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) 2022 by Djinn. This story is Rated PG-13.

Safety in Assumptions

by Djinn

It starts with small things because Pike and Chapel both assume the other is involved. She watches him with Number One and sees a chemistry there, such regard on the part of her CO for his first officer. He watches her with Spock and feels sorry for T'Pring, who has also watched these two, their chemistry, and thinks a little less of Spock for trying to have them both.

They are so sure of their assessments they don't notice how far they've let their guard down with each other.

At a captain's breakfast, with several new crew, when she stays to clean up, somehow effortlessly joining the "in" group—if cleaning can be considered a perk.

In the gym, when he discovers she ran cross country like he did, and they program the simulators to make a course that could be either Washington or Montana. They both like to run at a pace that lets them talk while they run. He discovers she loves horses but never had one.

In sickbay, after a mission gone wrong, when he's tired of being on a biobed, tired of staring at the ceiling, and she comes out with dual headphones and a padd, and they watch a documentary about wild mustangs. She cries when the horses are rounded up and sold, and apologizes because she thought the vid had a happy ending.

He tells her very few things do.

She sees a sadness in him as he says it that she can't understand. He's one of—if not the—best captain in the Fleet. He has this beautiful ship with his amazing crew. He has Number One, who clearly adores him.

And yet he is so sad.

Sadness is something she finds hard to resist trying to make better. She knew too much of it growing up, knows how it can shape a person, warp them even if they can't escape it. She wants to help him.

But it's not her place to do it.

He feels her care, though. How thorough she is with the way she checks his vitals, how sweet as she cajoles him into eating things he could make ten times better if they'd just let him get the hell out of sickbay.

When he's released, he can't wait to get back to his quarters, and he and Una have a celebratory "sprung from sickbay" drink.

And as he watches her sip her scotch, he realizes he wishes it were Chapel there instead, sipping the rye she likes so much.

Spock is a lucky man.

She finds herself in the mess one day, unable to decide what to choose because nothing feels "real" and she's homesick, which doesn't happen much but maybe running on a track that looks so much like the Olympic Peninsula is a bad idea.

She and the captain have taken that back up now that he's healed.

She misses having him to herself in sickbay. She'd like to think it's just her way to miss her patients once they're gone, but it's actually not. She prefers sickbay empty, so she knows the crew is fine and she can work on her projects in peace.

With him, though, she found her projects taking second place.

So here she is in the mess, with only a few crewmen to see her indecision. She should just pick something and eat it and stop wallowing in whatever is making her feel this way.

He can't sleep and he goes to the mess not for food, because he can make that himself, but for company, and he sees her, shoulders bent, hands clenched on the tray she holds as she stares at the menu.

He recognizes the stance, the uncertainty, maybe even pain, behind it. He moves closer but she doesn't seem to notice.

"What's your favorite comfort food?" he asks softly, moving directly behind her—too close to her, if they didn't have their assumptions to keep them safe.

"Fried bologna sandwiches. But the ones this thing makes aren't right."

He takes her tray and puts it back, then nods toward the door. "I make them great."

She follows him to his quarters, sits at the counter that's normally filled with happy crew waiting to be fed amazingly well by their captain, and enjoys just watching him work. He understands the bologna should be fried, not the whole sandwich. That the cheese goes on the bread to semi-melt later, isn't melted on the meat. And he asks her "Butter? Mayo?"

And she smiles and asks for what would make it perfect, because it's him and who knows what he has in his pantry? "Honey mustard."

"Yes." His smile is so full of approval she can't help but grin back. "No lettuce or tomato, right?" His look tells her he'll think less of her if she ruins this sandwich with something healthy.

"Nutrition be damned." She knows her eyes are too sparkly but he's taken, so it's fine. He's not the kind of man who would cheat on his girlfriend. No more than Spock is.

He dishes it up, turns and assesses her, asking, "straight or diagonal?" He knows his grin is far too goofy, the one he gets when he finds a woman so charming he loses all his cool.

