In the morning, Christine Chapel was still asleep. Spock got up to wash, and then he, Jim, and Pavel went down for breakfast. Leonard insisted to stay with Christine, who still had a light fever.

As they were sitting at the breakfast table, spooning their porridge, Marie-Claire Delacroix approached them. They had almost forgotten this dilemma over the eventful night they had had.

She bent down to greet Spock with a quick kiss. "Good morning, darling." She went to go, then seemed to notice something was awry. "Is everything all right, Jack?"

Spock cleared his throat. He and his shipmates might still wear the shock of the night on their faces, but he sensed an opportunity. "Miss Delacroix…Marie-Claire, I believe there has been a misunderstanding." He looked around at Jim and Pavel, then up at Marie-Claire, who crossed her arms and frowned down at him. "I believe we were having entirely different expectations yesterday," he continued. "While you were vying for a romantic relationship, my goal was to collect information about the village and its people. I regret to say, I did not realise the misunderstanding that was taking place or that there even was the possibility of you being romantically interested in me."

"How did you not realise?" she burst out, angrily tapping her foot on the floor.

At the tables around them, people turned their heads, intrigued about who or what was upsetting the innkeeper's daughter this much. Thomas Cooper did not even try to hide his interest, while William Ryder next to him had the good graces to pretend to be absorbed in a book. But even people that did not know Spock looked on now.

"In hindsight, I fail to see why I did not," he said awkwardly. "You were most eager."

"You better believe I was!" Marie-Claire blushed angrily. "You were kind, attractive, and intelligent. Had I known you were blind to romance atop that, I would never have made the effort!"

"Please," Jim intervened, "you must forgive him. He didn't know what he was doing." As the soldiers around them stopped staring and resumed eating, the people at his table looked at him expectantly.

"Yes?" Marie-Claire asked. "How could he not have known?" She was pouting, and her lower lip was quivering.

"You see," Jim began slowly, "he yearns for connection because he didn't have it as a child." Pavel nodded eagerly as if to give his words further emphasis. Spock had not caught on yet and was raising his eyebrow. "He missed school for years because he was very sick," Jim continued. "And so, he never got used to socialising. No one taught him. As you've noticed, he's especially inexperienced in romantic matters." Next to him, Spock began to look slightly scandalised, but Jim glared at him, indicating that he should catch on and play along. "And then there was the shelling he must have told you about, the one that disfigured his ears. Some shrapnel may still be stuck in his brain."

Marie-Claire's expression had changed from irate to a look of confused pity. She looked at Spock, arching her eyebrows in question.

He shrugged and, in an attempt to look apologetic, smiled at her. It looked so forced that this, no doubt, made Jim's excuse more believable than any details he could have added.

She stared back at him, nodded briefly and walked away without another word.

"Well, Spock, I'd say that was a success," Jim said and turned back to his porridge.

"Are you employing sarcasm?"

"No, I honestly meant it was a success." Jim smirked at Spock's puzzled expression. "You made clear there was a misunderstanding and that you're not interested after all."

"It does not feel very much like a success," Spock answered with a tilt of his head.

"No, I don't suppose it does." Jim shrugged. "It would reflect badly on you if it did." He emptied his bowl and sighed. "Now, with that taken care of, do you think I can leave without you breaking hearts left and right?" He pointed to the stairs. He had promised Bones he'd relieve him so that he could have breakfast, too.

"Most certainly," Spock said, raising his eyebrow at Jim's taunting tone.

After Jim had left, Marie-Claire Delacroix came back to the table, carrying a piece of apple pie. Pavel and Spock must have looked surprised, for she shrugged and said, "I know, it's not the most sensible thing to do during rationing, but I was in the mood for pie this morning." She slid the plate over to them. "Still, you will have to share this. And don't tell all the others."

Spock took one of the forks and gingerly placed a tiny piece of pie on the tip, thinking it would be unwise to refuse, while Pavel did not hesitate to take a bigger bite.

"This is very good," Spock said, after chewing the little piece carefully, Pavel agreeing with emphatic nods.

"I am glad you like it," Marie-Claire said and slid into the bench opposite him. "I used to make it for my husband, too." She shook her head and looked down at the table. "Strange, I think I hadn't made it ever since he died."

"I did not know you had been married," Spock said.

Marie-Claire scoffed. "No. You never asked."

"You are angry." He tilted his head. "Yet you bring me pie."

"I am not angry that you do not love me." Marie-Claire sighed and reached out across the table to take his hand in hers while at the head of the table, Pavel continued to eat the pie as he looked back and forth between them. "I am hurt that the question of feelings never even occurred to you."

Spock looked from her hand to her face. "Marie-Claire. I am sorry."

