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The blonde is what most humans would call cute. Spock spends a moment surveying the smooth golden locks scattered across the pillow, the long red-polished nails on her hand lying atop the sheet, curled up like a claw, the slightly parted excessively pink lips. Her eyes are closed, but he estimates the probability of them being blue to be over eighty-seven percent. She's too much of a stereotype to have a different eye color, he thinks. She's making a soft snoring sound in her sleep, which he finds disconcerting. He allows a slight grimace to crawl on his face and leaves the room.
Spock stalks into the kitchen in this all too familiar apartment, which was never quite his. He pours a glass of water from the tap. His hands aren't shaking, and he notices this fact, with a strange feeling, acutely reminiscent of pride. He takes a small slow sip, then another one. He doesn't quite notice when the glass becomes empty.
It's not like it's anything out of the ordinary. Not even unexpected. After all, he and Jim are no longer partners. Haven't been for a while. Spock sets the glass on the sink carefully and rests his hands against the counter.
Partners. A most curious term. Jim started to use it not some ten years ago. Spock had been a lot of things to Jim before then. His subordinate. His friend. His brother. His lover. His confidante and his conscience. His faith. Somehow, Spock never quite got over the switch to the flat, matter-of-fact term partner.
Jim has never been that to him. Jim was his captain, first within a strictly military definition, and later in all things. Jim was his confidence. His self-esteem. His anchor. That one being uniquely suited for him. The other half of his soul. T'hy'la.
Spock sighs. He is not pleased with himself, for he knows he's feeling hurt. Wounded, more like it. He shouldn't really, but he is. He is honest enough with himself to admit it. He is a little proud of that, too. There was a time when he was an unprecedented master of self-delusion. That changed after Gol, and after a great number of other things, long before Genesis. After Genesis, well. It is a little difficult to lie to oneself after one died and was reborn. Not much point in it, honestly.
Maybe that was what broke them, Spock muses, staring nowhere. The estrangement started before Genesis. When Jim was grounded and Spock—Spock wasn't. When Jim's fear of holding Spock back, the fear that had been present for some time already, had finally been voiced. It grew between them, like an ugly rift, and there was nothing Spock could do to seal it.
Not that it stopped him from trying.
At first, Jim's apprehension was easily appeased, his attention redirected. But as the years crept up on them, his belief that Spock was humoring him, condescending to him, deliberately holding back because of him grew exponentially. It was bad when he believed Spock was doing it out of love and devotion. But when he started to believe it was pity it got one hell of a lot worse.
Spock tried.
He tried and tried relentlessly to break through this edgy barrier Jim erected around himself. But all the data he had collected over the years, all the intimate knowledge of the man he alone possessed proved to be useless. He couldn't get through, couldn't make this dark veil dissipate. He even used brutal force once, taking Jim's mind and Jim's body, without obtaining his pronounced consent first, without caring for it. He nearly burned them out with the searing heat of the impassioned truth that burned within him at all times, pursuing each ugly darkened slime of doubt that poisoned Jim's soul and eliminating it ruthlessly, like a crusader fighting off the hordes of heretics.
They were too many.
He couldn't find them all. Like a hydra, they grew two new heads instead of each slaughtered one. Jim woke up sore and happy the next morning, as happy as Spock hadn't seen him for a long time. But it didn't last long. The last bruise he had acquired during that night hadn't faded yet when they were back at square one. Spock knew he was losing him then, and realized he was helpless to stop it. The realization came to him under this very roof.
Spock never quite came to living here. For a number of years, he was spending several nights a week in this apartment. Some of his things had found their way here eventually, but they were all necessities, not conventional personal belongings. He kept several changes of clothes here and some of his meditation attributes. But that was all. It was Jim's bedroom, not their bedroom. Spock's home remained on the Enterprise. And Jim never once set foot there after he stepped down as her captain. Not until that mission.
Several weeks before then, Spock had practically ceased coming here. He still had full access, of course. He just wasn't invited anymore, and as odd as it might have sounded, he still needed the invitation. Without it, he was no longer certain if he was welcome. That, too, was new. And it was painful.
The strain between him and Jim had grown progressively with each deep space assignment Spock rejected, with each tempting proposal he turned down. Jim turned grimmer with every one of those, getting more and more angry with Spock. He tried to get through to Spock, too. Tried to convince him he should be studying quasars, or captaining a long-range science vessel, or running an advanced research facility halfway across the quadrant. Spock, in turn, tried to explain that he was only happy when he was near Jim. Everything else came in a distant second on his list of priorities. Jim was all he needed.
'You may feel like this now,' Jim told him, with bitter tenderness. 'But in a few years, you're going to start to regret all the opportunities you've lost. And the only reason you'll have would be because of me. And I won't even be much of a compensation for it by then. I don't want to live long enough to see that, Spock.'
Spock could not dissuade his grave conviction. Aging did not set well with Jim. He was still physically fit, extremely so, and he had more than half of his lifespan ahead of him. In Spock's view, there was no logical reason for him to become agitated or frustrated, but that was exactly what was happening.
Jim had always been slightly vain of his looks. Spock knew that about him, used to tease him about it, but overall found it illogically endearing, much like Jim himself. It was a disturbing discovery when he realized that Jim hardly looked in the mirror anymore. And the appreciative glances that he had been giving Spock from the day they met, those looks of quiet adoration that became more pronounced after the conclusion of their second five-year mission when there was no more need to hide anything, those looks had changed, too. Every time Jim paid him a compliment now, it had a definite undercurrent of bitterness, almost reproach. Spock, who had never considered his appearance to be anything special, had no idea how to deal with this new development.
It was all part of a bigger problem, a puzzle that he couldn't solve. Then came Genesis, and he died. And then Jim brought him back.
