Title: Forgetting is So Long
Author: htebazytook
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: --
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Time Frame: TOS
Author's Notes: Finally submitting to the lure of TOS fic. The result was pretty angsty/sappy. Probably slightly AU. Title stolen from this angsty Pablo Neruda quote: Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
If there was ever a time for Spock to get drunk, this was it. And to Kirk's surprise, he was actually doing it.
They're in a rec room, the bridge crew and some of the younger crewmembers, and everyone's smiling like it's going out of style. They're all best friends, for the moment, with the wine flowing and the mission over.
And the mission over.
Kirk shouldn't be surprised that Spock is drinking, really. He sure as hell is.
"What's the matter, Jim? Why, even Spock's having more fun than you."
He probably is. Kirk smiles a little. "Don't worry about it, Bones. I'm just . . . trying to relax. If you don't mind."
"It's my job to worry about it," Bones insists. Not too serious—he's as happy as the rest of the crew.
"More like your pastime, wouldn't you say?" Kirk's tired.
Bones shrugs, acknowledging. Watches a throng in the corner laughing, maybe a bit of a wistful smile there. Bones is better at leaving things behind—bitchier about it, yes, but still better at it than Kirk. For goodness' sake, Spock really is having more fun than him—his face weirdly carefree and blue alcohol pouring steadily down his throat, surrounded by other, similarly happy people.
Happy, happy, happy.
There's a pair playing chess the next table over. In a few days Kirk will have to find a new game to play in his spare time. And new opponents.
Chekov grows bored of his conversation and leans into the slightly removed space Kirk and Bones are occupying. He's a little drunk, so he claps Kirk on the back. "What a relief it is finally over, Captain!"
And the mission over. Bones looks to him.
"Indeed, Mr Chekov." Kirk catches sight of Spock, drawn to the peaceful look on his face. Not his usual strict serenity—this is the real deal. It's subtle, but to Kirk Spock's not-frown and his especially liberal use of raised eyebrows are borderline scandalous. "So, what do you think, ensign? Is Spock really having more fun than I am? Bones here seems to think so." Kirk loves orchestrating amusing little conversations around him. They start to spar affably while Kirk looks on—
And that's when he hears Spock laughing. It takes him a minute to figure out it's him, but once he does he's unable to look away. Studies Spock while conversations spin around him. Kirk can't tell if Spock is happy to be in good company or happy to soon be getting away from said company, and not knowing is getting under his skin. Despite Kirk's favorite game of Getting A Reaction Out Of Spock, the whole concept of his (soon to be former) first officer being so amiable—sociable—is only disturbing him, and he's content to keep at a distance. Who knows how he'd react to a carefree Spock up close.
Another general bout of laughter. Everything is so wrong, and nobody else can see it. Not even Bones.
In a few days Kirk will hand over his ship to God knows who. In a few days he'll want to know something technical or trivial or interesting, and he'll ask a computer instead of Spock. And get some boring answer, no doubt. Or want a decent chess opponent. Or expect a voice over his shoulder to point out how logical/illogical a particular situation is. And he won't get it.
Chekov has an oblivious smile on his face. The air is irrepressibly thick with camaraderie—Kirk feels it, but for him it's translating as something painful. Clearly not for Chekov, though.
Chekov raises his glass. "Here's to the best five year mission Starfleet's ever seen, and it's all thanks to you, Captain."
"I'll drink to that," Bones says, nudging him.
Kirk raises his glass too.
And the mission over.
*
Kirk reads about protocol and Starfleet regulations in his quarters. Stuff about change of command and the procedure for crewmembers. The red tape of modernizing—sorry, 'improving' his ship. Reads until his vision starts to blur, ends up bored and gazing absently over things he'll never need to know again. At least he won't have to stay up to date on every barely important, miniscule change in policy. He's so tired.
His cabin door swishes open. Spock comes in without asking.
"Captain, you left early."
Kirk tilts his head, eyes trained on obsolete paragraphs. "And what precisely would you say constitutes 'early', Spock?" he asks, switching off his computer and looking up.
