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The first thought that enters his mind as the door shuts is: I'm too old for this.
He thinks he hears the footsteps on the other side of the door, staggering, stumbling footsteps going away. He knows it's a hallucination. The door is soundproof, and his hearing has never been that acute anyway. He keeps hearing them as he closes his eyes and sags against the wall.
For a while, he remains still, thinking of nothing. His mind is blank. A white nothingness, whirling, unfolding and rolling back together again. Blurring reality. Stealing sight and sound.
Twice in his life, he's been here. His sensory input would fade, perception dim, and he would be left on the very bottom of his mind's well, looking up and searching for the sky that was no longer there. Just white clouds and rain.
He doesn't want to think about either of those times right now.
He can't say he always knew it would come to this, but he did know for a long time. He knew it would be a temporary arrangement. His mouth quirks in a painful grimace of bitter mirth. A temporary arrangement. Little short of thirty years, give or take. A Vulcan equivalent of a one-night stand?
Kirk's chest contracts to produce laughter. No sound comes out. Their problem is as profound as it is simplistic.
Like every spark of ultimate perfection in the universe, they were never meant to be.
He doesn't even want to think of what Spock's going through right now, but it reminds him. He needs a shower. Badly. He stinks, and although it's nothing less than he deserves, another moment of this, and he just might kill himself. Steadily, he lifts himself to his feet and heads for the bedroom.
His apartment is a museum. A beautiful collection of antiques, gathered in his many journeys. He's all for IDIC, he was born this way, but mostly they are human artifacts assembled here. The human past fascinates him for some reason, like a mysterious faraway planet he would never see. All that is left of it is crocks and fossils. Reflected light of a long dead star.
Get back your command, Jim, before you become part of your collection. Before you really do grow old.
Yeah, well. Didn't work that well the last time, did it? Of all the souls I've encountered, his was the most... Stop. That. Thought.
He stumbles into his bedroom and his rumpled bed immediately catches his eye. He doesn't pause for a second as soon as the image registers. He stalks to the bed and pulls the sheets onto himself roughly, gathering them in an untidy bundle. He won't have them cleaned. He won't throw them into a waste dispenser.
He'll burn them. He'll pick them up and go out; he'll find a place and burn them. He'll watch them turn black and resolve into ashes. He will remember the sight and the smell. He'll know then what his soul looks and smells like right about now.
A bright object flies out and lands on the side of the bed. A bra. A blood-red silk push-up bra. Kirk looks at it. He's suddenly struck with the idea that he has never seen a more vulgar thing in his life.
He stares at it and he can't help thinking that this is the quintessence of his life's accomplishments. After his sunny childhood, after his troubled youth, after all the glorious rises and ominous falls of his middle age, this is what it has come to.
The great James T. Kirk and the only kind of love he deserves.
He doesn't think he'd be feeling any more filthy if he'd paid her for sex. There's simply no room for improvement left.
He doesn't want to touch it. He tosses the ball he's made of the dirty sheets into the corner, picks up a poker, hooks the revolting thing with it and deposits it into the fireplace. He walks to his desk and activates the computer terminal. In a moment, the security alarm is off. He then calmly opens a drawer, picks up his phaser, turns around and fires. His aim is still perfect. He resets the alarm and heads for the bathroom.
The water's hot. He set the temperature to the limit of his tolerance, maybe slightly past it. The spray force is at maximum, and he feels like he's being lashed. Good. It's not enough, it doesn't come remotely close to enough, but it's something. He can do little but be grateful for small favors.
He falls out of the shower when his body throws him out. It's been screaming at him to get out for a while, but he ignored it, so it finally decides to take action. He wraps a towel around his hips, thinking that this is probably the best way for him to exist now. Like a protozoan, operating not even on instinct, but on basic reflexes. Stimulus—response.
After all, this is exactly the modus operandi that saved him from a complete fiasco last night and consequently this morning. His body reacts well to stimuli. It hasn't failed him yet. It will start soon probably. But not yet. Not yet.
Speaking of basic instincts, he's thirsty.
The glass Spock left on the counter is still there. Kirk eyes it from the distance, his fingers itch. He pauses. Stills himself. Then, determinedly, walks over, picks it up and throws it into the waste chute before he can stop himself. Exhales.
The simple action forces him to spend a moment recovering before he can finally reach for another glass. He fills it and retreats, a bit hastily, walking over to the huge window. It's cloudy outside and windy. It also looks like it mists, the miniscule droplets of water hang in the air.