Spock had never quite gotten over this. Once his memory reintegration was finally complete, he was devastated, nearly destroyed all over again by the magnitude of Jim's sacrifice. He lost his ship, the lovely lady who stole his heart and never quite gave it back. And of course David. Spock couldn't begin to measure the depth of this loss. The ship was Jim's life. David was his son.
They melded, shortly after coming back to Earth and standing trial. They melded, and Spock was obliterated. There was pain, endless, profound pain at the loss in Jim's mind. Crushing pain. Twisting pain. Overwhelming pain.
No regrets.
Spock went through several rounds of overload upon discovering that. Their connection flared up brighter than ever, bringing them to a whole new level, which Spock didn't know existed. They were both back on their ship, all the old gang was, and for a while, it was just floating in mindless happiness. Renaissance. Valhalla.
Then Sybok reentered Spock's life and brought in the havoc.
Jim forgave him, as he had always forgiven him. But something broke in him after that. After everything Jim had been through in his life, after tortures, and pain, and loss, and guilt, after years of loneliness and quiet bleeding, after rejections, and fights, and deaths, it was finally Spock's silence that broke him. The light of life in his eyes faded. He was rapidly losing interest in whatever was happening around him, becoming indifferent and unresponsive.
Guilt had nearly driven Spock mad, most of all because Jim had forgiven him. He wasn't angry anymore, he was just accepting it, and that felt way, way worse than his anger. It wasn't helping that Spock didn't have an explanation, even for himself. It wasn't that he was ashamed to have a brother like Sybok. It was more that he hadn't had a conscious thought about him in years. His tender childhood love for his brother had left but a faint echo in his memory. Spock had not seen him or heard of him for nearly fifty years. He didn't tell Jim, because he had almost forgotten himself.
But there was another reason.
Sybok had assaulted Spock when he was a child, nearly killing him. Spock didn't wish to share the memory with Jim, who had been a victim of assault too many times already. He knew what Jim's reaction would have been. Jim had always taken Spock's pain much worse than his own. Spock had dealt with the experience long ago and was at peace with the memory. What was one more scar? He had no wish to trouble Jim with it.
How many times after that did he wish he had.
Maybe then there wouldn't have been that icy wall between them. Maybe then Jim wouldn't have told him in a dead voice that he was resigning from Starfleet as soon as his ship was decommissioned. He was resigning, he wanted to stay on Earth, alone, and he didn't need Spock with him.
Bad timing.
It seemed to be their infinite curse. Spock didn't know if the situation was salvageable then, but he didn't have the time to find out. The Klingon Empire was dying. For the first time since the first contact, there was a possibility to create a lasting peace. And somehow Spock happened to be the only man for the job.
It was hard to protest the assignment when the ones pressing it were his father, the C in C, the head of the Federation Council and the President. It was even harder when his own logic was in full agreement with their arguments. Spock felt the momentum, he knew the opportunity was too precious to ignore. The wellbeing of the whole Federation depended on it. He also knew he was uniquely suited for this delicate task.
He accepted it. Duty was that one thing that both he and Jim placed higher than their lives. Not the letter of it, against which both of them had committed numerous transgressions. But the spirit of it, absolutely. When it really mattered, they both knew they had to do what they must and they never hesitated. That was what made Jim, above all, an exceptional commander. That was what made Spock an exceptional officer as well. That was the reason why Spock could neither decline the assignment, nor disclose where he was going. He would have told Jim anyway, but Spock's orders were effective immediately, and he had to leave within six hours of receiving them. Jim wasn't on Earth.
Bad timing.
He was distracted during the negotiations. Or, since Vulcans didn't get distracted, it would be more precise to say that he was not devoting all his thoughts to the proceedings. Half of his mind was focused on finding the means to make peace with the Klingons. The other half was desperately searching for anything that might raise Jim's spirits.
Jim was an action-driven being and an adrenaline addict. Starfleet seemed to be able to supply him with both, but Starfleet didn't send flag offices to border patrols or on exploration missions anymore. Starfleet was changing, too, becoming a much more formalized, much more confined and bureaucratic body. Jim, strictly speaking, wasn't a flag officer, but his unofficial status weighed heavier than any title. They wouldn't want to risk him on a long-term assignment anymore.
Spock was also fully aware that Jim's command style was no longer what Starfleet cherished. He was a hero, an important symbol, and they were afraid of losing him, but much more than that, they were afraid of him setting the wrong example.
He was popular. Very popular among the young cadets Spock was teaching. Among many seasoned officers who were on their deep space missions at the same time that Jim was, who knew what it was like on the frontier. Among the civilian population, for whom Jim Kirk was the embodiment of everything trustworthy in Starfleet.
Spock was no fool. He knew why Starfleet Command was so determined on pushing Jim quietly out of their ranks. They were afraid of him. He was the one man who could, should he ever wish it, change the political landscape of the entire quadrant. He would easily gather thousands of supporters.
His name was spoken with highest reverence all over the Federation. He had saved Earth quite literally a good number of times. He had personally delivered three standing peace treaties with the Federation's most hostile neighbors. He had a glowing record of brilliance and heroic actions. Yes, Spock could definitely see how the closed-minded, afraid of anything differentiating from their comfort zone of mediocrity, Starfleet admirals would be apprehensive of Jim Kirk set loose.
Every time Spock thought about it, it made him angry. Didn't they know what kind of man Jim Kirk was? Couldn't they see past their fear of anything out-of-the-box that he was only dedicated to duty above all else? Jim had personally dealt with enough power-obsessed tyrants to acquire a strong aversion to the idea, even if he had had such ambitions before, which Spock knew he hadn't.
