The Death of An Angel
Chapter 1

Edith Keeler must die, Spock's voice says in his head.

He squeezes his eyes shut against the grief. She must die, he tells himself, but the voice is still Spock's—cool, precise, incredibly even—and he hates the man for his ability to remain collected as he looks upon this slaughter, thinks that even now he's standing there impassively, nothing in him itching to run in and save her, to destroy the old forever and forge a new, terrible world.

Strangely compelling, isn't it? But God forbid—Vulcan forbid—that you think of playing God.

He knows how she marches to her death: single-mindedly, with her eyes trained on the face of her lover/traitor. He's the lure and he knows it, knows her eyes see nothing but his newly confessed love and do not see the traitorous side of him. He doesn't see her, but he sees her doe-eyes, big and brown and infinitely perceptive—so much more than any woman's should ever be. He sees her thin lips drawn together and her chin tilted slightly upward like a queen of someplace and knows that she doesn't deserve to die like this.

"It's lovely seeing you again, Miss Keeler," he said, and even as he did he felt the truth of the words making his smile blossom helplessly. It had been a long time since he'd not had the ability to fight off his smile, but he had just lost it to her for the thousandth time and she lowered her eyes, overcome with her ever-present humility.

She was wearing a purple cap perched precariously on one side of her head. Curiosity piqued, he brushed his fingers lightly over the flowers that served as decoration and found that they had been fashioned out of felt. He wouldn't have been surprised if she had made it herself.

"You look . . . lovely," he went on, trying to ignore the feeling that he was rough, crude in comparison to her . . . He wanted more than anything to impress, to win her approval.

"Lovely . . ." She considered it, her eyes flashing back and forth from him to his hand on the side of her face. She reached up and touched it, made him go still—a polite attempt at keeping his advances at bay, so as not to seem too forward. "That seems to be the only word in your vocabulary this evening, Mister Kirk."

He chuckled—it was his real laugh, and floated up out of him from down deep. It was not the one he forced so often as the captain that had to be courteous in front of company, but one that was enchanted by the teasing voice—so light, full of refinement, only becoming breathless when it spoke of his future . . .

"Well . . ." He drew out the word, his thumb moving across her cheek. "When lovely is all you can see . . ." He shrugged, looking embarrassed, and she decided right then and there it didn't suit him at all.

"Oh?" she piped, so close he could feel her breath and those long eyelashes. "Has lovely become . . . boring for you, Mister Kirk?"

"Please . . ." He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily. "Call me Jim."

It was a moment before her lips felt safe to draw together in a smile. She glanced down briefly at herself, at the dark outfit she had chosen for their outing to the theatre, and then regarded him—not as a dirty, homeless, thieving bum that had hidden in the basement of the Twenty-First Street Mission to escape the police, but a stocky man a little older than she, who saw the same things she did and spelled out mysteries by his existence alone. She would understand them all eventually.

"Jim," she sang, and grabbed his hand, making his eyes widen and his brows rise. She just laughed at him—not mockingly, but in genuine amusement. "Shall we walk?"

He experienced the brief shame of not having an automobile so that they could drive to the theatre, but quickly moved past it, content to have her by his side. "I have only one requirement: that you talk as we go."

"About what?" she inquired, as they began an easy stroll down the corridor.

He shrugged. "I had nothing particular in mind."

"I don't understand. Why are you asking me this?" She sounded irked and she knew it; she stopped and drew in a sharp breath. "What I mean to say is . . . I always felt that our conversations were stimulating."

He felt the need to reassure her and almost impulsively gathered her up in his arm. "I didn't mean they weren't. It's just that . . ."

They came to the door and he freed himself from her, holding it open with one arm, but she didn't go through. She stood there looking at him with an expression that was expectant and patient. Several seconds passed that way. He couldn't disappoint her, but he could answer with the truth, either . . . so he settled for a half-truth: something true that was not really what she wanted to know.

"I like listening to you talk," he confessed. "You're excellent at conversation . . . intelligent . . . and, plainly, I like the sound of your voice." Her arched brows rose a bit and he elaborated, "If I may, I like . . . everything about you, Miss Keeler. And I do believe I'm in love with you."

There was no reaction in her face, but she looked down and watched her feet as she stepped daintily through the door. Now she was standing across from him. He let the door slide shut and she looked up into his face. "Do you?" It wasn't meant to be answered. "That's a remarkable statement, Jim."

"It's a serious statement, Miss Keeler."

"Edith!" she amended, softly, feeling suddenly as though she was going to cry. She reached out and squeezed his hand once, deliberately. She would have sensed the change in him even if she hadn't seen the careless glimmer go out of his eyes, rather like a candle being smothered. All that remained now were dark, serious shadows. This mood, unlike embarrassment, seemed to suit him perfectly, and she was struck by the transformation. Impossible though it was, he looked even more handsome than before, and not in a charming, grinning, boyish way, but in a brooding, contemplative way that revealed the man in him.