"I forgive you." She shrugged and smiled. Not yet enough to bring out her dimples, but it was a smile. "You did not mean to hurt me. And it does not change that I had a nice day." She sighed and withdrew her hand, leaning back on the bench. "It is a pity, though. I was planning to try out our new gramophone today." She pointed to a contraption on the counter. "I was looking forward to dancing. It does not work very well without a partner."

"I am sure you will find someone who is all too willing to replace me," Spock said.

She smirked. "You bet I will." She turned her head and looked at Chekov. "Your name is Paul, right? Paul Chapel?"
Pavel nodded. "Yes, but I am not sure if this is not awkward." He threw Spock a questioning look.

"It is not," Spock said quickly. "Please go."

Despite his initial reaction, Pavel followed Marie-Claire without hesitation. They turned some heads, notably of those people who had been all too interested some minutes earlier when Spock had spurned her.

There was a piano in the public room, but the two turned their attention to the gramophone. It seemed to be in working condition, and a short while later, music filled the room, and Pavel took Marie-Claire's hands.

McCoy came down to the two of them dancing and Spock sitting alone with the remnants of his breakfast and a half-eaten piece of pie.

"Trouble in paradise?" the doctor asked as he sat next to him and nodded over to the dancing couple.

"Not quite. I think we are beyond that."

"Ah. Paradise Lost, then." McCoy smirked as he watched Spock closely. "Am I correct in assuming you burst her bubble?"

Spock turned his attention away from the dancing couple and, while McCoy was eating, filled him in on what had happened before. Then, as McCoy seemed to have no immediate reaction for once, he looked back toward Chekov and Marie-Claire. "I am concerned about history."

"Because you didn't get the girl?"

Spock raised an eyebrow. "No but because Mr Chekov is teaching her to dance the Charleston seven years before it was invented."

"Well, be that as it may, it seems better this way." Doctor McCoy shrugged. "Don't know what she saw in you in the first place."

"Many things," Spock said softly. "Many things I cannot give her."

"Now don't wallow in self-pity," McCoy grumbled with a sympathetic smile. "It happens to the best of us, getting intentions mixed up." His smile grew wider, and he added, "Well, not like this. You really made a mess of it."

Spock nodded curtly. "I am aware."

Leonard's smile faded again. "I'm sorry. It's easier making fun of you than thinking about last night and about how helpless I felt."

"You are a complicated man."

McCoy grinned. "You bet I am."

Their banter was interrupted by Lieutenant Thompson stepping to their table, followed by Merriweather, of course.

He pointed towards Chekov, still dancing with Marie-Claire. "Now, Grayson, don't tell me Chapel managed to snatch her away from under your nose. And that after you spent the whole day with her yesterday." He furrowed his brow. "Whatever did you do, Grayson, that she isn't interested anymore?"

"I was not interested in her," Spock clarified. "Not in a romantic sense."

"And it took you all of yesterday to realise?"

Spock pursed his lips. "I did not know that she was interested. I appear to have been misguided in my assumptions."

"You sure were." Thompson shook his head with a puzzled frown. "Her mother told me the two of you cleaned the entire room, went on walks the whole day, and barely stopped talking to each other. How could you think she was not interested in you?" He fixed him with an intent look, and next to him, even the usually passive Clark Merriweather gave him a questioning look.

"I did not realise there even was a basis for romantic interest." Spock sighed deeply. "It simply did not occur to me."

"Yes, I can see that. Well, I hope you let her down gently."

"Corporal Kirk explained to her the…difficulties I have."

Thompson actually rolled his eyes. "Good Lord." He looked around the room, his eyes fell on Chekov and Marie-Claire, and he seemed to come to the same conclusion as McCoy had done earlier, namely that it was better this way. Then, he seemed to be looking for someone, his eyes passed over the groups of soldiers eating, drinking, and frolicking, and then he looked back at McCoy and Spock. "Where is the other Chapel? I haven't seen him since yesterday. Is he ill?"

Spock nodded. "Yes, he has a fever," he said calmly.

"A fever?" Thompson's eyes widened. "Do we need to send for a doctor?"

"No, no, no doctor!" Leonard said quickly. "Chris is on the mend again by now. The worst of it was this night. There's nothing a doctor could do that I couldn't."

Thompson nodded. "Very good. But tell me when something like that happens again. I like to know if one of my men is sick. I had no idea." He turned to Merriweather. "Did you?"

The Sergeant nodded, unfazed by Thompson's agitation. "I noticed, yes."

"How? When? Why is no one telling me anything?"

Merriweather shrugged. "I heard them talking last night when I lay awake, and I heard the coughing."

Thompson sighed exasperatedly. "And why were you awake?"