But there were no schools named after Jim. No acknowledgements made by Starfleet. Jim wasn't seeking those, and Spock knew it, but he still felt angry when he saw their attempts to assure the public that Jim was nothing special. They actively tried to blur his glowing image. He was a hero, and even when heroes weren't dangerous, they were still inconvenient. Too much influence on the impressionable minds.
Chris Pike was a convenient hero. He was immensely popular in his day, but he died—or as good as died—before he could cause any trouble. It was safe to name a medal after him. No political repercussions. No danger of creating a personality cult.
Spock didn't want that for Jim, he knew it wasn't what Jim would want himself. But he saw no logic in his superiors denying him the acknowledgement he deserved. Spock wouldn't have been too irritated because of this, per se. Neither he nor Jim had ever craved fame. What riled him up was the fact that Command's actions were studiously imposing limit after limit on Jim, thus gradually depriving him of any reason to continue with the service. And Jim needed that, needed to be active, needed to be able to put his unique talents to use.
That was why when it came to deciding exactly how Chancellor Gorkon was to be transported to the peace talks site, Spock volunteered the Enterprise without reservations. He could tell both sides weren't as ready for peace as they tried to convey, much as they might have needed it. He knew it wouldn't be a simple assignment. He could think of only one person it could be entrusted to, for so many reasons, not the last of which was Spock's hope of restoring Jim's appreciation of a challenge. Jim might have been disappointed in Spock, but Spock wasn't willing to let him be disappointed in himself.
It was all wrong.
The mission had nearly cost Jim and Doctor McCoy their lives, but that wasn't the worst part, as callous as it might sound. The worst part was Jim's boiling, flaring anger at having things decided for him.
'You had no right!'
Indeed, Spock hadn't. He had assumed, acting in everyone's best interests. He had assumed and he had assumed wrongly. Oh, the Federation benefited, no denying that. The peace treaty was signed—because Jim made it possible. But if Spock thought Jim had been disappointed in him before, he had never been so mistaken in his life.
And now this. Three months after Khitomer, the Enterprise decommissioned, her crew on leave or reassigned. Scott taking his retirement and virtually disappearing, leaving only McCoy and probably Uhura his new address. Uhura calling in what seemed to be all the leave time she had accumulated in many years and disappearing also. McCoy taking off on his new assignment as Starfleet Chief Medical Inspector. Chekov transferring as First Officer to the Crazy Horse.
Spock himself was pretty much tied up with the aftermath of the peace negotiations. There were too many details to be cleared and defined, and although he insisted that Starfleet's legal team was more than capable of taking over, they held him up for three months, using his familiarity with the other side's position. Which was logical, Spock accepted, but highly inconvenient for him. They robbed him of the time he couldn't afford to lose. He took off the first opportunity he got, leaving a lot of angry officials and admirals in his wake.
He and Jim hadn't spoken after Khitomer. Even the bond was silent and strangely empty. Spock could barely feel Jim's presence in the back of his mind, and it pained and concerned him greatly. Something was happening in Jim's life, something of which Spock wasn't a part. It didn't feel right, not one bit.
Today is the first day of Spock being back on Earth. Jim's apartment is the first place he has come to. Spock needs to see Jim, badly. It's almost a physical need by now, to simply be in his presence, to look at him, to hear his voice. Feel his touch. He has been without it for so long, he doesn't believe he can bear its absence any longer.
Spock had every intention of discussing their options. If Starfleet isn't appealing to Jim anymore, Spock has no desire to continue within it, either. Spock entertained a number of possibilities prior to his coming here. He wasn't going to insist on any, though, he was willing to follow Jim wherever he wished to go. He was willing to beg to be allowed to do so, if it came to that.
Entreat me not to leave thee...
It seemed to have been said only for them.
Spock looks at the gray plastic of the counter unseeingly, thinking of now. And what of now? Who is this woman in Jim's bed? What is the meaning of her, apart from the obvious? Is she here because Jim is bored? Or is she here because Jim is interested in what Spock has to say no longer? Is Spock too late? Has he done too much damage? Is it irreparable?
He cannot bring himself to go back into the bedroom and wake Jim. All he can do is repeat the words in his head. Human words, ancient words, which are becoming his litany. He says them mutely over and over again, feeling his desperation growing. He never acknowledged he had an intuition, but whatever it is, it's screaming at him that he's already lost. He repeats the words stubbornly, like an exorcism, willing them to frighten off his demons.
Entreat me not to leave thee, or to r
eturn from following after thee, for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge, thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.
Spock closes his eyes, willing his mind to quietness. He doesn't hear the footsteps coming from behind.
--
"If you're considering drowning, I'd recommend going to the bay."
Spock blinks, slowly focusing on the present, and realizes he's still staring at the sink. He turns around slowly, noting silently that there's nothing remotely like remorse in Jim's lazy voice. Just sting and bitterness.
Jim is standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, clad in nothing but a pair of old sweatpants. His arms are folded across his bare chest, his hair is disheveled, and he looks like he could use another couple of hours of shuteye, but is feeling pleased with himself.
Ironically, he looks much younger like this than while wearing his uniform. Spock's chest tightens unpleasantly as he realizes that it's been over a year since he had last seen Jim in a similar state of undress. But the cold challenge in Jim's eyes tells him that Jim's fully aware of this and doesn't mind displaying himself one bit. Or, more accurately, that he doesn't care.
"I was merely thinking," Spock says.
"Mm," Jim murmurs, looking past him. "Can I get you another glass of water?"
"No, thank you."
"Brandy?"
Spock lifts an eyebrow.
"It's not even eight in the morning, Jim."
"So? You look like you need it."
"I am perfectly content staying sober."
"If you say so." Jim shrugs, then yawns. "Sorry. Late night."
Spock purses his lips.
"So it would seem."
