"Merely rest. Sleep," he assured the doctor, whose hovering concern set his teeth on edge. A legitimate excuse, his emotions in flux, hiding in his quarters so that his close friends would not know how far from recovered he was.

He had "killed" his rival but had not claimed his due.

He did not want T'Pring but still… wanted.

He slept. Hard. Dreamless. Yet agitation returned as soon as he'd risen.

He meditated, a measure of peace in the quiet ordering of thoughts. But he'd scarcely achieved first level when images began to puncture the film of his serenity – whorls of blood-green and slick squelching sounds, wet sucking chasms, the bang of his pelvis against another's flesh, teeth sunk in, twists of hair wrapped around his fist—

As soon as soon Christine answered his hail, as soon as he'd seen her face on the screen, so open with concern, the words came rushing out in a crude farrago of confession. Everything that had happened down there, everything he'd done. His captain's body hanging lifeless in his hands. The elegant, flawless logic of T'Pring's plan. How thoroughly she'd excised him from her heart and mind. No speck of their former regard, not even a scintilla of hatred to prove he'd mattered to her once.

When he's finished, Christine's expression is as smooth and devoid of emotion as any Vulcan adept – so like T'Pring's in that moment, it sucks the breath from his lungs.

"I'm afraid I haven't had time to remake that soup," she says to the need for comfort she assumes is his reason for vomiting all these terrible truths.

A mental image assaults him. Hot liquid spattered on a wall, her shock at his violence.

He forces himself to meet her eyes. "I should have told you. I should have been more forthcoming, but I was—"

"Ashamed? Humiliated? Afraid? Stop me if I hit on a feeling."

All. Yes.

"Compromised." And more. "I was concerned that you would… volunteer."

A tiny gasp, her eyes go wide a moment before she looks away.

But his statement lacks veracity, doesn't it? He remembers very little of their second conversation in his quarters. He made her cry, he thinks. Asked for more soup so that she would come back.

If she'd come back, he would have done something terrible.

Her voice, falsely bright, stops his mind from lingering on those terrible things. "I was surprised the captain didn't know about T'Pring. I thought you and he were close."

"We've not shared much of our personal histories." Never intentionally at any rate.

Her lips tick up slyly. "Well, kills that rumor I suppose."

"Rumor?"

"That you two are lovers." Oddly, the statement causes color to rise in her cheeks. He struggles to theorize from her conjecture. She clarifies, "A lover would likely know you were married. Engaged to be married. Or at least suspect."

Though Jim Kirk is his closest friend, their own pasts are not places they visit together. Theirs is a friendship forged in fire, in the wonder and trials of exploration and discovery. When they are not discussing ship's business, their dialogs are usually philosophical in nature. The captain only discloses personal information when outside circumstances make it necessary. As does he. And yet his feelings for the man run deeper than for anyone he's ever known.

A man he was certain he'd murdered yesterday.

"By your definition, you and I were lovers," he says.

"We were friends. Who had sex. Once." The words are inexplicably gentle, as if correcting a child. "I got more out of it than you did if I recall."

Not true. Even now, he can recall how she tasted, shuddering and writhing beneath his tongue, how, when finally seated within her, the striated muscles of her vagina pulled him in deeper, threatened to overwhelm him before they'd even begun.

Lingering symptoms from his recent ordeal ignite even more sensory memories - until he remembers how those events, that evening, led him to this very point in time. To an excruciating ending with T'Pring he'd let drag on for years.

"I would like to offer a formal apology to you. In the tradition of my people." He pauses, adds, "In person." He needs to see her. Smell her. Brush his thumb over that exposed clavicle—

"I appreciate the offer, but it's not necessary." Her chin goes up, but she doesn't meet his eyes. "And I – I'd rather not be seen with you in public. At least not for a while. There's a lot of… speculation going on right now. Gossip."

"I was not suggesting a public meeting."

A weary smile. "No. Of course, you weren't." She takes a breath, sighs it out. "I'm very glad you're feeling better, Mr. Spock. If you have more you need to say that can't be said over the com system, you know where to find me. Otherwise, I'll consider the matter resolved." She cuts the connection before he can argue.

It is not resolved. Not for him.

At 23:01 he's at her door.

Her surprised cry at seeing him is uncomfortably stimulating.

"Oh my god!" Her hand pressed to her chest. He can hear how fast her heart is beating. "Oh my god. What the hell? What are you-?"

"I knew where to find you."

"I didn't mean right this minute!"

He maintains a mask of ingenuous denial. She gives him the once over, taking in his mode of dress, his unkempt demeanor, the thrumming agitation radiating off him. A look passes over her features – anger and resignation in equal measure – then it's gone, and she leans around him to peer into the corridor.

It's empty.

"Come in, before somebody sees you."