Fic: Soup on the Wall | Star Trek TOS/XI | Spock/Chapel | NC-17 | 1/1
Title: Soup on the Wall
Fandom: Star Trek TOS/XI
Pairing: Spock/Chapel (both prime), with a hint of Spock Prime/New Chapel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,316
Prompt: For the Porn Battle - Star Trek: TOS, Chapel/Spock, dream, pon farr, crash
Summary: Being ferried to New Vulcan by the Enterprise, Spock doesn't expect to find Nurse Chapel among the crew. He can't help remembering the Christine Chapel he knew, and things that did and didn't happen.
Disclaimer: Paramount and CBS own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Notes: There isn't nearly enough Spock/Chapel fic where the new movie is concerned. This is, of course, a look back at the original Spock/Chapel, through the filter of XI and the memories of an old man.
Soup on the Wall
To be certain, it was not Ambassador Spock's idea to be ferried to New Vulcan aboard the Enterprise. If he'd found another method of transport, he certainly would have taken the opportunity to not have to relive a thousand memories of another time, friendships that flourished and crises that occurred so long ago from his perspective, that may never even happen for his younger counterpart.
But here he is, two days into a five-day journey, and finally incapable of spending another moment in seclusion, avoiding those memories and the crew that know, if only instinctively in many cases, that there's something special and important about his presence. Unable to sleep for the first time in many years, and feeling every bit his age for it, he makes his way toward this Enterprise's Sickbay, hoping to meet the night shift, and not a certain doctor he knew so well, certain that whomever is on duty will simply provide a mild sedative and let him continue on his way.
Naturally, he gets turned around on F-Deck, and only realizes after checking at a computer station in the corridor that this ship's Sickbay is on G-Deck. So many changes. He doesn't want to think about it, but it's difficult when they get him lost on a ship he should know like the back of his hand. It's frustrating in a way he isn't sure he'll ever admit.
Things only get worse when the double doors slide open to admit him to the infirmary.
He hadn't anticipated the presence of the woman that greets him; she shouldn't be here, not for several years yet, shouldn't even be out of the Academy for some time.
Never the less, she's here, and the bottom of Spock's stomach drops away with his shock.
The Christine Chapel of this timeline comes forward to usher him in, asking with a soft expression, “Ambassador Selek, is there something you need?”
Her fingertips barely brushing his shoulder prompts him forward from his spot in the middle of the doorway, and he shakes his head slightly and manages to close his mouth where he realizes his jaw has dropped open. “I was having trouble sleeping,” he admits, pulling himself together and straightening fully, trying to regain a modicum of his dignity in the face of this ghost from his past.
Chapel nods with a gentle smile, understanding, and directs him to a biobed. “I'll see what I can do.”
As he sits, folding his hands in his lap, she turns to grab a medical tricorder and a hypo, then returns and begins her quick examination, running the bullet-shaped hand scanner over him, up one arm, over his head, and down the other arm.
Spock can't help watching her intently. This Christine Chapel is so young, younger than he'd ever known his own timeline's Chapel, her shining blonde hair pulled back in a stylish twist, her dark blue uniform dress crisp, and her face completely unlined still. She seems at once more innocent and yet more world-weary than the Christine he knew, her brow furrowed slightly as she interprets the tricorder's readings.
When she replaces the hand scanner and tilts her head, eyes glinting with curiosity in the bright lights of the infirmary, the memories wash over him in an unyielding torrent.
The young nurse watching over him as he lay ill or injured. A hundred shy smiles she thought he never saw. Kind words when he needed them, even if he would never have admitted such. A bowl of plomeek soup when he―
He feels completely transported to that time and space, seeing her face again, real and alive and so very much like the woman that had once done everything in her power to help him in his time of most urgent need. He had been so young, himself, taller, leaner, and strong. And what he'd needed, well, he'd known it would have hurt her in unimaginable ways.
That hadn't stopped the fantasy from overtaking him when the blood-fever had begun, though. Hours spent secluded in his quarters, dreaming of ripping that pristine uniform from her body, pressing her into the mattress, tasting, biting, twining his fingers into her hair to rip it down from her intricate up-do, gripping her thighs and hips tight enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, taking everything his biology demanded he take from her, rutting into her like an animal as she screamed and panted beneath him, writhing and flushed. He'd been so consumed by the images his mind had conjured that he'd stroked himself until he came in his fist, over and over, never finding the relief he'd needed.
He supposes it was a good thing the soup had ended up on the wall, tray and utensils crashing and clattering to the floor in the corridor. Sending her away had been the only way to keep her safe from what he'd become. Later, after he was well and whole again, the memory of the feverish fantasy had stayed with him, vivid enough to force him to keep his distance. She'd smile, and he'd see himself pulling her hair roughly, biting at the pulse in her neck, marking her as his. She'd return one of Doctor McCoy's gripes with a smirk and chastising expression, and he'd see himself sinking into her, drawing out a breathless scream.
