‘Spock, you look like a drowned
rat!’
The eyebrow that Spock raised was
more cat than rat. Christine knew from long experience that Spock
disliked rain. If she had not been worried about insulting him she
would have gone as far as to say he hated it. Spock definitely
disliked rain, especially cold rain, especially cold, wind-blown
rain, especially rain that turned the ground into mud and plastered
hair to the head and stuck clothes to the skin. Yes, Spock was a cat.
‘Nurse,
I fail to see how insulting me will help at this juncture,’ Spock
said in a tone that Christine would definitely characterise as
nettled. Despite her concern, she had succeeded in insulting the
Vulcan anyway.
‘Mr Spock, I was just showing
concern at your – um – your current physical state,’ Christine
told him in a conciliatory tone. ‘It’s just an Earth idiom,
that’s all.’
‘Very often Earth idioms are
insulting in nature,’ Spock pointed out.
Christine was struck by the urge
to raise her hand and wipe away some of the water streaming down the
Vulcan’s fringe and into his eyes, but she resisted. It wouldn’t
do much good anyway, because the rain was coming down so quickly it
would be replaced within seconds. Last night they had been warm and
content in Spock’s quarters and she had brushed his fringe from his
forehead and kissed him. Spock didn’t appreciate such gestures in
public, though, even if it was almost certain there was no one to
see.
‘I promise you, next time I’ll
check the met reports more carefully and make sure we beam down with
the proper gear,’ Christine said with a sheepish smile. ‘I just
didn’t anticipate that cold front turning into – ’
Spock’s raised eyebrow made her
tail off. She knew there was no way Spock could feel better over this
disastrous mission. She knew he was already feeling internalised
guilt at allowing Christine to beam down on a mission that did not
strictly requite the presence of a medical officer. She had badgered
him though, between laying kisses on his face and chest, in his
quarters last night. She had wanted to spend Valentine’s Day with
him, and this seemed to be the only way, and her scientific
credentials did stretch to cover the radiation research they were
carrying out, even if she was not the precise person Spock would have
chosen otherwise. She had done all the preliminary checks for him and
the weather had promised to be fine – but she should have known
better than to trust meteorological data, considering how easily
weather could change.
Now they were stuck on the planet
due to a failure of the transporters that Scotty was apparently
stumped over, they were woefully badly equipped, and Spock was soaked
to the skin. Christine was soaked to the skin too, but that wasn’t
concerning her so much. No matter how she made light of the
situation, Spock simply wasn’t built for such dank, cold
conditions.
‘Look, Spock, we should find
somewhere to shelter,’ she suggested. ‘There are plenty of empty
houses in this area.’
‘You mean – break in?’
Spock asked, raising a soaked eyebrow again.
Christine shrugged and gave him a
hopeful smile. ‘Well, it’s not breaking in entirely. This sector
has been abandoned for months since the radiation scare. There’s no
one here.’
‘The houses are still owned by
Federation citizens,’ Spock pointed out.
‘But
what Federation citizen wouldn’t extend hospitality to a couple of
drowned rats on a night like this?’ Christine asked brightly.
Spock opened his mouth to reply.
There were vast numbers of Federation citizens who would not welcome
the presence of Starfleet officers in their home. Many human colony
planets expressed resentment towards the interference of the
Federation and Starfleet in their lives, and some had gone as far as
to raise arms against them. The citizens on this very planet had been
highly resentful at the order to evacuate while the planet passed
through a period of intense solar radiation since they realised,
quite rightly, that the evacuation could turn out to be permanent if
the system’s sun was shown to be dangerously unstable. That was why
Spock and the nurse and a number of scientific survey teams were here
on the surface in the first place, investigating the effects on the
planet after the radiation had waned away.
‘Well, at any rate the
radiation levels are acceptable here,’ Christine said in an
off-hand way, before Spock could voice his views on the unrest of
Federation citizens.
Spock glanced down at his
tricorder, wiped water off the screen, failed to decipher the
readings through the blobs of water that were left, and looked up
again.