Before Jim can answer, another figure emerges from the corridor. Spock looks at the woman, who obviously didn't bother with the shower, but took the time to reapply her makeup. She gives Jim a toothy grin and leans over him, hands locking on the back of his neck. Spock half-expects her to be chewing gum. And of course, he was correct about her eye color.
"Morning, love," she breathes in Jim's face.
"Morning," he grins back at her, pulling her closer.
It's a very sloppy, very relaxed open-mouthed kiss, which occupies both of them for quite some time, producing all sorts of obscene noises. Spock knows he is supposed to watch, so he watches.
It's not like he hadn't seen scenes like that before. Though, admittedly, the last such occurrence happened a very, very long time ago, and back then he and Jim weren't what they are now. Or should it be were until now? Spock cannot think of any other reason for the display than to hurt him. He has to admit that it's working.
Jim and the blonde finally pull apart, spending an additional moment staring at each other and grinning in a silly fashion. Spock waits patiently, forcing his body not to tense up.
"Well, hi there," the woman says, smiling in Spock's direction now. "Who's your friend, Jim?"
Jim shoots Spock a look and winks.
"Just an old colleague stopped by," he explains leniently.
Spock gets the message even when the woman doesn't.
"Awwwell, Jimmy," she says, shrugging and grinning again. "I should be going, or I'll be late and Mr. Larsen soooh hates when I'm late!" She spills excitedly with a giggle. "See ya later?"
"Count on it," Jim says, kissing her again lightly and slapping her on the butt playfully.
She giggles again and makes overly dramatic eyes at Spock as she passes him to the exit.
"Nice to meet ya, Mister."
Spock doesn't respond, doesn't react in any way. The door slides shut behind her. Jim is watching him with an amused expression.
"Where are your manners, Spock? Not even a 'pleased to meet you?' I thought Vulcans were always polite."
"Vulcans do not lie unless for a very good reason," Spock reminds him coolly. "I believe you and I are both aware that I am in no way pleased to meet this lady."
Jim snorts and shrugs carelessly, stuffing his hands in his pockets and wandering towards the window.
"Yeah, well. Don't know why you're so mad. It's not like we're married or something."
"No," Spock says, as his eyebrow crawls up in bitter irony. "We only share a life bond."
Jim looks totally unimpressed by the acid reproach.
"I don't think I can even feel it anymore, Spock," he says casually. "Maybe it's one of those things that actually do burn out. It lasted long, no denying that. And it came in handy, saving our asses back in the old days. But now, well. I have no use for it now."
Spock resists the urge to pull his current emotions into a tight ball and send it across the bond to show Jim how very much it's still alive. He refrains from doing so, though. In his current condition, he'd likely knock Jim out cold.
"The bond cannot 'burn out,'" he says flatly instead.
"Not for you maybe," Jim shrugs, still very uninterested. "But for humans, all things get old at some point. I think I left mine behind quite a while ago."
Spock considers him quietly for a moment. He doesn't know what to make of Jim yet. He seems relaxed, almost wanton. He also appears more calm and steady than the last time Spock saw him.
"Jim, I wanted to discuss something with you," Spock says, in what he hopes is an even, unaffected voice. "Our plans—"
"Why are you here?" Jim interrupts him suddenly, turning to face him.
Spock is taken aback slightly.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Why are you here?" Jim repeats, with a frown signifying his impatience. "Are the negotiations over?"
"No," Spock says cautiously. "But I—"
"Then why did you come?" Jim asks, and it's his best command tone that Spock hears. "What could possibly be so important that justifies your dereliction of duty?"
"Jim," Spock says quietly, uncertain as to why he's being confronted about it. "I have concluded my part in the proceedings. There is nothing further I could do there that cannot be done by another."
"Spock, you wrote that treaty."
"I did not actually—"
"Dammit, you know perfectly well what I mean. It's your handiwork, from A to Z. How could you leave it for someone else to finish?"
"I did what I had to do, Jim. I was needed elsewhere."
"Really?" Jim raises his eyebrows. "Like where?"
Spock can do little but look at him. For him, the answer is self-evident, but apparently, Jim doesn't think so.
"Please don't tell me you came back for me," Jim says in exasperation. "Really, Spock. That'd be too much."
"I do not understand."
"What keeps you coming back?" Jim raises his voice. "I keep telling you that I don't need you and you keep coming back—why? Because of this stupid bond that we share? For crying out loud, Spock! We're not ancient Vulcans. We don't have to be bound to each other literally. We can very well go our separate ways, bond or no!"
"Is that what you want, Jim?"
"Yes, dammit! I've been wanting this for some time, I was wondering when you'd notice! Can't you feel it, Spock? There's been so much between us, so goddamn much, and now there's nothing left. Not even the embers." He inhales sharply. "Spock, Spock," he whispers. "I used to be unable to see straight when you walked into the room. Do you have any idea how crazy, how freaking weird it feels to look at you—and not feel a damn thing?"
Spock tries to remember how to breathe and not to show his difficulty at the same time. He's losing both battles.
"Oh merciful God," Jim groans. He narrows his eyes at Spock, and there's no sympathy in them, just the boiling acid of irritation wound up all the way to despair. "I thought after you didn't show up after Khitomer that maybe you finally got the hint, but no, here you are again, thinking I need you. I don't know how else I can say it so that you'd understand already, so I'll just say it. I don't need you, Spock. More precisely, I've had enough of you. It was fun while it lasted, but now I'm done."
Spock finally manages to find his voice.
"You would dismiss us so easily?"
"What's to dismiss?" Jim explodes. "Your overbearing presence in my life? Your unshakable belief that you have the right to make decisions for me? You know, Spock, it was fun for a while, but it's time you remembered that I'm not your goddamned pet! You're using the bond as a leash on me, and I want out!"