Well.
He's already been here. Stood right here, in front of this window, watching the rain. Contemplating what it feels like to lie in pieces.
By then, he'd had an impressive record. He had been through Tarsus, three Klingon wars, he'd lost half of his family, he had loved and lost Edith, he'd nearly ended his career half a dozen times. And yet, in all this, he'd never been so helpless. He never lost himself. He never felt his core shatter, never felt cracks running on the surface of his very essence, until finally, the tension became too high and he broke, with a wham that could have been heard in the next star system.
That happened when Spock left him. The first time.
How did he manage to pull through back then? He reminded himself that it was a mutual decision. But that worked only until he found that it wasn't. Spock took the bullet for him then and never told him. Not for the first time in their long association and sadly not for the last, Spock had considerably underestimated the depth of Kirk's feelings. In that particular case, though, Kirk couldn't blame him. He himself had been just as blind.
Revelations that had come too late. All the things Spock never told him. All the things he never told Spock. All the truths they had been hiding from themselves, never mind each other. Everything came out into the open. That time spared him nothing, dissecting him, leaving him sliced open and bleeding.
Turned out he wasn't the only one.
Nearly nine years later, under this very roof, Spock frightened him half to death, waking up in the middle of the night screaming. Spock never screamed. Kirk heard him groaning, shouting, yelling and moaning. Pain, pleasure, alarm, despair—the whole spectrum of emotions. Never had he heard that unnatural, impossible wail of mortal fear.
For nearly thirty minutes that had quickly topped Kirk's list of the most terrifying things ever, he couldn't break through to Spock, couldn't get anything from him, but 'Chamber of Visions' and 'No, no, no!' When Spock finally broke out from his nightmare, both of them were too relieved to discuss it. Spock was so shaken and exhausted that he drifted off to a dreamless slumber almost instantly, and Kirk spent the rest of the night semi-awake, holding him. In the morning, Spock was his usual calm and collected self and the topic died by itself.
It never happened again. Kirk crosschecked the Chamber of Visions later, only to find that it did relate to Gol somehow. But if Vulcans in general were very private people, the masters of Gol could shame the rest of them put together. There was no information available on the disciplines of Gol whatsoever, and among Vulcans themselves, the topic was apparently much more of a taboo than pon farr.
Spock never talked about Gol. At the very mentioning of it, his face would darken and close. He would retreat deeper within himself and refuse to comment or answer. At times, it felt as if he'd been in a terrible war that the rest of the universe missed. Kirk didn't press him. For all he knew, it might have been exactly the case.
The rain drums heavier against the window, and Kirk frowns.
Spock loves the rain. The genetic memory in him associates it with harvest, hope and life. He doesn't like to get stuck in it, but he loves the sound. Could listen to it for hours. Would be smiling slightly, without knowing it, the whole time.
Kirk used to like the rain when he was a kid, but later he came to linking it in his mind with a bad omen. Most of the time, he was too busy to notice the weather. This might change now, he muses. After all, there's very little to do on an old farm but watch the grass grow.
He's planet-bound now. He knows Spock too well. The Vulcan will never get any peace of mind, if Kirk launches himself into some kind of space expedition, within Starfleet or no. Spock will either be unable to sit still if he learns Kirk's life is in danger, or he will go crazy forcing himself to stay away.
Kirk's lips curve in a painful smirk. Can't subject Spock to this, now, can he? It's bad enough for Spock to be out there alone, but it's about time. Doesn't make it any easier, though. Staying behind, thinking of all the bad things that could happen. This Vulcan has many friends. Sadly, the instinct of self-preservation isn't one of them.
So hard.
He knew it would be nothing short of hell and tried to prepare himself. Had been trying for years. Ever since Spock walked onto the Bridge of the Enterprise when they were chasing V'Ger, Kirk had known that it was a miracle. And all miracles come for a price.
His price was time.
He didn't really expect to have Spock with him forever, did he? Seriously, who was he trying to fool? Spock was a man of many talents. Kirk's only talent was keeping his cool when the Red Alert went off. It's probably more than a lot of people have. It's just not enough to keep Spock. Light years away from being enough.
Kirk can't help a sad laugh. Spock would have been totally terrified, if he heard this. Spock worshiped him for reasons passing understanding. If there was any kind of logic behind this, it eluded Kirk completely.
For God's sake.
The Vulcan had a list of invention patents registered under his name long enough to probably own half the Federation, was easily one of the most wanted scientists in every research facility throughout the quadrant, could negotiate with Klingons, for crying out loud. And still Spock would look at him as if Kirk clapped his hands and the Big Bang happened.