‘They are acceptable,’ he
nodded. ‘However, I find the problems of the Enterprise
disquieting. The suggestion is that the radiation is severely
affecting the ship’s functions, even if it is failing to penetrate
the planet’s atmosphere.’
‘Yes,’
Christine said pensively, brushing her wet hair back from her face.
‘Yes, it is.’
She looked up at Spock again. The
Vulcan was trying to look as dignified as he could with rain
constantly running down his face. It was catching in his eyelashes
and making him blink. His trousers were splashed with mud to the
knees. If the weather had treated them equally, Spock’s boots would
be soaked inside just as Christine’s were. As she looked at the
Vulcan, Spock suppressed a shiver.
‘This
is crazy, Spock,’ Christine told him. ‘We have to find shelter,
regardless of the morals of breaking in to someone’s house. If you
stay out in this weather it’s going to become a medical emergency
and the decision will be out of your hands anyway. I’m not going to
let you die of pneumonia when there are houses left right and
centre.’
This time Spock did not protest.
Perhaps he had crossed some kind of threshold in the last few
minutes. The sun was moving down towards the horizon behind its thick
blanket of clouds and it was perceptibly colder. They were relatively
near the tropic, although here that was only a definition of
latitude, not an indication of a pleasant climate. When the sun went
down it would do so rapidly, and they would be left floundering about
for a place to shelter in utter darkness.
‘There,’
Christine said, pointing at an edifice that rose up beyond the trees
a few hundred yards away. ‘That’s closest. It’ll do – and
I’ll make that a medical order if necessary.’
Spock regarded her with something
of a martyred expression, but he did not argue.
‘We
can shelter overnight and hope that conditions are better in the
morning,’ she continued. ‘You said this latest solar flare should
subside in the next fifteen hours, didn’t you?’
‘Fifteen
point seven three five hours, approximately,’ Spock corrected her.
‘Spock,
how
can you be approximate to three decimal places?’ Christine asked
him in amusement.
‘One
can be approximate to any number of decimal places,’ Spock told her
smoothly. ‘I don’t guarantee that the event will occur at that
exact moment.’
Chapel huffed away water that was
dripping from the end of her nose, and set out resolutely towards
that distant building.
((o))
The place was nothing less than a
mansion, built on mock Gothic standards, harking back to the late
nineteenth century in Earth’s western hemisphere. The inhabitants
must surely have missed Earth to recreate such a perfect example of
antique architecture here. The flora and fauna were vastly different
to Europe, but they had made up for that in every faced block of
limestone, in every crenellation and carved mullion, even down to the
artfully sculpted pineapples that topped the gateposts, which harked
back to an era when the first pineapples had been introduced to Great
Britain. It must have been a fascinating time to live, Christine
thought, although the mixture of eras in the architecture did make
for a rather jumbled building.
‘Do
you
think this will suit us for the night, Spock?’ Christine asked
playfully as they approached the high wooden door.’
‘It
will provide shelter at least,’ Spock said. The water had got
inside his tricorder screen now and misted it up from the inside, and
he was not happy.
‘Come
on, my lovely cat,’ Christine grinned. ‘I’ll have you drying
out in front of a log fire in no time. Did you see the chimneys on
this place? They must have traditional fires.’
‘I
am forced to agree,’ Spock said, not quibbling Christine’s
appellation of cat. It was certainly better than rat.
Spock used his phaser to force
the door efficiently and discreetly. As soon as they were inside, out
of the rain and away from the unlikely chance of any prying eyes,
Christine reached up to brush the water from Spock’s forehead, and
kissed him lightly.
Spock returned the kiss with more
vigour than Christine had expected, putting his hands against her
back and spending a long, languorous time engaged in the most
illogical of actions. Then he sneezed.
‘No,
come on, you need to get dry,’ Christine said. She could feel
Spock’s shoulders shivering under her hands. He felt freezing. She
turned in a circle, looking about at the various doors that led off
the wide hall. ‘There must be a room with a fireplace down here.’
Spock looked about too. There was
a decent amount of light coming in through the windows either side of
the front door, but the light was slowly going. Christine could see
the Vulcan mentally pulling up an image in his head. He was probably
comparing the visual of the outside of the house with the inside.