"I have never—"
"The hell you haven't! I'm sick of you trying to protect me for my own good like I'm some sort of imbecile! Sick of you depriving me of my life—my real life, not the one you have outlined for me! I tolerated it while I thought you were the hottest thing since sliced bread, but I'm long past that stage now. It took me twenty-something years to stop hoping that there'd come a day when you trusted me. It took a while, but now I'm finally there, and now I know that it was never, never going to happen! I'm not going back to being an idiot, Spock!"
"Jim." Spock steps forward, wincing when Jim backs away from him. "Jim, you are the only one I trust."
"Bullshit!" Jim raises his chin up defiantly. "You don't trust anyone, Spock. It's not in you—you can't do it. I proved myself to you, again and again, but you never—never gave yourself to me. Not the way I gave myself to you."
"Jim." Spock says and his voice breaks. "All that I am is yours."
Spock's tone is grave, dead serious, but Jim just shakes his head.
"You do not believe me?" Spock asks, incredulously.
Jim looks at him, and suddenly he's tired, so tired.
"It doesn't matter what I believe, Spock," he says through his weariness. "What matters is that I don't care. And even if I did believe you," Jim finds Spock's eyes and holds them, "it's too late for that. There's nothing of you that I want anymore. There's nothing left."
Spock stands quietly, pondering the words. He doesn't understand them yet, can barely grasp them, but they sink in inevitably, and he can sense that they are true. He wishes to meld with Jim, to gain that last damning proof, but he can't. What he did to Valeris is still too fresh, and his mind is still hurting from the strain of having to perform a mind rape. An attempt to enter another unwilling mind would be fatal now, and Spock knows Jim wouldn't be willing even if he were to agree to the meld.
Jim wanted no part of him anymore. Spock can feel his sincerity. It's pouring out of Jim in waves, and he's broadcasting loudly, as he always does when emotionally distressed. The methods of control that Spock taught him never did settle down with Jim. Spock doesn't need the meld to know Jim isn't lying.
"Look," Jim says slowly. "I'm sorry if I hurt you. But I can't live like that anymore, Spock. I've been doing what you want for so long, I can barely remember any needs or wants of my own. I want them back. I want my life back, whatever's left of it."
"And you. Do not want me. In it." Spock manages, unable to construct a normal sentence.
Jim looks at him steadily. Firmly. There is no waver in his eyes. No doubt. He isn't happy, but he's being honest.
"I don't."
Spock draws in a breath, short, barely enough to sustain him.
"Ever?"
Jim looks down at his feet, shrugs a little.
"Maybe in a few years. I really don't know, Spock. All I know is that if you stay with me now, I'll either go insane or hate you forever." He looks up at Spock, and adds, "And I really don't want to hate you. I want to remember you for all you were to me, not for everything you couldn't be."
"What." Spock swallows. "What will you be doing?"
Jim frowns a little, thinking.
"I really haven't decided. I'm resigning, that's for sure. I don't think I'd be leaving the planet. Might go back to Iowa, I think. I need some peace and quiet."
Spock nods, as if it makes sense to him. Which it absolutely, absolutely doesn't. He isn't thinking, he can't. His whole universe is crushed, rippled, distorted. He steps forward, without knowing why. Lifts his hand to Jim's face, without a conscious intention.
Jim shudders away.
"No," a harsh whisper.
"I only wanted to... only to... just one last time..."
Jim knows what he wanted, and he shakes his head no. Lifts his hand in front of him protectively.
"Just go, Spock," he whispers brokenly. "Please, just go."
But Spock can't 'just go.' Jim's hand is swept out of the way, and Spock's pulling him forcefully towards himself, pressing their lips together.
Jim doesn't resist. Doesn't comply, either. He's just there, a wan, shapeless form in Spock's arms, waiting for the ordeal to be over. Spock can feel the soft hum of emotions beneath the surface.
Indifference. Grief. Despair. Misery.
Spock catches a stray thought of, 'No. Please. I can't.' His hands unclench, and he releases Jim automatically. And that is when Jim looks up at him and grins, and Spock has never seen a more pained, more terrifying expression.
"Now what?" Jim asks. "You're gonna force your way through with me, too? It'll finish us both, but go ahead, do it. If you can't leave me alone, then you'd better kill me. We'd both be better off."
Spock's hands drop to his sides, and he steps back, blinking. He doesn't know what he's doing or what he's just done—he hasn't been thinking. He's numb, he's so numb, he doesn't understand why it is he's still standing, if he is indeed doing that. He can't remember his own name, he's looking around wildly, trying to figure out where he is or who he is, and he can't. All he knows, all he understands, is that his universe had only one cornerstone in it, and it has just disintegrated under his hands.
He steps back, unevenly, feels the floor swinging. He stretches his arms to his sides in a futile attempt to steady himself, to regain some balance. But a part of him knows that he will never, never get it back. There's a bubble of vacuum around him, and he's trying to breathe and there's no air, and he can't understand why he isn't dying if there's no air, why he isn't hurting. Gravity isn't on his side anymore, and he's drifting away. Anchorless. Powerless to stop it.
He doesn't look at Jim—can't focus. Doesn't see his expression. But he hears Jim's voice that reaches him when he's at the door.
"Spock. Don't come back."
Spock grounds himself against those words as the door slides shut behind him.
--
The first thought that enters his mind as the door shuts is: I'm too old for this.
He thinks he hears the footsteps on the other side of the door, staggering, stumbling footsteps going away. He knows it's a hallucination. The door is soundproof, and his hearing has never been that acute anyway. He keeps hearing them as he closes his eyes and sags against the wall.
For a while, he remains still, thinking of nothing. His mind is blank. A white nothingness, whirling, unfolding and rolling back together again. Blurring reality. Stealing sight and sound.
