DISCLAIMER: I don't own Star Trek, but I wish I did own it (among other things).
K+
The Letters
It had been four years. Every so often I'd receive letters from him, always telling me about what happened every day, what the trenches were like, who lived, who died… Each letter always ended with "I love you", some in English, others in French or German, even Spanish once. I always wrote back, and my letters were mainly pleas for him to come home soon, to be safe, to not die. I always dreaded that day when the letters would stop, when I'd get a knock on the door and a somber military figure would be standing there, delivering the bad news.
Jim's letters, at times, could be descriptive, could be lighthearted and funny, and at others, could be dark. The descriptive ones told me about his training, the camps, his regiment. He was grouped with a few interesting characters, a pair of fighter pilots named Sulu and Chekov, and a twitchy mechanic known as Scotty. He always joked about flirting with "the beautiful but snippety interpreter, Uhura" around Uhura's to-be, Spock, a severe, odd man with a severe, odd background. These letters usually made me laugh.
Some of his letters made me cry, such as this one:
January 14, 1915
Hey, Bones,
It's been a little…tough these days. A bit scary. I don't want you to worry, but I think I've discovered now just what I'm getting into. I don't exactly know how to write this.
Sulu is dead. Please, please don't overreact. He was scared, that's all, just terrified, because he'd gotten shot, and he couldn't see, and (here Jim's handwriting got a little shaky) he ran straight towards the enemy lines before he fell into one of the trenches and broke his neck (here, a long pencil line swerved into the margin, as if someone had startled him while he wrote).
I don't know what else to say. Things have been quieter, that's for certain. Chekov's scared out of his wits. He's only nineteen, did I mention that? I must have. Scotty has seemed a little less hyper lately. I've decided to lay off messing around with Uhura and Spock, at least until this blows over. It wouldn't seem right. Not after what happened to Sulu.
Please don't start worrying about me like I know you've been doing.
I love you, a million times and a million times over again.
Jim
Finishing deciphering his messy scrawl, I had retreated to someplace private and started sobbing. At that point, I had no hope in me.
The letters kept coming, and I kept writing back, and so it went on for three more long years.
And I waited.
And finally, about a month ago, a letter had come with Jim's messy handwriting addressing it to me, the first blessed words written on the page: We're coming home.
I had skimmed the rest in a frenzy, wide-eyed, listening to him tell me how he would be home soon, how he was saying his goodbyes to the war, to Europe, to all…
…but when I reached the end, the last bit was blurred with coffee. And all I could make out was the smeared front half of his parting words: I lov—
But what did it mean? Why hadn't he written over the stain once it dried? Why had he left it?
I had spent the month without sleep, with hardly any food I could keep in my stomach without throwing up, constantly pacing like a caged lion. The train of soldiers was due to arrive at the end of March. It took twenty-nine long days of waiting to come home walking…or in a coffin.
And so I found myself standing in the train station, his leather jacket draped around my anxious frame, still smelling of pancakes. I was nervous. Jumpy.
Hurry up, I thought.
A few minutes later, as I tapped my foot on the linoleum floor, waiting, watching, I heard the sharp whistle of the train.
My heart leapt—the train, the train! I screamed it in my mind like a kid on Christmas morning.
There it was, in all its dark green glory, pulling into the station, billowing steam. I took a step forward from my place against the wall. Jim?
Soldiers exited from every car, some wounded, some not, most with a look of tired relief about them as they stepped onto the platform.
The crowd instantly doubled in size, and it seemed as if I was in the middle of a stampede of people called for friends, sons, husbands, brothers, sweethearts, fathers…and I glanced around, and I couldn't see anything but swirling cloth and steam and strangers.
I pushed my way back to the wall and stayed there, biting my lip, nervously scanning the crowd as it gradually thinned.
Jim? I thought, hoping beyond hope he'd appear.
I couldn't see him anywhere.
After a good ten minutes, there was hardly anyone left on the platform, and I stepped out into the middle of the room.
Jim?
He wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere.
I hung my head in defeat. This could not be happening. Not now. Not at this last moment. What had I ever done to upset the balance of nature? Was Karma out to get me?
Jim? The question was teary in my mind. My throat tightened.
And then a voice came from behind. "Bones?"
I turned…and there he was.
That was when I lost it. I could feel my tears spilling over as I rushed forward and threw my arms around him, shaking.
"I see you've taken care of my jacket," he said, awkwardly hugging me back. "I missed you."
"Not nearly as much as I missed you, you son of a bitch," I managed to choke out. I let go, drew the back of my hand over my eyes, looking at the blurry sight of him.
He had a weary look about him, his sandy hair limp and floppy, having grown longer since I'd last seen him, his face tanner. When I'd hugged him, I noticed he felt harder. Thinner, too, as if he'd lost weight. An unnatural amount of it.
"I wasn't sure if you'd be here," I told him, blinking back the rest of my tears.
"I wasn't sure either," he answered, wistfully glancing towards the train. "I…" He trailed off for a moment, then spoke again, this time meeting my eyes with his ice blue ones, those eyes that looked right into your soul and somehow managed to melt it. "I love you," he said.
I almost started crying again as I kissed him, wrapping my arms around him. I could feel his cocky grin returning as he kissed me back.
He smelled like cooking pancakes.
FIN