Then he nodded towards a door on the left and said, ‘I would try
that one.’
Christine walked over to open the
door, noticing as she did that she had left a trail of mud and water
across the parquet floor.
‘I
think you’re right, Spock,’ she said, opening the door further to
reveal a well-appointed sitting room with a wide stone fireplace at
one side. ‘And look, they even have wood stacked ready to use.’
‘The
evacuation occurred during the coldest season,’ Spock said
conversationally.
He came into the room himself and
looked about, before pressing his palm to a panel by the door. Lights
came on. The room was primarily lit by a high chandelier that hung
glittering from the ceiling. The room seemed to have been divested of
very few possessions, perhaps what could be packed quickly during the
emergency of the evacuation. It still held all of its furniture and a
good deal of decorative items.
‘There
must still be power supplied here,’ Spock said. ‘Perhaps there is
also powered heating. It will be more efficient than this – ’ He
gestured at the fireplace, apparently unable to put his thoughts
about the primitive heating system into words.
‘Perhaps
there is,’ Christine said with a grin, going over to the fire.
‘But, you know, there’s something about an open log fire, Spock.’
‘Yes.
There are sparks and smoke and draughts,’ Spock said.
Christine frowned at him. ‘Spock,
where is your sense of romance?’
‘Perhaps
it is somewhere above the rain clouds, Christine,’ Spock told her.
Christine sighed. ‘Well, Spock,
I’m going to have an explore around the house. And I expect that
fire to be burning merrily by the time I get back, mister,’ she
added with a smile. ‘I don’t care whether you use your phaser or
rub two sticks together. I want fire, and I want to share it with
you.’
Christine strode out of the room,
leaving Spock behind.
((o))
Spock stood before the fireplace,
considering the most logical arrangement of wood to create the most
heat. Fire building for warmth was not a skill often required on
Vulcan. Lighting a flame for meditation was one thing, but 40 Eridani
provided quite enough heat for the average person. Even during the
cold desert nights heat had usually been stored enough during the day
for a slow release in the evening.
He settled on a pattern and began
to arrange the logs. The wood was unfamiliar to him, undoubtedly cut
from native trees nearby, but it looked dry and not too dense, a
promising fuel. Lighting it was another matter. There were implements
by the fire that looked as if they might be fire lighting tools, but
he settled on using his phaser to heat the whole pile until it
spontaneously burst into flame. That was far more efficient than
lighting one piece and waiting for the rest to catch.
The heat was instantaneous, and
despite himself Spock relaxed. Water began to steam from his uniform
tunic, and he stripped it off and looked about for somewhere to hang
it. There was a kind of folding metal screen leant against the wall
by the fire, so he unfolded that and used it as an impromptu clothes
horse. Since his top was drying so quickly and the wet clothing was
deeply unpleasant against his skin, he quickly stripped the rest of
his clothing off and hung that up to dry too. He set his boots
upturned on the hearth. A small trickle of water ran from each one.
Now that his feet were bare he
noticed that the rug on which he stood was made of some kind of
thickly-furred animal skin. He had assumed it was synthetic, but the
tactile sensations were unmistakable. The idea of killing and
skinning an animal in order to tread its pelt underfoot was deeply
unpleasant to him, but on the other hand the sensation was definitely
pleasant. Perhaps the animal had died a natural death and its pelt
had been put to logical use?
He sat down on the rug so as to
stay as close to the heat of the fire as possible. He was damp all
over and his hair was still downright wet. The sensation of the fur
against his naked thighs and buttocks really was pleasant. There was
something comforting in it, like being held by one’s mother as a
child. Spock closed his eyes and allowed himself to experience the
sensation of dampness steaming off every inch of his skin.
((o))
Christine came back into the room
clutching an armful of clothes, but she was arrested by the sight
that met her eyes. Eyes closed, Spock was sitting in something
approaching the lotus position in front of the fire, his back to the
flames, his head tilted backwards slightly to angle his damp hair
towards the heat. His arms rested loosely on his thighs. Entirely
naked, his skin was bronzed by the ever-changing light of the flames.