Merriweather shrugged again and did not answer.

"We'll talk about this later," Thompson grumbled. "Now boys, finish your breakfast, and see to it that Chapel gets back on his feet. I can't lose my servant."

Upstairs, Jim was doing his best to get Chris Chapel back on her feet. She had been awake when he had relieved McCoy, the first time since early this morning. And though she still had a temperature and was coughing intermittently, in comparison to last night, she was doing extremely well.

"Why didn't you tell us when your symptoms started?" Jim asked after a small coughing fit. "We could have done something."

Leaning against the headboard, propped up by pillows, Chris shook her head. "No, not really. That's just the thing. This time has so little in terms of medicine." She sighed and averted her eyes. "I knew I was sick, but I didn't want it to be true. I was scared. I still am scared." She looked back up at Jim. "I know it's stupid. And I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said and took her hand in his to reassure her. "Being in denial is only human. I understand." He smirked. "And doctors are the worst patients anyway."

Christine smiled and squeezed his hand in a quiet gesture of thanks. "Talking about worst patients," she said after some moments, "where's Spock?"

"He's downstairs. Why?"

"Just wondering." She shrugged, but her expression made him think she was more than just wondering. And what she said next confirmed it. "I haven't seen him since he got snogged by Marie-Claire."

"But you have," Jim said, his tone worried. "He was here, sitting up with you all night, holding you in his arms. Don't you remember?"

She frowned, seemed to think about it and then smiled back at him. "You know, now that you mention it, I do. I thought it had been some sort of fever dream."

Among all the painful and frightful aspects of her night, she remembered the comfort of being held by someone, being held by Spock, his strong arms wrapped around her ever so gently. And she remembered the mind meld, his almost desperate effort to help her. She had not been able to reach out to him then, but she still remembered his determination to ease her suffering. All of these images held great comfort for her, and she was sure they had been a large part of getting her through the night. Even better if it had been real.

"It wasn't a dream," Jim said, his fingers brushing over her knuckles. "You know, I think he blamed himself for realising so late how sick you were and spending his time with Marie-Claire instead."

"He did, huh? I'll be damned." Christine smiled again, then changed the topic. "Anything new on that front?"

"Well, he told her it wouldn't work. Sort of." He grinned. "Let's wait until the others are back, maybe he'll tell you himself."

When McCoy and Spock came back upstairs, they brought a bowl of porridge with them, which Christine accepted eagerly, only now realising how hungry she was. Leonard noticed and seeing as she hadn't eaten for a day, admonished her to eat slowly.

"Where's Pavel?" she asked after carefully swallowing a tiny spoonful. "Or, I should say, where's my brother?"

"He is busy," Spock said, sitting down on the chair. "With Marie-Claire."
"Oh?"

Spock met her curious gaze, then sighed and, with more or less helpful interjections by Jim and Leonard, told her what had happened downstairs, while she continued to eat slowly.

"So, you dumped her?" she asked when they had finished.

"I would not call it that," Spock protested.

"He did," Jim said.

"Well," Leonard said slowly, suddenly feeling less inclined to tease Spock after what he had said in the public room, "she didn't seem too sad about it, seeing how fast she turned her attention to Chekov."

"Maybe she just likes a guy in uniform," Christine said and smirked. "I can't blame her."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Ah, is that why you joined Starfleet?"

"No, that's why I stayed in it," she returned and winked over at him. She chuckled at his expression and added, "It's always the feisty blondes that give you trouble, huh?"

He did not seem to know what to answer, but his eyebrow rose even higher, and he looked faintly scandalised.

"It's called self-deprecating humour," she said and smiled. "I was a feisty blonde once."

"Little has changed, apart from the colour of your hair," he answered dryly.

"Hey! Are you calling me a troublemaker?"

"Not at all." Spock's tone remained dry. "Though during the last twenty-four hours, you have been giving us the most trouble."

"Don't blame me," she huffed. "I didn't choose to be sick. I have no idea how that happened."

Spock opened his mouth, but Jim, who had watched silently along with McCoy until now motioned for him to be quiet. They did not need to hear a monologue about hygiene in the trenches, nor the fact that she could have rested sooner. She knew all of that already. And she was just recovering and didn't need to be scolded for not taking care of herself.

Thankfully, this day passed with almost shocking normality, compared to the night they had had. Christine stayed in bed, per Leonard's express order but continued to improve. Pavel came up after breakfast time to say Marie-Claire had asked him to take a ride with her. He seemed hesitant to go and asked them if it was all right if he did.

"You go have fun," Jim said, with a wink, and Pavel vanished as quickly as he had come.

"You can go, too," Christine murmured, "I'll be fine."

"I'm not leaving you," Leonard grumbled in response.