Twice in his life, he's been here. His sensory input would fade, perception dim, and he would be left on the very bottom of his mind's well, looking up and searching for the sky that was no longer there. Just white clouds and rain.
He doesn't want to think about either of those times right now.
He can't say he always knew it would come to this, but he did know for a long time. He knew it would be a temporary arrangement. His mouth quirks in a painful grimace of bitter mirth. A temporary arrangement. Little short of thirty years, give or take. A Vulcan equivalent of a one-night stand?
Kirk's chest contracts to produce laughter. No sound comes out. Their problem is as profound as it is simplistic.
Like every spark of ultimate perfection in the universe, they were never meant to be.
He doesn't even want to think of what Spock's going through right now, but it reminds him. He needs a shower. Badly. He stinks, and although it's nothing less than he deserves, another moment of this, and he just might kill himself. Steadily, he lifts himself to his feet and heads for the bedroom.
His apartment is a museum. A beautiful collection of antiques, gathered in his many journeys. He's all for IDIC, he was born this way, but mostly they are human artifacts assembled here. The human past fascinates him for some reason, like a mysterious faraway planet he would never see. All that is left of it is crocks and fossils. Reflected light of a long dead star.
Get back your command, Jim, before you become part of your collection. Before you really do grow old.
Yeah, well. Didn't work that well the last time, did it? Of all the souls I've encountered, his was the most... Stop. That. Thought.
He stumbles into his bedroom and his rumpled bed immediately catches his eye. He doesn't pause for a second as soon as the image registers. He stalks to the bed and pulls the sheets onto himself roughly, gathering them in an untidy bundle. He won't have them cleaned. He won't throw them into a waste dispenser.
He'll burn them. He'll pick them up and go out; he'll find a place and burn them. He'll watch them turn black and resolve into ashes. He will remember the sight and the smell. He'll know then what his soul looks and smells like right about now.
A bright object flies out and lands on the side of the bed. A bra. A blood-red silk push-up bra. Kirk looks at it. He's suddenly struck with the idea that he has never seen a more vulgar thing in his life.
He stares at it and he can't help thinking that this is the quintessence of his life's accomplishments. After his sunny childhood, after his troubled youth, after all the glorious rises and ominous falls of his middle age, this is what it has come to.
The great James T. Kirk and the only kind of love he deserves.
He doesn't think he'd be feeling any more filthy if he'd paid her for sex. There's simply no room for improvement left.
He doesn't want to touch it. He tosses the ball he's made of the dirty sheets into the corner, picks up a poker, hooks the revolting thing with it and deposits it into the fireplace. He walks to his desk and activates the computer terminal. In a moment, the security alarm is off. He then calmly opens a drawer, picks up his phaser, turns around and fires. His aim is still perfect. He resets the alarm and heads for the bathroom.
The water's hot. He set the temperature to the limit of his tolerance, maybe slightly past it. The spray force is at maximum, and he feels like he's being lashed. Good. It's not enough, it doesn't come remotely close to enough, but it's something. He can do little but be grateful for small favors.
He falls out of the shower when his body throws him out. It's been screaming at him to get out for a while, but he ignored it, so it finally decides to take action. He wraps a towel around his hips, thinking that this is probably the best way for him to exist now. Like a protozoan, operating not even on instinct, but on basic reflexes. Stimulus—response.
After all, this is exactly the modus operandi that saved him from a complete fiasco last night and consequently this morning. His body reacts well to stimuli. It hasn't failed him yet. It will start soon probably. But not yet. Not yet.
Speaking of basic instincts, he's thirsty.
The glass Spock left on the counter is still there. Kirk eyes it from the distance, his fingers itch. He pauses. Stills himself. Then, determinedly, walks over, picks it up and throws it into the waste chute before he can stop himself. Exhales.
The simple action forces him to spend a moment recovering before he can finally reach for another glass. He fills it and retreats, a bit hastily, walking over to the huge window. It's cloudy outside and windy. It also looks like it mists, the miniscule droplets of water hang in the air.
Well.
He's already been here. Stood right here, in front of this window, watching the rain. Contemplating what it feels like to lie in pieces.
By then, he'd had an impressive record. He had been through Tarsus, three Klingon wars, he'd lost half of his family, he had loved and lost Edith, he'd nearly ended his career half a dozen times. And yet, in all this, he'd never been so helpless. He never lost himself. He never felt his core shatter, never felt cracks running on the surface of his very essence, until finally, the tension became too high and he broke, with a wham that could have been heard in the next star system.
That happened when Spock left him. The first time.
How did he manage to pull through back then? He reminded himself that it was a mutual decision. But that worked only until he found that it wasn't. Spock took the bullet for him then and never told him. Not for the first time in their long association and sadly not for the last, Spock had considerably underestimated the depth of Kirk's feelings. In that particular case, though, Kirk couldn't blame him. He himself had been just as blind.
Revelations that had come too late. All the things Spock never told him. All the things he never told Spock. All the truths they had been hiding from themselves, never mind each other. Everything came out into the open. That time spared him nothing, dissecting him, leaving him sliced open and bleeding.
Turned out he wasn't the only one.
Nearly nine years later, under this very roof, Spock frightened him half to death, waking up in the middle of the night screaming. Spock never screamed. Kirk heard him groaning, shouting, yelling and moaning. Pain, pleasure, alarm, despair—the whole spectrum of emotions. Never had he heard that unnatural, impossible wail of mortal fear.
For nearly thirty minutes that had quickly topped Kirk's list of the most terrifying things ever, he couldn't break through to Spock, couldn't get anything from him, but 'Chamber of Visions' and 'No, no, no!' When Spock finally broke out from his nightmare, both of them were too relieved to discuss it. Spock was so shaken and exhausted that he drifted off to a dreamless slumber almost instantly, and Kirk spent the rest of the night semi-awake, holding him. In the morning, Spock was his usual calm and collected self and the topic died by itself.
