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When Spock found himself in front of the sick bay, he was not entirely surprised. He still had a chance to turn back and retire to his quarters, and no one would be any the wiser. It was—he was sure of it—the more logical choice, but his logic was always disturbed when it came to Christine. His efforts to suppress it for years notwithstanding.
Spock exhaled and entered the sick bay. It was empty. He followed the sound of glass clinking and entered the lab area. As he expected, Christine had buried herself in work, reorganizing the entire content of the storage cabinets, moving fast and efficiently, quite unaware of her surroundings.
“Nurse,” Spock said, as she put down a beaker.
Christine stiffened. “Mister Spock.” She didn’t turn around. “Doctor McCoy isn’t here.”
“I’m looking for you.”
Christine let out a shaky breath, so quiet that if Spock were a human, he wouldn’t hear it. He walked closer, past the table, and stopped a few steps away from her. Neither said anything. The hair around the nape of her back was messy, in need of combing. Was it still as soft as it used to be? Spock clasped his hands behind his back. Thoughts were just thoughts, but they could be dangerous.
“Is there a problem?” Christine asked, finally facing him, her eyes red but dry.
“I thought”—Spock shifted, uncomfortable and uncertain, wanting to help, unsure of his welcome—“you could use… a friend.”
Christine smiled sadly. “That’s… that’s kind of you, Mister Spock.”
“I am sorry your search for Roger Korby didn’t have a more desired outcome.”
Christine folded her arms over her chest, and Spock knew it was a bad thing to say. “Can we… can we not talk about it?” Christine looked at the ground, her fingers digging into her upper arm.
Spock nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. Perhaps, he should have never come. He was never able to offer her the comfort she wanted. He never knew how. “Do you… want help?” The thought of leaving her alone left Spock with an unpleasant feeling.
Christine startled. Spock took a beaker and gave her a questioning look. Her eyes softened and maybe, maybe Spock made the right choice.
“You can take care of the left cabinet,” Christine said. “It’s been already labeled.”
They worked in silence; the only sound was the clinking of beakers and flasks, so when the glass shattered, it was loud. Christine stood still, tears running down her face. Quiet, so quiet. Spock felt his body moving. How long had she been crying? He embraced her, his fingers burying in her hair—still so soft and beautiful.
Christine dug her fingers into Spock’s back, pressing closer, as if she wanted to crawl inside him, as if he could protect her from reality.
“Christine,” Spock murmured, and she buried her face into his chest, sobbing, her shoulders shaking. Spock ran a soothing hand over her back and kept quiet, hoping his presence and touch would be enough. Could ever be enough.
Later, she’d apologize. He’d tell her that crying was a human prerogative. She’d smile and they’d part not quite awkwardly, knowing that nothing had changed.
And later still, late into his meditation, he’d regret not telling her he was glad she decided to stay with the ship and would lock the feeling deep down.