‘Dear
god,’ Christine said.
Spock’s eyes opened. A slight
smile touched his lips and mischief sparkled in his eyes. Christine
had almost dropped the clothing she carried at the sight of him in
the firelight.
‘Well,
I thought we could get changed, but – ’ Christine began.
‘I
didn’t expect there to be clothing left behind,’ Spock said
easily. ‘And I thought it better to dry myself thoroughly –
medically, that is.’
‘Well
– yes,’ Christine said, still slightly flabbergasted. ‘Yes,
much better. Much...’
Spock straightened his back a
little more and stretched out his arms lightly, as if he had grown
stiff.
‘Would
you care to join me, Christine? It is most pleasant.’
‘I
– Well – Yes, I would love to join you,’ Christine said
quickly.
Her clothes proved annoyingly
resistant to being removed. They clung wetly to her skin and she
almost ripped her dress in the attempt to peel it from her torso.
‘Oh
my,
this is good,’ she said when she was naked at last and the heat of
the fire was washing over her skin. She turned herself in front of
the heat, feeling the wonderful sensation of water evaporating and
her skin drying.
Spock lay down on the fur rug
facing the fire, and after a moment Christine joined him. She lay
like that against Spock’s side for a long time, until she felt
herself becoming perilously sleepy.
‘Do
you know, we’re probably the only humans for a thousand miles in
all directions,’ she murmured drowsily.
‘You
are the only human, Christine,’ Spock corrected her.
‘Yes,
of course, I’m sorry,’ she smiled lazily. She stroked her hand
lightly across the down on Spock’s chest. ‘I’m the only human.
You’re the only half human, half cat.’
She could almost feel Spock’s
eyebrow rise.
‘I
assure you, any genetic connection I have to the genus felis is
contained entirely in my human ancestry,’ Spock said.
Christine laughed quietly. Spock
turned over on his side, just as lazily as Christine was feeling, and
leant his head against his lover’s chest. Christine began to
murmur;
‘Viens, mon beau chat, sur
mon coeur amoureux;
‘Retiens les griffes de ta
patte,
‘Et laisse-moi plonger dans
tes beaux yeux,
‘Mêlés de métal et
d'agate.’
She felt Spock’s momentary
pause as much through her mind as through her body. Touching like
this, their link was all the stronger.
‘Well,
your accent leaves something to be desired,’ Spock began, and
Christine swatted at him.
‘Spock,
you have all the romance of a bulldozer. Do you have any appreciation
for – ’
‘Charles
Baudelaire, 1821 to 1867, a resident of Paris, France, Old Earth,’
Spock cut across her smoothly. ‘I have read his poems both in
original and translation.’
‘Let
me try it another way, and maybe my accent won’t interfere,’
Christine said, brushing her fingers through Spock’s now drying
hair. The water had left something of a wave in it, which was very
appealing.
‘Come,
my fine cat, against my loving heart;
‘Sheathe
your sharp claws, and settle.
‘And
let my eyes into your pupils dart
‘Where
agate sparks with metal.’
Christine stopped, and Spock
stirred against her. The fire crackled. ‘That is not the all of
it,’ Spock said.
‘No,
I was getting to the rest,’ Christine murmured. ‘I was giving
myself a moment to think about your eyes. But I’ll have to change
the gender. You may be a cat but you’re not a female one.’ She
cleared her throat and continued, rather more self-consciously this
time.
‘Now
while my fingertips caress at leisure
‘Your
head and wiry curves,’ she continued, her fingertips tracing
lightly down Spock’s flank to his naked hip,
‘And
that my hand’s elated with the pleasure
‘Of
your electric nerves,
‘I
think about my Vulcan – how his glances
‘Like
yours, dear beast, deep-down
‘And
cold, can cut and wound one as with lances;
‘Then,
too, he has that vagrant
‘And
subtle air of danger that makes fragrant
‘His
body, lithe and brown.’
There was silence. Spock appeared
to be considering this music-less serenade in his deep and ponderous
Vulcan way.