This wasn't the worst of it though. The worst of it was that when Spock looked at him like that, Kirk believed him. And therein lay the trouble.
He's not a saint. He's done things in his life he isn't proud of, to put it mildly. Things that made his blood chill, things that brought shame, guilt, and remorse. Stupid things. Ugly things. Things he hasn't been able to forget or forgive himself. And it would have been easier if Spock didn't have this information about him, but he did.
One by one, all his ugly, abominable secrets were discovered, and Spock never looked away, even when Kirk did. And it was wrong somehow, but also very right. Spock wouldn't belittle his sins, he was too honest for that. Spock would grant him the redemption he couldn't muster himself, the redemption he so desperately needed, because some things just couldn't be set right, no matter how much he wanted to. Spock couldn't undo the wrong, but he could forgive Jim. He could forgive Jim for both of them.
It's hard to say no to this.
Kirk sighs. There are a lot of things he has just erased from his life forever, but this—this is probably the hardest one to lose.
It's insanely quiet. Kirk shivers. Silence that will never be shared again. His greatest fear, welcoming him back, like a mother beckoning home her prodigal son. He stares in the face of this fear, watches it smile at him sickeningly, and feels his heart clench in his chest. Spock had been shielding him from this fear for half a lifetime. There were others, yes. But none such as him.
Why...
No, he can't go back to this circular argument now. He's weak. Another one of those treacherous whys, and he'll run out of the door, screaming for Spock to come back. He can't do this, he knows he can't, and there aren't enough whys in the galaxy to explain.
Spock. Spock always brought out the best in him, but he also brought out the worst.
Aggression. Dark, engulfing, mad rage he felt every time someone threatened Spock's life. Kirk couldn't control it, couldn't tame it, couldn't keep it locked up. He had never before felt such a wild urge to murder. He still shudders remembering several ugly occasions and he can't possibly fathom how he managed not to.
Possession. No one messes with his Vulcan. No freaking anyone. He didn't own Spock, but he never let a minor detail like that stop him. He had no rights. He acted on them anyway.
Jealousy. Ah, yes. Bring on the fanfares. He trusted Spock like he hadn't trusted anyone else in his life, not even himself, but it didn't change the fact that Spock drove him crazy. Spock's little trail of protégés, all young, brilliant, and so—God help him—interested, was bad enough, but this was a minor irritation. Kirk might have had a certain reputation, but while people often fell in love with him, they rarely stayed in love for long.
Spock, on the other hand, had a most unfortunate ability to attract people who were in a class of their own. They were all exceptional in one way or another. They were all annoyingly intelligent and committed. Dangerous. They were all extremely dangerous, Kirk thought. And among them, none more so than T'Aine.
The thought of her makes Kirk grind his teeth even now. Maybe especially now. Kirk didn't like her the first time around on the Enterprise, during their second five-year mission. He didn't like her any better when she ran into them six years later on Earth. It's not that she had any flaws in herself, though the lack of thereof could probably be counted as one.
She was the quintessence of what any man, human or Vulcan, might wish for. Next to Spock, she looked... perfect. Kirk didn't need to hear Sarek's comments on the matter to know that she was an ideal mate for Spock. After all, he had eyes.
Back on the ship, Spock told her no, after everyone, Kirk included, told him to say yes. She wasn't going to ask again, but it was clear that she hadn't lost her interest. They met for dinner that night in San Francisco, and watching the Vulcans discuss their numerous shared interests with a head-spinning amount of enthusiasm, Kirk realized that she had never been more in love with Spock than just then.
He was very rough with Spock that night. He didn't think he had ever actually been this rough with him before, apart from that one mission when he barely pulled Spock back in time from a nasty trap, and they were both out-of-their-minds high on adrenaline and sheer relief to be alive.
That night he was rough down to cruelty, making it about punishment and possession, all his demons unleashed. It was about claiming something he had no rights to claim. It was about fear, the one with many faces. It was about blood-deep determination to never the hell let go. As illogical or ethereal as it seemed, it was about leaving a permanent reminder. Or, a number of them.
He woke up the next morning alone, with a blood chilling sense of dread filling his veins as the recollections of the previous night started to seep into his mind. He wanted to die there and then, and never look Spock in the eye again. But he got up and went to the kitchen, and there was Spock, drinking tea calmly and working on his paper like nothing happened. Like everything was all right.
Spock looked...