It's . . . Spock is standing at an angle, jut of his hip. An actual sheen of sweat over his face, a surprisingly prominent green-tinted blush up his neck and ears and cheeks. His mouth agape, his breathing audible. And his eyes appearing bigger than usual and moving sluggishly around the room like they're following fireflies.
It's . . . fascinating. Kirk's annoyed that he can't think of a better word.
Spock takes a step forward. His voice comes out hoarse and un-Spock-like. "Captain, I . . . attempted to locate you at the social gathering you . . . you had said I ought to 'join the party' I believe. Therefore at the party." Spock blinks at himself. "Yes. Yes. And yet when I looked for you . . . Jim . . ."
"Spock, please sit down, you're making me nervous. How much have you had to drink?" Alcohol shouldn't affect him this much unless he'd had a lot, right?
Spock gets a look of intense concentration on his face, exaggerated frown that makes Kirk want to laugh. Oh God, he's trying to calculate the exact number of drinks . . .
"An estimate would be sufficient, Mr Spock. Sit down."
Spock sits down gracelessly in the chair on the other side of Kirk's desk. He shakes his head, barely perceptible quirk of his mouth. "Too much, apparently. Jim. The party was, implicitly, for you."
Kirk raises his eyebrows. "Oh really? Well in that case I'll cry if I want to."
"You will . . . ? Why?" Spock stares at him, bewildered and breathing through his mouth.
Kirk stares back. Spock is definitely drunk. And it's simply illogical, says the Spock side of his brain, in Spock's voice and everything.
Ugh . . . Kirk never wants to think logically ever again.
Kirk can't answer Spock and his unfocused dark eyes and the florid flush down his neck. Not directly. "Tell me, Spock. What do you plan on doing after the Enterprise docks and we all go our separate ways?" He can visit any of the human members of his crew at will. Hell, Bones will probably continue to insist on monthly physicals (and afterwards drag him out for mandatory bar hopping). That's not the problem. The problem, as always, is Spock and his Vulcanness.
His very intoxicated Vulcanness. Licking his lips and so damn green and sweating and terrifyingly unschooled features—there's eyebrows flying all over the place when he speaks: "Nothing is finalized. As yet. I honestly do not know how long I must remain on Vulcan."
"On . . . on Vulcan?"
Spock shoots him an uncomprehending look. "Yes."
In an instant all of Kirk's fears are confirmed which is, in a way, a relief. It makes sense for Spock to return to his home planet. They're all going home, aren't they? But that doesn't change the feeling of lead in the pit of his stomach. Kirk's always been lonely, but now he's starting to feel a little bit doomed to it, and a little betrayed. And Spock's not at fault for being Spock and that makes it even worse.
Kirk . . . might be a little drunk, too. God, he'd better be if he's getting this maudlin. "Yes, of course," he says.
But Spock's on to him, that stupid studious gaze. "Jim . . . you left the party early." If Kirk didn't know any better he'd say Spock's tone is pleading.
It's disconcerting, so Kirk changes the subject again: "I'm just not feeling all that sociable tonight. I'm sorry, Spock, but—I'm still trying to get a handle on how you managed to drink enough to be this . . . well." Spock can't be as out of whack over the loss of the ship as Kirk is. Ships don't mean anything to Spock, and he tries his damndest to make sure people—humans—don't either. Spock's already done his share of five year missions and made it out alive and presumably unchanged.
Then again he's unsteady and bleary eyed on the other side of the desk. Kirk has seen Spock turned carefree and emotional by alien spores, devastated and disparaging by mind-altering infections. But never quite like this. Right now he's a mash up of the two extremes, and, more importantly, it's something Spock chose to do, knocking back Romulan ale like nobody's business.
Spock doesn't seem to have heard him, eyes zooming around haphazardly before settling back on Kirk, heavy. "Why did you leave?" he persists.
This has got to be the most indirect conversation they've ever had.
Spock stands up, still so unsteady, breathing so off. It's mesmerizing and Kirk just watches him. He's getting closer and Kirk still can't move.
"Jim, you are so . . ." Spock's eyes flickering over his face, so human.
Before Kirk knows what's happening Spock's actually touching his face and Kirk's standing, desperate to back away from him, both the Spock he's known for five years and the one whose fingers are branding Kirk's skin. He looks as lost as Kirk feels.
