Christine Chapel looked at her mournful face in the mirror. "'Whatever happens, Chris, you're choosing this'," she said, mocking herself in falsetto. She washed her hands and patted a few wayward strands of hair into place. She tried a bright smile for the benefit of her reflection, but the corners slipped back down, as if pulled by the artificial gravity field.

A man was coming to call. The wrong man, unfortunately.

Right on time, her door alert chirped. Ted Ramos stood at her threshold.

Only a woman who was sadly out of touch with reality would consider Ted Ramos the wrong man. He was dark and handsome; he wasn't particularly tall by Christine's yardstick, but many women would think otherwise. He was funny and nice and attentive, and…

And Christine was clearly an idiot.

"Hi, Ted; come on in," she said.

He looked a bit unsure at this. "Weren't we going to dinner?" He followed her inside.

"I'm going to have to cancel on you," she said.

His brow creased with concern. "Are you sick?"

She laughed shortly. "Not physically. But mentally?" She shrugged.

He gave her a wary look. "You're really canceling on me, aren't you? Not just dinner."

She looked down at her hands. "Yeah. I'm sorry."

"Why?" he asked. Christine looked up at him, but he neither looked nor sounded angry. He seemed genuinely curious.

"Why am I sorry, or why am I canceling?" She made an impatient gesture with her hand. "I'm a little ashamed of myself, Ted. I guess I was… well, I was using you to make someone jealous."

He gave her a crooked smile that made her stomach do a little flip-flop. "Did it work?"

"Yeah, but not in a good way."

"Ouch. That sounds unpleasant."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You're not upset with me?"

He shrugged. "I went out with a pretty girl who's never dated anyone else on this tub; you're terra incognita hereabouts, Chris. My buddies think I'm a miracle worker."

"Oh," she said, feeling a bit hurt, absurdly enough. "Well, good."

"Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't be opposed to taking things to the next level, but…" He grinned, a slash of white bracketed by deep dimples. "I'm not looking for a great love or anything; I just like to have fun."

"You're a lot of fun to be with, Ted," Christine said.

"Just tell me—you're in love with this… I'm assuming it's a guy, right?" He didn't wait for her acknowledgement before moving on. "Does he feel the same way about you?" Her expression clouded, and he nodded. "So what can it hurt to keep having fun with me?"

"It's not about how he feels; it's about how I feel."

He sighed and shook his head. "God, you're so serious, Christine." He stepped in close, taking her face between his callused palms, and kissed her.

The man could kiss like a champion, just the right amounts of tongue and teeth and saliva, and he smelled like a master perfumer's interpretation of a sunlit grove of cedars. When he released her she took a deep, steadying breath, and he laughed.

"I am such an idiot," Christine said. "And you are a gentleman."

He went to the door and pressed the button to open it. "Nope. It just does me no good to beat my head against an immovable object. I really hope you can figure that out for yourself; makes life easier. I'll see you around." He smiled again, an easy, no-blood, no-foul smile.

"See you, Ted."

The door hissed shut.

Spock watched Christine as she walked through Sickbay. Her hair was pulled back in an uncharacteristically sloppy ponytail, as though she had dressed hastily. Her progress was slow and pained, but she was stubborn and remained on her feet.

McCoy also watched her, his expression clearly displeased, but whether this was due to her decreased efficiency or her temerity in reporting to duty after being ordered to quarters by McCoy himself, Spock didn't know.

McCoy beckoned her to the side of the room; at this distance human hearing wouldn't have picked up what he said to her, but Spock heard with little difficulty.

"Chapel, you're supposed to be on quarters; if you continue you're in direct violation of a lawful order."

"You going military on me, Doctor?" she asked, and tried to step around him.

He grabbed her by her shoulders and she winced; Spock took a startled breath, trying to sit, but the anti-gravity restraints on his Biobed kept him immobile; they'd been losing gravity control for days, due to a skirmish with the Klingons that had taken a sharp and unexpected turn for the worse.

"You're unfit for duty; we're tripping all over you." Regret crossed McCoy's face as Christine's face bloomed with hurt, angry color. "You did a fine job setting up the triage, but you need to return to quarters now that we've got things back under control."

She nodded even as she scowled, and slowly left Sickbay.

"Damn fool woman," McCoy muttered, watching her leave. "Broken back 36 hours ago, and she's trying to haul things around like a stevedore."

