Two scenes from a fic that never quite happened. This first one takes place the night Vulcan was destroyed.
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That first night, the thoughts had been unbearable. They had stabbed like daggers and screamed like banshees. But most of all, they had clamoured. They had scurried.
Spock put his head into his hands and clenched his teeth together. He couldn't make them stop. He couldn't drown them out. He couldn't even understand them. It was all too incomprehensible. It was all too jumbled in his mind.
It wasn't just his mother—he could take that, he had seen that with his own eyes. It was his old neighbour, the high school bully he'd always secretly hoped to wreak vengeance on, the librarian that had saved new books for him. Everything and everybody he had ever known. It was all gone.
Spock couldn't meditate. Normally, he could do it anywhere, but now even in the right position, in the right conditions, he couldn't reduce the intensity of his thoughts. He fidgeted and clutched his IDIC hard. He reached out and touched the wall. He hit it.
"Hello," a voice rang out of the ashes. He recognized it as Uhura's, but he didn't look up. He felt her sit next to him, and her hand touch his shoulder.
"I just wanted to make sure that you're okay," she said softly.
"I'm not," he spat, more harshly than he intended.
"I'm sorry," she said, looking down in embarrassment, "That was a stupid thing to say. What I meant was if you want to talk ... or anything ..."
Her eyes were wide with pity. She looked close to tears herself.
Spock brushed her cheek with his hand, and she kissed him. He thought he felt her hot tears slide down his face. He lacked the will to resist. She was dulling his pain. It was a few minutes before he took her clothes off.
Even then, he was strange. It never occurred to him to do anything but hang her clothes in the hall closet. She stared at him with a bizarre, startled expression as he put her dress on a hanger and then neatly folded her underwear and put in on a shelf. He then methodically undressed himself, putting away each garment properly as he removed it.
He sat back down and began to kiss her and caress her naked body. The room seemed surreal as if the air were solid. On one side was his grief and his rage. So much rage. He was already so lost and alone. Why had this happened to him? To everyone?
His desire, hot and shameful yet comforting huddled in a corner.
Soon, he was slamming his rage into her, ramming his grief into her open body.
Thrust. She gasps like her crewmates at the sight of the planet collapsing in on itself. He stands watching calmly, not even flinching.
Thrust. Her flesh is warm and soft like Kirk's as he hit at his face and squeezed at his throat. Being stripped of his last shred of dignity, his command, his clothes.
Thrust. Nyota's scream and the scream of his mother as the pit enveloped her. Her nails ripping through his flesh like his mother's ripped through dirt as she struggled to save herself.
Thrust. The sweat on Nyota's face like the sweat on billions of unknown faces seconds before they burned.
Thrust. The fleeting feeling that he hadn't lost enough. That it had never truly been his world. That they had always alienated and disliked and despised him. The fleeting burst of pleasure. The shadow of sorrow and shame.
Her breathing slowed and he rested her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her, and for the first time, he slept.
At 300 hours, he awoke to the sound of Nyota rifling.
"I should get back to my quarters," she said as he looked up at her.
" Please ... do not leave," he whispered desperately.
She looked sad again, and slipped back next to him. He held her, and in a dissonant moment, the room seemed to shatter, and he was clutching her, sobbing. Compared to his loss, she seemed so small.
In the morning, she was gone, and Spock was glad. Wrench with pain and guilt and shame, he wasn't sure he could look her in the eye.
But it was okay, he could meditate. He sat down, cleared he mind, and floated slowly into the abyss, hoping the somewhere in it, he could find meaning.