‘Do
my glances cut and wound one as with lances?’ he asked finally.
‘My
darling Vulcan cat,’ Christine said, smiling, her fingers still
toying about Spock’s hip. ‘I think there will always be moments
in a Vulcan-human relationship where Vulcan emotional control can
cut, but I know – believe
me
I know – all about the fire underneath.’
Spock seemed satisfied.
Christine’s fingers strayed further down from his hip, passing into
the wiry hair about his penis, pleased as the action caused Spock to
shiver in an entirely different way. He sat up and leant over
Christine to kiss her, the warmth of his fire-heated body sinking
into Christine’s skin. Her mouth fell open to Spock’s probing
tongue and she tasted the alien-spiced interior of the Vulcan’s
mouth. No matter how many times they kissed she always loved that
exotic taste.
Spock’s hands were moving over
her body, hard and hot against her human-cool skin, brushing over the
erect nubs of her nipples and the swelling of her breasts, down her
smooth stomach and into the fur of hair between her legs. She reached
out for Spock with her own hand, finding him already part erect. She
took hold of that heavy organ and moved her hand firmly against it,
and Spock growled and kissed her with renewed force.
‘I
think you’re becoming a lion,’
Christine murmured, but Spock was apparently beyond speaking. The
Vulcan pushed Christine firmly down onto the fur rug and turned his
attention to the valley between her legs, sinking his mouth down over
her without preamble. Christine arched and gasped at the hot touch,
thrusting against the enveloping mouth and probing tongue. Spock’s
hand caressed her breasts, rolling a stiff nipple between his
fingertips, his tongue pulsing at the centre of her until she felt as
if she were about to explode.
‘Oh
– oh my god, oh my god, Spock,’ she gasped, hardly able to
contain herself.
Her hands were on Spock’s head,
her fingertips in his hair. She could feel Spock’s arousal and
delight through the touch as he continued to suck and pummel.
‘Oh
god,’
Christine murmured. This setting was so perfect. She wanted Spock
inside her, right now. That part of her ached for him.
With some difficulty she tried to
pull Spock away. The Vulcan didn’t want to stop. In the end
Christine became masterful, taking hold of his head with both hands
and pulling it back. She felt crazed with the need for him and she
turned Spock onto the rug so he was lying on his back. Spock’s
erection was huge, yearning, fluid glistening at the tip, and
Christine clenched her fist around it, stroking it so firmly that
Spock moaned aloud.
‘There’s
a taste of your own medicine, mister,’ she whispered in his ear.
Spock gazed up at her, his lips
parted, his hands in tight fists as if he could barely contain
himself.
She lowered herself down over
him, leaning forward to kiss his parted lips and then sinking herself
onto the Vulcan’s hot erection. Dear god, it was like coming home,
like a sheath receiving its sword. Her entire body thrilled with the
feeling, a sensation that was concentrated to an almost unbearable
peak in her belly and groin. She moved on him again and again, her
hands on his hands, pinning them to the floor, riding him as if she
were careless of his pleasure and only intent on her own. Spock
moaned aloud, his own ecstasy exploding like fireworks in a mind
sensation that Christine could feel clearly through their link. She
could feel the Vulcan building to a peak even as she reached her own.
As the pressure built everything else faded away. There was no fire,
no room, no alien planet. All she wanted was to pull back and have
him sink home again and again as the fire built to a crescendo, until
Spock was jerking in completion and she was crying out his name in a
soft, desperate sound.
She slumped over him and lay
still in the blissful silence that followed, her breath coming in
heaving gasps. She did not know how much time passed, but after a
time she could feel Spock becoming hard again beneath her, and he was
urgently grasping at her shoulders, turning her over so that she was
on her hands and knees. Then Spock was over her, the hardness of his
erection pressing against her, and Spock was kissing her shoulders
and back and sides in a way that made her think of cherry blossom
spontaneously appearing on a tree.
