DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters
are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc and Viacom. The story contents are the
creation and property of Djinn and are copyright (c) 2009 by Djinn. This story
is Rated R.
Quantum Lust
by Djinn
He's old enough to
be her grandfather. Christine thinks he
likes that. As he moves over her and
into her and arranges her like she's his little cadet doll, she thinks he's
getting a sexual charge out of the oddness of their arrangement.
She knows she's
getting a sexual charge out of it. And a
nasty feeling of having something over Uhura every time she walks by her and
the real Spock, the young Spock, the Spock she isn't screwing over and over and
over.
"Christine." His voice rasps like a file, like nails on
the chalkboards in the museums of how things were. His hands are rough, too. Too many years on Romulus—he's told her his life
story, shared it in images through the meld that enhances the sex.
Uhura never
mentioned the meld. Christine realizes
she and Uhura aren't the friends she once thought. Not if Christine can do this—not that being
with this Spock is wrong, it's the not telling that's wrong.
She's enjoying the
secret, enjoying the passion in stolen moments, in darkened corners, in rooms
far off the Academy grounds. Never
dives, though. Spock likes his rooms
properly gentrified. He's nobility of
some sort, after all. He's explained it
to her, but she doesn't listen all that well.
She doesn't care
all that much. He won't be hers, and she
doesn't want to be his. This is what
is. This sex. This touching. This lust that burns her from the inside out.
He's moving her
again, pulling her up to sit on him, easing her down to take him in. His face is scrunched in a grimace of bliss,
and he murmurs her name over and over as she moves. Sometimes it sounds like Vulcan, the words he
says.
He should be
speaking Vulcan to a Vulcan. He should
be perpetuating his race, not spending his seed with her, on her, in her. She thinks he's always been a rebel, even if
she never sees that side of the Spock of her time, only sees it in this wise
and wizened version.
She's seen this
older Spock with Sarek. The two don't get
along; she can tell that even from the distance she keeps. And old Spock and young Spock don't get on,
either. But then her Spock tells the
younger what to do and then can't see how wrong a path that might be for them
both.
"Am I
alive?" she asks as her Spock lies back in post-climax quiet, his lips
turned up ever so slightly. "The me
you knew from that other reality?"
"No. You are dead."
"How do I
die?"
"Not
you. Her. She died helping in an emergency
operation. A shot to the head. Painless, they told me." He clutches her and she leans down and studies
the panic in his eyes. "Not you.
You have a different path.
Everything is different now."
"What
planet? Help me avoid it just in
case?"
He shakes his head
and she knows why. This is
forbidden. This is wrong. This is— "Gamma Ceti
IV."
A place she's
never heard of. She burns it into her
memory now. Gamma Ceti
IV. The place she might die. "When?"
He shakes his
head, runs his hands up and down her body, lingering on her hips, on her
breasts. He pulls her down for a frantic
kiss, his tongue dominating her, his hands making her cry out almost in pain. Then: "You were forty five."
It is a gift or a
curse, but either way she knows now. But
he's right. All is different. Else, how would she be here, on top of him,
riding him to completion. This older,
non-real Spock who loves her.
He loves her. She doesn't love him.
Does she?
"I am to
marry," he says into the silence.
It isn't
unexpected.
What is unexpected
is how much it hurts.
"Will you be
able to hide this once you are bonded?"
She meets his eyes and shows him she can be practical in the midst of
pain.
"Most Vulcans
would not. I...I have had more practice
hiding things."
"Good." It's the wrong answer. She should enjoy what's left and then
go. She shouldn't want this, to be his
secret, his lust on the side.
But she does want
it.
She takes his
hands, pulls them over his head, and kisses him hard. "We don't exist," she says when he
allows her up for air. "We aren't
real."
"We are not
real." But his body, joining with
her even as she holds him prisoner, is more than real. "We do not exist." But he wrenches himself free from her grasp
and rolls so he's on top, so he covers her, owns her, makes her and them and
this more real than anything.
She can barely
breathe when he's done with her. She
chills under the light sheen of sweat, and he wraps her in his arms and the
covers, and kisses the damp off her forehead.
"Did you have
her this way?" She's asked
before. He's never answered.
"I was too
late." He meets her eyes, and there's
profound regret in his. "I waited
too long."
"You aren't
waiting now." At the end of his
life, here he is, taking what he wants finally with a version of her who's
barely lived.
"No, I am not
waiting now." He leans back into
the pillows and draws her with him.
"I can arrange for you to be where I am."
"I
know."
"Do you want
this?"
She does. She doesn't.
She can't think when he touches her.
She can't think when they're apart.
So she stays
silent.
"It is a wise
answer, my Christine."
She isn't sure it
is. She thinks it's a cowardly one.
Until he touches
her again. Until he opens his mind to
her. Until he murmurs that he loves her.
Then, it's the
ultimate bravery to still not answer.
FIN