Bottomless

By Rabble Rouser

DATE: October 21, 2003

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: For Djinn. Because she asked for a Chapelfic from me and who am I to refuse the author of great Kirk/f? Oh, and my thanks for her beta;-)

© 2003 Rabble Rouser

v v v

Chapel kept her eyes on the tricorder trying to focus and to not let her imagination go wild. The problem was that she didn’t need too much imagination for this. All she had to do was lift her eyes to look over the lip of the crevice.

Bottomless.

Not quite, or so the tricorder indicated. One hundred and fifteen meters. Matthews was down there. And the Enterprise didn’t leave crew behind. Even though Matthews wasn’t crew anymore. He wasn’t anything. The probes they had lowered down were set for “biomatter.” When she scanned a positive reading, they would send down transporter buffers to bring Matthews home—only to shoot his body into space in a torpedo casing for a coffin.

McCoy had wanted to take her off duty to give her “time to recover.” She could have screamed. She had swallowed the impulse down, did her best impression of Spock’s face and tone. Starchy. Crisp. Professional. Unapproachable.

McCoy hadn’t been fooled. His face had puckered like he was sucking a lemon, but for once he had relented without pressing and put her name down for the recovery team. Passing her reflection on a highly polished bulkhead a little later she saw why. She had on a don’t-mess-with-me face. A face McCoy no doubt had never seen before on his medical handmaiden cum confidant.

She had set herself apart from the others in the landing party, sitting cross-legged, holding her back so straight and herself so still it must look to an observer as if she was supported by a wall. The tricorder would beep if it found what it was looking for. Still she pressed it close to her, trying to screen everyone around her out, trying to lose herself in the minute changes in readings.

Trying not to think about her future or past, about all the memories trying to ambush her. It was funny. Roger had never noticed she was alive until she had gone blonde. Roger had—

“I’d like you to sit farther back than that.”

Chapel looked up to see Kirk gazing tiredly down at her. He was back in his uniform and that was disconcertaining somehow. She’d told the captain she’d rather be thrown off that precipice than betray Roger. No. It had been his doppelganger she’d told. That thing.

“I’m not going to jump.”

“Humor me.”

So she scuttled backward. At his shake of the head she got up with a sigh and walked to the cavern wall and sat down against it. She supposed it was a safer, more comfortable position. But she didn’t want safe and comfortable. She shivered and found a hot thermos pressed on her.

“Hot coffee. Good medicine.” Kirk was there seated beside her, legs sprawled out and hands on his lap as if he were settling down for a long conversation. The conversation. The so-Chapel-what-are-you-going-to-do-now conversation she was dreading.

She gave him a twisted smile. “McCoy would have another prescription for what ails me.”

Kirk grunted. “Saurian brandy. The universal solvent.”

She took a sip of the coffee and felt the warmth diffuse through her giving her a sham sense of well-being. “Thank you.” She waited uneasily for the inevitable topic of conversation, and searched for a way to stave it off. “Did you know Matthews well?” She bit her lip, immediately sorry. She had seen that bleak look on his face as he had peered over the edge and asked Brown if there was any chance Matthews could be alive.

Kirk shook his head jerkily. “No, not well. It seems at times I barely get to learn their names. If that.”

“You’re not to blame.” Unspoken was her fear that she was to blame. Her quest to find Roger. Her inability to see what he was in time. Her reassurances he was to be trusted.

He closed his eyes a moment then glanced at her. “Did I say I thought I was? It’s not a matter of blame, but responsibility. I can’t really indulge in blame. Just find a way to learn from this.” He sighed. “I knew something was wrong, but I was more than a bit starstruck. I admired Roger Korby, what he stood for.”

Kirk then fell silent, leaving her to pick up the conversation.

“I appreciate what you said back there to Spock,” she said finally. “About Roger not having ever been here. I suppose there’s no protecting his reputation. Once you have to make a report…”

He laid a hand on her arm. “I was telling Spock the truth as I saw it. That’s what will be in my report. Roger Korby died years ago. What we met down here was a sophisticated…recording. No more Roger Korby than the thing that wore my uniform was me.”

She felt a lump form in her throat and slumped against the wall. The tears that were threatening to fall weren’t for Roger. It was because of what the captain was trying to do. Trying to restore for her a shining image of the man who had tried to destroy him. And she hadn’t exactly acted like a paragon of a Starfleet officer. At least the real Kirk had never heard her declare her loyalty to the man who was keeping him prisoner. Who was responsible for killing Matthews. And Rayburn.

