Disclaimer: If I owned Star Trek, this would be an Oscar award-winning film starring Kristen Bell and Zachary Quinto, with a non-canonical (at least as far as this story is concerned) cameo by Walter Koenig. Obviously it is not, so...Yeah.


Weeks had passed since the first time Christine had seen Spock in the intensive care unit; it had also been the last.

Miraculously, though partially owing to his Vulcan physiology, he swiftly recovered and wasted no time in returning to his designated duties; though, despite his eagerness to return to the Enterprise, Starfleet assigned him a temporary senior position at Starfleet Academy.

Christine, on the other hand, was promoted to a teaching position at the Academy -- a completely different atmosphere from her usual substituting job or the halls of Starfleet Medical Headquarters. She was also promoted, though quietly; Lieutenant Chapel was now Lieutenant Commander Chapel.

She was finally getting the respect (and the salary) she had always craved; she had to admit, it was rather pleasant.


"That's totally not a word, Christine."

"Are you kidding me, Ab? Don't you read?"

Christine and Abigail Chapel were seated across from each other cross-legged on the floor of the Chapel family living room. An electronic Scrabble board was placed between them, which gave off a blue glow in the dimness of the living room; Abigail's small five-year-old daughter, Naomi, was asleep on the sofa behind them.

"Nihilarian. It's a person who dwells on unimportant things. Here's an example; you are a nihilarian because you are wasting time arguing with me about it."

Abigail rolled her eyes. "I still don't believe you."

"Maybe you can ask your little boy toy Pavel," jeered Christine.

"Christine, you're just jealous that I can keep a man."

Christine glanced at the coffee table next to her and opened a drawer; she then tossed a heavy object to her sister. "What the hell is this?" she said, scanning the ancient artifact in her hands.

"A dictionary. You know that mom loves antiques," Christine answered, smirking.

Suddenly, her personal communicator rang.

"And while you are looking that up, I'll go answer this," Christine said, pulled her communicator from her pocket and walking into the kitchen; she did not want to wake her niece with her conversation.

Not bothering to even look at the caller identification, she lifted the communicator to her ear. "Hello?"

A familiar voice answered, one which she promptly interrupted midway through its formal greeting.

"How did you get this number?"

"That is irrelevant. I am already in possession of it, so it would impossible to disband."

"Alright, fine. Why are you calling me?"

"Would it be possible for us to conduct a meeting?"

"Erm," Christine said, glancing at the timepiece on the wall. "It's nearly eight…Ugh. Yeah, sure, what the heck. When and where?"

"Does within the next hour sound agreeable to you?"

"Yeah, alright."

There goes her Saturday night.

Shortly after he gave her the location, Christine was back in the living room, grabbing her jacket that was on the back of the arm chair.

"Hey, where ya going?" Abigail asked.

"I'm…conducting a meeting with a colleague." She avoided any specifics with her gossip-hungry sister.

"Conducting a meeting? Sounds sexual."

"Shut up," Christine groaned, pulling on her jacket. "I guess I'll see you later. I'll go back to my place afterwards."

"You mean you both will go to your place afterwards."

Christine rolled her eyes at her younger sister as she walked towards the front door.

"Don't you have a word to look up?"

And with that, Christine slammed the door behind her and trudged out into the chilly night air.


"Decaf, please."

The waitress nodded and went to prepare her order.

The small coffee shop was anything but crowded; the reason may have been the lateness of the hour, but its nook-like location may have also played a factor. Christine was seat at a small, circular table in the back.

"Lieutenant Commander." A familiar, stiff voice sounded above her, causing Christine to look up at the source.

There before the table stood Spock, but there was something disturbingly different about him; disturbingly different, of course, if one would consider the fact that instead of his usual Starfleet regalia, he was sporting normal clothing.

Christine suddenly wondered who died, or if Vulcans could suddenly contract multiple personality disorder.

But, despite the fact that this was the first time she had seen him without a Starfleet-designated uniform, the blackness of his attire seemed to resonate a similar professional vibe. There was no separating the Vulcan from formality; to do so would take away his very identity.

