A/N: Oh god you guys, I am SO sorry this chapter is late too... Dx I just started working (!) earlier in the week and I've been kind of overwhelmed with that and didn't realize Saturday means updating, not just sleeping in, until just now. Again, I am so sorry.
To be honest, guys, I'm not sure if this weekly-updating thing is working well for me. I'll stick with it for now but I may or may not have to put this on about a month-long hiatus just because doing updates while writing is a bit difficult for me. Again, I'm sorry. I feel horrible about this. D8 Updates for this are just harder for me than they were for 99 because I was doing 99 over the summer, and now I have classes and I started working which leaves me less time than I'd like to be working on this. :( But I'm going to try and stick to the weekly updates and still finish this story as soon as I can! Because I love all of you very much. 3
warnings: this chapter has some heavy language, like the last.
Anyways, as always, comments and critiques are welcomed! Please enjoy, and thanks for reading.
Chapter Four
"We call that person who has lost his father, an orphan; and a widower that man who has lost his wife. But that man who has known the immense unhappiness of losing a friend, by what name do we call him? Here every language is silent and holds its peace in impotence." - Joseph Roux
The next day began normally for Nyota Uhura. She woke at her usual time, showered, dressed, and headed down to the officer's mess for breakfast. Monty had some diagnostics test he had to run in the bowels of the ship that had started several hours previous, so she began her morning meal in peaceful solitude.
Halfway through her plate of apple pancakes, Christine Chapel sat down across from her. Uhura smiled at her friend – and was surprised to be answered with a flustered, almost wild expression on the other woman's face.
"Oh my god, Nyota," she said quickly, quietly, scanning the room furtively for eavesdroppers. "You're not going to believe what Leonard told me."
When Chapel had relayed the information, Uhura stared at her, open mouthed and eyes bulging.
"Oh my god, Christine," she breathed faintly. "You can't tell anyone about this, okay?"
"I know, trust me," the other woman replied. "I know, I just – you're still close to Spock, I thought you could, I don't know, talk to him, figure out if that's the truth – not that I don't trust Leonard, but it's all just so – just so unbelievable, you know?"
"Okay," Uhura said, taking a steadying breath. "Yeah, okay. I'll talk to him."
It had been another unpleasant day in a line of unpleasant days for Spock. He had woken from a nightmare in the morning. Jim had been particularly quiet and subdued for the majority of the day, which unnerved him. He had encountered Dr. McCoy in the mess hall during lunch, and though the doctor had not even so much as acknowledged his existence, it had brought on a slew of unhappy thoughts and a pang of sadness not for himself but for Jim.
At the end of Alpha shift, which had been thankfully uneventful, Uhura approached him.
"Hey," she said. "I've got a few things I want to talk to you about, if that's alright." Spock raised an eyebrow. The question itself was innocent enough, but Uhura regarded him without her usual warmth, the normal smile she gave him distinctly absent. He did not know what that meant, and it unsettled him. Which was illogical, of course, and he pushed the thought away and replied,
"Of course. Where do you wish to conduct the conversation?"
"Well, it's a bit, um, private, so. My quarters?"
"That is acceptable." As they left the bridge and entered the turbolift, Spock wondered what she wished to discuss with him – he was quite unsure – but then decided it was a waste of effort to speculate and stamped the thought out.
"Let's sit," Uhura said as they entered her quarters, which were to Spock slightly familiar but subtly different from the last time he had been in her rooms – when they had terminated their romantic relationship, which seemed impossibly long ago.
"What do you wish to discuss?" he asked simply, studying her uneasy features. She shifted in her seat.
"Well," she began. "Christine Chapel told me something this morning – about you." Spock stared stonily back at her.
"Me?" he affirmed, and she nodded, continuing,
"Yes, about you, and – about why you left the Enterprise."
Suddenly Spock felt as though his stomach had been twisted about inside him and he replied weakly, "And – what did she have to say?"
Uhura told him what she had heard. Spock could not decide if he wanted to run from the room and vomit up everything he had ever eaten, or curl up in his seat and die.
"Is that true?" Uhura asked faintly when her recounting was through. Spock swallowed anxiously, unable to look at her.
"Nurse Chapel's information is accurate," he said in a near-whisper. He was sure Uhura would be disgusted, repulsed by him, and the thought only exacerbated his own revulsion towards himself. The only logical thing for her to do would be to push him away, to look upon him with the same distaste as the rest of the crew, the same open hatred as McCoy, and he could not blame her.
"Oh Spock," she said, reaching out to touch his arm lightly. "I'm so – I'm so sorry. I wish... If only I had known, I could have... Spock, you know I would have done everything I could have to help. I'm so sorry."
What was she saying? She would have helped him – how? Spock would have killed her, surely he would have killed her, for Jim was so much stronger and resilient than she and he had barely managed to escape, broken and bleeding, in the lull of his sated plak-tow. He did not deserve her pity, it was not – logical. Her reaction confused him, adding to the sickening medley of emotions he was already fighting against – and he could not handle it. Abruptly he stood.
"Please," he said faintly. "Please, speak of this to no one."
"Of course," she murmured, and Spock fled the room without another word. His quarters were thankfully nearby and the halls were blessedly clear. He stumbled weakly into his quarters, thoughts roiling madly in his head, his gut.
A wave of familiar nausea claimed him and he ran for the bathroom.
In the opposite room Jim had been trudging through his pile of paperwork for the past half hour or so and was beginning to consider getting (a very late) dinner soon. He wanted to have all the reports and mundane things done and filed by the time they arrived at Wrigley's Pleasure Planet so his conscience would be clear for his date with Spock – but, damn, he hated paperwork. This was definitely one aspect of captaincy he could live without.
