Title: Retribution
Characters: Spock, Kirk
Rating: K+
Word Count: 3606
Warnings: Angst. Loads of it. Spoilers for episodes Amok Time and mainly The Deadly Years. Yeah, that kind of angst. Indirect references to c(f?)anon Kirk's biggest fears - losing the Enterprise, and being alone. Briefly betaed because of lack of time.
Summary: Missing post-Deadly Years scene. The scene that I for one was screaming for the episode to have happen, but it didn't.
A/N: This episode ranks up with Plato's Stepchildren as one that literally makes me sick to my stomach to watch, it's that heartbreaking. I just cringe my way through it, and so it's taken me this long to be able to watch it again in preparation for finally tackling this plot bunny (needed a break from the final chapters of my startrekbigbang fic).
Quite possibly my characterization won't agree with general perception, but frankly I can't really do anything but feel sorry for all three of the players in that drama - Kirk, Spock, and the Commodore, who sincerely had the best interests of the crew at heart. I think Stocker truly respected Kirk and really did want to help; Spock did everything in his power to stave off the competency hearing even when logic dictated he should have instigated it long ago; and of course Kirk can't help but break my heart a little at a time, despite what he said to Spock later in the episode. There was a lot of baggage that would linger with that episode, without a scene like this one to prevent it from escalating, in my opinion. This is my attempt to salvage an ugly episode.
After he has exhausted the possibilities of Sickbay and the Observation Deck, he falls back on the most obvious, and therefore the most overlooked, location for the missing man. His treatment had taken even longer than McCoy had laughingly joked about; his unique physiology had only partially reacted to the initial dosage of adrenaline, and a second had been necessary to revert the aging process. The second dosage had been pure agony.
As a result, he has not been physically or mentally capable of dealing with the ramifications of today's events until now, six hours after the captain had left the Bridge, according to the ship's log. Kirk disappeared just after that, and no one has been able to ascertain where he had gone. But now, with the aid of a tricorder set to the human's unique readings based upon McCoy's most recent scan, he is wasting useless time in wishing he had thought to check the most obvious location first, before searching half the ship only to locate the man just now.
The captain is sitting in his own captain's quarters, in the dark, all alone. He has pulled the cushions from his sleeping area into a small pile on the floor, and is now huddled in the corner where two walls meet, knees drawn up to his chest, silently staring into nothingness.
The situation is odd, but not for one who knows how to read the tiny signs of James T. Kirk's psyche. The man is hiding, from something or someone; the posture and darkness indicate shame, an unwillingness to be seen, and the fact that he disappeared without letting anyone know where he was going indicates that he wished to be left alone.
He sees all this from superior Vulcan vision, as by the time the human looks up to even acknowledge his presence the doors have shut upon the room and plunged it into darkness once more.
But the blackness cannot hide the emotional riptide that threatens his battered mental shields – facades hastily erected to save his sanity after his treatment; he is by no means approaching his normal state – and floods the air around them. Shame, embarrassment, grief, and most prominently a severe, crippling sense of despair – all these flood his mind in the absence of any visual sense to distract them, and for a moment he cannot speak, can only shore up the remnants of his pathetic mental shields so as to perform the purpose for which he entered this room.
"Captain." His voice sounds harsh, far too loud, in the stillness, and yet he had barely spoken above a whisper.
There is no answer from the shadowed corner.
"Lights to five percent," he adds quietly after several moments of silence, and a faint glow then casts bluish shadows across the silver of durasteel furniture. The difference is minute, and yet banishes the total darkness that had previously cloaked the room and its secrets.
He can perceive the outline of the figure sitting motionless in the corner, arms resting on the updrawn knees. Kirk's chin rests upon the topmost arm, his eyes downcast, barely blinking in the faint, chilly glow.
He cannot be certain, in such uncertain conditions and even with Vulcan eyesight, but he strongly suspects the shimmer reflected in the stormy gaze is not merely a trick of the lights.
He is strongly tempted to simply turn and leave, to return and make the attempt again when the human will at least acknowledge his presence. The bitter, spiteful words still ring in his ears, and always will, thanks to his eidetic memory – the captain's banishing him from this place, where he had always felt such complete acceptance as to be too good to be true, the heartbroken, impassioned declaration that he would never again be welcomed here.
But they were not true, and he knows that implicitly. That does not mitigate the pain at their reception, but it does negate the petty urge to make full retribution by never returning to this small haven aboard a ship of humans who had never offered him the full, unconditional love and acceptance this man has.