In the end, Leonard did stay, but Jim and Spock went out, as Jim had prompted Spock to show him the village, as he had seen plenty of it with Marie-Claire yesterday.

First, they wandered aimlessly, chatting about their ongoing predicament. But they had not made any real progress so far, which was frankly unnerving. To find out how they could get back to the ship, it would do well to know how they had gotten here, and if this was some elaborate illusion or the past. For those major problems, they could not find a solution now. What they did find a solution for was probably the smallest problem they had: a broken thread in Spock's uniform. And, after a visit to the tailor, that was quickly repaired, and they returned to wandering about.

When they returned to the inn in the early afternoon, someone had set tables outside, and some of their fellow soldiers were sitting around, playing cards, drinking or, in the case of Lance Corporal Franklin Jones, reading.

He closed his book when they sat next to him. "Corporal. Jack."

"Oh, don't let yourself be interrupted by us," Jim said quickly, then pointed to the book. "Is that the newest one?"

"This came out last year, yes," Franklin said, holding up Arthur Conan Doyle's The Valley of Fear."

Jim shot Spock a questioning look, and he nodded briefly, indicating that the dates matched. "Have you read all the stories?" Jim asked Franklin.

"Sure, all forty-seven of them," he said. "Including this one."

"Forty-seven?" Jim asked, beginning to frown. Other than Spock, he was no expert on Holmes, but this seemed to be smaller than the number he vaguely remembered.

Another look passed from Spock to Jim, this time a look of warning. Even mentioning future works of a contemporary author could lead to an awkward situation, at best.

"It's a lot, I know," Franklin continued, unfazed. "Still, I wish there were more."
"I'm sure there will be," Jim said, ignoring Spock's look.

Soon, Franklin turned his attention back to the book, sliding it sideways so that Spock could read as well if he wanted. After a while of watching this with some amusement, Jim excused himself to go upstairs, leaving the two of them to their newfound leisure activity of silent companionship.

When they had dinner some hours later, they did so without Christine, but Pavel stayed with her, and when the others returned, he left to have dinner and take a walk with Marie-Claire. The others had brought up some food for Chris again, and she ate it slowly, in small bites. Leonard had asked her if she needed help, as she was still rather weak, but she declined, mortified at the mere thought. She was not too weak to hold a fork, after all.

Just when she had finished, a knock came at the door. It was Henry Forester, who had come to ask if they wanted to go out with him.

Just where exactly he wanted to go, they only realised after Jim and Leonard had already said yes and Spock had asked what Henry had in mind. This question was answered with a dumbfounded look, as Henry seemed to think it was obvious where he wanted to go at this late time of day, and he whispered, "Well, the brothel, of course."

Jim and Leonard exchanged a surprised glance, and then shrugged, deciding to just go with it as long as someone—meaning Spock—stayed behind to take care of Chris. And Spock firmly assured them that this plan was preferable to any plan that entailed him coming along to such an establishment. And so, Jim and Leonard left.

"You can go with them if you want," Christine said when they had closed the door behind them, just to be sure. "I'll be fine."

"I do not want to go with them."

Christine smirked. "Whyever not?"

Spock raised an eyebrow. "I do not wish to go to a brothel."

"I never would have thought," she murmured, still smirking. "You could try. Maybe you'd like it."

"Are you 'pulling my leg'?" Spock asked, tilting his head.

"Whatever gave it away?" she returned, then sobered up somewhat and added, "If you want to go somewhere else, too, you can go. I don't need to be taken care of."

"I will stay," Spock said and leant deeper into the chair as if to give his words emphasis. "I was explicitly tasked by Doctor McCoy to take care of you."

"Don't say you're worried about me."

"I am not." Spock was looking down at his hands, but then raised his eyes to meet her gaze and said softly, "I was, however. We all were."

Christine averted her eyes. "Yes, of course," she mumbled. She was much too touched to reply with something snarky. "I almost died, didn't I?"

"Yes." Spock nodded, then raised his eyebrow again. "You do not remember?"

"No, I do." She sighed as she recollected the events of last night. "I remember not being able to breathe and being terribly afraid. And I remember…" She dwindled off as she remembered being held by him.

"What?" Spock asked, his eyebrow still raised.

Christine looked him in the eyes and smiled. "You know what," she said gently. "Thank you."

He nodded almost imperceptibly. And she could see in his eyes that he would not talk about it but that he acknowledged his actions last night and what they meant to her.

They fell silent, and Christine couldn't quite make up her mind if the silence was awkward or companionate.