Kirk opens his mouth to say something, anything, but instead Spock makes a swift, sweet sound and leans in to kiss him.
This isn't how Kirk usually approaches a kiss—for one thing, he's not the one initiating it. It's not just a slow, promising press of lips against his—it's lighter, more tantalizing, Spock's mouth somehow prying his open, a kiss that's all about breath and brief wet touches. Spock's gasp, a hint of tongue.
Furthermore it's been a good long while since Kirk's kissed anyone, really. Not since . . .
That train of thought gives birth to a half-formed idea about a beautiful face, dancing, despair—vague and hovering on the edges of the Rigellian Fever epidemic, but there's also a pretty convincing barrier in his mind telling him to leave it well alone. In Spock's voice because Spock is the voice of reason, one assumes. Spock's voice, which is currently resonating in little moans into Kirk's mouth.
Spock's so physically hot up close and Kirk's so off balance in so many ways that instinct jumps in and takes over for him. Kirk's arms go around Spock of their own volition and it feels good so he lets Spock pull him closer. This forces them to readjust the angle of the kiss and it gets deep and slow and knee-weakening. Groan out of Spock's chest and heated grip tightening on Kirk's forearms. Kirk can't gain the upper hand and he kind of likes that.
At first Kirk assumes he's only imagining the room spinning but then he finds his back to the wall and Spock pressing into him. Kirk peers at him, glimpses a blurred upswept eyebrow to remind him it's Spock, gets a jolt of excitement/fear/arousal. Spock's got him trapped, bent slightly to kiss him and too-strong arms holding Kirk fast and wonderfully hard against the wall.
Kirk's already wont to give in in these situations—I mean, why not if the other party is so clearly willing? It's perfectly acceptable human logic and it's currently dictating he push his tongue into Spock's mouth and moan until he can get him to respond.
The initial fervor of the kiss gets overtaken by restless, needy hands roaming everywhere within reach, mouths wandering over skin. Spock, who rarely breaks a sweat, is practically hyperventilating.
"Jim . . ." he says vaguely, and the name sits low and delicious in his voice. Kirk shivers and kisses along his jaw.
"Jim," he repeats, trying to convey something.
"Mm, no, just don't speak," Kirk cajoles, finding Spock's mouth again—
CHT-cht-chch-CHT-cht-cht
Why in God's name is Kirk's communicator on?
Kirk sighs, pushes his forehead against Spock's, savors for a moment before withdrawing.
"Kirk here."
"'Allo? Is yer refrigerator runnin', Cap'n?" crackles a thick Scottish accent.
"No it is not, Mr Scott. Possibly because they've been out of production for about a hundred years, now."
"'Oy, Cap'n! How did ye know it was me?"
Static while the communicator shifts hands. "Jim. Jim."
"I don't suppose you'd care to supply me with any kind of explanation, Bones?"
"Aw, come on, we were only having a little fun. And you messed up the whole joke—see you're supposed to—"
"Goodnight, Dr McCoy."
Kirk flips the communicator closed and off and puts it down.
Spock almost immediately draws Kirk near again and Kirk ignores the thumping of his heart, puts his hands on Spock's chest and pushes gently away. "You're not yourself and you should, you should go. There's no need to apologize or . . ." Spock's mouth is wet and his eyes are scarily unguarded, asking. "Please go, Spock," Kirk says, quieter.
Spock looks at him for a long time—so lost—and Kirk tries not to blink too much. Then he nods, straightens his off-kilter uniform shirt. Leaves.
*
Kirk comes up behind Spock at the science station. He's a little hungover thanks to further drinking after Spock's departure the night before, and his third coffee's got him jittery and anxious and back to being vaguely nauseous. On the other hand he's been vaguely nauseous for about a week now.
If Spock's feeling at all under the weather he isn't showing it, that green-blooded . . . well, never mind.
"Mr Spock, if you would join me." He lets his hand slide over the back of Spock's chair, turns toward Sulu on his way to the turbolift. "Sulu, you have the conn."
"Aye, sir."