"It's okay," he tried to say, touched by her empathy, but his voice came out sounding strained. With sudden resolve, he swallowed past the wad in his throat and some of the glimmer sparked briefly in his eyes. The Slum Area Angel—his angel—saw that it was not the same, but she could not understand why Jim would feign happiness, could not know that he wanted her final hours to be happy and that he would do anything to make them so, even if it meant smiling through his heartbreak . . . smiling, smiling . . . He promised himself that he would wear a smile tonight, for her sake . . .

It was the worst sin of all—to know that she knew nothing of it, didn't deserve it, and still not go to her. Something Bones had murmured a long time ago rises up in him and he echoes it—Lord, forgive me . . . I've killed one of your angels.

The unfortunate driver blares their horn and the tires squeal with the tremendous effort they make to stop. It's strange that he hears nothing, nothing, even as he knows they've smashed into each other, and he squeezes his eyes shut, not seeing it but unable to bear it because he knows just what it looked like, knows that her body is lying in the street and he's allowed it—allowed it!

Bones has stopped fighting. In his pale face, the eyes are blue and bright and stunned, and the lips are staggering over a word but can't find it.

It's over. Jim still can't pry his eyes open. He holds him, holds him, crushing his teeth together in an effort to not throw the man aside and run to her. In the frozenness of the arms, he feels the accusation, the unbelief . . . They hang to each other as is suspended, never to move again—like Edith, his angel . . .

She'll never laugh again, never breathe again, never pour another cup of coffee, never minister to another bum passing through the 21st Street Mission, and it's your fault, your own fault you murdered that goodness, that you murdered her, murdered your happiness.

You could have saved her for selfish reasons, because you liked the way she turned her face up to yours and made your smile come out of you and took it and pulled out another . . . but you didn't even do it for that—didn't do it because you liked the feel of her small body surrounded by your arms, cradled, didn't do it for the fulfilling feeling of power, control that it gives you, didn't do it because you loved the idea of being close to her . . .

And why not? That's easy: you didn't love her. If you had, you would've saved her because she WAS herself, because she had a LIFE, a right to live! Who is to say her life is worth less than that of millions? What if Spock was wrong and she could have lived—? Did you even think of that, or did you just believe him because he's your First Officer?

"You deliberately stopped me, Jim. I could've saved her." Bones' voice is husky, and he shakes Jim a little. "Do ya know whatcha just did?"

Yes!

Jim tears away, blinking in a furious effort not to spill any tears. His hand has taken on a life of its own, roaming over his forehead like it tends to do when he came down with one of his terrible migraines. Thud! Thud! goes the cursed little spot, trying to break through his brain. But there is no pain there—the pain is in his stinging eyes and the hot, tense, nameless thing in his gut for the both of them, because Bones will never understand that he had to do what he did, and Spock will never comprehend what it has cost him. And what's more, they didn't even try to stop him from doing it! They should have murdered his blasted sense of rightness, goodness, honor, whatever—before he murdered her! Blast them for not seeing!

But Bones does see now, recognizes the symptoms in Jim and can't help but feel an overwhelming splash of pity for him. Then, as if he hasn't gotten it by now, Spock's voice comes—earnestly, pleadingly: "He knows, doctor." He doesn't say believe me. "He knows."

And Bones is silent.

Jim clenches his fist as tightly as he can but it still shakes, it is the only outward part of him that shakes, but on the inside he is crumbling, crumbling, and he can feel the heat in his gut relaxing, releasing, letting him go but he doesn't want it to go, he wants to hate them, doesn't want to soften because that makes it hard to keep the tears from coming and I am the captain; I will not do this, not in front of anyone—not ever! His fist tightens in on the anger he can't have back because Spock took it all away.

The passersby begin to gather in the street around the body of the fallen angel. They are quiet; nobody is calling for help. That's how dead she is, that's how effectively he's killed her. The doctor hangs his head in something like prayer; he knows what's next. Lord, Jim . . .

"Bones . . ." he begins, but he doesn't know what to say, how to ask, feels his head jerk in her direction but still doesn't look, can't look, doesn't want to see her in his dreams like he does so many other young, unlined faces that were spoiled by their idealist trek to the stars.

Absently, his hand goes to his hip and he touches there as if he's sore. ". . . I don't have anyuh my equipment. Must've set my bag down before I injected myself." It's a polite way of saying, She's dead and there's nothing I can do for her.