It never happened again. Kirk crosschecked the Chamber of Visions later, only to find that it did relate to Gol somehow. But if Vulcans in general were very private people, the masters of Gol could shame the rest of them put together. There was no information available on the disciplines of Gol whatsoever, and among Vulcans themselves, the topic was apparently much more of a taboo than pon farr.
Spock never talked about Gol. At the very mentioning of it, his face would darken and close. He would retreat deeper within himself and refuse to comment or answer. At times, it felt as if he'd been in a terrible war that the rest of the universe missed. Kirk didn't press him. For all he knew, it might have been exactly the case.
The rain drums heavier against the window, and Kirk frowns.
Spock loves the rain. The genetic memory in him associates it with harvest, hope and life. He doesn't like to get stuck in it, but he loves the sound. Could listen to it for hours. Would be smiling slightly, without knowing it, the whole time.
Kirk used to like the rain when he was a kid, but later he came to linking it in his mind with a bad omen. Most of the time, he was too busy to notice the weather. This might change now, he muses. After all, there's very little to do on an old farm but watch the grass grow.
He's planet-bound now. He knows Spock too well. The Vulcan will never get any peace of mind, if Kirk launches himself into some kind of space expedition, within Starfleet or no. Spock will either be unable to sit still if he learns Kirk's life is in danger, or he will go crazy forcing himself to stay away.
Kirk's lips curve in a painful smirk. Can't subject Spock to this, now, can he? It's bad enough for Spock to be out there alone, but it's about time. Doesn't make it any easier, though. Staying behind, thinking of all the bad things that could happen. This Vulcan has many friends. Sadly, the instinct of self-preservation isn't one of them.
So hard.
He knew it would be nothing short of hell and tried to prepare himself. Had been trying for years. Ever since Spock walked onto the Bridge of the Enterprise when they were chasing V'Ger, Kirk had known that it was a miracle. And all miracles come for a price.
His price was time.
He didn't really expect to have Spock with him forever, did he? Seriously, who was he trying to fool? Spock was a man of many talents. Kirk's only talent was keeping his cool when the Red Alert went off. It's probably more than a lot of people have. It's just not enough to keep Spock. Light years away from being enough.
Kirk can't help a sad laugh. Spock would have been totally terrified, if he heard this. Spock worshiped him for reasons passing understanding. If there was any kind of logic behind this, it eluded Kirk completely.
For God's sake.
The Vulcan had a list of invention patents registered under his name long enough to probably own half the Federation, was easily one of the most wanted scientists in every research facility throughout the quadrant, could negotiate with Klingons, for crying out loud. And still Spock would look at him as if Kirk clapped his hands and the Big Bang happened.
This wasn't the worst of it though. The worst of it was that when Spock looked at him like that, Kirk believed him. And therein lay the trouble.
He's not a saint. He's done things in his life he isn't proud of, to put it mildly. Things that made his blood chill, things that brought shame, guilt, and remorse. Stupid things. Ugly things. Things he hasn't been able to forget or forgive himself. And it would have been easier if Spock didn't have this information about him, but he did.
One by one, all his ugly, abominable secrets were discovered, and Spock never looked away, even when Kirk did. And it was wrong somehow, but also very right. Spock wouldn't belittle his sins, he was too honest for that. Spock would grant him the redemption he couldn't muster himself, the redemption he so desperately needed, because some things just couldn't be set right, no matter how much he wanted to. Spock couldn't undo the wrong, but he could forgive Jim. He could forgive Jim for both of them.
It's hard to say no to this.
Kirk sighs. There are a lot of things he has just erased from his life forever, but this—this is probably the hardest one to lose.
It's insanely quiet. Kirk shivers. Silence that will never be shared again. His greatest fear, welcoming him back, like a mother beckoning home her prodigal son. He stares in the face of this fear, watches it smile at him sickeningly, and feels his heart clench in his chest. Spock had been shielding him from this fear for half a lifetime. There were others, yes. But none such as him.
Why...
No, he can't go back to this circular argument now. He's weak. Another one of those treacherous whys, and he'll run out of the door, screaming for Spock to come back. He can't do this, he knows he can't, and there aren't enough whys in the galaxy to explain.
Spock. Spock always brought out the best in him, but he also brought out the worst.
Aggression. Dark, engulfing, mad rage he felt every time someone threatened Spock's life. Kirk couldn't control it, couldn't tame it, couldn't keep it locked up. He had never before felt such a wild urge to murder. He still shudders remembering several ugly occasions and he can't possibly fathom how he managed not to.
Possession. No one messes with his Vulcan. No freaking anyone. He didn't own Spock, but he never let a minor detail like that stop him. He had no rights. He acted on them anyway.
Jealousy. Ah, yes. Bring on the fanfares. He trusted Spock like he hadn't trusted anyone else in his life, not even himself, but it didn't change the fact that Spock drove him crazy. Spock's little trail of protégés, all young, brilliant, and so—God help him—interested, was bad enough, but this was a minor irritation. Kirk might have had a certain reputation, but while people often fell in love with him, they rarely stayed in love for long.
Spock, on the other hand, had a most unfortunate ability to attract people who were in a class of their own. They were all exceptional in one way or another. They were all annoyingly intelligent and committed. Dangerous. They were all extremely dangerous, Kirk thought. And among them, none more so than T'Aine.
The thought of her makes Kirk grind his teeth even now. Maybe especially now. Kirk didn't like her the first time around on the Enterprise, during their second five-year mission. He didn't like her any better when she ran into them six years later on Earth. It's not that she had any flaws in herself, though the lack of thereof could probably be counted as one.