For lack of something better to do, but mostly to feel more human again after that night of sweatiness, she decided to take a bath. She soon realised that doing much more was still too much in her weakened state, and she was exhausted from the mere effort of getting up, walking to the bathroom, getting in and out of the tub, drying off, and getting dressed. She had vehemently refused Spock's help and insisted on doing it all alone. Only once did she almost regret it, as she slipped in the tub while climbing out of it and almost fell. She quickly caught herself, steadying herself with shaky legs and breathing a sigh of relief. She wouldn't have been the first person to get seriously injured slipping on wet tiles. The mental image of having to call Spock to help her off the ground, naked and dripping wet with water, was funny, though. In the end, she managed to get back to the room uninjured and get dressed in trousers and a shirt. Spock had to help her with the suspenders, but other than that, she felt fairly content to have managed to take care of herself so far.

She had just lain down on her bed with a blissful sigh, when raised voices from the next room disturbed the peaceful atmosphere. She could make out Lieutenant Thompson and Sergeant Merriweather's voices but did not hear what they were arguing about.

Her curiosity piqued, she turned to Spock, who was still sitting on the only chair. "Can you hear what they're saying?" she whispered as if the two officers could hear her over their fighting.

"Are you asking me to eavesdrop for you?"

Chris smiled sweetly up at him. "Oh, please. At that volume they're talking, it's barely eavesdropping. And your hearing is better."

"I would not bet on it, nowadays," Spock protested and pursed his lips. "Not with a ruptured eardrum."

"Well, what about the other ear?"

"My left ear seems to be mostly all right, though its function might have dropped to a human standard of hearing."

"Well," Christine murmured, acknowledging that although he did not seem too worried, his hearing injury continued to bother him, "maybe we can do something about that if we get back home."

Before Spock could say anything, for example that it was less a question of 'if' but 'when', the voices from next door rose to a volume at which they could not miss what was being said even if they had tried.

"I'm sick and tired of it all!" Merriweather shouted. "I'm not going back!"

"Do you know what you're saying, Clark?" Thompson returned at the same volume. "You've lost your goddamn mind!"

"Well so be it! If this is losing my mind, I'd rather be a madman than a dead man!"

"There's not much difference nowadays, with the way you're carrying yourself!" There was a thump as if someone had hit a flat wooden surface with his fist.

For a moment, there was only silence, then, the bang of a door being slammed shut, followed by the sound of fast, angry footsteps down the stairs, fading away. Whoever had remained in the room next door, presumably Thompson, was quiet at first, then seemed to follow the first person out, as the sounds of the door closing, and the footsteps on the stairs repeated, somewhat quieter this time.

Spock and Christine exchanged a look.

"That sounded serious," she said. "Do you think they're all right?"

"Not at all," Spock said calmly. "Are you?" he asked as he noticed she had begun to shuffle around on the bed.

"Oh, yes, I'm just trying to get comfortable. I thought about taking a nap."

Spock nodded. "A logical course of action." He took his blanket from the back of the chair, put it around his shoulders, and closed his eyes to meditate in the meantime.

When she had found a more or less comfortable position, Christine closed her eyes as well. Without a distraction, it was much easier to notice the persistent ache in her chest, and it was harder to breathe in this position.

In spite of this, she did doze off eventually, only to wake up again after perhaps half an hour. For a moment, she panicked, as she felt she couldn't breathe. But she coughed, and the sensation got slightly less disturbing, as the phlegm that had collected dislodged.

She swung her legs out of bed, deciding against lying down for now. Spock was still sitting on the chair, meditating, and she slowly stood up and started pacing the room. It was a slow affair though and could barely be called pacing. She held onto the frame of the beds and to the table when she reached them, still feeling somewhat faint. She took a couple of deep breaths and rubbed her aching chest as she walked her pathetic rounds.

"Are you sure you should not stay in bed?"

She hadn't noticed him opening her eyes and flinched inadvertently. "I'm sure," she said, holding onto the foot-end of her bed and turning around to walk towards the table. "Exercise loosens the phlegm. And I feel like I can't breathe when I lie down, so if you want me to suffocate, fine, order me to bed."

"I do not," Spock said innocently.

"Why thank you," she murmured and turned away from the table towards Pavel's bed. She continued to rub her chest as if she could massage the ache away. She groaned out of frustration. Almost dying had been bad enough; now that she would live, it might as well become less annoying.

"Are you all right?" Spock, who had not taken his eyes off her, asked.

"Oh, yes, just uncomfortable." She paced some more and an itch from the bandages joined the ache. "Right, that's it," she grumbled. She opened the first few buttons of her shirt, reached under it and the undershirt and pulled the bandages off, tossing them on her bed. As she resumed pacing, she reached under her clothes again to rub her chest, trying to at least alleviate the itch.

Spock continued to watch, mildly curious, then realised what he was watching her do. Their gazes met, and he looked away. She noticed at the same time, slightly flustered herself.