Bones dares to come to him, his hand hovering for an eternity before it comes down on Jim's shoulder and makes him feel as though he's real and solid again. He feels a shudder go through his body and doesn't try to suppress the little noise that comes out. His shoulders knot and his eyes close briefly as he attempts to compose himself—he only opens them when he feels another shadow fall over his back.

"Captain," Spock says, having rapidly regained his ability to articulate, "it is imperative that we make our departure before the newspaper reporters typical of this era arrive. If we do not, it is likely that they will question us because we have witnessed Miss Keeler's death. It is quite possible that they would find motive for murder on the part of yourself, as a—" He doesn't know how to phrase it, Jim realizes. "—frequent male acquaintance of Miss Keeler."

"Boyfriend, Spock." He feels his mouth twist up into something nasty, something that had been a smile only moments before, but is now deformed. "The term is 'boyfriend.'"

Corrected, Spock bows his head.

The "boyfriend" title doesn't seem to satisfy the depth of what he feels—felt . . . He hates thinking of her in the past tense. She should be very much alive right now, not sprawled in the middle of the street while the Clark Gable movie she wanted him to see plays on in some theatre that won't miss her!

He nods to Bones—I'm okay—but he feels like slumping spinelessly to the sidewalk and pretending like none of this is real, that he's dreaming, and wait for himself to wake up in his empty quarters (even emptiness is better than this) to the whistle of the intercom. But he draws on some mysterious reserve of strength and stands, no longer using the wall as support. "Lead the way, Mister Spock."

"Yes, captain."

Spock's voice is quiet. He knows Jim's just come back from the edge, and the slightest thing could send him right back over it again, and if it does he may not come back at all, but instead plummet through grief forever. Jim never wants to lay eyes on this city—the City on the Edge of Forever—again. Some understanding of this passes between the two men and without coordinating it, they both leap through the smoky portal, transitioning smoothly from one time period to another.

Bones descends behind them, but they don't turn to look; they can feel him there. All three of them are back in the time to which they belong, side-by-side, and, to the eyes of the waiting, they are all whole. These redshirts don't see the stolen clothes—the red plaid shirt and the gray button-down, the jeans and the khakis—fade away into uniforms in mid-jump. They only see the three of them: Spock and Bones trading a glance behind the back of Jim, who is magnificent and stern in his stillness, the hair spraying across his forehead glowing almost golden in the wake of the malformed O.

"What happened, sir?" Scotty asks. His eyes are wide and he looks like he hasn't budged in the time they've been absent. "Yah only leftta moment ago."

Spock saves Jim the explanation. "We were successful."

Uhura's nostrils flare as a smile spreads over her face, but something mars it: a question that she doesn't ask. She understands from the demeanor of Spock and Bones that the captain's silence is not to be spoken of.

"TIME HAS RESUMED ITS SHAPE," the Guardian booms, its O flickering and flashing as it speaks. "ALL IS AS IT WAS BEFORE. MANY SUCH JOURNEYS ARE POSSIBLE. LET ME BE YOUR GATEWAY."

In the corner of Uhura's eye, her tricorder blinks, and she reaches down to adjust the dials until she is able to make out the message on the screen. When she does, her face is transformed by a combination of awe and disbelief, her earrings jittering as she shakes her head. She feels jubilant, wants to run and sing and shout because of what she's seen, but understands that it would be inappropriate to express this emotion at the moment. "Captain, the Enterprise is up there!" she says, voice steady and silky-smooth despite the contagious joy in her dark eyes. "They're asking if we want to beam up."

I guess that's why you called yourself "The Guardian of Forever" instead of "The Guardian of FOREVERS." You—whatever you are—believe in only one Forever, one course that the universe must take. I do not believe that, or you, because I have seen that there is at least one other Forever that you do not guard.

You are no Guardian. You didn't guard me from the pain you knew I would experience, but instead encouraged me to take the journey. You guard only your One Forever, uncaring what it has cost me to preserve it. You know I had to preserve it to regain McCoy's sanity, know the agony I've gone through, and yet you've just offered us MORE journeys! The nerve!

You have made me strangle the Other Forever with my own bare hands—made me kill my angel, my love!—made me destroy it, all so there would remain only the One Forever. No, we won't be taking any more journeys through you, thanks. We'll be our own gateway, make our own way. We don't need you, so—

"Let's get the hell out of here."

And never, ever come back.

Each of them moves into their place at Jim's flank as the air surrounding them begins its peculiar buzzing and fizzing. The silhouettes flicker out of existence and, in the next instant, a voice thunders across the sandy ruins: "I AM THE GUARDIAN OF THE ONE FOREVER. MUCH TIME WILL PASS BEFORE ANOTHER QUESTION IS POSED TO ME."

A/N: More written, just need to upload. Reactions? Comments? Questions? I realize it's quite angsty. Not really my usual fare, but I love Jim when he's like that.