Kirk's mouth went dry and he felt it difficult to breathe. His eyes roamed over Spock's body, those parts of it that were exposed, surveying the damage. He knew it was worse where he couldn't see. Ten years ago, he might have been stupidly proud of himself for being able to get Spock to look like that. Just then, all he felt was utter devastation and horror. Spock should have stopped him... God, how could Spock ever let him go this far? Spock was stronger, much stronger than he was. He should have stopped this. Should have stopped...
Kirk stepped towards him, searching desperately for words, though what words he could possibly use to ask forgiveness for that he couldn't fathom. But then Spock looked up at him, and there was nothing in his eyes but understanding, concern and trust. Complete, pure, unshattered trust. Spock stood up and met him halfway. Before he could say anything, Spock pulled him close and kissed him deeply, and the words of apology died on Kirk's lips, unneeded.
It wasn't a kiss so much as it was the bare truth about them. The truth that tasted slightly of Spock's blood emerging from his split lip, with a salty note of sweat breaking out on Kirk's skin. They made a potent mix. Unpalatable. Addictive. Real. He can still feel it... For God's sake, he can still feel it even now, the whole amazing plethora of everything they were.
Were. Past tense, he notes bitterly. His mind has already adapted.
Spock always brought out the worst in him. And the best. And right now his best is being victorious, the cost notwithstanding. Kirk knows T'Aine's back in town. Spock doesn't yet, but he will and soon. Kirk wishes her luck. Spock is broken now. He will need someone to help him collect the pieces. She'll be good to him. And Spock's unrivaled capacity to love is the one thing no one, not even Kirk, can take away from him. Eventually, he'll tell her yes.
Crack.
The glass in his hand breaks, and the sharp edges sink into his skin greedily. Blood's running down his forearm, as he stares at his reflexively clenched fist. For a moment, Kirk is overcome with a desperate wish to keep clenching it, because the pain feels almost too good.
He does know this is pathetic though. He walks over to the sink and keys the tap for cold water. Blood and water mix on his sliced hand and the invisible transparent shards stir unpleasantly, deepening the cuts. He starts removing them one by one. He feels sick for some reason.
Don't touch me. Please don't touch me. I can't bear it if you touch me. I'll fall to my knees and beg you to never leave me. Never leave me.
Oh God. Spock didn't make it easy, did he?
He looked terrible. Why did he have to look so bad? Kirk had seen him in every state imaginable, including dead several times. He's never seen Spock looking this bad, and he knows it's not just exhaustion. Spock looked starved, and no matter how many meals he'd been skipping lately, they had nothing to do with it.
Kirk knew what he needed. Boy, did he ever. He and Spock were as always in sync. Separation never did either of them any good. As Spock stood here, by the counter, all taut and wound-up, it hurt Kirk, it goddamn hurt not to reach out.
He didn't. Not this time. Not ever again.
Their time was up, and he knew it. Borrowed time. All they ever had was borrowed time. Borrowed from a God neither of them believed in? The Devil, to whom Kirk secretly appealed? Death perhaps, whom they double-teamed over the chessboard of their lives? The universe itself that seems to have it in for them?
Kirk doesn't know. At this point, he doesn't care.
Didn't they deserve any better? He once said that man wasn't meant for paradise. Well, he and Spock certainly weren't, and still... still. Couldn't they have just a little more time together? After everything they'd been through, after the incredibly high price they paid, was a little lenience so much to ask?
He knows the answer to this, of course. This moment is unique. It's now or never. If he doesn't let Spock go now, he never will. And Kirk knows, as surely as his own name, that even if they don't deserve any better, Spock most certainly does.
And he's going to get it.
The last piece of glass comes out finally, cutting more skin as it goes in revenge. Not bothering to cover his wet and bloody hand, Kirk walks around his apartment in search of a dermal regenerator. His eyes are searching all right, just not for the device.
All signs of Spock ever being more than a visitor here are long gone. Time took care of some, and what it didn't touch Kirk destroyed himself. No mementos. A clean break with nothing to get back to.
Then why does he wish so desperately now he'd have missed something? That he would have forgotten one, just one thing, anything? Something he could hold now, something he could look at and know that yes, it hurts, it's goddamn killing him, but it's not over yet, it's not over...
He sinks to his knees and presses his palms to his face, leaving bloody smears and not caring, not caring for anything ever again. He can't help a whisper spilling from his lips, he can't help it any more than his breathing.
"Spock..."
For the first time in so many years, there is no response coming.