The Enemy of My Enemy: Follows the Enemy Within
James T. Kirk let the door to his quarters slide shut behind him. His eyes ached. His shoulders ached. And his soul ached.
He did not remember much from the 'evil' Kirk's mind. That side of himself seemed to have very little memory retention – almost pure instinct. What he could remember of that half was more feelings and impressions, and a couple of things it would have been better if he could forget. But the 'good' half, he had all those memories.
When he first materialized in the transporter room, the dizziness seemed the only odd thing. It really did. How easy it was to forget half yourself when that half was something you wanted to forget – had tried all your life to forget. He'd felt normal and it wasn't until he discovered he could not function properly as captain that he'd understood that there was a difference.
But the second when the transporter had smashed him back together, when the memories and impressions combined, when that happened he felt the joy the dark half had felt at forgetting the good half, the sheer joy that aggressive side had indulged in from the very moment he'd materialized in the empty transporter room. His worse half had known in an instant what had happened and had relished in it. Why was evil so much quicker to notice? And was he evil; was that half bad-- dark? Or was it something more or less?
Jim wearily set down on his bed to pull the tight uniform boots off. He made short work of the rest of the uniform, stripping down to Star Fleet issue underwear and laying down on the scratchy red bed. Why they couldn't make blankets out of something soft was beyond him. They could travel the stars, beam people around, and blow up planets but they still couldn't come up with a soft blanket. Kirk laid there for a moment before pulling the tight covers back and climbing under the thin material. It was no good. He couldn't distract himself from the issue at hand, the issue of himself-- who he was.
Maybe if he meditated on it like Spock had jokingly suggested just before he'd left the bridge. Maybe if he did that, dissected the whole experience memory by memory he'd understand it better. Or at least be able to process the two points of view without losing his mind.
Jim closed his eyes and tried to remember what that book he'd read in his school days had said about meditation. Clear mind. Well, that wasn't going to work. Calm breathing. That he could do. Okay, one out of two wasn't so bad.
Jim slowed his heart and breathing down and tried to find the first memory from his time as two people. Since he had the most memories of his 'good' side, he'd start there. When was the first indication something was off? Spock's checking on him had been odd. The idea of himself as a "wild man" demanding brandy had been strange.
Then there was the feeling when he first saw the dog and realized the truth, even if he couldn't admit it to himself. He'd known he was different when he saw the dog. He just knew. But he hadn't said anything. How do you tell someone you've been split in two? The decision of what to do with Sulu had taken the dilemma away for a while and he'd hoped that as impossible as it was, that his second self would just fade away.
The next memory was interposed over that one. His darker half lusting after yeoman Rand stood out in his mind like an Iowa twister. The dash through the halls, the fight. The feel of her nails, the blood on his hand. That memory was clear as day, even after the merging in the transporter. And that part of him still relished her fear. Still wanted to go down to her cabin and rip that tantalizing red uniform-dress off her curvaceous body. To pull that ridiculous hair style down. To make her scream and beg and plead. To reduce her to a whimpering nothing underneath him. To claim her. To own her. To command her.
Yet right along with that need, that force of domination, was the confusion of seeing her so damaged, so scared. The anger and the fear he'd felt at whoever had done it. The terrified and apologetic look on her face as she'd basically told him he could have raped her and she would never have said a thing. That he'd tried to, almost had, and the only reason she was there was because of the crewman that had interrupted it. All because he was her captain. He had that much of a hold on her and he'd never had to ask for it. He commanded her that much already.
Then there was the terror he'd felt when he'd thought that Spock and Bones would believe her. He hadn't done it, he knew he hadn't, but Yeoman Rand wouldn't have lied, nor would the transporter chief. Then the relief. Spock's sure voice cutting through his panic. "There is only one logical answer. We have an impostor aboard." Thank God for Spock.
He could remember in vivid detail how hard it was to concentrate and the pain of Spock's anger at him. It was all so hard. "The luxury of being anything less than perfect." Spock had said he didn't have that as captain. He'd never had that. He'd never had the luxury, never allowed himself to. Yet he had been there, so very far from perfect, every decision nearly impossible.
And while that was going on, he could also remember the unending rage. That terrible pit of boiling hate inside him was what made him great. His need to dominate, his animal instinct to be the alpha dog, that was what allowed him to command. He could not escape that fact now. He had given himself over to his baser instincts to become the man, the captain, that he was.
And that first sight of himself, shrinking back – advancing at the same time. It was all a jumble, enough to drive him insane. Or else he was already there. He could see himself from both sides at once in his memory. His mind trying and failing to grasp the truth of it all. It felt more like video playback than a memory.
