For us to climb?
Is this the way to live
For you to be mine?
Is this the right river
For us to ford?
Is this the way to live
For me to be yours? Feist - Undiscovered First
As the doors to the galley bar opened for what seemed like the gazillionth time in the past twenty minutes, Erica Ortegas perked up, her mouth sliding into a wry grin.
"Hey, look what the sehlat dragged in."
Even if Christine hadn't known what a sehlat was, Erica's expression would have been all the context needed. She'd stopped her head mid-turn, wrestling down that powerful urge to confirm the draggee's identity and tipped her glass back instead. Gulped down all the wine. "Good luck him finding a place to sit."
"Well, I'm not giving up my seat to that asshole." Erica hadn't gotten up once since claiming the tiny two seat booth at the start of the evening.
"No one's asking you to," Christine said with an extravagant eyeroll. "And he's not an asshole."
The servo popped up with her fourth (fifth?) glass of red. She wasn't completely shit-faced yet. Just drunk enough to make poor decisions with knowledge aforethought and zero fucks to give. Spock icing her out for the past few weeks did not even make the top ten of fucks she could not give right now.
"I distinctly remember you calling him an asshole."
"No. I said he was behaving extra Vulcan-y. Like extremely, extra Vulcan-y for some, some… stupid reason I don't even wanna know anymore."
"You wanna know. Anyway, with Spock, extra-Vulcan-y and asshole are the same thi— oh, hey you!" Erica exclaimed to the Vulcan in question, her voice so brightly pitched and excruciatingly cheerful, Christine winced. Spock, now standing at their table, took a cautious step back.
"I was just telling this chica—" Erica aimed a thumb at her companion— "how I'm not surrendering my seat for any reason or anyone. Not even ones whose reasons are to beg forgiveness."
"She's pretty adamant," Christine said, all smile and no eye-contact. "She's had three pints and hasn't even got up to use the head."
"Going on four hours," Erica whispered out the side of her mouth. She seemed unfazed, possibly unaware, that her whisper was loud and delivered mostly in the vicinity of his crotch.
Spock opened his mouth to speak and after a moment's consideration closed it again. A bubble of stilted silence surrounded them for a few moments before Erica said, "eh, screw it," pushed clumsily past him and made a beeline to the alcove with the facilities.
Spock took the literal hot seat. Christine could feel his eyes on her, met his gaze. It was surprisingly easy.
"You want anything?" she asked.
"No."
She took a swallow of wine, suddenly conscious of how little was left in the glass and set it down carefully. Sighed. Perched her chin in hand and looked at him wearily. "I've got a lot of stuff on my mind. Not keen on handling the bulk of the conservation right now."
"Would you prefer I leave you alone?"
One shoulder lifted in a half-assed shrug. "Maybe. If your question means you'd rather leave me alone than start the conversation yourself."
He folded his hands together on the table and stared hard at them. "I have been intentionally avoiding you."
"Oh. Okay. Nice to have my suspicions confirmed, I guess. Was it something I did?"
"No."
"You know you can tell me anything," she said, and realized in that moment it wasn't strictly true. All sorts of ship's business was outside her purview as well as all those mysterious cultural prohibitions he was unlikely to share with non-Vulcans no matter how close they were. She'd started to suspect the closeness she felt was one-sided anyway.
"I must be honest with you."
"Aren't you always?"
"Honesty, even for Vulcans, is still a choice."
Sure. Right. A commitment to honesty was not the same as being incapable of dissembling. Her earnest assertions about liking Vulcans because they were honest had probably weighed on his conscience over time. "Tell me what you need to tell me. I can take it."
"I had a dream in which you played a part."
She laughed. That was it? That was the reason he couldn't look her in the eyes?
"A dream about me or a dream with me in it?"
He paused, as if only just realizing there was a difference. "The dream was…it was sexual in nature."
A prickling sensation at the base of her spinal column. She shifted her butt on the bench. "So… me in a featured role."
"Yes."
"Spock, everyone has dreams like that."
"Every human, perhaps."
"Right, sorry, that bordered on speciesism. For most of us humans, sex dreams are rarely about the actual sex. They're more about spiritual or psychological connections." She grinned, flirtation mode activated, sultry and teasing. "I mean, if you actually wanted to sleep with me, pretty sure you wouldn't need a dream to tell you."
He swallowed so loud the sound passed through her eardrums and smacked her right in the thalamus. Erotic stimuli lit up her spinal column and came shuddering out the top of her head. Soon enough her hypothalamus would also get involved – tingling nipples, liquid heat between her thighs. There'd be no going back then. Especially since all that wine was blunting the rational responses of her prefrontal cortex—
No. Christine. No. It would be wrong. Very very wrong.
Right?
His gaze shot up from under hooded lids and she drew in a sharp breath. "We are friends. Why shouldn't we pursue it if it is an acceptable practice?"
She didn't stutter, or blush. No faux pretense of misunderstanding. Didn't ask for clarification. She knew exactly what he was proposing in the form of a question. Any pause for scrutiny, any defining of terms, meant the possibility of it not happening. And she really wanted this to happen.
"My cabin," she said. "It's closer."
He slid out of the booth and stood waiting for her to do the same. Just like that. No questions. The faster they moved on this the less time to reconsider.
The journey was a blur. Though they seemed to move at a normal pace, her racing heart was well ahead. She remembered nodding at someone as they passed, a friendly smile, nothing amiss here, not in a hurry to fuck, and "yeah, let's meet up later" toodles. But she and Spock didn't speak. Not even when the door slipped shut behind them and they stood in the semi darkness, in that liminal space in time when it could go either way.
It felt like she'd barely blinked, and he'd already pulled both shirts over his head, hands now busy with the flies of his trousers. By the time he'd toed off his boots and stepped out his pants, she'd managed to get her top and bra off.
He'd been in uniform, she wasn't, so now it seemed okay, like they were two regular people who met in a bar, about to have sex. But she'd never had professional cause to see him naked. She wanted to look at him, really look at how he was made, how he was different, how this was going to work. He didn't give her a chance and stepped in close, his hands at her waist, pushing at the fabric of her skirt. She got the hint, wriggled it and her underwear down, managed to free her feet of shoes, then stood in the puddle of garments. His hand slid up to cup a breast, a gentle squeeze, then harder, thumb rubbing her nipple until it was aching for his mouth. He obliged. By the time his lips pulled away with a pop, the fingers of his other hand were slick between her labia. Like he was reading her mind…
Wait. Was he?
At the sudden tension in her body, his mouth, tongue, teeth, fingers, all stopped. She didn't want that at all. Didn't care if he was reading her mind or not. Let him try to make sense of it. She clearly didn't want to think.
It was obvious from the heat and throb of the erection branding her belly, neither did he.