In time, of course, his visceral reaction to her had faded, but not until many years had passed, and Nurse Chapel had become Doctor Chapel, a CMO notorious for her no-nonsense bedside manner. His CMO after Kirk had left the Enterprise, McCoy in tow into semi-retirement. By then, it had hardly seemed appropriate to indulge in the whims of their youth, even if, to Spock, Christine was still the vision she had been as a younger woman, the vision standing before him now.
“Ambassador?”
Pulled out of his thoughts by another gentle touch to his arm, he draws himself up again, blinking away the illusion that confronted him so boldly.
“You don't seem ill,” she says, probably for the second time, he realizes. “Temperature and heart rate seem normal, despite a small spike in both there for a moment. A little dehydration, but nothing a few glasses of water won't fix. No other signs of flu or anything else viral or bacterial. I can give you a mild sedative to help you sleep, if you like.”
Spock closes his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to look away from her soft smile, and nods. “It would be greatly appreciated.”
After a moment, he feels her strong hand land on his forearm to offer a quick squeeze through his tunic sleeve as the hypospray is pressed into his neck, and he swallows hard at the way his body tries to betray him at the touch, chest and gut aching with old grief.
“I can get the mess to prepare you some hot tea and plomeek soup, too, and bring it to you. You look like you could use a little comfort food.”
He can't help jerking his head up at that and blinking at her. Soft, warm eyes, a caring smile, offering something he'd rejected so firmly once, something so innocent and caring.
“Can you ever forgive me?” he murmurs before he can stop the words from escaping.
She tilts her head at him again. “I'm sorry?”
“I apologize,” he covers quickly, shaking his head minutely. “Just the musings of a foolish old man. I would gladly accept a bowl of plomeek soup, Nurse Chapel. Thank you.”
Her smile widens and she pats him on the arm. “I'll bring it to your quarters shortly, so you can get some rest. And please, you can call me Christine, Ambassador,” she finishes with a hint of a wink that he might just be imagining.
Nodding in return as his chest begins to ache more fully, Spock takes his leave, heading for D-Deck, the image of the young woman he once knew dancing on his memories. This time, there will be no soup on the wall.
* * * * *
Fandom: Star Trek TOS/XI
Pairing: Spock/Chapel (both prime), with a hint of Spock Prime/New Chapel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,316
Prompt: For the Porn Battle - Star Trek: TOS, Chapel/Spock, dream, pon farr, crash
Summary: Being ferried to New Vulcan by the Enterprise, Spock doesn't expect to find Nurse Chapel among the crew. He can't help remembering the Christine Chapel he knew, and things that did and didn't happen.
Disclaimer: Paramount and CBS own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Notes: There isn't nearly enough Spock/Chapel fic where the new movie is concerned. This is, of course, a look back at the original Spock/Chapel, through the filter of XI and the memories of an old man.
Soup on the Wall
To be certain, it was not Ambassador Spock's idea to be ferried to New Vulcan aboard the Enterprise. If he'd found another method of transport, he certainly would have taken the opportunity to not have to relive a thousand memories of another time, friendships that flourished and crises that occurred so long ago from his perspective, that may never even happen for his younger counterpart.
But here he is, two days into a five-day journey, and finally incapable of spending another moment in seclusion, avoiding those memories and the crew that know, if only instinctively in many cases, that there's something special and important about his presence. Unable to sleep for the first time in many years, and feeling every bit his age for it, he makes his way toward this Enterprise's Sickbay, hoping to meet the night shift, and not a certain doctor he knew so well, certain that whomever is on duty will simply provide a mild sedative and let him continue on his way.
Naturally, he gets turned around on F-Deck, and only realizes after checking at a computer station in the corridor that this ship's Sickbay is on G-Deck. So many changes. He doesn't want to think about it, but it's difficult when they get him lost on a ship he should know like the back of his hand. It's frustrating in a way he isn't sure he'll ever admit.
Things only get worse when the double doors slide open to admit him to the infirmary.
He hadn't anticipated the presence of the woman that greets him; she shouldn't be here, not for several years yet, shouldn't even be out of the Academy for some time.
Never the less, she's here, and the bottom of Spock's stomach drops away with his shock.
The Christine Chapel of this timeline comes forward to usher him in, asking with a soft expression, “Ambassador Selek, is there something you need?”