But he could see one thing more clearly than all the rest. Spock coming down on him like a cat pouncing on his prey, his hand reaching out and felling him. The pain threw his shoulder, the darkness raising. Spock's strength saving and damning him at the same time. The devil if there ever was one. And the glee in Spock's voice as he talked about wanting to experiment on the human psyche. And the Vulcan's odd tone when he'd looked at the 'good' Kirk and said he was made of love and tenderness, and that was what made him an exceptional leader. Kirk could vividly recall his disgust when Spock had so emotionlessly pointed out that it was his evil side, proper and controlled, that wasvital to his strength. Evil to command, but tenderness for greatness. Somehow, it didn't seem to balance out enough.
"If I seem insensitive to what you are going through captain, understand it is the way I am." Spock's cold words had not matched his tone, Jim could remember that clearly. But the lack of sympathy had hurt. When Spock needed him, Jim was there. It wasn't logical to assume the Vulcan would invest emotional assistance, but….he had once. When Gary…
Jim sighed. He had to let this go. He couldn't spend the rest of his life hammering out his feelings over what amounted to less than 24 hours.
"We all have our darker side, we need it. It's half of what we are. It's not really ugly, it's human." Bones was right. He needed all of himself to have the strength of command. But he'd almost backed out when he'd heard those words. "He's dead, Jim." The dog was dead on the transporter pad, unmoving yet whole. His own fate played out before him.
In that instant he'd hated them both, Spock and McCoy. His two friends didn't seem to be trying very hard to understand what this was like for him. They both wanted to experiment, analysis, and dissect him. But then Spock had taken him aside and in the dark eyes, sympathy had finally shown. Spock had given him his innate belief and his loyalty. And Jim couldn't betray that. Not after he realized the truth. Spock was engaged in just this sort of battle everyday. His Vulcan half could see and feel his human half at every moment. And it was as appalled by it as Jim was of his own animalistic side. What had happened to him was Spock's internal battle played out in the open instead of inside the thin man. And Spock was talking from personal experience when he said intelligence would see Jim through. So the captain had fought.
And when it had come down to it, Spock had known exactly what to do to make the impostor obvious. His friend had finally stood by him in a way more substantial than a guarded look.
Jim sat up in bed and flicked the light on. Yes, Spock had come through for him. And he'd hurt the alien when he'd made his soft request. He wasn't sure anyone else had understood what Jim had asked, but Spock had. He'd made sure the Vulcan knew that if the transporter didn't work, if he wasn't back in one piece and normal, to kill him. And that silent order would have been obeyed. Kirk had no doubt of that. Spock would have given up his own career to carry out his captain's last order.
And the look of utter relief on Spock's face and in his voice as the transporter fuzz had dissipated. At that moment he knew everything was all right. He didn't even need to look around to make sure. He knew he was back without any self-examination. That look was enough to tell him.
Only, it wasn't right. He'd seen what no man should ever see.
He kicked the covers back. He HAD to stop this. How did Spock handle this endless self-evaluation?
A gentle low chime sounded in the cabin and Jim looked up in surprise. Spock's calm voice filtered through the com, "Captain, may I come in?"
"Enter" Jim muttered without much enthusiasm, as he got off the bed to pull on clothing. Spock walked in and stood calmly next to the small table as Jim got dressed.
When he'd finished, Jim turned to find Spock holding out a steaming cup of tea.
"I took the liberty of making you a cup of Vulcan tea. I find it…helpful." Spock said softly.
Jim took that to mean the Vulcan found it calming, but regardless Jim took it from him with careful hands and sipped. It was sweet and a little spicy. It reminded him strongly of chai but instead of milk there was a thicker darker liquid mixed in. And it did…help.
Spock pulled one of the chairs out from the table and sat down. Jim followed suit. Spock didn't say anything, didn't ask a single question. He just sat there while Jim sipped his tea and when the cup was empty he took it from Jim's hands just as the tears started to fall. Spock didn't say a word as Jim lost his composure. He didn't pull away when his human friend reached out for his arm, needing some form of contact however light. And Spock didn't leave until he'd made sure Jim was finally asleep, easing his way just as he had after their first mission together.
It didn't take much to push the human into slumber, not with his hand clutching Spock's arm through the thick uniform. One little mental suggestion and Jim fell asleep with his head on the table, his arm stretched across the surface, his hand still wrapped around Spock's wrist. Ever so careful Spock moved him back to the bed and set the blankets back in place.
As the door swished shut behind Spock and he moved to the wall comm to once again leave orders not to disturb the captain, he wondered: Was this what it meant to be a friend? Did being a friend mean sharing this pain? Spock hoped Jim found the duality of his nature easier to bear. After all, there wasn't enough tea on board for both of them.