She was the quintessence of what any man, human or Vulcan, might wish for. Next to Spock, she looked... perfect. Kirk didn't need to hear Sarek's comments on the matter to know that she was an ideal mate for Spock. After all, he had eyes.
Back on the ship, Spock told her no, after everyone, Kirk included, told him to say yes. She wasn't going to ask again, but it was clear that she hadn't lost her interest. They met for dinner that night in San Francisco, and watching the Vulcans discuss their numerous shared interests with a head-spinning amount of enthusiasm, Kirk realized that she had never been more in love with Spock than just then.
He was very rough with Spock that night. He didn't think he had ever actually been this rough with him before, apart from that one mission when he barely pulled Spock back in time from a nasty trap, and they were both out-of-their-minds high on adrenaline and sheer relief to be alive.
That night he was rough down to cruelty, making it about punishment and possession, all his demons unleashed. It was about claiming something he had no rights to claim. It was about fear, the one with many faces. It was about blood-deep determination to never the hell let go. As illogical or ethereal as it seemed, it was about leaving a permanent reminder. Or, a number of them.
He woke up the next morning alone, with a blood chilling sense of dread filling his veins as the recollections of the previous night started to seep into his mind. He wanted to die there and then, and never look Spock in the eye again. But he got up and went to the kitchen, and there was Spock, drinking tea calmly and working on his paper like nothing happened. Like everything was all right.
Spock looked...
Kirk's mouth went dry and he felt it difficult to breathe. His eyes roamed over Spock's body, those parts of it that were exposed, surveying the damage. He knew it was worse where he couldn't see. Ten years ago, he might have been stupidly proud of himself for being able to get Spock to look like that. Just then, all he felt was utter devastation and horror. Spock should have stopped him... God, how could Spock ever let him go this far? Spock was stronger, much stronger than he was. He should have stopped this. Should have stopped...
Kirk stepped towards him, searching desperately for words, though what words he could possibly use to ask forgiveness for that he couldn't fathom. But then Spock looked up at him, and there was nothing in his eyes but understanding, concern and trust. Complete, pure, unshattered trust. Spock stood up and met him halfway. Before he could say anything, Spock pulled him close and kissed him deeply, and the words of apology died on Kirk's lips, unneeded.
It wasn't a kiss so much as it was the bare truth about them. The truth that tasted slightly of Spock's blood emerging from his split lip, with a salty note of sweat breaking out on Kirk's skin. They made a potent mix. Unpalatable. Addictive. Real. He can still feel it... For God's sake, he can still feel it even now, the whole amazing plethora of everything they were.
Were. Past tense, he notes bitterly. His mind has already adapted.
Spock always brought out the worst in him. And the best. And right now his best is being victorious, the cost notwithstanding. Kirk knows T'Aine's back in town. Spock doesn't yet, but he will and soon. Kirk wishes her luck. Spock is broken now. He will need someone to help him collect the pieces. She'll be good to him. And Spock's unrivaled capacity to love is the one thing no one, not even Kirk, can take away from him. Eventually, he'll tell her yes.
Crack.
The glass in his hand breaks, and the sharp edges sink into his skin greedily. Blood's running down his forearm, as he stares at his reflexively clenched fist. For a moment, Kirk is overcome with a desperate wish to keep clenching it, because the pain feels almost too good.
He does know this is pathetic though. He walks over to the sink and keys the tap for cold water. Blood and water mix on his sliced hand and the invisible transparent shards stir unpleasantly, deepening the cuts. He starts removing them one by one. He feels sick for some reason.
Don't touch me. Please don't touch me. I can't bear it if you touch me. I'll fall to my knees and beg you to never leave me.
Never leave me.
Oh God. Spock didn't make it easy, did he?
He looked terrible. Why did he have to look so bad? Kirk had seen him in every state imaginable, including dead several times. He's never seen Spock looking this bad, and he knows it's not just exhaustion. Spock looked starved, and no matter how many meals he'd been skipping lately, they had nothing to do with it.
Kirk knew what he needed. Boy, did he ever. He and Spock were as always in sync. Separation never did either of them any good. As Spock stood here, by the counter, all taut and wound-up, it hurt Kirk, it goddamn hurt not to reach out.
He didn't. Not this time. Not ever again.
Their time was up, and he knew it. Borrowed time. All they ever had was borrowed time. Borrowed from a God neither of them believed in? The Devil, to whom Kirk secretly appealed? Death perhaps, whom they double-teamed over the chessboard of their lives? The universe itself that seems to have it in for them?
Kirk doesn't know. At this point, he doesn't care.
Didn't they deserve any better? He once said that man wasn't meant for paradise. Well, he and Spock certainly weren't, and still... still. Couldn't they have just a little more time together? After everything they'd been through, after the incredibly high price they paid, was a little lenience so much to ask?
He knows the answer to this, of course. This moment is unique. It's now or never. If he doesn't let Spock go now, he never will. And Kirk knows, as surely as his own name, that even if they don't deserve any better, Spock most certainly does.
And he's going to get it.
The last piece of glass comes out finally, cutting more skin as it goes in revenge. Not bothering to cover his wet and bloody hand, Kirk walks around his apartment in search of a dermal regenerator. His eyes are searching all right, just not for the device.
All signs of Spock ever being more than a visitor here are long gone. Time took care of some, and what it didn't touch Kirk destroyed himself. No mementos. A clean break with nothing to get back to.
Then why does he wish so desperately now he'd have missed something? That he would have forgotten one, just one thing, anything? Something he could hold now, something he could look at and know that yes, it hurts, it's goddamn killing him, but it's not over yet, it's not over...
He sinks to his knees and presses his palms to his face, leaving bloody smears and not caring, not caring for anything ever again. He can't help a whisper spilling from his lips, he can't help it any more than his breathing.
"Spock..."
For the first time in so many years, there is no response coming.