With a sigh, she sank down on the bed opposite Spock in his chair. He raised an eyebrow at her and tilted his head in the way he had been doing it since he had gotten injured. It was slightly adorable if she was being honest.

"I'm bored, Spock," she said.

Spock pursed his lips. "Hm."

"So, what are we going to do about that?"

"We?" Spock raised an eyebrow. "I am not responsible for your entertainment."

"Aren't you? As executive officer, you're tasked with maintaining crew efficiency. My efficiency is suffering when I am bored." She pouted, more out of habit than to achieve anything.

"Days ago, you were fighting for your life. Then, you were very ill." He raised his eyebrow even higher, in a gesture of mock disapproval. "And now you are bored."

Christine shrugged. "Welcome to the human condition." She sighed and averted her eyes, suddenly not feeling up to banter with him.

"There is something else," Spock said quietly. He had leaned forward on his chair, his head tilted, and his eyes narrowed.

Christine slowly met his gaze. "I want to go home, Spock," she mumbled and gestured around the room. "This is all unfamiliar, all unknown."

Spock blinked once as he looked back at her, then stood up suddenly. "Perhaps you are looking in the wrong place, then," he said.

She stared up at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Get dressed," he said. "We are going outside."

Though she did not quite understand what he was getting at yet, she thought that getting a bit of fresh air might not be the worst thing to do. She reached for her bandages, looked at Spock, who only shrugged, then discarded them again. With his help, she put on her tunic, coat, and shoes and followed him outside.

For a while, they walked in silence through the twilight. She was leaning onto him for support, her arm in his, and they were walking slowly to not overexert her. She still did not know what he had meant but decided to just follow his lead and see where this was going, both literally and figuratively. They did not meet anyone on the streets, which was somewhat surprising, as the day had been comparatively warm, probably one of the first warm days of the year. She didn't mind it, though, of course. Not meeting anyone meant no awkward questions, no stares, and no having to play pretend.

Spock led her to the village square, and they sat down on the edge of the fountain in the middle. He pointed up, to the sky.

"Perhaps you can see a glimpse of home in what was for these people still the great unknown," he said.

She looked up as well and gasped softly. "You're right, there it is," she mumbled, smiling up at the stars that despite how wrong everything else seemed, looked just like they always did on her Earth, the Earth of the future. She tore her eyes away and directed her smile at Spock. "You know, in my fever dreams, I was back on the Enterprise, in sickbay. And then I woke up, and everything seemed wrong. It still does. Down here, everything is wrong, but up there, the stars look just like they should." Her smile faded, as the inevitable question crept up on her. "Are we doing nothing to get back?"

"We are doing everything we can," Spock said, looking intently at her. "Which is admittedly little. But it is not nothing. While we do our best to fit in and not raise suspicion, we are never losing sight of our goal to return. Do you understand?"

Christine nodded quickly. "I do, thank you. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound so reproachful."

Spock almost smirked. "You did not. The future is uncertain, and doubt is only human."

"What about you?" Chris prodded on. "Do you think we'll ever get home?"

"Yes," Spock said simply, with a small quirk of his brow. "I do not know how and when we can return to our rightful place. But I must believe that we will return." He looked almost apologetic as he continued. "Until then, perhaps you will find that this is not as alien—as unfamiliar—as expected. If home is a feeling, not a place, you can always find it, if you only know where to look."

Looking back at him and suddenly finding that this place was not all that bad if Spock and she could sit together under the starry sky and talk about their feelings, she smiled widely, positively beaming. He must have wondered what she was thinking, but she decided to not share that particular thought and turned her attention back to the stars.

"How long until the war ends?" she asked after a while, so low it was almost a whisper.

"Two years," Spock answered calmly.

"They have no idea how many more will die," she mumbled, still looking at the sky, though her mind was back on the battlefield and the hardships that this generation would still have to face. "And that after the war, not everything will be good. The 1918 influenza epidemic, the Russian Revolution, the Wall Street Crash, and the rise of fascism." She shook her head. "They don't know what's coming for them."

"And they never should," Spock replied, with something akin to regret shining through his voice. "Not knowing the future is to their advantage. The uncertainty of these days might be distressing, but it also leaves room for hope."

Christine nodded and turned her gaze away from the stars again and back at Spock. She smiled sadly. "And if we cannot find home anywhere else, we can find it in the hope we share."

"Very poetic. Who said that?"

"I did."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Yes, but who is it from?"

"Why, me," she said, sending him a look of mock reproach. "You didn't think I had it in me." She smirked and winked at him as she added in a sulky tone, "I thought you'd know not to underestimate me."

