Disclaimer: Not mine
Author's note: So normally, I don't write anything all that long, just little character study snippet things, but I'm gonna spice up my life. Or yours, however you want to look at it, even though this is only my second Star Trek fic, and your lives are probably just fine as is…or maybe not. If that's the case, I'm sorry, read my story! If it is, read it anyway! Ok, I'm done please review!
Kirk had taken one look at Spock, alone, in the mess, late at night, when almost no one was there, and had been drawn to him. He would, for those first uncounted increments of time, be characterized in Kirk's mind as a man of great solitude and mental impact. But mostly solitude. The first time he approached Spock for a game of chess, Spock had simply nodded, but the captain could see the stiffening of the shoulders, and wondered who had hurt this man, why.
Gary died, and Kirk beamed back to his ship thinking himself a murderer. The next day he asked his first officer why his entire crew had not read him the riot act. Spock's reply had been to look into his eyes and softly say " You believe that you are a murderer, and therefore your crew should neither trust you or wish to remain under your command. That is illogical. You have killed, yes, and someone who I believe, that, as a human, you felt strong emotion towards, but you killed out of necessity and without malice. And you are not without regret. They remain with you because you chose them over your friend, and, perhaps more importantly, yourself". Later, in the same week, late at night, Spock had awoken him from a nightmare, handed him a glass of water and comforting words, and Kirk, in his current state of grief and despair, had only the presence to whisper " I miss him". Spock had looked at him with eyes so understanding and expression so hard, and with eternal gentleness, said " I know".
He wondered who had hurt this man, why. But walking around the enterprise, he knew that there were too many people and Vulcans and who knows what other creatures to count. Spock had been ostracized his whole life. Spock hated himself. "Illogical", Jim thought to himself, " the way Spock is alienated". He glanced over to the science station, watched the figure that inhabited it move gracefully with such control, such precision, and he wondered at the softness of his voice when he informed Uhura that he had repaired subspace communications; he wondered that the softness was still intact. Spock was rarely harsh, and, as Jim watched him, he was surprised at this, for those who have been abused by others normally become abusive themselves, for defense, for resignation. But not Spock, never Spock, not this brilliant alien who played beautiful music and analyzed and gave answers faster than the computer, not this brilliant man who had somehow allowed himself close to Jim, not Spock.