Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 11 May 2004 18:58:35 -0700 In: alt.startrek.creative From: lyrastarwatcher@yahoo.com (Lyra) Title: We Reach Author: Lyrastar Series: TOS Codes: Ch/m, S/Ch Rating: NC-17 Warnings: Gets a little rough in parts. Disclaimer: Paramount--and some of the dialogue is lifted directly from them. Forget. Contact: Lyrastarwatcher at yahoo dot com or www.geocities.com/lyrastarwatcher Beta: Many, many thanks to Djinn for her help, her most excellent advice and especially for letting me take her Cussing Chapel Barbie out to play. Thanks also to Cheryl for pointing out what a great couple these two would make. Summary: For a Chapelfest ( http://www.cosmicduckling.com/sweetheart/ WE REACH your hand reaches down toward your face, where it lies beneath you on the bed. you feel the touch of cool, alien skin against your hand and you slide your fingertips up and under the damp curls of your hair, to search for the place where they belong. your hand looks strange to you, wiry and masculine, the nails short and neatly buffed. bronzed veins quiver in too-rapid pulsations and stand out against your sallow skin. you cannot feel your face, only the pads of your fingers and the psionic energy that reverberates in your mind. you hear a whisper--a single word. it's vulcan, but you know could understand it if you could only hear. you buck and stir and try to wake, but instead you fall further into darkness. and in that darkness you forget. "The place Henoch would least suspect, Doctor. That's why I was summoned to the sickbay. Mr. Spock's consciousness was placed in me. We shared consciousness together." That's what happened all right. And you picked up some cutting-edge knowledge of metaquantum astrophysics, geothermal dynamics, and Hustian suborder computer programming in the process. You also learned that he has indeed been counting cards at your Tuesday night Levinian 1000 Card Draw Poker games. This means he owes you 124 hypothetical credits, and he owes Leonard 2,044,383. No wonder the captain sticks to chess. You picked up something else from him as well--if only you could remember. You stare at him down by the captain's chair, but he only looks away. It's so hard to be a working officer and a sex-kitten too. You won't say you do your best, but you try. You sure do try. He'll be off-shift in less than an hour, but you're tired and sweaty and you stink. You peel off your dirty clothes and lie down on your bunk. It's been a long and tiring day. Five minutes. Just five minutes. you shift against the sheets and pry your sticky thighs apart. your penis is crusted with half-dried slime, but it still burns iron hot against you as you move. it throbs and aches so that you can think of nothing else. you see nothing else. you feel nothing else but the need between your legs. as hard as it hurts, it is a little better now. at least you can breathe. for now, at least, you can breathe. Your eyes fly open as you jerk from sleep. What the hell was that about? No more enchiladas for lunch for you, young lady. You head for the shower to wash off the day. You soap all over, especially down there, washing the suds carefully off like your mother told you to. You check yourself unconsciously. Yep. Same as always. Penis, indeed. Definitely, no more enchiladas for you. Primped and powdered, you stand at the dresser and rearrange your hair. Vincent likes it down. Truth be told, so do you, but that would never do in sickbay. You brush it out and let the curls fall down around your neck. He sneaks up behind you--okay, so no one can really sneak in these little quarters, but that's not the point--he sneaks up behind you and kisses your shoulder. "Hi, beautiful," he says. He runs his finger along your collarbone, down under your caftan--and further down. He cups your breast and nuzzles your neck and you forget about your hair. You lean backwards into his embrace and feel him stiffen between your cheeks. Penis indeed. Fat chance. Together you fall to the bed. The caftan is tossed aside. Your hair is now a total loss. You haven't felt this good since--well, since last night. Good lord, how did you ever get to be so lucky? you clutch your ass and you pull your body closer against you on the bed. you catch a glimpse of your face; it's flat, intent on--concentration? relaxation? but then the face beneath you is gone and there is only the fire and you slam into yourself over and over and over. the pressure builds in your balls. you can't see. you can't hear, you can only feel. you should hurt in your gut below, you're fucking yourself so deeply, but you only hurt in your dick above. you can't get close enough. "Shit!" You raise yourself up off of him and kneel to the side. Shit! What the hell is going on? You press your forehead with your hand. "Chrissy? What's wrong?" His hand reaches for your collarbone. his hand reaches for your collarbone. "Shit." You drop down and you lie breathless on the bed, your hair sticking to your forehead. you lie breathless on the bed. your hand reaches down toward your face, where it lies beneath you on the bed. you feel the touch of cool, alien skin and you slide your fingertips up and under the damp curls of your hair, searching for the place where they belong. your hand looks strange to you. you cannot feel your face. you hear a word, a whisper.... You bolt up and sit erect on the side of the bed. "Honey, what's wrong? Was