Except she wasn’t so sure Kirk was right that it hadn’t been Roger. Or the essential core. Roger had always liked things neat and tidy. He’d had a distaste for some of the nasty necessities of bodily functions. On paper, the esteemed professor sounded passionate about freedom and human potential. In the abstract. But the flesh and blood man she had known was passionate about order. Every time they had made love Roger would leave her side to shower and once had even changed the sheets. The thing that appalled her wasn’t that she had mistaken an automaton for the man she loved, but that it might have been what she had loved all along.

Kirk gave her arm a squeeze. “Christine?” He looked at her with concern but she couldn’t keep a cynical part of herself from putting it down to his job. He just wanted to be sure she wasn’t cracking up. Any minute now, he’d ask her what her plans were for the future. Hurry her along. For five years, she had been at rest. Quixotic quests were very convenient for avoiding tawdry little questions like who and what she wanted. As were jobs that kept you busy without really challenging you.

She shrugged off his touch and his concern. She had never met a more relentlessly decisive and self-directed person than Kirk. How could he understand the ache inside that wasn’t so much grief as the feeling that she had been cast adrift?

“I’m fine,” she said answering his unspoken question. At his skeptical look, she added, “I’ll be fine.”

“That I believe,” He shot her a warm grin then sobered. “I want you to know that if you don’t want to stay with the ship, I’ll support that. But I also want you to know we all consider you an invaluable part of this crew.”

“We?”

Kirk laughed. “It’s not a royal we. I value you. And McCoy may not be good at telling people he appreciates them, but I know he considers you irreplaceable.”

“Captain,” Spock said, giving Kirk a long look. “Nurse,” he said, giving her a curt nod. She was startled by the nearness of Spock’s voice. How did he manage to do that? Enter and exit the scene like a ghost?

And what of Spock? Did he value her, want her to stay? Spock had certainly made his priorities clear. If she’d had any illusions before, any fantasies that if she was ever in danger Spock would be shocked into revealing his love—his love for her, his reaction when he’d found her and Kirk had ended them. His first concern had been for the captain. She was the afterthought. She clenched her hands digging her nails into her palms, trying to trade one pain for another less sharp.

Then her tricorder beeped and she welcomed the distraction. The distraction in the careful work of calling the coordinates to send down the pattern buffers. Not as welcome was the distraction of having Spock beside her mere inches away. As she worked, she couldn’t stop herself from stealing looks at him. When they finished, she found herself sitting on her haunches just staring at him. She couldn’t stop. She was too tired, her nerves too shredded, for self-control. Inevitably, Spock caught and held her gaze.

His eyes were so dark. She understood then why they called it falling in love. She felt hollow and her stomach was doing a flip-flop and it seemed as if she’d never plumb the depths of this man. This feeling wouldn’t end and she’d keep going, down and down. There truly wouldn’t be a bottom she’d just keep feeling this rush and—

She broke the stare and felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Oh, she wouldn’t betray Roger for the captain but for Spock? For a while, when she’d thought she had found Roger, she’d thought it would be all right. That Roger would save her from this. Seeing what was left of him burned to nothing in front of her had been like a kick to the stomach. Yet the greatest grief she felt was for what was right in front of her. She got up and stretched, feeling as if she would like to jump out of her skin.

The next few hours back on the ship seemed endless. She was swaying on her feet by the end of the autopsy and this time when McCoy snapped at her to go and get some rest she didn’t argue.  But she couldn’t sleep despite her exhaustion. She got dressed again and decided to take a walk around the deck. She slowed as she saw Spock by the door to his quarters.

“Miss Chapel. Doctor Korby was a remarkable man. I grieve with thee,” Spock said gently.

She shook her head. “Grief? I can’t even really convince myself any of what happened is real. I know I won’t sleep tonight. Not with the kind of dreams that are waiting for me.”

He held himself rigidly, hands behind his back, and staring past her, looking as if he was mulling over a decision. “There is a Vulcan technique that can help an individual relax as well as inducing an effect akin to directed dreaming.”

“No nightmares guaranteed?” She smiled at him but knew it was a mere stretch of the lips without any genuine pleasure in it.

Or she could just take a pill. She sighed. She wasn’t going to say that to him. She was going to take anything this man would give her. No matter that afterwards she’d feel pathetic. Spock palmed the door open and she crossed over the threshold, curious. She had never been inside.

