Summary: The one reunion that will not happen, because that is life. And if life were even a little less life-like, it would devalue itself. Only out of the certainty of death can come the magnificence of t'hy'la.
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek; I don't get money for writing this.
Warnings: slash, character death
A/N: I think my mind is probably an ugly place. I cried. Let that be a warning to you.
x
Like A Bird's Bone
x
Spock's eyes turn to the sky before the arrival of the Enterprise is confirmed.
The Flagship has been expected by the Colony for days, and was in fact more than thirty-six hours overdue, but Spock recalls his own service aboard it well enough to not be concerned at all; the universe is unpredictable, and it especially likes to subject the Enterprise to its unpredictability.
Something is different this time, though. He finds it difficult to breathe, and an ominous sense of an enormously significant change approaching comes over him.
The Kra'tti – the star of the system – lowers itself to touch the horizon in a corona of pale blue, and Spock shades his eyes with his palm, waiting for the guests to beam down with rapidly dwindling patience. Odd. It has been years since he succumbed to his emotionalism.
His Father, paradoxically decades younger than himself, stands at the head of the committee selected to welcome the landing party, calm as ever. Spock himself is not a part of the committee, but he rather doubts that there is a power on this planet that could prevent him from being present. He keeps to himself, separate from the other Vulcans, and briefly clasps his pendant in his fist. He continues struggling to breathe.
Finally, familiar light appears in the centre of the terrace, and five people materialize. Jim and Spock lead, naturally, and are followed by Dr McCoy, Lieutenant Uhura and-
Spock's heart skips a beat or two.
The man steps forward, head turning to Spock as surely as if Spock was a lighthouse in the night. The face is heart-wrenchingly familiar, and so is the head of curly grey hair, eyes full of humor, and the figure he cuts dressed in an Admiral's uniform.
"I have been unnecessarily delayed, Spock," he says, as if they were supposed to meet ten minutes ago and he was running late because of traffic. He ignores his companions and the Vulcans, coming over to Spock while the two groups strike a polite conversation among themselves. The corners of his mouth are quirked up. "I apologize. I've filed a complaint with the Headquarters, but I doubt anything shall come of it. Apparently, unless there is an insane Romulan involved, they have more important things to do. Young people, these days…"
Such Vulcan discipline has yet to be developed that could mitigate the surge inside Spock. His control shatters.
It is joy; it is rapture – it is ecstasy, and it saturates him to the point that he just feels numb. He cannot encompass the emotion; his body is too fragile and threatens to be ripped apart by the tide, and he doesn't know what he must look like from the outside except cold.
His face is empty, his limbs motionless, and some strange, altogether human, Starfleet-trained autopilot inside him says: "Welcome to the Colony, Jim," in a completely toneless voice.
There is haste such as Spock recalls from a long time ago, fleeing from death, escaping by the tiniest measure imaginable. They must speak – they must simply be together, after such a long time apart, and Spock has just enough rational mind left to seek privacy for the reunion.
His housing unit is small and Spartan, but it suffices – they are neither of them demanding.
The door closes with a hiss.
Spock stares over Jim's shoulder at a blank spot on the wall, inert, akin to a barely subsisting imitation of life.
"How long has it been?" Jim inquires.
Spock blinks, heart palpitating madly, breathing quick and shallow. "Seventy-nine years, a month, thirteen days-"
"Still?" Jim's breath hitches, too. "I thought… hoped…" He falls silent and does not give voice to his hopes. Spock knows the reason – in this, too, they are the same. Jim hoped that Spock would move on in his life, 'get over Jim' as Terran vernacular puts it, while at the same time being terrified and pained at the thought that this would happen. Two opposite desires warred in him, one egoistical, the other altruistic, both equally strong, for such was the nature of t'hy'la.
"For the span of my life, I have come to ascertain… inscribed thy name with white-hot burning ink into the tunica intima of my veins," and Spock slips into Orion, because that is the only language that can ever come close to expressing what is happening inside him. That much joy is not a good feeling. It is in a way even worse than grief. He does not know what to do with it, has no way of controlling it, damming it up and letting just a trickle out so he can actually feel happy, like he should.