Kirk hasn't looked Spock in the eye yet today, and somehow this makes the sight of him walking slowly to the lift a startling one—everything becomes twice as immediate.
"Deck five," Kirk says, sounding loud and irritated to his own ears. Spock's staring straight ahead, motionless, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. God, he wishes he'd say something.
The doors open and they step out into an empty hallway. Spock walks a little way ahead of him, stops when he senses that Kirk isn't following, turns mildly and looks at Kirk mildly and . . . it causes something nameless to boil up and out of control. Kirk gets too close to him and spits it out:
"What's on Vulcan?"
Spock considers him. "I am not sure to what you are referring, Captain—whether to Vulcan's inhabitants, geology, places of cultural significance—"
"What's on Vulcan?" He'd had this wonderful plan to sit Spock down in a nice, secluded briefing room and carefully wheedle the information out of him, maturely and considerately. What had happened to that plan?
Spock pauses. "You are returning to Earth; I am returning to Vulcan—"
"Would you please just . . . give me a straight answer? Spock."
Spock pauses for even longer. Looks down and away. "There is a Vulcan discipline that enables an individual to attain a state of perfect logic, purging all emotion. That is 'what' is on Vulcan, and why I intend to return to my home planet as soon as the Enterprise docks. This particular tradition is of course more complicated than simply—"
"So now, as if you weren't unemotional enough, you're about to undergo some even more dehumanizing process and—"
"I would not label the process as 'dehumanizing' when its subject is not actually human to begin with."
"You are." Kirk wants to take it back as soon as the words escape, hates that being called human is an insult to Spock. "Partly. And what's wrong with that?"
Spock tilts his head. "Captain, if I were to list everything I find undesirable about the human condition, the list would become so long that I would have difficulty deciding where to begin. Furthermore—"
Kirk seizes his arms. The unstable, desperate feeling in the pit of his stomach has boiled over. "Do you even remember last night?"
Spock closes his eyes for a good ten seconds, and when he opens them again he's utterly failed to keep the emotion out. "Yes. That is precisely why I must attain kolinahr."
Kirk's mouth is dry all of a sudden. He swallows. "Spock . . ."
"Yes, Captain?"
"I . . . sorry for interrogating you." Tension drains and Kirk releases him.
Spock's eyes, soft and staring. "I must return to my post." So he does.
*
Kirk had never hated the fresh air of his home planet before now. It had always been, well, a breath of fresh air. A promise. A reminder that there was a place for him beyond the confines of his ship.
It's not a welcome sentiment anymore, though, knowing he'll likely never set foot on the Enterprise again. He can't believe it's really happening, can't believe how fast his heart is beating as he walks away from her for the last time. And he doesn't look back.
There are ceremonies at the Academy for the next couple of days—medals and promotions and goodbyes. It's all a bit of a blur, and Kirk has to get some fresh air in the middle of the official party in the ballroom with its senior Starfleet bureaucrats, dress uniforms, catering. He stands outside on a balcony and breathes deeply, trying to force the air back into tasting like home.
He hears the heavy manual door open and click shut imperfectly, the shuffle of footsteps across clay tiles.
Spock sidles up to him. "You left early," he says, looking across the river to the city and not at Kirk.
"Just taking a breather."
"I would like to once again offer my congratulations on your promotion. You will make a fine Admiral, and it has been an honor serving with—"
"Spock."
Spock unfolds his arms and the gold embroidery on his uniform shines darkly in the blue gloom of dusk. "Yes?"
"I'm going to miss you."
Spock turns to him. "I am . . . truly sorry. Jim."
"Don't be." Kirk holds his gaze for so long he's certain it will break.
"The next starship on course for Vulcan leaves at oh-six-hundred hours," Spock states.
"Yes I . . . I know."
Spock waits until Kirk is trying to smile to draw him near. Kirk makes an involuntary sound and kisses him, feels Spock's arms twine tighter around him. Spock kisses back without hesitation, hard, needy, until they're both completely out of breath.
"Live long and prosper," Kirk says against his mouth. Spock leans in to kiss him again but Kirk breaks away, heart beating fast as he walks away from him for the last time.
And he doesn't look back.
*