For a moment she felt Spock’s
fingers toying with her lightly, moving up to her breasts, down again
to the folds between her legs, and then he entered her, hard and fast
and desperate in his renewed urgency. She buried her face into the
soft fur rug, calling out the Vulcan’s name, calling on god,
calling on hell, but Spock was silent except for wordless sounds of
pleasure. When he came the sensation of it exploded through
Christine’s mind too, and for a moment everything was blanked out
and she was floating higher than the sky.
She came back to herself still
kneeling on the rug with Spock over her, their bodies pressed
together with a thin slick of sweat between them. Her heart was
thumping and her mind still felt disconnected and elevated with
endorphins. In the silence the fire crackled and the colour of the
flames leapt against her closed eyelids.
‘Oh
my god, Spock,’ she murmured.
Spock gently put his hands on
her, turned her around so that that both knelt facing each other on
the rug, and kissed her. She melted into the heat. Spock’s head
nestled onto her shoulder, and she put her arms about the Vulcan’s
back, stroking his dry skin softly as if he really were that loving
cat.
After some time, perhaps a long
time, they pulled apart. The fire was growing low, and cold was
starting to push back into the room.
‘I
don’t even know what time it is,’ Christine murmured.
‘Ship
time or local time?’ Spock asked, and Christine realised how
meaningless time had become.
‘Why
don’t you put some wood on the fire, Spock?’ she said. ‘I’m
going to go and see if I can find something to – well – to clean
up. I think we – ahem – mussed their rug a bit.’
‘Must
you go?’ Spock asked in a very human way.
Christine kissed the tip of one
pointed ear. ‘I must, my dear cat.’
((o))
When she returned Spock had piled
logs onto the fire again and the heat was pressing through the room.
She had noticed through the windows that the night was fully on them
now, thick and dark with the blanket of cloud to block out even the
stars. This planet had a moon, but it was small and would have given
out little light even if it had been visible.
‘Here,
I found a vacuum,’ Christine said as she came through the door,
using the generic term for what was actually a particle disintegrater
and would clean up what they had left on the rug so well that no one
would detect it without forensic skills.
Spock was no long in front of the
fire. Christine looked about, startled at first, and then saw him
sitting at a baby grand piano near one of the high curtain-covered
windows. His fingers were arched, hovering just above the keys. Spock
looked up to meet his lover’s eyes and then began to play.
Christine knelt on the rug and began to carefully clean up the mess,
while music spread into the room. Spock was still naked, but above
the piano she could just see the top of his chest, his collarbones
fine and sharp, his face intent with concentration.
‘Do
you have any
idea how hot that is?’ Christine asked.
Spock raised an eyebrow. His
playing did not falter.
‘You
asked me to put wood on the fire, Christine,’ he said.
‘Not
the fire – you, sitting there playing like that, naked as the day
you were born.’
A slight smile touched Spock’s
lips. ‘T’hy’la,’ he said tolerantly, ‘Were you not
satisfied with our recent exercise?’
Chapel
pursed her lips. ‘You know, I may be human, but I don’t always
mean I want more sex. I can
appreciate you in more aesthetic ways.’
Spock nodded, the smile still on
his lips.
‘While
I was poking about I found out their food stasis unit is still
working,’ Christine said. ‘And I don’t know about you, but I’m
starving.’
‘We
have already broken into their home and stolen their firewood,’
Spock pointed out in a slightly disapproving tone.
‘Oh,
Spock, I’m sure Starfleet can replace anything we’ve used,’
Christine waved away his concerns. ‘There are allowances for
emergencies.’
Spock arched an eyebrow and
continued to play. Christine took that as acceptance, so she left the
room again and returned a few minutes later with a platter of food,
vegetarian for Spock, but with a few pieces of Earth-style cured
meats for herself.
‘Come
on, Spock,’ she said, patting the rug before the fire. ‘Come
break bread with me.’
Due to the excellence of the
stasis storage the food was as fresh as it had been when it entered
the house. Christine had also found a bottle of wine, of which Spock
consented to drink a little. When they had finished he cleared away
the things and they put more wood on the fire and then lay down
together on the rug, flesh to flesh. They had been there for a long
time now and the warmth and sex and food and wine were conspiring to
make Christine sleepy. She nuzzled her face against the Vulcan’s
back. With a far greater tolerance of heat than the human, Spock’s
body was acting as a shield from the direct heat of the flames. The
fire had brought a light green flush to his skin.