"I suspected," Jim replies with morbid humor unreflected in his eyes, and proceeds to speak, likewise in Orion. He professes his vulnerability, with the nuance of pain being welcome and obeisance becoming its own pleasure if desired. Orion is a rich language. It lets Jim imply vengeful murder in speaking of the talons of abhorrence at their parting stabbing through his skin, burrowing into tissue, and in the next moment say the single most erotic suggestion of gratitude for his own survival that Spock has ever heard.
Spock learnt to speak Orion from Jim. The Orions speak in hyperboles and insinuations, each word containing a metaphor. The boiling of blood and violent self-harm are turned into a profession of love with an added suffix.
Because Jim speaks in Orion slang, now so does Spock.
"Let me strip flesh from the bones of thy ribcage and dip my fingers in the soft folds of thy lungs," Jim says.
Spock sinks into the bedding, feels the creaking of his joints reverberate through his entire body, hands reaching out, grasping at thin air, because Jim is out of his reach – forever out of his reach, the rational part of his mind insists, and yet the hope in his katra that is wholly a flower planted and nurtured by James Kirk blooms bright and fragrant. "Worse than nothing is death of thy taste in my mouth, absence of thy skin at my fingertips…" Spock says.
The expressiveness he has likewise learnt from Jim.
Tears glitter in Jim's eyes as he stretches himself on the bed next to Spock-
"Hollow like a bird's bone-"
"Pray pour thee into me-"
-clad only in his pants and glistening with a sheet of sweat. Spock's fingers are at his meld-points before a shade of a suggestion can be conveyed and-
-yes, well – they have never ceased being one.
It is night; the air chills Spock's shoulder, but he barely notices, enraptured by the sight and sound and smell of the man sleeping under his arm. He cannot sleep; his mind, unbound, races.
Such is the principle of the multiverse – there are uncountable dimensions in which Spock and Jim have shared history until the point of Jim's confrontation with the Nexus. All of those Jims, in theory, are Spock's. All of those Spocks are Jim's. It is somehow cheap to think that any of those millions – billions – of the uncountable multitude of Jims would be equally his.
Spock has always needed just one Jim. He was contented by the knowledge that the Jim was his, in the proper social contexts but also in his worldview as such. The knowledge was axiomatic.
He does not know what to do with this.
Perhaps, with sufficient mental discipline, he would be able to forget the physics of their situation and simply enjoy the one billionth part (in fact, the value becomes arbitrarily close to zero) of a second chance.
The difference between this and no chance at all should be negligible, but is anything but.
Spock smiles into the darkness and tightens his hold on the man in his arms.
Jim has always fucked with statistics anyway.
x
Jim stands next to Spock, opposite Sarek, who appears to be in something approaching distress; between the three of them and the attending Healer, the room feels cramped. They are all crowded around the bed, watching the man lying in it. His face is greenish grey, and Jim has to blink several times before he can see it clearly.
He raises his hand and touches Spock's upper arm; it's meant to comfort one of them, but even he's not sure which one. The machine keeps beeping, but the sound is irregular, and the numbers on the displays jump all over the place.
"He has not regained consciousness for the past thirteen cycles, Commander," the Healer specifies. "Brain activity is yet measureable, but insufficient for lucidity. Respiration is entirely extracorporeal."
Spock's jaw tightens.
Jim suppresses a sigh and has to blink again. He hoped they would make it; it's cold comfort that even if they hadn't been delayed, they would have been too late. He swallows and whispers: "Let him go."
Spock does not react for a while, but he must have heard Jim.
Eventually, after the Healer's gaze trained on him has gained an insistent quality, Spock slowly nods. "Your effort is appreciated, Healer. Terminate the life-support."
The woman accesses the controls of the machine and turns it off. The effect is immediate and kind of horrifying. Jim finds himself clutching Spock's sleeve and struggling not to turn away.
He's seen people die before. It's not new.
It's just so much harder when it's someone he loves, and this is a weird situation, because Spock's well and standing next to him, but it's heart-rending anyway and, well…
Spock dies smiling.