you were opposed to that piece?"

You laugh at how diplomatic he is being. "I was. I'm not now. This is our furniture, Spock. This piece, even though she had a hand in it. It's ours—yours and mine. Unless you hate it?"

"I find it immensely comfortable."

"Me, too. So...so a traitorous bitch who may consider me her best friend helped me pick it out for us—nothing's perfect, right?"

He actually smiles, a small puff of air coming out. He walks over, and manages to somehow cuddle in with you on the chaise, partially holding you. "A most pragmatic attitude."

"I can be pragmatic. I can let this go."

He nuzzles you. "If you would like to replace the orange throw pillows, however, I would have no complaints."

You laugh. "Yeah, those suckers are definitely going back." Then you laugh harder, because he's urging you up so you're straddling him, and you murmur, "Oh, so you think we're going to exorcise her out of all this new stuff by having sex on it?"

"We would have done that anyway." His expression is light as he pushes your shirt up and unhooks your bra so he can play with your breasts.

You give yourself over to his amazing hands and lips and tongue and forget about anything but him and what he's doing to you.

Logic is a wonderful thing. Who knew it would play so well with sex?

Him:

You are inside Christine, moving slowly, building the tension when she whispers, "I don't want a ceremony on Vulcan."

You know your lips are ticking up as you continue your movements but say, "Elaborate."

She thrusts up to meet you and you groan. "I want to bond now. Just you and me. No fuss, no muss. Simple, like this." She uses muscles you think were not on any anatomical models you studied and you groan even louder. "Will we be breaking any Vulcan rules if we do it now?"

You study her, then reach for the meld points. She is so open to you it is as if you are walking through an open door, and you feel that she does want this and not out of desperation or fear she will lose you.

She loves you. She does not want to wait. She knows life is short.

You know that, too. "We will break no rules." You smile, a true smile, because you want her to know that you love her for this. In truth, you did not want a ceremony on Vulcan either.

She smiles back and you feel joy jumping between your minds.

You begin the bonding, working more from instinct than knowledge, feeling your way, and she moans.

"Parted from me and never parted." Your voice is harsh but your grip on her is light and you can feel her becoming one with you. "Never and always touching and touched."

Pleasure builds between you. You go back to thrusting.

"Oh, fuck."

You laugh. It is not Vulcan to do so, but neither is her response. Yet it is beautifully apropos and quintessentially her to swear during a moment like this, so you say, "Indeed," and thrust harder, feeling it now from her point of view as well as your own.

She comes and the feeling rockets through you. You hear her murmuring, "I love you so much" as she comes down and you go faster, harder—this will fade but for now you are one person. And you make love as if that is so.

When you finally roll off her and pull her to you, she is panting. "Holy shit, Spock." She laughs. "Sorry, I'm sure there's some ritual response. 'Honorable husband: the mind-blowing orgasms were most appreciated.'"

You smile, and you can tell she understands this openness will also fade. And she doesn't care. You can feel that she will enjoy this while she has it and not mourn it once it is gone.

You pull her close. "Before I cannot so easily say these things, know that I love you. You are all that I want. All that I desire."

She kisses you, but then she moves to your ear and whispers, "Sweet talking me now isn't going to get you out of taking me to Tahiti later."

You pull her back to you so you can kiss her. Kissing turns to more and soon you are pushing her to her back again and climbing on top.

When you finally pull away, you ask, "I thought it was Paris

"Maybe it'll be both. Paris and then Tahiti. Maybe a trip to an amusement park. Do you like roller coasters?" She grins and you trace her lips with your finger. "Or is life with me enough of one."

"I would ride one if you wanted me to."

"Just one?"

"I would do almost anything if you wanted me to." You know this is hyperbole and you can tell she does too. But she is still charmed that you would say it and you are still earnest in saying it.

"Will your parents be mad at us? For not waiting?"

"Not as long as my mother can have a party for us at the embassy."

"Of course." She closes her eyes. "Wow, is that my body or yours that is so sore."

"I think both."

"I guess no more sex." She laughs and lays her hands over her breasts and genitals. "Off limits, buster."

You let an eyebrow be the answer to such nonsense.

Her smile is a beautiful thing as she pulls you back onto her. "I don't want to waste this connection. While we have it, we should use it, yes?"

"I concur."

"Even if neither of us can walk in the morning." She giggles as you kiss down her belly. "Fortunately I'm a doctor. I can heal us right up. Provided I can get to my bag."

Then she stops talking and starts moaning.

When morning comes, it is you who stumbles to the closet to get her med bag. You are profoundly grateful you had the foresight to bond with a doctor because you are both in need of attention.

She smiles as she runs the regenerator over you. "Are you sorry we didn't show some restraint last night?"

You pull her in for a kiss, her lips sweet on yours. "Not at all."

Her:

You're just getting in from a meeting when your terminal beeps in the way you've programmed it to for results from a search you've set up. You sit and call up the message queue, then have to go through the additional safeguards you've made to open the comm.

Another Starfleet officer dead. Freak accident while home alone. Lassiter, Jennifer. Commander. You call up her service record. It takes awhile but eventually you find the link—not to Cartwright this time, but to Lieutenant Hanover, who was killed when his phaser overloaded on a mission. Hanover served with Cartwright early in his career, Lassiter was Hanover's next supervisor.