"Indeed." Spock pursed his lips and looked away, letting his eyes wander over the deserted square and what he could see of the streets and alleys leading away.

Christine closed her eyes and tilted her head back, leaning onto her hands. She almost leant back too far before remembering there was a pond of water behind her. She took some deep breaths, taking in the fresh evening air and the wonderful quiet at this time and place. Far away, a door slammed, and there was the occasional voice breaking through the evening, but otherwise, it was blissfully quiet. No explosions, no screams of pain, no tearful praying in the night. And it definitely smelled better. Here, she dared to breathe freely again, as the evening air seemed untainted by the smell of gunpowder or certain unmentionable causes of the trench stench. Instead, it smelled of grass, some nearby flowering bush, and a hint of evening meals prepared on a stove somewhere.

"May I ask you a question?" Spock asked after a few moments.

Christine opened her eyes to find him looking at her. "Sure. What is it?"

He pursed his lips and averted his eyes for a second, then looked back at her with a strangely piercing look. "Your flirting," he said slowly. "Like you did just now." He tilted his head inquisitively. "Are you pursuing a goal with that?"

Christine stared back at him for a moment, then blinked a couple of times and quickly shook her head. "I…I don't think so. Geez, Spock. Asking me the hard questions." She shrugged and continued more calmly, "I guess it's just easy because it's something I know how to do." She allowed herself to smirk up at him, her eyes shining with recollections of long-gone days. "It's something familiar in this strange old world. I don't expect you to understand."

Surprisingly, Spock did not break their gaze, and even more surprisingly, he nodded. "I do understand it," he said gently. "There is little I find familiar around here. Falling back on accustomed patterns as a form of comfort is perhaps even logical."

She didn't find it in her to answer and only smiled back as she gave him a small nod. When he looked away again, she let her eyes wander over the empty square, the cobblestones, the starry sky, and the little houses lining the square. No one spoke, content as they were to simply sit with each other. It could have been hours or minutes; Christine wouldn't have been able to say. Spock would have, to the second, but he was silent every one of them.

Christine was still wondering if Spock had just said flirting was logical when a chilly evening breeze ruffled her hair and shook her out of her reverie. She shuddered and turned to Spock. If she was cold, he probably was as well, even if he did not seem like it.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes, just cold." She got up and stretched her hand out to him. "Come on, let's walk."

He took her hand as he stood up and placed it on his arm again so that she could lean onto him.

As they walked the deserted streets, the sounds of music reached their ears, coming from one of the bigger houses they passed, with light streaming from the windows.

"I wish I could go dance," Chris murmured absentmindedly, remembering how Spock had mentioned that Pavel and Marie-Claire had danced to the gramophone in the public room of the inn. For a moment, she entertained the idea of pulling him into one of the narrow alleyways and dancing with him to the music coming from the nearby dwelling, confined to the secrecy of this time that would react badly to two people appearing to be men dancing together on the open street.

"You are free to do so if you feel better," he said.

Her arm still in his, she shook her head. They walked on and the music faded away in the distance. "No, I wish I could go dance as myself," she said. "Wearing a dress, if I wanted to, and meet people under my real name, Christine. This is not me." She looked up at him and gestured at their surroundings and at herself. "This is all wrong. I'm not a man, Spock."

His eyebrow shot up. "I am aware."

"Are you?" She shrugged and subconsciously held his arm a little tighter, leaning onto him even more than before, either because this walk was tiring to her weakened constitution or because the air grew steadily colder as evening became night. Or maybe it was a different kind of chill that made her press closer to him as night fell over war-torn Europe. "It feels like no one truly knows who I am anymore," she continued, "including myself."

"I do," Spock said, gently guiding her around a corner, down a narrow, cobbled passageway. "The people to whom your true identity is important to are aware, at all times." He glanced down at her, both sympathetic and cautionary. "The other people here, they must not know. We cannot be sure of the consequences."

"Yes, I know," she mumbled dejectedly. "It just feels so lonely, hiding like this."

"I understand." Surprised, she looked up at him, and he raised an eyebrow. "Maybe not the exact details of your situation, but in general, I know how it feels. I am hiding, too, after all."

"Thanks," she muttered and squeezed his arm. While she knew Spock could do nothing to help, it was a reassurance that he empathised.

"Have you talked to someone else about these feelings?" Spock asked after a pause. "Doctor McCoy, perhaps?"

"No, I haven't." She bit her lip and took a deep breath, willing the burst of anxiety to vanish and blinked away some unshed tears. Perhaps it was the hardship of the last few days, the precariousness of the entire situation or how earnestly concerned Spock appeared that had moved her so. But, as silly as she knew it was, she did not want to cry in front of him, not now, when she did not want to spoil their walk or make him uncomfortable with an emotional outburst. Even though she knew he would not think anything of that sort. And for some reason, that made it worse. She realised he was looking at her, waiting for her to continue. She swallowed deeply, and said, "I guess, until now, I didn't know I had them. As you said, until days ago I was fighting for my life. And now, I have nothing to do and too much time to think."