Spock cleared his throat. "Has Nurse Chapel re-injured herself, Doctor?"

McCoy blinked at him, as if only realizing Spock was there. "I don't think so. But she's got no business in here until I've cleared her." He stalked to the side of Spock's bed and glanced at the readout. "That's much better; I wish I could put all of my patients into a healing trance." He touched a series of buttons on the screen, and the restraints holding Spock released.

Spock sat up almost immediately, to McCoy's obvious chagrin. "Am I restricted to quarters, Doctor?" he asked.

McCoy sighed. "Promise me, twelve hours of no strenuous activity."

"I cannot make such a promise." Spock pushed himself to his feet.

"Then, yes, you're restricted to quarters."

Spock looked down, checking that his uniform was in order. "I am needed on the bridge."

"The captain's done without you for a few hours; he can do without you for a few more."

As if on cue, Kirk stalked into Sickbay. "Status, Bones?" His eyes widened, seeing Spock standing beside the doctor. "Spock, you look much better than the last time I saw you."

"Six amps, Jim, and he's fine." Only McCoy could make a positive prognosis in such a dire tone.

Kirk grinned. "I should have an entire ship of Vulcans," he said, slapping McCoy on the back. McCoy made a quietly rude noise in response, and Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "Can you return to duty, Mr. Spock?" Kirk asked. "Mr. Scott needs your assistance in Engineering."

"Yes, Jim, as soon as the doctor releases me."

"Which I'll do as soon as he gives me some surety that he's not going to undo all my good work."

"Your good work, Doctor?" Spock asked, allowing himself to be drawn into their habitual bickering. McCoy might well discharge him out of pique; it wouldn't be the first time.

Jim stepped into the breach, forestalling McCoy's expected explosion. "How are the rest of your patients, Bones?" He turned the doctor towards the other side of Sickbay, while making a "get the hell outta here" gesture behind his back with his thumb.

Spock was halfway down the corridor before he heard McCoy's outraged "Hey!"

It took several hours' work to sufficiently untangle the electrical snarl in Engineering that a fresh team could be set to accomplishing the repairs; at that point Kirk insisted that Spock stand down to rest, evidently directed by Dr. McCoy.

Spock had acquiesced, less from fatigue than from his innate sense of fair play; he had left Sickbay before McCoy had excused him.

He paused at Christine's door on the quarterdeck. The captain had not specified that he must stand down to his own quarters to rest. He pressed the chime at her door and waited for her response.

It took slightly longer than expected for her to answer; she appeared to be in greater pain than she had exhibited earlier. Her expression was pinched, her skin pale. She had changed from her uniform into a voluminous nightshirt, several sizes too large; he could only presume that the ungainly garment was easy to put on.

"Were you sleeping?" he asked.

She shook her head and stood aside to let him in.

"Have you taken anything for the pain?"

"It's nothing excruciating; I'm just sore." She motioned for him to take a seat; she seated herself rather gingerly at the foot of her bed. "I'm sorry; I'm not up to our accustomed forms of…ah, intercourse at the moment."

"So no fighting, then."

"Or fucking." She gave him a malicious little smile. "But if there's broccoli for dinner I might be able to manage the third 'f'."

He blushed then; mild talk of sex was no longer sufficient to embarrass him, but he was still a bit squeamish about eliminatory functions. "Christine."

"Sorry; I'm being coarse, aren't I?"

"You know precisely what you are doing."

"Are you all right?" she asked, abruptly changing tack.

"I am."

"I was worried for you when they brought you in."

"You have seen me in a healing trance before."

"It's still disconcerting."

He acknowledged the truth of this with a tilt of his head. "I am not proud of our last meeting."

"Neither of us was at our best."

"No." He paused. "You were extremely provoking."

"Don't you mean provocative?" She pouted a little, but her heart wasn't in it.

"Not in this instance."

Christine sniffed. "And you, going all Alpha Vulcan."

"As I said, I am not proud of it."

"No."

Spock cleared his throat. "Dr. McCoy said that your back was injured when we lost gravity."

"Actually, I was just fine until the gravity came back on; I landed badly."

"The artificial gravity field is repaired now; that is what I was working on when I was electrocuted."

Christine smiled at him, for once without irony. "That's almost romantic."

"I found your injury… disagreeable."

"It disagreed with me, too."

"Have you eaten?" he asked. "Would you like me to bring you a meal?"