You add it to the list—the mental list: you're not stupid enough to keep a real one—of the people Valeris has wiped out. She was hunting even when she was pretending to be an awkward human. Hunting—killing. Wiping out the enemy.

One less threat to Spock. One less threat to your happiness.

Your ability to be pragmatic about this is verging on scary. You should probably be concerned.

Instead you close the message and go back to work.

Your personal communicator beeps and you frown because it should be on "do not disturb" when you're on shift. You look at the identifier screen, but it's not showing who's calling.

You answer it anyway, just as you always do. Valeris promised in the furniture store she would never again approach you that way. She didn't say she wouldn't comm.

Her face fills the screen. "You're welcome, Christine."

"Are you kidding? I'm at work. This could be tracked."

"Do you really think they can track my messages if I don't want them to?" She cocks her head. "I understand congratulations are in order. Felicitations on your bonding. How is the mother-in-law from hell?" She looks particularly pleased—no doubt on the precision of her human impression.

"She's good to me."

"You two are close? You can talk to her?"

"I can."

"So, of course you've told her all about my comms?" She leans in. "I don't call Spock, you know. Just you."

You know that's true. But you tell Spock when she comms—he'd know, now that you're bonded, if you were keeping something that big from him. And even if he wouldn't, you'd tell him. You don't want that kind of secret between you, not now that things are good again.

Good—things are amazing.

You lean in. "Hey, is that the last one you need to take care of?"

"Why? So you can send my picture to Starfleet security finally and end this lovely relationship?"

"Just exactly."

"No, that's not the last one."

"You wouldn't tell me if it was, though."

"True. When it is, I'll...slip into the wind. And it really will be goodbye."

You mock pout and pretend to dab at your eye.

She laughs, and you find that you miss the sound. The laugh of your fake friend. You've stopped blaming Spock for missing her—you can feel through the bond that he does occasionally think of her, although his love for you at this point overshadows any regard for her that lingers.

How can you blame him when you miss the person she became—this version of her that you got to know—to like?

"Honestly, Christine, is Amanda good to you?"

"She really is." You lean in. "But the way she cuts his sandwiches..."

"See." She smiles. "Thank you. That was generous because I know you like her."

"I love her."

"I never would have. Spock's probably better off with you." She sighs. "Well, more hunting to do. Leads and more leads." She seems to be stalling and you wonder if there really are more leads. Or if this is it.

Then she says, "Goodbye, Christine" and she reaches for the screen.

"Wait."

She looks up.

"Just so we're clear: I hate what you do. And I hate what you did—the larger issue." You don't have to talk around things—it's damning enough that you have calls from her on your comm record—but you'll be damned if you're going to give a prosecutor anything concrete if you ever do get caught. "But...thank you. If Spock is safer, thank you."

"You're safer too." Her expression is perfectly serious and her tone grave. "The last one was planning a farewell party for both of you."

"Oh." That leaves you shaken. Although should it? You'd rather be taken out with Spock than have to live without him the way you did Roger.

She leans in. "I wish, sometimes, that we could get coffee again. Or have dinner." Then she shakes her head, as if clearing an errant thought. "Or I would—if it were my nature to wish."

"Right." You study her, the tight way she's holding herself. What kind of life is this for her?

The life of a traitor, some nobler part of yourself answers. The life she fucking deserves.

But then she looks up and meets your eyes, and you see the woman in the boutique. "Sometimes," you say softly, "I wish we could too."

She smiles. You think she enjoys smiling; she does it so often.

You lean in. "Even though I hate you. Leslie."

"Right. Hate." Her smile goes broader as she cuts the connection.

You stare at the screen for a long moment, then send Spock a message marked routine that he can read when he gets out of his meetings.

All it says is: "Your friend called again."

He will know what that means. All the implications. She doesn't reach out to you after every one, but she never contacts you any other time.

Then you comm Amanda. "Hi, are we still on for coffee later?"

"Wouldn't miss it, darling. Oh, hell. Caterers are here for some conference T'Lana is holding. Why is it up to me to supervise everything?" She points and tells someone to go to the far conference room. "An ambassador's wife's job is never done. But I'll see you at three." Her smile is luminous as she cuts the connection.

You try to imagine not loving her and fail. Even the way she cuts Spock's sandwiches charms you—that was a lie to make Valeris happy.

Jesus, are you under her spell or what—lying about Amanda just to make her smile? You hope this really is goodbye.

There is a chorus of "Oooohs," from the bay and then your deputy's at the door saying in a sing-song voice, "Someone's got an admirer."

You look up to see him carrying a box from the chocolatier you first took Valeris to. A red balloon with "Christine" written on it is attached and a little envelope dangles from the ribbon.

He hands you the package. "The delivery guy was trying to get in when I came back from lunch so I said I'd bring it to you. What's the occasion?"

You open the envelope and pull out the little card. In beautiful handwriting that could easily be mistaken for Spock's if one didn't know better, it says, "I miss you."

"Well?"

"I'm missed." You hold out the box and say, "Have one."

He takes a truffle and breaks into a happy smile as he bites in. "Oh, man, this is good. Who knew Vulcans were so sentimental?"

You smile in a way you think could mean anything. "Yeah. Who knew?"

FIN