To leave now would be to tell Jim that he considers the words to be truth, and would destroy any hopes they have of salvaging what had to be the most dangerous mission to their relationship, working and otherwise, that they have undertaken in many months.
He will not give that impression to this exceptional human, and so he stands his ground, silent and unmoving in the silvery darkness.
Finally, he hears a shallow, tremulous expulsion of breath, and the captain's head drops, forehead resting limply upon his arms.
"Captain," he makes the attempt once more, despite seeing no response from the huddled figure, "your crew has expressed concern for your well-being, as you have not been seen since the end of beta shift."
No answer, not even a breath or twitch.
He continues, thankful for the darkness which will hide the fact that his controls are barely holding. "As this reclusivity is atypical behavior for you after a crisis averted, your crew is deeply concerned. Will you not walk the ship as you normally do following a tragedy, to assure them that all is well?"
The plea is more an excuse to coax the human into speaking than anything really ship-related; the Enterprise crew will survive without their captain's brash self-confidence for one night, but the captain himself may not survive the memories he fights at this current moment.
A bitter, angry sound rips through the silence, more of a furious sobbing noise than the sardonic laugh it is meant to be. "Would you have me lie to them, Commander?" he hears the bitter rejoinder slice through the darkness toward him, muffled somewhat in the fabric of the man's sleeves. "All is not well, and I quite frankly don't think they need me to confirm that." The human's voice breaks on the words need me, and that tell-tale fact does not escape his notice.
"Your crew does not need your confirmation, sir. They do, however, need you." That much is both true, and will function as a reassurance. "To permit your embarrassment over the events of today to affect your routine as captain of this vessel is not an action of the brave man you are." He will not, cannot, call this man a coward, despite the fact that the obvious reason for Kirk's leaving the Bridge so soon is evidence that he is simply embarrassed to face his crew after being seen as senile by many of them. A lesser man might have crumbled under the impact of what has happened, and if this man chooses to leave some of the nightmares to be faced until the next day that is by no means indicative of a lack of bravery. Merely, the presence of common sense.
That bitter laugh breaks the silence once again; it is a most unpleasant sound, and vaguely increases the chill he has not yet overcome since his regression from the aging process.
"Mr. Spock," and the human lifts his head, though he doubts if the man can really see much in such dim lighting, and turns toward the sound of his First's voice, "you needn't be so tactful about calling me the coward I am."
He stands at attention, more of habit than out of true indignation, though there is that as well. "Sir, you are not a coward. You are human," he adds, gently, as the man gives a self-deprecating gesture of defiance, "but you are not a coward. There is a considerable difference between the two."
"Yes," the man whispers, and the raw quality of grief is so pervasive in the word that it causes him to draw a step nearer without even realizing it, "yes, there is. A coward wouldn't have had the nerve to say what I said to you to your face, as I did." The voice trembles for a moment, then steadies itself, and the human's head lowers again, eyes closed. "No, I am not a coward, Commander. I'm worse than that, for I don't even have a coward's shame."
He is no expert on human emotionalism, but he is rather a self-professed expert on one James T. Kirk. As such, he can recognize a smoke-screen when he sees one; and this embarrassment over senility before the crew has just been recognized as an enormous such screen.
The pervading despair he can sense, the deeper than embarrassment emotion of shame, and the grief – those are the main contributing factors here, and they are not directed at the crew James Kirk snapped at while under the aging influence. The captain has a bad habit of taking his irritation out on his crew; and because of his handsome apologies and his utter love for them at all other times, none hold that fault truly against him.
There is not a crewman aboard who would even dream of bringing up anything the man did while subject to the effects of rapid aging, and they both know it.
No, that is not the issue here; which is as well, for he would be powerless to aid the human in dealing with such. As it stands, however, he most certainly can be of assistance in what he can now see is the primary issue at hand.
You traitorous, disloyal…you stab me in the back the first chance you get! Get out. I never want to have to look at you again.
Spoken not by this man, but by a man frightened beyond belief of what was happening to him, a man living the two nightmares buried so deeply within his subconscious that had they never shared a mind-meld Spock himself would never have guessed just how deep the fear was rooted.
He will never forget the words, for he is incapable of doing so. But he can forgive them, and in fact already has.
But Jim does not know that.
"Why are you here, Spock?" the whisper startles him from his uncertain musing, as he is deciding how to go about this without destroying the remainder of his mental shields in the process. "If I were you, I'd be anywhere but, and no one would blame you."