Her expression became faintly nauseated. "No, thank you; I haven't got my appetite back since the surgery."

"Do you require assistance with anything?"

She rolled her eyes. "Spock, you've been injured more recently than I have; I should be helping you."

"I recover far more quickly than you do. And as I recall you did help me, in Sickbay."

"It's my job."

His expression was almost… disappointed, Christine thought.

"You know, actually, Spock, I do need help with something."

He turned to her with a look of polite interest. "Yes?"

"Would you brush my hair for me? It hurts to raise my arms for very long, and it's starting to look like a rats' nest."

He was on his feet and heading towards her tiny refresher. "Where is your hairbrush?"

"In the cabinet to the left of the mirror; red handle—"

"I have it."

He returned to the main room and sat behind her; she gave a small grunt as his weight shifted the mattress.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the brush bristles skimmed over the surface over her hair. Was there any sensation more luxurious than having one's hair slowly and delicately brushed?

"What am I trying to achieve?" he asked in a tentative voice.

"To get it more or less smooth," she said. "The tangles on the back of my head from where I've been laying down are the worst."

He continued to skim the brush over her hair. "This does not appear to be having the desired effect; the texture of your hair is very different."

"I have really thick hair. You may have to press a little to get the bristles to my scalp."

He applied more pressure, and tried to draw the brush through; he succeeded in nearly removing her head from her shoulders.

She gasped, and tears started in her eyes. Spock dropped the brush; it rapped painfully against her skull and remained tangled in her hair, in seeming defiance of gravity. She turned to look at him, and his look was so comically horrified that she began to giggle, even as tears ran down her face.

"I-I never intended—" he began; he was probably as pale as she was.

"It's OK," she said, between giggles. It wasn't totally OK; her back and neck and shoulders and scalp hurt like hell, and tears were dripping onto her chest, but it was still kind of sweet. She dried her face with her palms and took a deep breath. "See if you can get the brush out."

He looked as though he'd rather go back to Sickbay. "Do you have scissors?"

"Don't even think it, mister."

"It would be much more efficient." His voice was almost wistful.

She sighed. "Grab the bulk of the tangled hair close to the scalp; that'll make it possible for you to detangle my hair without ripping it out. It'll also keep my head largely immobile."

It took some doing, but he gradually worked the hairbrush free. He set it on her desk, regarding it much as one would a venomous serpent.

"I'll go to the barber tomorrow and get the rest of my hair sorted, Spock. Don't worry about it."

He stood. "I should leave before I injure you further."

Christine stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Spock. Please don't go." He looked down at her hand, and she quickly withdrew it. "Sorry."

He took her hand in his. "You would like more from me… some assurance of my continued interest in this relationship, occasionally in public, is that correct?"

"If there is to be a relationship, then yes."

He nodded, swallowed. "In exchange, I must have some assurance of exclusivity."

She paused, as if in thought, keeping her expression neutral. "I find your terms acceptable," she said, finally.

"Then… we have an arrangement."

"So it would seem," Christine said, matching Spock's gravity before spoiling the effect with a grin. "Will you stay? I think the best thing for my recovery would be to curl up in bed with someone warm."

"You would want that? It is a very small bed."

"Yes, I do want that, believe it or not," she said. "We can fit if we lay on our sides." She squeezed his hand.

"As long as you are aware that I am honor-bound to refrain from sexual intercourse with you until you have recovered."

"Thank you; I think your honor will be safe for at least tonight."

He nodded, mollified, and began to undress, and Christine, hiding a smile, climbed into bed. He followed her shortly thereafter, spooning himself behind her.

Christine sighed as the alien warmth of his body began to soothe the pain in her back. "You make an excellent hot water bottle," she said.

He responded with a soft rumble of acknowledgement.

"Spock?"

"Mmm?"

"I was trying to make you jealous."

He settled his arm more comfortably around her waist. "I know."

She tried to elbow him in the belly, but he held her arm securely.

"Be still. You will hurt yourself."

"Hmph. I was trying to hurt you."

"You were not." He kissed the nape of her neck.

She stroked his arm. "No. I wasn't."

A/N: No, her being nauseated at the thought of food isn't a sign of pregnancy; I thought it was a reasonable aftereffect of a traumatic injury and subsequent surgery, even in the 23rd century. I tend not to romanticize unplanned pregnancy because to me it's anything but romantic, but chacun à son goût and all that.