it something I did?" You shake your head, but it doesn't clear. "No Vinnie, it's not you. I don't know what it is. I'm sorry. I feel like I should know, but I don't." He takes your hand. You let him. He wraps his fingers around yours, tracing every crease and joint. He swirls gently over the sensitive skin on the back of your hand and up to brush the fine, blond hairs of your arm. He circles around your scar and massages the tired muscles under the skin. It feels good. It feels so good to really be in love. Your body unbends and his caresses strengthen as he feels the change in you. It feels so good to have someone know you this well. "Come on, then. Come back to bed. Let me take care of you." His hand slides over and between your thighs. You clamp your flaming legs together. "No, don't. I don't think I'll be able to tonight. I'm just too tense or something; I can't let go." "Oh, honey. Now, what kind of a man would leave his girl like that? Let me try." His fingers wiggle over and begin to fiddle in your thatch. "No really, Vinnie, I mean it." You wrap his arm around you as you curl against his side. You want it so badly, but it feels so wrong. "I just want to go to sleep. Hold me, please." "Sure, honey." He sounds as confused as you feel. You press your sticky thighs against his hip and feel his penis fit between you. He strokes you gently over your back, your shoulders. His hand moves up to your collarbone. he whispers something. mercifully all goes black, you are falling and in the darkness you forget. *************** Spock passes you near the door of the mess hall. He stops to speak. Vinnie puts his arm around your waist. Good grief, it's been almost two years since all that. Why are men always so insecure? "Mr. DeSalle, as I recall, you are Officer of the Watch next shift. Please ensure that the communications relay to Kenda II stays open at all times. The data transfer has been problematic for two days and they need that information." "Yes, Sir. I'll handle it." Spock nods and turns to you now. "Miss Chapel, Levinian poker tonight?" You almost keep your mouth from twitching. "No, I think I'll pass. I don't seem to be doing so well at it. I guess poker just isn't my game." You widen your eyes and raise your eyebrows up at him. He raises his right back. "Then--you will remind the doctor?" You start to speak, then recall the day that Leonard had you stay in sickbay to monitor the party of wounded Archanian Screechers. There were six of them. "Sure, Spock. I'll be sure to remind him." You wink. Vinnie squeezes in on your waist. "Good day, Sir." "Lieutenant. Nurse." And then Spock is gone. Now Vinnie lets go of your waist. Men! Together you make your way to the serving line. "How does he keep track of so many things anyway? He was trapped inside a bowling ball all week." Vinnie wonders more to himself than to you. "Practice. Lots and lots of practice." You chuckle through your nose. Maybe one day you'll tell Leonard. Maybe. "Mexican?" Yeoman Ross holds a meal card out to you. "No thanks." You wave it off. "Just the soup and sandwich." "DeSalle?" Ross offers the card to Vinnie. "Sure, I'll bite. I love Mexican. Food that is," Vinnie adds, as he pats your ass playfully. He takes the card. "You should live a little, Chrissy; you never try anything new." the pressure builds in your balls. you can't see. you can't hear, you can only feel. you should hurt in your gut, you're fucking yourself so deeply, but you only hurt in your dick. you can't get close enough. "I'll try to remember that." You take your tray to a table. You smooth your skirt and refocus your mind, and than you take a seat. The soup is warm and fragrant. It's some recipe from Aldebaran III. It's orange and looks a little like minestrone, but it mostly smells like... 'yes, I know, christine. would you make me more of that plomeek soup?' you speak of soup, but your heart is flame. 'oh, I'd be very happy to do that, mr. spock.' you see yourself walk away, your ass--your beautiful round and twitching ass--and your body screams in rabid protest. you need it so very, very much. the room is hot, too hot, but you shiver. you clutch yourself hard to keep control. this cannot be happening here. you hug yourself tightly and squeeze your shoulders in. this must not happen here. "Something wrong with the soup?" Vinnie is staring at you, a curious expression upon his face. you clutch yourself hard to keep control, but the effort is clearly all in vain. you move your hands lower and dig to find your skin. you palm yourself tightly and you squeeze. no, don't let this happen here. the door opens and you smell the soup. with great effort, you free your hand. the soup is fragrant with the bouquet of vulcan and of home. Across the room you smell the soup, but not before you smell her. she's rich and ripe and smells of everything you need. 'christine--' you stagger towards her, fighting yourself with every step. the sacrificial soup is spilled once again, but her face is calm and dry. 'tell me how to help,' she says. you have forfeited all words to the smell of her, but you squeeze her shoulders and pull her in. some tiny voice inside cries, 'no!' with all its might, but the sound is lost in the roaring of the blood in your ears and the incessant pounding in your veins. she is not vulcan, but she is a woman and a nurse and cannot mistake the symptom that you grind against her thigh. 