The question takes him by surprise, but he can see by the utter despair written all over the captain's posture that it is a genuine inquiry, one that the man has no hope of really hearing a pleasant answer to.
His lips tighten at the utter dread visible in the human's eyes, shimmering clearly in the soft darkness, and he throws all logical caution to the wind and, not for the first time in the company of this man, acts entirely upon human instinct.
Striding purposefully into the sleeping alcove, he pulls the human's blankets off his bed, making certain there is an extra for himself as he is still most definitely freezing aboard this ridiculously specist-temperate ship, and returns to the living area. The captain has not moved, and in fact is not even looking at him – the utter indifference to the privacy invasion is most disconcerting, and worrisome if he will admit it to himself.
Kirk starts as he crouches beside the man in the grey-pulsating darkness, startled eyes lifting from his arms to shift almost fearfully to his face in the dim glow.
"I am here," he says softly, as he wraps the comforter around the shivering man's shoulders, "because it is my place. And nothing can, or will, ever change that fact."
He gathers the impression from the stunned look in the man's eyes that Jim is utterly speechless, completely not expecting that; and that had been his tactic when he began. To coax this so very stubborn human into opening himself up to another is an art mastered only after years of careful study; and it is never, can never be, an exact science. After their first chess match, he had recognized that to beat this man at his own game, Spock must himself learn to take him by surprise, and continually strove to do so.
Now is no exception. He takes the two thickest blankets for his own use, wraps them snugly about himself, and then settles on the cushions beside the human.
Kirk's aura of despair has changed to nervousness and stress, an unease that is obviously bordering on causing physical nausea. And, beneath it all, now that he is close enough to sort out the anger from the pain and the shame – he can sense something else.
Fear. The human is afraid; of what, he does not know – but he can conjecture, and rather accurately in most cases where Jim is concerned.
And again, in dealing with this man, one must surrender some safe ground before concessions will be made. He does not hesitate to do so, even if it is a mild sacrifice of Vulcan denial.
"Captain," he murmurs into the silvery stillness. "Your crew are not the sole beings aboard who are concerned for you after the events of today."
It is the final pebble that disrupts the avalanche, bringing the guilt and despair crashing from behind their barriers with the force of a mountain crumbling.
"How…how can you say that?" The human's voice is shaking as badly as the man himself is beside him. "After what I said, Spock, what I did…I can't even believe I'd think about saying what I did!" The soft hazel eyes are buried miserably in the gold sleeves now, and the captain seems to shrink inward upon himself in his utter despair, shaking with the remembrance. "I…Spock," is the choked addendum, "I'm not sure I can ever forgive myself for that."
"You do not have to, Jim; for I already have," he replies gently, for it is most definitely true on both counts.
A despondent noise emanates from the blanket-huddled figure, and then the captain's head lifts wearily, though his eyes remain downcast in shame. "I don't see how, Spock," he whispers miserably. "I called you disloyal – a traitor, Spock, something I swore after we ironed out that Talosian business with Pike that I'd never dream of calling you again. The Commodore was just in here a couple of hours ago, told me how he practically had to drag you into performing that hearing, how hard you tried to deflect his questions and prevent it. Spock, you did exactly what you should have done, to protect this ship – and I repaid that by calling you a traitor! Nothing in the galaxy could ever be farther from the truth; I don't know how I could believe such a thing." The human's hands clench convulsively around the blanket edges, stretching the soft fabric thin.
"You were losing your command, Captain, due to the effects of rapid aging; and you were afraid. Both definite, excusable reasons for aberrant behavior in humans."
"No, no. Neither is an excuse for the things I said about you. I don't see how you could ever forgive an offense of that magnitude, Spock. It is inexcusable, and unforgivable."
He cannot help the sensation that develops within him at the very idea, and were he human he might have laughed bitterly. As he is not, he can only shake his head. "Captain, you have no conception of the gravity of offenses that can be committed between us."
"No, I believe I have a pretty good idea –"
"You have no idea!"
The words ring like thunder in the darkness, all the more pronounced because their previous conversation had been in low murmurs. Kirk jumps, fear clearly flaring at the unexpected heat in his voice, and he realizes his controls are vacillating at a very dangerous low.
So be it; this must be said, else they may neither recover fully from today's events.
"You have no idea," he continues, more quietly, as the human tenses next to him.