She cocks her head at him as if to say, "Really?"

And he cuts it diagonally and sets it in front of her.

It smells like everything she remembers, like exactly what she wants, and she remembers to ask, "Aren't you eating?" and getting his shake of negation before digging in.

Heaven, it is heaven.

He laughs as he watches her, and then pours himself a scotch and her a rye and brings both bottles with him as he sits down next to her. "I almost wish I'd made one for myself."

And then she surprises him. She moves the plate between them and points to the untouched half. "Eat."

She holds her sandwich up. "But first we toast. With bread and whatever the hell bologna really is and the best honey mustard I've ever had."

He takes the other half and lifts it, charmed by this ridiculous toast, charmed by the way her eyes sparkle, charmed by the throaty laugh as she says, "Dig in, cap'n."

Charmed but knowing he can't have the one who charms him. The safe way to live when you know you won't live forever.

He just hopes Spock won't challenge him with a lirpa because Erica has told him too many stories about those to think he could win.

"This is really good," he says between bites, and she nods and makes the kind of "yum yum yum" sounds that come from deep within a person, not put on, not fake.

"Are you happy here, Christine?"

"In this kitchen eating a fried bologna sandwich? Yes, sir."

"Call me, Chris." It suddenly strikes him that she might be called that too. "Do you normally go by Chris?"

She turns to him with a strange look, a "how did we get from are you happy to this?" look. But she shakes her head. "I only like it from certain people. Most people just call me Christine."

"I meant are you happy on the ship—and who gets to call you Chris?"

She sips her rye and studies him, her eyes sparkling but in a different way, a confused way. He has made her this wonderful sandwich and now is asking weirdly personal questions.

Although if she is happy on his ship is a question always permitted.

"I am happy. And it's complicated about who calls me Chris. It's not like I let my lovers call me that but no one else. It's not like I was called that growing up and so if you call me that, I know you know me from way back when. It's like..." How to explain this name to someone who also uses it, but all the time. "A person has to claim it, like want the right to use it and I have to give them that right. Just because someone thinks I'm Chris, doesn't mean I want them to call me that."

He moves closer because he finds this fascinating. He finds her fascinating. He can smell the perfume she wears—something clean smelling and slightly tropical—can appreciate how little make-up she wears and still looks so pretty. Can relish how smart she is, how quick with her answers, how easily she interacts with him.

"I want to call you Chris when we're alone."

"That would get very confusing." Also she knows times like these will be few and far between. She cannot imagine Number One would like to hear that she is here now, sitting so close to her lover, talking about names just for him and being alone.

"I'll chance it if you will. Chris."

"Say it again."

He does and she decides it doesn't sound right, not here, not when she's not really a Chris on the ship. "No. Pick something else if you really want a pet name."

He can think of many names. She has no doubt been called the diminutive but Chrissie just doesn't suit her. C.P. sounds ridiculous. Maybe he doesn't need to try to carve out something special between them with a pet name just because he cooked her— Wait, yes, that. "Fobs."

"Excuse me?" She is laughing; he has taken her by surprise and so few do.

"For fried bologna sandwich."

She can't decide if she likes it or not. But she doesn’t hate it, and she likes the idea behind it. "But I don't know what to call you."

"I guess you'll have to find out." He's flirting but he doesn't care anymore. Spock is still with T'Pring as far as he can tell and this woman deserves better.

She sees his eyes sparkle, the shyness suddenly in his smile. Is he flirting? He is, he definitely is. And she likes it. She really does. But..."Sir, I'd rather not be snapped in two like a twig when Number One finds out I have a pet name for you."

He makes a face—what the hell is she talking about? He loves Una with all his heart, but they've been there and done that and romance didn't work. "Well, I'm sure Mister Spock won't be thrilled if I call you Fobs."