'mr. spock, i'm not afraid; but please tell me how to help.' you can't. something rips. she makes room for you between her legs. you are against the desk; you are on the floor. you are over her and in her. you see your body in flashes--your backside, your thighs, the top of your blonde head. seldom your face. very seldom your face. it grows more chaotic, the room spins, but you move toward one goal only. you hold her down, your movements frantic. her flesh--your flesh is everywhere but never close enough. it's in your mouth. you bite towards the bone and taste the ferrous, alien blood run trickle over your tongue. you are on the bed, your penis still swollen, but drying sticky between your legs. but at least you can breathe. for now, at least you can breathe. but at what cost? your hand reaches down toward your face, where it lies beneath you on the bed, and you slide your fingertips up and under the damp curls of your hair. you hear a whisper--a single word. it's vulcan. yen-tor, forget. You jerk up from your chair. The soup sloshes and spills; a little lands on your unidress. It's hot--not hot enough to really burn, but it's hot enough to hurt. "Chrissy, what is it?" You push back your sleeve and wipe the spill. The scar! You rub your scar. Oval, with perforated indentations. You told McCoy it was that damned plant of Sulu's--but you're allergic to flowers. Why the hell were you feeding his plants? you're against the desk. her flesh, your flesh is everywhere. it's in your mouth.... yen-tor. Shit. You'd better be sure about this. It's not even a whole memory. It's cloudy red and flailing around in dramatic contrast to the otherwise impeccable order of his mind. Real or not, you'd rather not have it flailing around in yours too. Unconsciously you rub your arm. "Nothing, Vinnie. I just remembered something I'd forgotten. It's--a patient. I have to go." "Problem?" He puts his taco down and pushes back his chair, ready to do something--anything--even if he's not sure what. Men. And you got particularly lucky. You suppose you'll keep him around. You try to settle your face. "No, just work. You know, routine stuff. I'll see you tonight. I love you." You squeeze his shoulder and peck his cheek with a promise of more later and you go. "Computer, pull dental records Commander Spock, serial number S179-276-SP. Extrapolate forensic bite pattern if applied to this surface." You scan your forearm. You overlay the images. Shit! That goddammed, underhanded two-faced son-of-a-bitch! Physiological imperatives are one thing, but did he have to go and fuck with your mind too? Deep breath. Okay Christine, stay cool. He tutored you through advanced biochem and radiation mutology. He rearranged the entire bioscience department schedule so that you could attend your sister's wedding. Hell, he's a fellow officer and a friend. What more do you need than that? There must be some explanation. "Commander Spock, report to Sickbay." You rub your head. On top of it all, you'll have to apologize to Sulu about Gertrude, you suppose. Sulu took the news really hard. All around, this should be one hell of an afternoon. Still, there might be a silver lining. "Len, give me a call when you get done. There's something you should know about those poker games." It's not much, but you definitely feel a little better. The door whooshes open. "You wanted to see me, Miss Chapel?" You stay seated behind the sickbay desk. Keep this professional and you keep control. Maybe Vulcans are oblivious to such psychological subtleties, but you could sure use the extra help. "Yes. There're some medical details to clear up." "I have been cleared by Dr. McCoy as being fully recovered from the effects of the body transfer." You hone your voice. "Yes, I know all about your health." Beat. "And your biology." You pull up your sleeve. "We shared consciousness together, remember? Or did you conveniently make yourself forget as well?" His body stiffens instantaneously into the stony facade. "How much do you remember?" he asks. "Not enough. Or too much, depending on your point of view. But it's certainly less than you." "I had hoped that you wouldn't find out." "Clearly." Maybe the word wouldn't cut glass, but it must be close. "I have violated you, and there is no undoing that event. But circumstances left you with no unpleasant memories. To alter that seemed a greater wrong." You relent and drop your sleeve back down. And your voice as well. "Do you want to tell me about it?" "No." You sigh inside. No one ever said Vulcans were easy. "Well, that's more honesty than I've gotten from you about this in two years. At least it's a start." You sit back and wait. "Is it your position that total honesty is always appropriate?" asks Spock. dear allison: i wanted to write before you saw this on the news. i was in the landing party that found the remains of your father's expedition today. he died uncovering the secrets of a lost civilization and gave his life for the betterment of the federation. roger korby was a humanist to the end. you should be very proud of him.... "No. No, it isn't. But you know what they say about half a worm in your apple. Right now that's what I've got. I think you owe it to me to find the other half." He nods. "I regret that you were affected by my weakness. Vulcans have an intrinsic biological mating cycle--" You wave him off. "I know that part. Dr. McCoy and I figured that out within a day or two. And besides, I have