Star Trek: Pike's Fate

Lieutenant Commander Kristen Lee-Pike

December 2259

Kristen's Pov

Just knock. You can do it. Just knock. Lift your arm and press the knock button.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A few seconds go by and nothing. I try the button again, then a third time. How come Chris can't open the door?

Fine, let's go at it the old-fashioned way. I raise my fist and knock once then twice and finally thrice. Still, no one opens the door. Chris should be inside. It's dinner time and Robert said he finished meetings at four. That was two hours ago.

Where is my communicator? Nope, not in my pocket. Not in my jacket. Is it in my bag? What about my suitcase? I shoved a lot in there.

"Kris,"

Shit.

How the hell did I end up at the wrong apartment? I lived here instead of in the dorms when I was at the academy. Hell, I managed to get back here when I was drunk and carrying Leonard and Jim.

That was a challenge.

I lift my head from rummaging through my suitcase. Down the hall, Chris sticks half his body out the door—wearing shorts and a dandy ugly sweater. I bought that for him last year. The damn thing was so hard to find. I'm glad he's decided to wear the ugly sweater.

Chrismas in San Fran. 14 degrees celsius and not a lick of snow.

"What are you doing here?" Chris asks stepping into the hall. "I thought you weren't due for shore leave for another few weeks,"

"I'm here for a visit," Chris opens his mouth to ask a question. I cut him off by raising my hand. "I'll explain when I've eaten and had a nap,"

I start walking towards Chris.

My adopted father nods. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

What?

Chris points behind me. My suitcase. Right.

I turn on my heel and grab the thing. Chris takes it from me as I reach him. He places a hand between my shoulder blades and leads me in. I try not to let it get to me. I can't give anything away, not this early. Not now. I don't want to talk about it just yet.

Has he always done that?

Not now Kristen. Later. Later.

Inside Chris slides my suitcase towards my room and then rounds on me. Oh shit. The gaze of disappointment. "Have you been dismissed?"

Hold your ground, Kris. Hold your ground. You've got this. I can't tell him. The next best option is to deflect.

I sigh. "I'm dog tired and so hungry I'm on the verge of hangry,"

Chris nods, his gaze softening and then motions for us to head into the kitchen. "Right then, dinners ready,"

I head for the kitchen table and take a seat.

Chris walks past the table and to the oven. A heavenly smell wafts out and to my nose. Oh yes. Yes yes yes. My favourite. Chicken enchiladas with enough spice to melt your tongue off.

But knowing Chris' spice tolerance is zilch these enchiladas are nothing like that.

"I'm drooling already,"

"Good, it's your favourite," Chris laughs pulling oven mitts on. "Now wash your grubby hands,"

"Yes sir," I give a half salute and get up. Over by the sink I use the gooseberry soap. It was a staple in my parent's house. Now we use it to keep their memory alive. It's touching that Chris continues to keep them alive for me. It's been eighteen years since their deaths. And yet it still feels like they've never left.