Spock sat down in the chair opposite hers. The waitress suddenly appeared, coffee in hand. She handed Christine the steaming cup and just as Christine reached into her jacket pocket to grab a couple of credits, Spock waved her off. Before she even realized it, he had handed her enough credits to be her tip for the entire week.

"You didn't have to do that, you know," Christine mumbled as the happy waitress walked away. "I had enough. You didn't even order anything."

"I do not want any coffee," he merely stated. "Are you well?"

"I'm back at work."

"You did not answer my question, Lieutenant Commander."

"If I answer your question, will you finally stop addressing me by rank? It's irritating. My name's Christine."

A moment of uncomfortable silence passed between them.

Christine sighed. "Yes, I've been recovering well. I had the last of my stitches taken out of my forehead just last week."

"I am pleased to hear that, Christine."

Christine doubted it pleased Vulcans to hear anything, but something in his tone seemed to resonate otherwise.

"And I guess you're doing okay?" she asked, tilting her head slightly to the side.

"It would be false to say that I am completely recovered, though I suppose I should consider myself lucky, as you Humans put it."

"I'm sorry." she took a long sip from the small cup of steaming coffee.

"There is nothing for which you are to apologize for."

"I would say otherwise, but I know you'll only refute it."

He nodded. "That is probable."

Christine could not help but smile. For once, his witty honesty did not make her mentally cringe.

Spock glanced at the digital timepiece on the wall. It was nearing nine o'clock. "The hour is growing late."

"Erm, yeah," Christine said, suddenly standing. "Maybe I should go."

"Allow me to walk you home. You do not live in the most innocuous part of the city."

She shrugged her shoulders. "If you want to. It's just up the street. I guess you can just catch the bus from there, or something."

As they made their way towards the door, Christine tossed her cup into a small recyclable bin.

"Sure beats that replicated stuff back on the Enterprise," she mumbled, pushing open the door and feeling the cold rush of winter blow onto her face.

They both took a left and began to make their way up the sidewalk, hands in pockets to shield themselves from the chilly wind.

Their short journey uphill was silent, save for the slight whirring of the wind in their ears and the whooshing of the vehicles going by.

He followed her into the lobby of her apartment building and they entered the newly-repaired elevator lift. As they reached her door, Christine turned to face him, but kept a respectable distance between them.

"Thanks, I guess. Roger would never have done that." She mentally kicked herself. Roger was an off-topic subject for her; she forced herself to stop thinking about him over the course of time, let alone talk about him.

"It was no hindrance," he replied simply.

And then, they just stood there. Christine counted the long seconds that seemed to turn into everlasting minutes. The words that then fell from her mouth surprised even her.

"Are we ever going to talk about it?"

He remained silent, staring intently at the ground.

"I suppose not," she answered for him, and turned to unlock her front door. Just as she was about to slide her key card into the small slot next to the door, Spock's sudden grip on her wrist pulled her backward. His strong hands moved from her wrist to her shoulders, steadying her.

Suddenly, a pair of persistent lips violently pressed upon her unsuspecting ones, causing her knees to wobble slightly. They pulled away as quickly as they arrived, leaving her wanting more. She looked up at him and smiled. She reached up and wrapped her arms around him, realizing what she had been missing for the past eighteen months.

"Right blue shirt," she whispered as she buried her face into the warm crook of his neck.

THE END…or is it? Trust me, a sequel is on it's way.

Also, I posted a brand new trailer for this story, so go watch it!


A/N: I hope everyone got what she meant by that last line, "Right blue shirt." If not, go reread the second half of Chapter 17, and quite possibly the first half of Chapter 18. But aside from that, AWW. FINALLY.

And what is in store for out favorite couple in the next installment? Maybe a little bit of alternate reality selves, maybe a little bit of twist and turns, maybe even a little bit of baby-making. Heck, I dunno, actually. So don't take any of that seriously.

Now the only thing to complete this cornucopia of love is if J.J. Abrams called me up and would ask if he could use this story as the script for the next Star Trek movie. Then I'd be happy. Heck, he wouldn't even have to pay me. I'd be rich in happiness.

Oh, and a couple of days ago was the 5 month anniversary of my posting this story. Holy wow, time sure does cruise on by when you're having fun. Heck, I never even thought I'd ever make it this far, let alone stay on the project this long.