Her fingertips barely brushing his shoulder prompts him forward from his spot in the middle of the doorway, and he shakes his head slightly and manages to close his mouth where he realizes his jaw has dropped open. “I was having trouble sleeping,” he admits, pulling himself together and straightening fully, trying to regain a modicum of his dignity in the face of this ghost from his past.
Chapel nods with a gentle smile, understanding, and directs him to a biobed. “I'll see what I can do.”
As he sits, folding his hands in his lap, she turns to grab a medical tricorder and a hypo, then returns and begins her quick examination, running the bullet-shaped hand scanner over him, up one arm, over his head, and down the other arm.
Spock can't help watching her intently. This Christine Chapel is so young, younger than he'd ever known his own timeline's Chapel, her shining blonde hair pulled back in a stylish twist, her dark blue uniform dress crisp, and her face completely unlined still. She seems at once more innocent and yet more world-weary than the Christine he knew, her brow furrowed slightly as she interprets the tricorder's readings.
When she replaces the hand scanner and tilts her head, eyes glinting with curiosity in the bright lights of the infirmary, the memories wash over him in an unyielding torrent.
The young nurse watching over him as he lay ill or injured. A hundred shy smiles she thought he never saw. Kind words when he needed them, even if he would never have admitted such. A bowl of plomeek soup when he―
He feels completely transported to that time and space, seeing her face again, real and alive and so very much like the woman that had once done everything in her power to help him in his time of most urgent need. He had been so young, himself, taller, leaner, and strong. And what he'd needed, well, he'd known it would have hurt her in unimaginable ways.
That hadn't stopped the fantasy from overtaking him when the blood-fever had begun, though. Hours spent secluded in his quarters, dreaming of ripping that pristine uniform from her body, pressing her into the mattress, tasting, biting, twining his fingers into her hair to rip it down from her intricate up-do, gripping her thighs and hips tight enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, taking everything his biology demanded he take from her, rutting into her like an animal as she screamed and panted beneath him, writhing and flushed. He'd been so consumed by the images his mind had conjured that he'd stroked himself until he came in his fist, over and over, never finding the relief he'd needed.
He supposes it was a good thing the soup had ended up on the wall, tray and utensils crashing and clattering to the floor in the corridor. Sending her away had been the only way to keep her safe from what he'd become. Later, after he was well and whole again, the memory of the feverish fantasy had stayed with him, vivid enough to force him to keep his distance. She'd smile, and he'd see himself pulling her hair roughly, biting at the pulse in her neck, marking her as his. She'd return one of Doctor McCoy's gripes with a smirk and chastising expression, and he'd see himself sinking into her, drawing out a breathless scream.
In time, of course, his visceral reaction to her had faded, but not until many years had passed, and Nurse Chapel had become Doctor Chapel, a CMO notorious for her no-nonsense bedside manner. His CMO after Kirk had left the Enterprise, McCoy in tow into semi-retirement. By then, it had hardly seemed appropriate to indulge in the whims of their youth, even if, to Spock, Christine was still the vision she had been as a younger woman, the vision standing before him now.
“Ambassador?”
Pulled out of his thoughts by another gentle touch to his arm, he draws himself up again, blinking away the illusion that confronted him so boldly.
“You don't seem ill,” she says, probably for the second time, he realizes. “Temperature and heart rate seem normal, despite a small spike in both there for a moment. A little dehydration, but nothing a few glasses of water won't fix. No other signs of flu or anything else viral or bacterial. I can give you a mild sedative to help you sleep, if you like.”
Spock closes his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to look away from her soft smile, and nods. “It would be greatly appreciated.”
After a moment, he feels her strong hand land on his forearm to offer a quick squeeze through his tunic sleeve as the hypospray is pressed into his neck, and he swallows hard at the way his body tries to betray him at the touch, chest and gut aching with old grief.
“I can get the mess to prepare you some hot tea and plomeek soup, too, and bring it to you. You look like you could use a little comfort food.”
He can't help jerking his head up at that and blinking at her. Soft, warm eyes, a caring smile, offering something he'd rejected so firmly once, something so innocent and caring.
“Can you ever forgive me?” he murmurs before he can stop the words from escaping.
She tilts her head at him again. “I'm sorry?”
“I apologize,” he covers quickly, shaking his head minutely. “Just the musings of a foolish old man. I would gladly accept a bowl of plomeek soup, Nurse Chapel. Thank you.”
Her smile widens and she pats him on the arm. “I'll bring it to your quarters shortly, so you can get some rest. And please, you can call me Christine, Ambassador,” she finishes with a hint of a wink that he might just be imagining.
Nodding in return as his chest begins to ache more fully, Spock takes his leave, heading for D-Deck, the image of the young woman he once knew dancing on his memories. This time, there will be no soup on the wall.
* * * * *