((o))
She did not notice herself
slipping into sleep, but she must have, because the next awareness
she had was of being pressed up naked against Spock’s warmth, with
a pallid light coming through the curtains. The fire had died down to
ashes and Spock was fast asleep. Christine lay there for a while just
looking at the Vulcan’s face. His hair was still rippled by the
rain of the night before. His eyelashes lay dark and long along his
closed eyelids. His lips were very slightly parted and his breath
came softly between them. His body was so relaxed that he looked like
a cat in a sunbeam. Unwittingly Christine felt her heart begin to
beat faster. How perfect it would be to have him here again, loose
and lank on this fur rug.
Carefully and quietly so as not
to wake the Vulcan she slipped away from him and went to put more
wood on the fire. She noticed the automatic lighter control at the
side, and smiled. Spock had told her he had used his phaser last
night. She touched the control and instantly the wood burst into
flame.
‘Oh,
my perfect Vulcan,’ she murmured, kneeling down beside him again
and kissing the tip of his ear.
Spock stirred a little, and his
eyes blinked open. For an unguarded moment there was nothing of
Vulcan control at all in his face as he gazed into his lover’s
eyes.
‘You
said you don’t always want more sex, Christine,’ Spock murmured,
‘but there is little else in your mind at this moment.’
Christine laughed lightly. ‘Well,
I am human, after all,’ she said playfully.
They made love languorously and
gently in front of the fire, with none of the bestial urgency of last
night. Then, spent, they lay together on the rug again and let the
heat wash over them.
‘I
suppose you should try to contact the ship,’ Christine said
eventually. ‘They must be worrying...’
Spock grunted in a non-committal
way, most uncharacteristically unconcerned about duty. He was still
warm and relaxed from making love and could not imagine moving.
Christine glanced at the two
communicators, which lay by the side of the hearth. She tried to
remember if she had had a dream where that thing had been beeping
insistently. It had been half a possibility.
‘Perhaps
I should call,’ Spock said eventually.
‘Oh,
don’t,’ she murmured, spooning close against the Vulcan again and
wrapping her arm about his body. ‘It’s just a communications
blackout. It’s not like you can do anything from here.’
‘I
think I dreamt the sound of the communicator just prior to waking
up,’ Spock said musingly.
Christine smiled. ‘Isn’t that
funny, Spock? I did too. I suppose that shows how in tune we are,
each feeling the other’s dreams.’
‘Perhaps,’
Spock murmured, but a slight frown furrowed his forehead.
A very familiar noise began to
build in the air, very quiet at first, but growing. Christine’s arm
clenched over Spock’s body for a moment, but there wasn’t time to
move. She closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable.
It came.
‘Spock,
Christine, what in blue blazes do you think you – ’
It
could be no one other than Dr McCoy. His medical tricorder was
already warbling. The doctor’s voice stuttered off. So far,
Christine and Spock had confided in no one about their relationship.
They were, to public eyes, just colleagues on the Enterprise.
‘The
scanners showed an elevated – ’ McCoy stuttered. ‘I mean –
And Spock was – Goddammit to hell, you two, I’m a doctor, not a
blasted mind reader.’
The silence stretched out. Spock
did not move. Christine did not dare turn around. After all, all of
her modesty, what little there was left, was protected by the shield
of Spock’s body, and she really, really did not want to meet the
doctor’s eyes right now.
The seconds dragged on. Finally
McCoy flipped open his communicator.
‘McCoy
to Enterprise.
Yeah,
Scotty, they’re both just fine. They’ll be – ahem – I’m
sure they’ll be beaming up in a little while. Meanwhile, get me the
hell out of here. Please.’
Christine closed her eyes as the
sound of the transporter built again. Spock was very, very still.
‘Well,’
Christine said after a long silence. ‘I guess the cat’s really
out of the bag now.’
Spock did not reply, but after a
moment he made a sound very close to a purr.