more than enough memory from your point of view. I want to hear about the mind wipe." He is looking toward your face, but somewhere far past it in the distance. "Non-consensual mental alteration is a class A battery and felony offense. It is your prerogative to have me charged and arrested." He does not ask if you intend to; after all, he shared your consciousness yesterday. He must know you at least well enough for that. Hell, he's the telepath; after being in your head, he probably knows where you keep you vibrator and what you did to your sister's brand new tank top in 2249. But still he does not relax. "I have no explanation for my actions. If you know about the biology of the situation, then you will understand that I was quite mad at the time. I was prepared to die rather than reveal the truth. Perhaps something of that instinct took over--as well as others." He shakes his head. You feel something unknot inside. Geezus Christine, are you going to fall for every sob story you hear? Come on, girl, toughen up. You try to keep your voice hard, but it's a losing battle. It's true; he had chosen death. If you hadn't come back with that soup-- The reunion in Sickbay plays over in your mind and the smile of joy unmasked is all that stays. "And later? When you'd recovered?" Yeah, that's hard as butter in July. Good job, Chrissy. Do Vulcans ever squirm? It looks that way from here. "The act was done and all was well. In my estimation, disclosing it would have changed nothing, but caused significant distress." "Distress to me?" "That too." You smile for real this time. He shifts. "If you wish, I can restore your memories." Your heart skips a beat. "You would have to--enter my mind?" "Yes." "And in doing so, you would see it too? You would--would relive the incident from my perspective--like I saw it from yours?" "Yes." You grimace. "Not a pleasant prospect." "It is your right to have your memories restored. You are the wronged party." You meet his eyes. "Funny, it doesn't feel so wrong to me anymore." You think about what you've seen, and you think of the friend and colleague whom you know. You take his hand. "No." He cocks his eye. "No. As you say, everything came out just fine; I don't see any reason to cause distress. To anyone." You squeeze his hand. "I think we've had quite enough of that." He nods slowly. "I believe you're right." He withdraws his hand but you catch him with your eye. "Just one more thing. Why'd'ja have to go and drag poor Gertrude into this? She didn't deserve the bad rap. Sulu was torn up for weeks." He holds your gaze and raises one brow. "As I said, I was quite mad." His words are still somber, but his tone is not. You chuckle. Who says Vulcans don't understand humor? His lip turns up just a little. He stands and turns to leave. You call to him. He stops by the door. "There's one more thing. You would have died, you know." He turns back. "If it hadn't been for some--release, you would have died. Leonard told me that morning that the androkine levels were increasing faster than he predicted, and that they would reach a critical--lethal--level before we got to Vulcan. The next day they had dropped; he didn't understand why. I think he might have had--suspicions initially. He asked me if I knew anything--if anything had seemed different when I had gone to your cabin--but of course I said 'no'. I didn't remember anything except leaving soup. "But I thought you should know-- you'd be dead, if it weren't for that 'weakness', as you put it." "Or for the strength of another." You incline an eyebrow. He nods--says nothing else for long seconds, and then, "Thank you, Miss Chapel." In your mind you hear the unspoken, "...for everything." You chuckle. "I think, under the circumstances, you can call me 'Christine'." His eyes twinkle. How come you never noticed that before? "Indeed. And would you care to know my other name, Christine?" He stresses the last word with the raise of a brow. Then he comes to your ear and speaks the alien tones in a pitch you have never heard from him before. Perhaps no one on board has. There was a time this intimacy would have unleashed within you a wild flock of butterflies--butterflies of fragile and impotent hope, but now you feel only the secure warmth of an aged friendship tried and true. You laugh to yourself at your youthful silliness. This is so much nicer. He pulls away. "Nice," you say, "but I can't pronounce that." You trust that he can see the twinkle in your eye as well. He lays a hand upon your forehead. You barely feel it as he brushes your mind. "Try." His hand to the meldpoints, you say the name. It hurts your throat, but it comes out sounding pretty close. He drops his hand. "Adequate." Those eyes dance again. "So, we're even?" As little as ten minutes ago, he would have pretended not to know what you meant. "We're even," he repeats. We reach. ~Lyra April 2004 -------------- The challenge: Christine or Spock accidentally sees something in the other's mind they weren't supposed to while sharing a brain in "Return to Tomorrow". -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Awards Tech Support http://www.trekiverse.us/ASCAwards/commenting/ No Tribbles were harmed in the running of these Awards ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek.creative or directly to the author. Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? 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