"I…I don't understand," is the frank reply, and within it lies an unspoken please tell me.
He turns in the semi-darkness to face the huddled figure. The captain still will not look at him, though the man makes no move to edge away as he leans forward – earnestness must penetrate where reason so far has not.
"Captain," he enunciates clearly, distinctly, so that there can be no misconception, "no possible offense you could ever commit against my person could ever come close to equaling murder."
The human is confused, he can see that much from the slight lift of the head. "…Murder?" Kirk asks blankly.
"Captain, you merely spoke empty, useless words under the influence of rapid aging," he answers, his own voice tightening in shame at the remembrances flitting through his barely-controlled memory. "I, conversely, deceived you as to my state of health, did not fully inform you regarding procedure, and then killed you on a field of combat after you broke four separate Starfleet regulations to take me to Vulcan."
For the first time, Jim looks at him – his head jerks up with a wide-eyed look of dumbfounded incredulity.
But he continues before words can be said, for he is not yet finished. "I killed you, captain," he whispers intensely, and the words ring with shame even as those accursed bells had on that day many months before. "To take the life of an innocent man is not worthy of forgiveness. What are mere words in comparison with that?"
By the stunned silence that permeates the room, he is quite sure the human is surprised temporarily beyond words; and indeed, that had not been what he intended to say when he entered this place with the intent of mending the rift that had sprung up between them. And yet somehow it is relieving, to after so many months admit to the never-ending flame of guilt that will ever burn in his consciousness; the awareness of that first vision when the blood-fever broke, that his first sight after the madness passed had been the still, lifeless face of the only man he dared in his most private thoughts call friend. It is a nightmare that he will never escape, and Kirk must know that he is not the only being aboard who fights his own daily demons, vanquishing them through force of will.
"Spock," the man finally speaks, and his voice is soothing and gentle as it has ever been. "I'd no idea you still felt…that is, you can't be held responsible for what happened then."
"By Vulcan standards, you are correct, Captain; laws are not binding upon the events surrounding the Time." He could have stayed on Vulcan after the kal-if-fee, and none would have prosecuted him for Kirk's death; even Starfleet recognized the legality of Vulcan rites. "But I am half-human, Jim," he adds softly. "And therefore, both responsibilities and their repercussions were mine." Which was why he had returned to the ship, to surrender himself at the nearest Starbase, and why he had informed T'Pau he would not live long nor prosper; he had welcomed death itself, after believing he had killed this most dear of beings with whom his life had become inadvertently intertwined.
The human's eyes, earnest and pleading, are fixed upon him now in the darkness, and he notes with some small satisfaction that Jim's shame seems to have been swamped in a wave of deep concern. "Spock, you weren't in your right mind!"
"And today, Captain," he interrupts with as much gentleness as he can, "today – were you?"
Kirk blinks, slowly, four times, and then a look of wonder crosses his face, loosening the tense lines of stress around his eyes. He rests his chin against his arms, brows drawn with consideration "No," he breathes, a sound of tremulous hope among the chaos of a distressed mind. "…No, I wasn't…I wasn't at all."
When he speaks, it is with the finality of one who knows he is correct beyond doubt. "And therefore, by your own logic, Jim – you cannot be held responsible for circumstances beyond your control. And in any case," he adds when a small noise of protest escapes the human's wavering lips, "I believe the scales would remain imbalanced to my deficit, were we to, as you say, keep score."
A weak chuckle, muffled into the blanket, bubbles up from the huddled figure. "Let's never start, Mr. Spock," the captain says, smiling for the first time in many hours.
"Agreed." Most emphatically, agreed.
A small sigh, of contentment if the lull of comforting emotions buzzing beneath the human's relaxed posture are any indication, sounds close by him, and he does not feel the need to engage in unnecessary conversation to fill the void. All that needed to be said has been, now, and he believes the damage done today has been repaired to their satisfaction.
He can turn his attention now to the rebuilding of his mental shields, behind which he will bury the memories this conversation has dredged from the morass of his human side. He is grateful for this man's unique regard and more unique understanding of him, and is even more grateful that he was not forced to watch his captain die of senility, having lost his precious ship and believing himself to be utterly alone.
And if, fifteen minutes into his meditation sequence, his detached mind vaguely registers a warm head slumping down to rest on his blanketed shoulder, the soothing hum of sleeping human brain-patterns is not sufficient to disturb his progress.
The snap and light-flash of a holo-camera six hours later, when McCoy finally comes to check on them, is.