It was a different world. Literally. The heat hit her as if she had opened an oven door. Yet it was a pleasant heat. Dry, with a hint of exotic incense in the air. It reminded her of cinnamon and she blushed thinking of some of the rumors about Vulcan aphrodisiacs. What they said about cinnamon and sandalwood was probably about as true as the one about humans and oysters.

She had expected his quarters to be austere. She hadn’t expected to see weapons on the walls. She’d thought that Vulcans were pacifists. She saw Spock bend and light a flame in a fierce-looking idol she also wouldn’t have expected from his rationalistic persona. He moved around the room lighting several candles, then dimmed the artificial lighting.

He turned to face her. “The flame provides a mental focus that should prove particularly efficacious since you are not familiar with our mental disciplines.” He kneeled on the floor and gestured for her to do the same. The flickering light of the flames painted the planes of his face, emphasizing his exotic looks.

She felt a faint frission of fear go through her. Vulcans treat their women strangely.  All the jokes, the rather hysterical speculations, she had heard coursed through her mind.

“Have you heard of the mind meld?”

She licked her lips. She felt parched. It must be the dry heat. “It’s what you did to Van Gelder.”

Spock nodded. “I was certain you would have read the report.”

“I’d heard rumors—before. Vulcans I’ve met wouldn’t discuss it.”

“We are reluctant to discuss the mental disciplines with outworlders who might misunderstand. What I am going to share with you is not a meld, but more akin to a guided self-hypnosis. I will not intrude on your thoughts, but simply temporarily direct them away from certain lines so that you can rest. Focus on the flame and try to make your mind blank.”

He touched her face with those long tapering fingers, aligning his hands on each side of her face, fingers spread. She tried to do as he asked and focus on the flame, but at his touch something flared between them, or just in her. A need in her so deep it seemed to draw him in like air rushing into a vacuum. He tightened his fingers on her face, drawing her to him until their lips touched. His were dry, but softer than she would have guessed. Just the tip of his tongue grazed her lower lip, and it felt rough, rasping against her lips, reminding her of his alieness. She moaned and tried to meet that tongue with her own, opening to him, wanting to taste him, but he drew back. He broke his grip on her face, his own face at its most unreadable, staring at his hands still locked in the spread position.

“Spock?”

He swallowed. “Miss Chapel, I must ask for your pardon.”

She smiled, leaned toward him and took both his hands in her own. She felt a sharp pain when he immediately broke that contact. Her smile faded. “Spock, there’s nothing to forgive. I can guarantee you that it won’t be nightmares I have tonight. Spock?”

He looked at her like she was a specimen pinned to a slide. His voice was detached. “I miscalculated the effect raw human emotions would have on the technique. I regret any discomfort I may have caused.”

She got up and slowly backed away, touching her lips. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Christine.”

There was a touch of yearning and regret in his voice but she couldn’t bear to continue this on today of all days. She stumbled out of his quarters and managed to hold back the tears and keep herself to a walk even though she wanted to run flat out. She saw a crewman’s eyes widening as he passed her. She didn’t even know him. She wondered what he had seen on her face.

She entered her own quarters with relief. All she wanted was sleep. Deep, dreamless sleep. She’d drug herself and for a while Roger, Spock, and everything else would fade away. Then in the morning she’d take up Kirk on his offer to leave the ship and Starfleet. Their next destination was Starbase Eleven. Just a few days and she wouldn’t have to ever see Spock again.

She saw the message light on the console and absently pressed the button. She had over a dozen messages. She listened to one after another, to the concern in all their voices and a knot deep in her stomach loosened. The last was from Uhura.

“Hon, I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how it must feel finally knowing Roger’s dead. It doesn’t matter how late it is when you get this message. Call me? I don’t care if you wake me, but I want to make sure you’re okay, and like all good comm officers I’m a good listener.”

And so Chapel found when she returned the call. Chapel was glad there was no need to go to Uhura’s room. Somehow the thought of facing another human being was too demanding, but talking some of it out and hearing another caring, human voice respond was all the medicine she needed until finally she found herself nodding off. “Nyota Uhura, I love you. But I’m going to drop off.”

Uhura laughed. “That’s good to hear. Night.”

Sometime between disconnecting and when her head hit the pillow, Chapel made her decision. No, she wasn’t leaving. Spock be damned. She didn’t know yet what she wanted from her future, but she wasn’t going to find it by running away again from people who cared. Sometimes standing still was the best move you could make. At least until you’ve found your direction again.

The End

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