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His fingers clenched hard around the grip, his palm clammy and his knuckles white, as he brought the muzzle to just above his ear. He watched his reflection, in the shower door’s glass, press it against his temple. The muzzle felt too heavy and hard. Cold against his skin. Unforgiving.
One finger brushed against the trigger. His muscles tensed and a shiver jolted down his spine. ’Just do it.’ A taunting voice hissed in the back of his mind, but his fingers felt too numb to press down, and his hands shook violently in protest.
The floor beneath him hummed; the warmth of the ship a stark contrast to the metal against his head. Mouth dry and heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest, his finger yielded, and slipped to the trigger guard. ’Coward.’ The voice sneered. ’No.’ His own inner-voice replied, ’Just… not yet.’
It would be so easy… It wasn’t a down-day — quite the opposite — so anyone that could (and he doubted they would) care about his whereabouts, were too busy to investigate. By the next alpha-shift, it would be too late. He would be… gone.
He’d locked the door, so that it wouldn’t open for 48 hours after he’d… passed, and no one had the clearance to unlock it, except… but he wouldn’t, he was busy, he’d have no idea he was— ’And even then, he wouldn’t care. Why would he stop you? Surely, your death would benefit him.’ The voice interrupted. He shuddered, breaths rough and shaking, hands trembling; the pistol still pressed hard against his head.
“Captain?”
He stiffened. ’Do it now.’ The voice ordered, and with protesting hands, jammed the muzzle harder against his temple. ’Good. Now pull the trigger. It’s easy. You’ve done it so many times before. You’ve already taken the lives of others. What’s different about taking your own?’
“Captain, the logs claim you entered our shared refresher 2.34 hours ago, and used your Captain’s override to ensure you would not be interrupted. This would not necessarily concern me, however I have not heard the sonic shower, nor running water in the last 42 minutes. Are you okay?”
He gulped. ’Fuck.’ He needed to reply, claim he was fine, brush off his concern, but his throat was closing up, and his mouth forgot how to form words, and his chest was so tight and closing in and—
“Captain, if you do not audibly, confidently, and clearly confirm that you are physically and mentally well, I shall unlock this door.“
’Do it.’ The voice hissed, ’Do it now.’ but his hands couldn’t stop shaking, and the last functioning part of his brain refused to let the ruined parts finish the job.
“Acknowledged, Captain.”
Fingers tapped the precise combination of buttons, and the door hissed open, revealing Spock wearing his crisp, faultless uniform, despite alpha-shift ending hours ago, and his typical, neutral expression. His eyes were dull, almost as if he’d already realised and accepted what he was walking into, and his lips pursed tightly; showing more disapproval than surprise or horror.
“Drop it, Jim.” The order was cold. Detached. Sombre.
“Why?” He flinched at the way his voice cracked, how his eyes began to water, as he continued to hold the pistol against his temple.
“Your emotions, or lack of, are causing you to act illogically. You are not in clear mind. Please reconsider.”
His finger moved back to the trigger, but Spock must have predicted he would try to end it there and then because he immediately strode over, yanked the pistol from his fierce grip, and threw it toward the wall.
“Never try that again.” He growled, an inch from his face; eyes dark and expression dangerous. “Do you understand?” Spock grabbed a fistful of his shirt.
His eyes widened. Mouth dry and body trembling, he tried to reply, but all that came out was an inaudible whimpered mumble, and a cracked whine.
Spock let go, immediately; stiffening from the broken sounds. “I— I must go mediate. I shall notify the Doctor, and—“
“Wait!” He forced out, stumbling to his feet, and grabbed onto Spock’s arm as he tried to flee. “I’m sorry!” Jim croaked. “Don’t leave me!”
Spock turned to face him with a visible frown, and Jim dropped his arm. “I can stay if you would prefer my presence, however the Doctor would—“
“I don’t want Bones. I can’t— look him in the eyes right now. I want you. Please. I need you to stay. Don’t leave me on my own.” The words tumbled out of his mouth on their own. “I didn’t want him to know, I didn’t want either of you to find out, you weren’t— you weren’t supposed to know about my depression, I was supposed to have it under control, but I—“
Suddenly, his head was pressed against Spock’s chest, one hand was brushing through his hair and the other rubbing circles against his back; caressing him with a careful touch. “I know.” Spock murmured, quiet and reserved. “Shhh, I know, I have you, you are safe here, Jim, and I am sorry, my t’hy’la, for I should have noticed sooner, and now will carry a deep regret. I hope to prove to you that—“
Jim wrapped his arms around him, and buried his head underneath his neck, inhaling his scent. “You don’t need to do—“
“—I love you.” Spock finished.
Jim stiffened. Spock noticed; his hand stopping in his hair.
“I—“ He gulped. “You are not required to reciprocate my feelings, and I apologise if I am, and if I have ever, caused you discomfort because of my… emotions, however I—“
Jim pulled away to meet his eyes. “Nothing you could do would make me uncomfortable, Spock.” His voice softened. “I— um, I can’t say I’m… I’m one hundred percent there yet, but you are so important to me, and I am definitely, absolutely falling in love with you.” A small smile peeped out from his wet face. “You’re my… reason to stay.”
Spock cupped his cheek, caressing it gently, and pressed a firm, undeniable kiss against his forehead. “And you are mine, my ashalik t’hy’la.”