Messages, Incoming
A drink with Bones, in the quiet safety of the doctor's sanctum? That sounded good.
It sounded simple.
Yeah. He could use a drink.
Maybe poker with some of the guys, later.
He carried his tray with the others to the disposal unit; and left the Officers' Mess in the midst of them all. Sulu and Watley were laughing behind him, while Chekov launched some esoteric explanation. He heard Timkins call for them to wait.
And yes, there was Kyle's voice, too, and Scotty's bark of delight.
In front of him, McCoy disappeared around the corner – hurrying, no doubt, to check on some patient or other. Wilkinson, maybe - or Parks?
Bromley and Richards had been following the doctor; they paused now, near the corridor bulkhead, their heads together, plotting who-knew-what.
Uhura was walking with Hannity, toward the turbo lift. The latter was talking quietly, and Uhura was nodding, clearly listening closely. Spock was abreast of them; but, as always, a little apart. If you didn't know, it wouldn't occur to you to think it was anything other than coincidence that he happened to be nearby… For a second, Jim wondered whether he should invite the other to join them for the card game, later, if not the drink. He decided he should, would; but just then they arrived at the turbolift. Spock turned to go to the Bridge; and, in what seemed to Jim like a frozen moment, he glanced back. Uhura's head turned, too; and during that split-second, Jim felt the communication between them spark, like an electric current. Maybe not a message, exactly – but an awareness… an understanding. Then Spock moved away, the turbolift doors opened, and Uhura and Hannity stepped inside. Jim paused, peculiarly aware of another second lost. Uhura stuck her hand out, reflexively, to stop the doors; she met his eyes. "Captain?" An inquiring smile - friendly and kind.
Just the same as always.
He nodded, stepped aboard.
She moved back and pressed the controls; he reached out one hand and did the same. The women stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind him, without speaking. As the decks went by, he realized that Hannity was just waiting until they were alone to resume her interrupted narrative.
He wondered whether Uhura would be glad, too, when he left them…
He wondered whether McCoy was finished with his patient, whether he would be free if Jim headed there now. 'Probably not,' his brain noted, heedless of the effect of its silent observation.
Yeah.
It occurred to him he should probably get in a workout – a swim, maybe – before going down to Sickbay for that drink.
The door to his quarters whooshed closed behind him. He automatically started moving through to the bedroom, to gather his things and change for the gym. He was grasping the hem of his gold tunic – about to shrugl it off – when he noticed the waiting-message light blinking on his console. Not Starfleet Urgent; and their orders were current, updated during the recent visit to the starbase: Perhaps this could wait.
He thought quickly back through the messages he'd sent in the past few days – at the base, and since. He decided he'd better keep the tunic on.
(Good thing, too, he noted, then, with sorrow.)
Spock had come across him, once, when he had just sent a message - from the Briefing Room, rather than the privacy of his quarters. The Vulcan had come in, seen him sitting hunched at the table, head in hands - and hesitated. It was very early in the mission – maybe the second such message he'd recorded, maybe the third – and Captain Kirk hadn't learned yet that the recipients would never be ready, even if they were at home; though they told themselves to be expecting such a call at any second, just the same. Spock had hesitated, stepped closer, and stood beside him for a moment; before slipping soundlessly into the chair next to him and composing himself into typical, inscrutable motionlessness.
They had remained like that for long minutes, Jim too numb to acknowledge the other's presence - to summon anger to send him away. At last he had sighed, raised his head, met the other's enigmatic dark eyes.
Spock had been gazing at him, with that odd, frank, unreadable Vulcan stare, abruptly averted when its subject became aware of its weight. After a single blink, Spock's eyes had then slid back to his, slowly; and the other had spoken, quietly, with his usual solemnity. "I regret, Captain, that this is one duty of which I cannot unburden you."
Such an odd Vulcan thing to have said, Jim had thought afterward, with a tiny waking prickle of resentment - Like Spock himself: Odd words in an odd, inappropriate Vulcan moment.
(And yet - Jim thought now - it was, in hindsight, somehow the most human thing the other had said to him to date.)
Kirk had just looked away, knowing that Spock could not possibly understand.
In another moment, the other rose from his seat, and slipped just as quietly from the room – the hissing of the doors the only indication that he had been there, at all.
Everything was as it should be - perfect and under precise control – when Kirk had made his way back to the Bridge. Commander Spock had risen wordlessly from the Command Chair at the Captain's arrival, and waited - delivering his typical concise status report once the Captain had leaned back in his seat, rubbed his eyes, and sighed.
Now, Kirk sat at his desk, staring at the console as the screen darkened, with its dimming list of incoming messages. If he waited 50-some-odd seconds more, it would sleep… He reluctantly toggled the message system and wondered whether he should deal with the worst first, or give himself another minute of reprieve.
Well, honestly, he would never really be ready, either.
He thumbed over, then hit the control, making the new message play: A weary father, looking too much like his son – a tearful mother, trying to be brave. Expressions of gratitude for his personal communication ('such an honor, sir'), his kind words about their boy; praise relayed: Admiration from the deceased, and appreciation from those who had loved him; an invitation that the Captain should come visit, when the Enterprise returned to Earth.
No better, no worse, than other such messages – but, surely (please, God) the only one he would get in answer to one he would have to give to these freshly-bereaved parents… He wondered whether they were a service family – if there were other siblings – other children - in Starfleet. He wondered if it would be wrong to deny those others (if they requested it) the honor of serving on his ship – just on the off-chance that someday -
He stood abruptly, tore off the gold, threw it into the corner.
'I regret, Captain…'
Fuck it.
Fuck cool Vulcan equanimity.
Fuck Spock.
He flung himself onto the bed scowling his resentment, then flopped fitfully over to stare up at the cool grey pearly ceiling.
It wasn't fair.
And his mind whispered treacherously, that no, of course it wasn't. It wasn't fair. (And maybe… Maybe Spock had really meant those words Jim had so bitterly ignored: Rare words referencing, if not acknowledging, emotion - starting, as they did, with 'I'…)
He dropped an elbow over his eyes, shielding them from the light; and lay still a moment, trying hard (so very hard) not to think, not to feel - before his breathing grew labored, and the first undeniable, burning tears stung his eyes.