"Indeed," Spock said calmly, piercing her with an intent gaze. But if he had noticed her tears, he made no motion to indicate he had. "If it is any comfort, you are not the only one finding yourself in that predicament."

"But everyone seems so busy," she protested.

Spock nodded. "That is because they keep themselves busy." He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Why else are Jim and Doctor McCoy visiting a brothel, why does Mr Chekov spend so much time with Marie-Claire, and why is there so much dancing and music despite the war?"

Chris shrugged. "Because it's fun?"

"Fun." Spock nodded and pursed his lips. "What is fun but a distraction?"

Only later that night, when she had gone to bed, would she realise that he had implied that he had much the same predicament. She would sit up in bed, having half a mind to ask him about it, only to realise he and probably everyone else in the room next door was already asleep and it would be ridiculous to go over there and wake him just to talk about his emotions, which wasn't his favourite topic as it was. She would lie back down, thinking that maybe it was not only her who had needed a distraction that evening.

At that moment on their walk, however, she did not think to ask him. They wandered through the village streets for a while longer and then slowly circled back to the inn, sharing a companionate silence for most of the time.

When they reached the establishment, they found Thomas Cooper and Elliot Baker sitting on the curb outside, Thomas, as always, with a cigarette, and Elliot with an innocent smile.

"Evening, Lance Corporal," he called out cheerfully. "Hello, Chris."

"Hi, buddy." She couldn't help but smile at his youthful energy. "You okay?"

"Oh yes," Elliot burst out, "Thomas and I are just enjoying the clear night." He pointed up at the stars.

Thomas coughed abruptly, almost having choked on his cigarette. "Are you daft?" he snapped. "I went for a smoke. You just came along."

"Thomas, play nice," Chris admonished him gently. "We all know your ego would not survive having no one to talk to."

Spock raised an eyebrow and Elliot burst into laughter.

"Shut up!" Thomas exclaimed and whacked the younger man on the shoulder. But he was laughing, too, a warm laugh that stood in contrast to his snarky behaviour. "Glad to see you're better, Chris," he said earnestly. "Thompson told us you almost snuffed it."

"Almost," she said and nodded. "I'm getting better, though. With some help." She smiled and jabbed her thumb in Spock's direction.

"Yes, I took Private Chapel for a therapeutic walk this evening," Spock said, "to loosen phlegm and get some fresh air."

"Of course. No one suggested otherwise, Jackie," Thomas mumbled, lighting a new cigarette between his lips.

Elliot, meanwhile, narrowed his eyes and looked back and forth between Spock and Chris, and the two of them and Thomas.

Christine pulled Spock along. "Have a nice night, boys," she called to Thomas and Elliot as they entered the inn.

"They're all so young," she mumbled as they crossed the public room towards the stairs going up to the guest rooms. "Young and lost." She smirked involuntarily. "I almost feel like Wendy in Peter Pan."

"Hm, yes," Spock said gravely. "And some of these will never grow up either."

She stopped abruptly at the foot of the stairs. "Oh. Right," she whispered. "I forgot."

Spock tilted his head and looked down at her genuinely regretful. "I am sorry. I did not mean to sadden you."

"Oh, it's all right," she murmured, gave his arm a last squeeze of reassurance and, with a small smile, let go of it to reach for the bannister. "Time to return to reality, I guess." She grasped the railing and slowly began to walk up the stairs. After only a few steps, she stopped again and turned around to face Spock. She smiled wistfully down at him. "Thank you for distracting me this evening," she said and gently laid a hand on his chest. "It did help." She turned back to the railing, and they walked a few steps side by side before she exchanged the railing for his arm again.

When they entered the room Spock shared with Jim and Leonard, all the others were back already. And for a moment, Christine wished they weren't so that she and Spock were still alone.

"Look what the cat dragged in," McCoy grumbled benevolently as soon as they crossed the threshold.

"Everything all right?" Jim asked, narrowing his eyes as he looked up at them from his position on one of the beds.

"Everything is fine, Jim," Spock said curtly. "Doctor Chapel was bored. I took care of it."

"I did not know you were talented in entertainment," Pavel piped up.

Spock and Christine exchanged a potent look, and he cleared his throat. "It is quite simple, Mr Chekov. As executive officer, I am tasked with maintaining crew efficiency. Said crew's efficiency is suffering when they are bored." He paused and shot Christine another look. "Or so I have heard."