Chapter 8, Calm Before the Storm
Chapel sat at Spock's desk, trying to stay awake as she gazed across the room at the sleeping Vulcan.
Spock's quarters were quite warm, even for someone dressed in those stupid, skimpy uniforms they gave to female staff. It was also dark; Spock's quarters featured red and brown wall hangings, similar, she supposed, to Vulcan's colors. A set of deadly-looking axes and other Medieval-like weapons hung on the wall dangerously (she felt) close to his bed. Where he now lay in a deep sleep, the kind she remembered as a teenager.
Which, she concluded, might be where Spock was in his mental development—an adolescent. She'd read up on Vulcan physiology and biology and was interested to learn that Vulcans often lived to 200. McCoy had hinted that Spock was still "just a kid" in his culture, although she wasn't sure if he was joking about Vulcans' long lifespan or actually commenting on Spock's maturity. Certainly, he was the essence of a Starfleet Commander and First Officer: dependable, steady, and culturally inclined to keep his emotions in check. Except, of course, when infected by an outside force like that damned virus.
She tried to stay awake but kept nodding off. Her feet were hot, so she took off her boots, hoping the slight cooling would keep her awake. It didn't.
"Christine," she heard. She'd fallen asleep at his desk. She opened her eyes and lifted her head. Spock was blinking sleepily at her. "Will you come to me?"
Later, she knew she wasn't really thinking when she walked across the room and lay down on his bed next to him. He curled his body around her and murmured something she couldn't understand as she drifted off back to sleep.
She wasn't sure how many hours had passed when she awoke to music, strings. She turned her head and saw Spock seated in an armchair, softly strumming his lyre. He looked at her with bright eyes.
"I apologize if I woke you," he started to say.
"Water!" she gasped.
"Ah, yes, it is warmer than in most humans' quarters." He set down his lyre and fetched a glass of water for her, even adding ice. He sat on the edge of the bed and handed it to her, watching as she gratefully gulped it down.
"Do you require more?" She nodded.
After she downed a second glass, she cleared her throat. "I had a most unusual dream, Spock. You were trying to tell me something but I could not hear you. Or perhaps I couldn't understand you."
"It was not a dream, Christine," he said softly. "I was trying to tell you something but you fell asleep before I could finish. And it is entirely possible that I was speaking to you in my own language. I have not been…myself lately."
His intercom chimed. He pressed a button on the side table next to his bed. "Spock here."
"Spock, it's McCoy, Spock," the doctor's voice came over. "How are you, uh, feeling?"
"I am well."
"Is Chapel still there?"
"Yes." He looked back at her.
"Chris? Can you hear me?"
"Yeah, Len, I can. Everyone's ok here."
"Doctor…Leonard, are we going to Vulcan?"
Chapel held her breath.
"Yes, Spock, we are. You need help."
"Acknowledged." He turned off the intercom and looked at Christine. "I do not wish to go there."
She sat up and smoothed her hair. "But you must, to survive. What you should do, what you must do, is whatever it takes to keep to stay alive. Even if it means being with her."
"I do not want that."
"It's only for a short time. You can do what you must and return to the ship and carry on with your life as you please. Do you see another choice?"
"Not much of one."
"But you seem…calmer."
"I feel calmer. The burning is not as strong. Christine," he hesitated, "I must ask you if we-"
"We didn't. We literally napped together, Spock."
He looked relieved. "I would not wish to put you in a situation where you would be hurt. Or offended by my actions."
"Was that what you were trying to tell me?"
"I was trying to explain what was going on. As soon as you were next to me, our bodies touching, I felt a sense of peace. Like you were a balm. I did not want you to leave me. You helped me regain control of my emotions."
"If you don't mind my saying, you sound very emotional right now."
"Yes, but I feel completely in control of them, which I must say are quite pleasant right now. I would not throw soup, for example. I would, however, like to have some to eat right now, and perhaps a stir-fry."
She grinned at him. "Could we meet in the mess in an hour? I'd like to go back to my quarters to shower and change, and check in with Len real fast."
"I will be there."
She got up and smoothed out her skirt and hair some more before heading to his door.
"Christine?" She turned around.
"Thank you. Thank you for staying with me."
She commed Len right away from her quarters and filled him in.
"So he's fine? After that little performance earlier?"
"I'm telling you, he's fine. I'm fine. Tutti bene."
"Hmm. I hope you aren't telling me this to preserve Spock's Victorian image."
She laughed. "And what of mine?"
He snickered back at her. "Compared to Spock, you're a PhD in matters of the heart. Hell, even I am!"
Christine and Spock were having a late meal in the mess, their only options being programmed food that, luckily, included plomeek soup for Spock and stir-fry vegetables and potatoes for both.
"That's your plan…just tell her it's over?"
"It is. Unless you have identified another way?"
"Spock…please, I hope all of this isn't because of me."
He sighed, a very un-Spock like sound. "It is in part. When the virus freed my mind, I realized that I wanted more than an arranged bondmate. I want something more, from someone I can talk to, who I admire, who I find attractive in ways other than physical.
"Do not misunderstand me, Christine. I have found you physically attractive since you came on this ship. And since then I have discovered more about you that make me want you more than in a sexual sense. I want to be with you. Not with her.
"And yet, I understand you have given your heart to another. I will await to see what happens when we find him."
"When we find him," she said slowly.
"Yes, when. Because you believe it will be so."
"Spock, I have to tell you…I am having doubts."
"That would be logical given the facts."
"And this makes it so hard for me to see you throwing away a perfectly fine woman—"
"Who is not the one for me. Christine, even if you should reunite with Dr. Korby, I will accept that. I will be…disappointed but I will accept it. I will get over it, as Dr. McCoy says.
"Long ago, my people fought for their mates. There is even an archaic tradition at marriage ceremonies in which the female may call upon someone to challenge her mate on her behalf, usually a male she prefers. The tradition calls for a fight to the death."
"Oh my god. They really do that? At the wedding?"
"It is rare. More often, the female simply does not show up and the male finds another to help him through the pon farr."
She decided not to ask who that might be. "Do males ever do what you will, ask to dissolve the bond?"
"No."
"Never?"
"Never. If a male is truly in pon farr at the time of the wedding, he is in no shape to challenge. But most couples marry very early in the process, when symptoms first appear, to avoid the male going too far into it and prevent any harm to the female. So this situation has not arisen in over a century. Most couples are already quite close by the time of the wedding…not always in how human couples might be, but it is not unusual."
"Your parents did a real disservice bonding you like that."
"It was my father's doing. He thought he was protecting me. He expected we would grow close. But when her family moved away, our contact was limited."
"What will happen when you tell her you simply refuse to marry?"
"That I do not know. It could become quite a scandal. It will no doubt be blamed on the half-breed's wild emotions."