Title: The Miserable One
Fandom: ST2009
Genre: Romance/Tragedy
Pairing: Unconsummated K/S
Summary: Spock holds the shards of a broken teacup and a broken heart, and reflects and remembers on both.
Warning: Major Character Death(s), no happy ending, slight songfic tendencies.
Author's Note: Okay, this is the darkest thing I've ever written. I got the inspiration from my own assertion that the Reboot boys could angst over a teacup and from two songs from Les Miserables. You have been forewarned that this is not a sunshine-and-puppies sort of thing. And it's dedicated to First Officer Anon7, whose interest in the teacup idea finally got my butt in gear to write it.
Spock sits alone in his quarters, staring at the shards of the broken teacup he can't bear to clean up. It's been lying there for days, Spock's not sure precisely how long; his time sense has not worked properly since that day.
The day everything went wrong.
He and Jim had gotten into a fight. Spock had accused him of not taking his duties seriously enough, and, in true Jim Kirk fashion, the young captain had let emotion run so high in the room one could drown in it. He had thrown the teacup at Spock, lifting it from the set on the dresser, and it had broken on the floor.
It had been a gift from his mother, when he'd gone off to Starfleet Academy, and so, Spock had been angry. Angry enough to physically throw Jim out of the room with the warning that, should he return, Spock could not promise that the incident on the bridge three years ago would not repeat itself. In reply, Jim had slapped him in the face, hard, looking hurt, and walked, no, no, he'd ran down the hallway.
Almost immediately, guilt set in, but there was no time to redeem himself or to clean up the broken porcelain.
A group of Klingons attacked a remote Federation planet they happened to be near, and Jim insisted on beaming down to help the natives protect themselves. Spock followed, anxious to make certain that Jim would not, as he was prone to, do anything stupid.
McCoy gave him a glare, but joined them on the transporter pad.
The group, consisting of approximately ten people, beamed down behind a makeshift barricade the natives had erected to keep the Klingons.
The thing was falling apart; this culture was not nearly as advanced, nor as powerful, as the landing party from the Enterprise when it came to phasers and the right ways to use them. Jim immediately unholstered the phaser rifle he'd brought and began to fire on the advancing Klingons, who were, strangely enough, augmenting their phasers with a native throwing weapon, much like a short spear.
Following Jim, Spock warded off several blasts and spears that could've killed Jim, and the captain did the same for him.
Then, Spock was a hair too slow, an eyeblink too slow, and Jim was hit by one of the spears, straight in the chest. He'd stood for a few moments more, firing several more rounds of phaserfire before sinking to his knees.
Rain was falling all around them, and when Spock slid to the ground and pulled Jim into his lap, Jim murmured, "Hey, Spock, it's raining."
"Yes," Spock replied, shaken. "Wait for Dr. McCoy, he should be arriving shortly."
"Mmkay. Say hi to him for me when he gets here." Jim was beginning to fade away, the sentence breathy and weak.
Spock shook his head. "Do not lose consciousness."
"It's okay, Spock. I don't feel any pain. I'll be okay." Jim reached up and brushed some rainwater off of Spock's cheek. "Just stay with me. I want you here, keeping me safe."
Spock felt tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. "I repeat: don't lose consciousness."
Jim hadn't seemed to hear him. "Finally, you've got your arms around me. Been...been waiting for that, you know. Years now. Wanted you so bad."
The revelation was a shock, and enough to cause the tears to fall, mingling with the rain.
"Just stay till Bones gets here. He'll probably stick me with a hypo full of 'Magical-Don't-You-Dare-Die-On-Me-Or-I'll-Kill-You-Jim.' Then everything'll be fine, I promise. Bones is ridiculous. And he doesn't hate you, you know."
Speaking of the good doctor, where was he? Spock looked around for the only other person on this field in science blues.
He found the doctor, either unconscious or dead, a spear sticking out of his back.
"I believe," he whispers to Jim, "It would be more prudent to beam back to the ship." He searches for the communicators, but they are gone, lost somewhere in the mud of the battlefield.
"Okay. Tell me when we get there." He paused and wondered aloud, "Hey, Spock, next time we come back here, do you think flowers will have grown here? With the rain and all?"
Jim's breaths were coming shallow now, and Spock knew he was dying.
But there was nothing he could do, because all avenues were lost causes and broken dreams. He could only sit here and watch as his captain faded away and was lost forever.
"Bones is dead, isn't he?" The question came out of nowhere. "He'd be here if he was alive."
"I...believe...I believe so." A catch built in Spock's throat.
Tears were filling Kirk's eyes. "Damn it all. I don't want to do that funeral. Please, Spock, don't make me do that funeral."
Spock couldn't say a thing.
"I might not get the chance," Jim said suddenly, smiling. "'Cause I'm...I'm dying."
He seemed so at peace with the whole idea, and Spock could only nod. "I do not wish it to be true, but all --" His voice broke.
"Can you kiss me, then? Just, as a...last...wish?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry…about the teacup. Really, really..." He trailed off, eyes already beginnig to glaze over.
Spock kissed him softly, and he died.
So now, Spock sits, more alone than he's ever been in his life. His best friends are dead, his mother is long gone, Uhura gave up after he yelled at her, actually yelled, and his father has never been close to him.
And more than that, Jim Kirk loved him.
The irony is bitter and consuming, like a black hole at the heart of him.
James T. Kirk lovedhim. And had had no idea, no clue that Spock returned the feeling, returns it even now as the porcelain shards glint in the dim light and Spock is crying again, unable, completely unable to control the sadness.
He had abdicated command immediately after beam-up, handing it off to Scotty, and handed Kirk and McCoy's bodies off to the coroners. Not bothering with any other formalities, he had returned to his quarters and has not left since. He feels that, should he leave, he would be overcome completely, if it is possible to be more sick at heart than he is now.
His quarters are cold around him, and his hands are still stained with Kirk's blood. Another thing he can't bear to rid himself of, and the reason he yelled at Uhura.
Everything is over, but, when Spock falls asleep, he dreams of what could have been, of his t'hy'la, the friendbrotherlover who was never really his in the way he wanted. He dreams of life, of sunlight and of cleansing rain that they walk in together, silver lights glimmering in puddles on the pavement of San Francisco, hands connected in the Vulcan equivalent of a kiss.
He dreams of life, but all there is when he wakes is death.
Staring at the broken teacup, he wonders, no he realizes that he can't go on, not anymore. He has lost everything that kept him alive.
So, one sharp shard against his wrists, one, two, three cuts to be sure, and he leans against the bed he sits in front of, watching green pool with red on the stains on his hands, hands that could never touch what he desired, cowardly hands that could've had everything but now have nothing.
He fades away, blue, perfect eyes in his minds eye, laughing with him, and full lips kissing him, welcoming him home.
~end~
Word Count: 1,260. A nice, round number.
Author's Note Number Two: Holy crap, I wrote this? I, who cannot read tragedy, just wrote tragedy. I wrote a Spock-suicide. That had not been in the script, Spock! Stop telling me that you have to kill yourself...
But, hey, I guess you're in character, given "Amok Time."