He heard Spock's door slide open from the bathroom and thought nothing of it – until it was followed by the noise of retching and liquid splattering into liquid, and all thoughts of paperwork fled from Jim's mind.
"Spock?" he called, jumping to his feet and hurrying to the bathroom. "Spock, are you okay?" He stepped inside to find Spock vomiting into the toilet and immediately he knelt beside him, putting a hand on the Vulcan's violently trembling shoulder. Spock gave a few more heaves, his muscles clenching under Jim's hand, before finally leaning back heavily with his breath coming in short, sharp pants. Jim reached over and flushed the toilet, glancing worriedly at Spock.
"What's wrong? Are you sick?" he asked, and Spock closed his eyes.
"She knows," he whispered hoarsely, lips trembling. "Nyota, she – knows what happened – why I – why I left the Enterprise, she knows..." Realization blossomed painfully in Jim's gut and he felt suddenly like puking, too.
McCoy. It was the only answer, it had to be McCoy. Instantly he was flooded with anger – blinding rage, more fury than he had ever felt in his life – but he forced himself to focus. He stood and helped Spock to his unsteady feet. He got a cup of water that he handed to Spock, who rinsed his mouth with the offering. He got a towel and wiped his mouth and dabbed at the sheen of perspiration coating the Vulcan's face.
"Are you okay? Do you need to lie down?"
"Yes," Spock whispered faintly, and so Jim guided Spock back into his quarters where the Vulcan sat down heavily on the edge of his bed. Jim stood beside him uncertainly and Spock met his gaze and whispered,
"I – I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."
Jim wanted to cry – but he did not. He reached out and held Spock, pulled his warm body against his own and Spock clutched desperately at the fabric of his uniform, his face buried in Jim's chest as he repeated his litany of, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
The irony of it all slapped Jim in the face – he had been the one who had been hurt, the one who had been broken and left to clean up, yet he had healed so much faster – Spock's scars ran so much deeper, bled so much easier, and Jim couldn't take it.
"I'm sorry too," he choked, and he bowed his head and wept into Spock's hair, clutching at the older man with the same desperation he clung at him with. They had hurt so much already – why couldn't it stop? Why couldn't they just be happy?
Because of McCoy. They would be happy if it weren't for McCoy. All the love, the respect, the joy Jim had once felt for the doctor – it was all gone, destroyed and ravaged, leaving behind only resentment and hate and blame. Slowly, slowly, Jim pulled away from Spock.
"I have to go," he said feverishly. "I just – I'll be back in a bit, okay? I won't be gone long." Spock nodded silently, not meeting his gaze, and Jim hurried out of the room.
McCoy had just gotten back from his evening meal and was entertaining the idea of going to bed early for once when he heard the lock on his door click – someone must have overridden the lock and he was not entirely surprised when Jim stormed through the door, rage plastered on his features.
He was, however, caught off-guard when Jim barreled straight to him, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, heaved him out of his seat and all but threw him against the wall.
"You sick bastard!" Jim roared in spite of the mere inches between their faces, spittle flying from his lips and splattering along the doctor's neck and shoulders. "Are you seriously that low? What the fuck were you thinking?"
"Let go of me," McCoy growled, clamping down on his fear and glaring back at Jim's enraged gaze. The captain slammed him against the wall again, teeth gnashing.
"No!" he shouted. "No! You're lucky I don't beat the shit out of you right this second! Who did you tell?"
"I don't have to – " he began defiantly, and Jim swung his fist into McCoy's face, sending his head lolling as his vision burst with stars and pain that disoriented him.
"Who the fuck did you tell?" Jim shouted, ignoring the other man's fingers digging into his wrist as he clamped a hand over his throat.
"Chapel," McCoy choked out. "Chapel!" Jim unceremoniously threw him to the ground, where he rolled over defensively, coughing and sputtering.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Jim continued, his features twisted and red with fury. "Are you happy now, you fucking asshole? Spock's miserable, I'm miserable – is that what you wanted? Huh? Because you sure as hell got it!"
"Maybe you know a little of how I feel now," McCoy growled from the floor between coughs. "You betrayed me. I thought I'd return the favor."
"Are you fucking serious? All this because you're not the one getting in my pants?"
"Don't flatter yourself," McCoy snarled, stumbling to his feet. "It's not about that. It was never about that."
"Then whatever it was about – I hope it was worth it," Jim hissed through clenched teeth. "I didn't want to choose between you and Spock – but I guess you've chosen for me. At least Spock had the decency to be sorry for what he did, had the decency to actually care about me – something you're obviously incapable of."
McCoy had no reply to that.
"Get. Out," he said instead, and Jim complied without protest. The door swished shut behind him, quiet and anticlimatic compared to the slamming doors McCoy had grown all too accustomed to hearing after shouting matches, and then he was alone.
Jim couldn't face Spock, not yet – so he retreated to the safety of his own quarters where he collapsed onto his bed.
His mind still reeled from shock. In less than an hour his whole life, it seemed like, had been thrown asunder and now that his rage had subsided he realized that there was some truth to that. His heart ached suddenly and he was filled with sorrow and confusion and agonizing loss – and, more than anything, a gaping chasm of hurt. McCoy had been his best friend, his support who kept him going when he had wanted to give up, the only person he could wholly and completely trust, could confide in entirely and depend upon always, and now – now, that was gone, Bones was gone, Bones no longer existed, and it hurt more than the burn of betrayal.
Jim buried his face in his pillows and cried. It was the most he could manage to do.
