Chapter Text
One moment, he was driven mad by the fire in his blood, and the next he had killed his captain. And it was all over. He was stripped of the fever, of the primal existence that consumed him only seconds before. Now, he could smell the sharp stench of blood on his hands. Red blood stained his hands. He looked down and saw the captain lying there against the sand, a bloody red slash against his chest. Spock had never seen him so lifeless before.
“Get your hands off of him, Spock.” He heard Doctor Mccoy say, but it was almost drowned out by shrill white noise. His head was spinning, and here he stood, somehow. Somehow he was still on his feet as if the world wasn’t collapsing in on him. There was no sound as Mccoy laid the captain back down, his face stonelike.
The verdict was clear. Jim was dead.
Spock had killed him.
And Mccoy carried the captain--the body away and beamed up, his silence speaking volumes.
Spock’s feet moved of their own accord across the sand to T’Pring, who glanced at him almost smugly with no remorse in her eyes.
“Why the challenge?” He grated out, his mind swimming on a sea of scattered thoughts.
And her explanation was logical, flawlessly logical, and he despised her for that. He despised this entire planet, this sand, this place he had once called home turned to the scene of his very undoing. This place was the scene of the captain’s last words, last breath, stolen by Spock’s own hands.
“Live Long and Prosper,” He told T’Pau, who offered him the same sentiment in which he replied, “I will do neither.”
And he was beamed up without another word. He hoped the Federation would make swift punishment of his crimes. He wished he had been the one to fall on those sands. Anything, anyone but Jim. Golden, beautiful, perfect Jim. Spock didn’t even want to think about how much he’d lost. How much he’d stolen. He needed to make arrangements to be held until he would be seen in front of a council for his crimes. He promised himself he would not break in public, that he would keep a strong face.
Mccoy was waiting for him in the transporter room but Spock couldn’t even look him in the eye.
“I will be resigning my commission of course,” He started immediately. “I pose no threat and will surrender to any allegations held against me.”
“Spock-” Mccoy tried to interject, but Spock insisted.
“I will remain in my quarters until arrival upon the next space station. You may choose to post guards outside my door, but I promise I will fully cooperate with the protocols in place-”
“Now Spock c’mon-”
“Doctor, please.” Spock couldn’t keep the desperation out of his voice. He was breaking, and he could feel his eyes becoming misty. “I have killed my captain and my friend. I owe him this.”
And with that, he walked out of the transporter room, fearing he was losing control again. Surprisingly, he saw no guards coming to take him to the brig. As he neared his quarters, his legs grew heavier, but never as heavy as the weight of his heart. He leaned his hand against the corridor wall as he walked for support.
He just needed to make it to his quarters. He just needed to make it.
His boots scraped against the floor as he walked and his vision was blurring with every step. Just when he thought he was going to collapse right there in the hallway, he found himself in front of his quarters. Spock barely managed to punch in the key code before slipping into the darkness of what he once called home. He played chess right at that table with Jim right there, made tea for him, exchanged books. A thousand memories existed in this room alone, memories now tainted with bloodshed.
He killed Jim. He killed his best friend. The person he valued above all else been destroyed by Spock’s own hands. There was no one to blame but himself. How could he do this? How could he destroy anything, let alone the most beautiful entity in the universe? How could he? He was a monster, a stone-hearted monster.
Spock collapsed against the back of his door, sliding down it as he pressed a hand against his mouth to stifle the cry ripped from his throat. Hot tears streamed down his face, burning his skin. When he pulled his hand away from his face, he realized he’d wiped the blood on his hand across his face. Jim’s blood. He touched his lips absently, silent sobs shaking him from the inside out.
He was like a planet crumbling in on itself without its center. He was so lost in the darkness without his sun. What was he going to do without his captain? Spock ached to hear his voice, feel his warm hands on his shoulder, squeezing his arm. He longed for his presence like the shore misses the tide.
Spock forced himself to get to his feet, and he teetered, off-balance, as he stumbled to the bathroom to wipe the blood--Jim’s blood--off his face. Their shared bathroom where they had gotten ready together, laughed, shared so many conversations. Spock looked to Jim’s bathroom door and pleaded to Surak it would schwip open, but it didn’t. That door was forever closed.
Spock couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror, he was so disgusted, so ashamed.
He scraped harshly at his face, trying to steady his hands enough to wash the blood off properly. Oh god, he just wanted to die. How could he be in this world without Jim? There was no Spock without Jim Kirk.
Eventually there was no more red to rub off, which thank god because he was trembling so badly it was hard to hold the cloth. Spock pulled his blue uniform shirt over his head which was still dusty and bloody and threw it haphazardly on the floor.
His mind was spinning and everything ached, pulling him below the depths of insanity. It was the world pulling him down, pinning him with his own shame and grief. He shouldn’t even be allowed to grief for the man he murdered, the man who would never smile at him again. Spock would never see those hazel eyes twinkling again. He would never play chess with Jim.
Time had stopped with Jim’s last breath, and so had Spock.
His foot dragged and caught on air and he fell to the ground on his hands and knees. There he belonged, on the ground, begging for some god to switch his life with Jim’s.
Spock screamed silently, the ache for Jim so powerful he felt it pouring through his whole body. Tears flooded his systems, cracking him apart and breaking him. There was no god of any sort, nor was their hope or happiness.
The only hope he had was for a swift death.
Oh god, he ached and the heart ache felt like it could actually kill him. Like his heart would shatter in his chest and impale him from the inside out. His hands tried to gather purchase in the carpet below him, but everything was blurry.
Hot tears cut across his cheeks, searing as they slid past his nose and onto the carpet below. He was gasping, trying to breathe through the pain, the darkness, so much so he did not notice the front door schwip open and that someone had entered.
That shrill white noise had returned, tuning everything else out and black spots began to form on his already blurry vision.
He felt someone warm, pull him close and intertwine their hands, and he hoped it was an angel come to take him from his misery. A hand brushed away his tears and for a moment, Spock thought it was Jim.
And suddenly, he surrendered to the darkness, and all was quiet.