DISCLAIMER: The characters and events in this story are based on Star Trek. I do not own them or Star Trek, they belong to the estate and heirs of Gene Roddenberry. This story is rated PG. This story is copyright (c) 2001 by Trish.
Commander Spock fairly stormed through the corridors of the U.S.S Enterprise. If it were possible for a Vulcan to have a bad day, the one he had just had was what his human crewmates would have termed "a doozy." The bridge had been a madhouse. With most of the shipwide communication system being overhauled, command central of the huge starship was crawling with technicians, specialists, and various other workmen. Lieutenant Uhura had spent most of the day on the verge of blowing her proverbial top and snapped at anyone who had come near her, including her superior officers. The particular highlight of his less than pleasurable shift was when Doctor McCoy had nearly forced him bodily to sickbay to endure one of the numerous check-ups that were required of those in his position of responsibility. All day there had been paperwork to complete and send off to its destinations, not exactly the reason he had joined Star Fleet.
To make matters worse, Star Fleet command was unceasingly breathing down both his and the captain's neck over the all too vague account of the incident on Platonius which they had filed. Neither had wanted to relay all the details of their ordeal and had hoped that Headquarters would not pry too deeply into their dealings with Parmen. They had been wrong. Star Fleet was demanding to study all their record tapes and it looked as though their attempts at privacy had all been for nothing. The stoic first officer walked on, lost in thought and annoyed by the almost swarming actions of the crew who passed beside, in front of, and behind him as he made his way to his quarters.
Spock turned the corner and was nearly knocked off his feet by a large anti-grav unit carried by Ensigns Santini and Hemart of Geophysics. "Sorry, Mr. Spock!" the tiny Italian girl called over her shoulder. "Lieutenant Farley wants these samples ASAP." She smiled, ever jubilant.
Her superior barely grumbled his response and started on his way again. Regaining his balance, he sighed to himself. It would be most favorable to reach his cabin and allow himself to meditate. The centering and focus would do him good. It was then he saw her from the corner of his eye. For a moment he was struck and could not move, only watch the tall blonde nurse without her knowing. At that instant the harried crowd slowed and parted a bit allowing him a chance to move closer. Normally he would hardly have given her a thought. Today, however, something was different.
Christine Chapel knelt undisturbed in the small peaceful room where the humans went to find comfort. It was somehow fitting that he should find her in the ship's chapel and he pondered the way that the name suited her. Just like the room in which he found her she was, to the crew, a welcome quiet in all too often chaotic storm. He had noticed over the years how her mere presence could calm even the most frightened or agitated of her patients. Spock knew that he should go and leave Christine to her worship, however, something in him would not allow him to move. He could only stare at her from the doorway.
Christine's posture was one of solemn reverance as she bowed on her knees, framed by the alter at the front of the room. She wore a soft buttery yellow dress that floated lightly over her form. The color accentuated her platimun locks and creamy pale skin. Spock could not see her face, but was certain her blue eyes were equally as stunning next to the contrasting hue. It had not escaped his awareness that even her casual attire was elegant and understated. When he would see in the rec room or the corridors, she usually wore pretty feminine garments that flattered her without undue embellishment. She carried the air an formality and professionalism even when not in uniform. He had often noted that it was a welcome change from many of the other crew member who in their off-hours attire could easily look like, as his mother used to say, they just crawled out of the rag bag. Today Christine looked ethereal, very much like she belonged in this sacred place.
Even in her serenity she seemed consumed. Spock could tell that she was crying. In her hands she fingered a long strand of beads, genuflecting over each as she repeated the same words of prayer, stopping at times to kiss the rosary or form the cross over herself. She was so intent, passionate almost in her quiet petition, that he regretted his unseen intrusion. It was, however, a very rare and beautiful scene, one from which he could not tear himself. Quietly he moved to sit in the last row of seats. He had never seen this side of her and he was enchanted, entranced.
He watched Christine, undetected from the back of the chapel. Even after she had finished with the entire strand of beads her praying was not completed. For a long while she simply bowed her head in silence. It was during this time that Spock allowed himself to, perhaps for the first time, truly contemplate her. He thought of her kindness and goodness, her dedication to duty, and her strong sense of honor. Those were all qualities he tried to cultivate within himself. They seemed to come so easily for her, while at times he struggled against himself to maintain them. She would be good for him, understanding and accepting. Was it possible that he had spent all this running from something he needed so badly? Could he begin to return her attentions, or her affections?
* * *
Spock lay awake late into the night, unable to meditate. Christine had touched his soul that evening and he could not thrust her from his thoughts. He had never before allowed himself to imagine the possibility of allowing her into his life, his very secret world. It would in all likelihood be beautiful, sweet, and wonderful. However, it was the words which he had last heard her utter which kept him from finding rest.
He watched her in his mind once more, just as he had hours before. Her voice barely a whisper, it would have been undetectable to human ears. His Vulcan senses, though, found it easy to hear Christine's simple, and grave plea.
"Please," she had said. "Oh, God! Make me stop loving him."