Work Text:
Clink!
A single sharp blade drops into the ink, the rest still clinging to the razor head for dear life. You'd nicked your index finger trying to pry them all loose, and after more than ten minutes found yourself with only one. These cheap, plastic razors were supoosed to be easy.
Just another thing you couldn't get right today, it seems.
Your vision swims.
How useless are you? You can't even hurt yourself with any efficiency. You could never even kill yourself properly. One thing. There was one thing you could've done to spare everyone the pain of you wasting their oxygen with your worthless existence. And yet, here you still are.
You thought you'd freed yourself from these tendrils of death. For quite some time now you had been clean. The old scabs scared over, hidden beneath your uniform at all times. Everywhere you could reach was maimed at one point or another. Wrists, shoulders, and thighs.
Warm, salty tears begin to fall without your permission.
You drop the torn apart plastic head of the razor, picking up the blade with your bleeding hand. From your finger, blood transfers onto the white porcelain, staining the pristine surface with your tainted blood.
Choking on a sob you refuse to allow free roam, you look up into the mirror before you. Your shirt had been discarded agaes ago, leaving only bare skin. The scars are visble, even when the smudges on the mirror obscure your entire being. Nothing more than a waste of space.
That's what you are.
Your shaking hands adjust. Wrist up, palm open, blade held tight.
Slide quickly, without hesitation. If you hesitate the pain becomes a deterrent. Don't hesitate.
The blade eats hungrily through flesh as you slash it from one side to the next. One, two, three, four—
The stinging begins as blood dots up from the split skin.
Five, six, seven, eight, nine—
Blood starts to pool and drip as you progress further up, wrist to elbow. When that's not enough, you move to the shoulder too.
Ten, eleven, twelve—
That's it.
The tiny piece of metal to blame for causing such frightening gashes is juxtapose to the violence displayed upon your flesh now. Next, your thighs, perhaps.
The hydraulic pistons of the door woosh as the metal slides away.
Your bondmate rushes inside, silent, but you know he's there when warm hands find the one with the blade. He's seen you now, the rest will be confiscated.
All that effort to extract one meagre blade is wasted.
A breathless whimper leaves your lips. He won't let go until you do, so you relent the weapon. Your conquest was short-lived, for the regret and guilt eats away at you now. You were doing so well. Just a few hours ago everything was fine.
A sob wrecks your already burning throat.
“You require medical attention.” His voice is clinical, but not cold.
In the bond you can feel his emotions slip through, in the same breath knowing this is how he knew something was wrong. Your blood feels like ice thinking of it. One can do no more than imagine the sheer terror he must have felt, knowing his mate, his t’hy’la was attempting to write themselves an early obituary.
He is panicking, despite the mask of calm pulled over his face.
“I...” A beat passes before you can meet his eyes. The abyss looks back at you. His eyes are truly something one could become lost within. Even wracked eith guilt. “I have a handheld... i—in my cupboard.”
A handheld regenerator. You'd bought it when you still hurt yourself frequently, just to make sure you didn't accidentally off yourself when you didn't intend to.
“I see.”
The lighting within the bathroom is harsh.
A white towel is stained with your blood when he wraps it around your arm as a temporary solution. And to keep the carpets clean, as you soon discover. Gratitude mixes in with your remorse, as it is one less thing for you to experience guilt over.
The pain which flares up is irrelevant.
Spock leads you back into your shared quarters, which is several degrees warmer than the bathroom, where the lights are a warm orange and the backdrop is draped in your mate's crimson decor.
He retrieves the aforementioned regenerator, returning to you. You finally find enough of your wits, through the sniffling and near silent weeping, to hold the towel underneath as he fires it up and begins to mend your wounds.
Standing in the middle fo your quarters, you watched him, wondering how you got so lucky. And how you could be so stupid. Spock doesn't deserve to deal with this. He signed up to be your lover, not your therapist.
The regenerator hums in the silence, filling the ambience with it's whirring.
“I do not understand.” Spock whispers.
“I don't think... I do.” You whisper back, voice raw and on the verge of fully breaking down. “It just... happened. I'm sorry. I should have—”
“I do not have any desire to hear your apologies.” He murmurs. “My desire is for you to stop this.”
“I... can't.”
“You possess more power than you believe, T’hy’la.” He whispers, reaches up to cup your damp cheek. “I implore you...”
You take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady yourself as hot tears cascade down your face. His thumb touches some, but he isn't trying to wipe them away simply to be rid of them. His touch is gentle, caressing you more than trying to force your grief to settle.
“Okay. Okay I—” Can you do this? Can you truly make these words true? “I promise.”
Spock offers you a small, grateful smile before returning to his work.
Once the regenerator has healed the damage and you've cleaned the blood, he puts the tool aside and leads you to bed. You reluctantly oblige when he offers you your pajamas, and the two of you climb into bed together.
He gathers you up in his arms, still sniffling and occasionally whimpering. In the past you were in the habit of being completely silent, but Spock is your mate. You have no reason to hide from him as he knows your sorrows.
And despite everything, he doesn't judge them.
Tangled up in his warmth, you can begin to feel safer. Tomorrow is another chance to try a
gain. You can stay clean. For your mate, and for yourself. He deserves better.
And so do you.