She frowns, as much because of the sudden snottiness in his voice—he sounds like a little boy who just had his favorite toy taken away—as at the ludicrous nature of his statement. "Why would Spock care?" Okay, Spock might because sometimes he was annoying and seemed like he wanted the best of both worlds. But they're just friends.

"You're not with him?"

"He's with another woman. And so are you, so no, no, no." She wants to storm out, but it's so nice in here, so quiet and homey in a ship that's often too sterile, too white and silver and...lonely. So she takes another sip of her drink.

"I'm actually not with another woman. So I guess what we're saying here is we're both free agents."

There is a very long silence that falls over them, as both play back their interactions, their assumptions, the liberties they've allowed because of what they thought versus what was real.

They both sit very still, and drink their drinks, and then he pours them more and he says, "So. Um. That changes things."

She doesn't look at him. "Sure does."

"I'm the captain and I set the tone. If I have ever made you feel uncomfortable, then I want to apolo—"

"Shut up, Chris." She says his name so easily it makes him smile, but she still doesn't look at him.

"I enjoy you," she finally says, once her second glass is nearly empty.

"Yeah. Yeah, me too." He thinks there should be an awkwardness blanketing the weird spells of silence, but there isn't.

It's more as if they are both processing this and arriving...where?

When he pours them both third glasses, she finally looks at him. He says softly, "We can forget we ever cleared this up if it's easier."

She nods but it's the kind of nod that means a person is accepting your proposal as something worthy of thought, not accepting it outright. "What if I don't want to forget?"

"That's undiscovered territory. I uhhh, other than Una long ago, don't get involved romantically with my crew."

"I'm medical and M'Benga tells me often we're special—independent. And also a civilian."

"Yes. Yes, you are." He's thought that so many times. How she's in the pool so many commanding officers fish from because it's safe and you can even serve on the same ship if you get lucky. "But Spock. You and him..."

"We're friends. If he weren't bonded, we might be more. But, we might not. He's a good friend, though. Essential. The same way I think Number One is to you."

He realizes they are negotiating their way to something. Working out parameters. But this will take forever and he hates protocol. "So, are you interested in me?"

She doesn't seem to mind. But she's always spoken her mind. "I am. Are you int—"

"I am." He doesn't even let her finish.

"Okay, then." She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I...I may have commitment issues."

"I can work with that." Although eventually he'll need to tell her he has the ultimate commitment issue.

Will they get that far?

Will they get far enough to care what happens in ten years?

Or will this just be for a while.

He finds he's okay with whatever happens. "I'm not sure we can be more open than we already are."

"Sadly, I have experience being with the man in charge." She doesn't want to think about Roger, how things ended, why she's here. She just wants to think about this kind man who she really likes and somehow has fallen at least in lust with and maybe also in love—because she didn't know she had to keep her guard up.

"I want to take it slow," he says as he reaches out and pushes her hair away from her face. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah, actually. Slow is great." She does something she's wanted to for some time. She touches his hair, expecting it to be crunchy with styling product but it's soft.

"Do not start on the hair, Fobs." He frowns. "Does that name work?"

"I kind of don't think so. Also, it would be less obvious we're ummm doing whatever this is if you just call me what you've always called me. I mean why bother with a pet name if you might have me?"

Wow, that sounded like something someone who could be okay with commitment would say—not her. But she's okay with it, doesn't want to take it back. She studies him, the soft smile, the gentle eyes, the lovely way he takes care of people while still being so strong. "You're really, really pretty."

He laughs. "I know. It's a curse." But he's grinning in a way that says it's really not and they both know that to be true, because she too, is really, really pretty and in the same way.

Kind. Smart. Caring.

And alone.

They don't kiss. Even though they both want to, even though they could. They could rush things, and this would be like many other relationships they've had, where the goal was a friend they could have sex with rather than a sexual partner who was a deep, dear friend.

They sit on his couch, take antitox before switching to decaf coffee, and talk.

FIN