Alt for No. 16: Miscommunication
Blink and you'll miss it nod to No. 19: Floral Bouquet
The ship is nearly deserted.
She still feels like a living thing, and probably always will; one does not so easily extricate their soul from the place they left their heart. These corridors and rooms are full of memories, both good and bad. Light-hearted and dark, pleasant and troubling – the eternal, symbiotic dichotomy found in any intense, loving relationship.
But Time's relentless drum marches the years onward, and no amount of heel-dragging will stop it. They are not, any of them, growing younger; and the universe seems to have spoken that quite clearly in recent years. While this adventure has been a (mostly) pleasant diversion, reality will soon close back in, and he will be firmly grounded once more. Anchored to his home planet, in a quest to find peace that seems ever out of reach, both personally and professionally.
And yet, there is hope, flickering like a forgotten lamp in a window long distant, that makes this farewell not quite so bleak as it might have been. The future is uncertain, and yet somehow more certain, than it has been for some time.
Perhaps it was not, after all, the loss of the Enterprise which made the world seem impossible to endure, when he last left this ship.
The crew has already departed, other than a few Engineering personnel who are still in the process of turning control over to the orbital dock. He had seen McCoy to a shuttle bay himself three hours ago, since the doctor flatly refused to take the transporter again if anyone other than Montgomery Scott were operating it, and the poor transport technician seemed terrified to insist against the diatribe.
It had not been a waste of the admiral's time. He had patiently endured the secondary rant about being 'drafted' back into service, because he deserves that; and then accepted a grumbled invitation for Sunday dinner this weekend. He's yet to get an answer about whether or not the doctor's return to regular service is even a possibility, and he certainly has no right to an opinion in that matter; but just the possibility, is far more than he'd thought there would be a week ago. Regardless, they'll be fine.
Funny how Spock's return seems to have mended half a dozen things Jim didn't even realize were quite so badly broken.
Speaking of. He had assumed Spock had already beamed down to Starfleet Command central, given the tangle of red tape his abrupt resignation almost three years ago and even more abrupt return likely have generated. In the three hours it's taken Kirk to walk this ship one last time, he hopes that will all have been cared for, and perhaps in the next couple of days they'll finally have a chance to talk somewhere that doesn't have a memory hovering around every corner. Neutral territory might be a good thing.
But apparently, his assumption was incorrect. There's no mistaking the tall, thin silhouette lurking awkwardly in the shadowed corridor just outside the last transporter room to be shut down. Jim would recognize him in the dark, much less outlined in the dim light of these familiar halls.
"Tired of the uniform, hm?" he asks, smiling despite the slight awkwardness which still hovers between them. "You always did look good in black."
"The new uniform is not an improvement on the old, in fit, fabrication or color."
"I would have to agree with you, but I wasn't consulted on the design changes. Anyway, what are you still doing here?"
"Clearly, I am waiting for you, Admiral."
"Clearly. If I'd known, though, I'd have been a little quicker about my wandering. I hope you haven't been standing here for literal hours?"
Spock's eyebrow inclines fractionally.
He sighs, and leans back against the wall for a moment, arms folded across his chest. "You should've had someone call me."
"There was no need. I am well aware of your attachment to the Enterprise, and that you would wish to physically bid it farewell before departing. I was not as aware if my intrusion would be welcome, at this time."
He'd forgotten what it is to be known so intimately, seen so clearly, by anyone.
It's not entirely a good feeling.
"Well, I suppose I am that predictable," he finally says, steadily enough. "But don't you have a mountain of logistical things to settle, if you're not heading back to Vulcan immediately?"
"I am not returning to Vulcan at all, immediately or otherwise. As I said on the Bridge," Spock replies, matter-of-fact. "But you are correct, there are matters which require my attention."
"So why aren't you down there taking care of them, then?"
Spock shifts slightly, almost retreating into the folds of his civilian attire.
Kirk tilts his head in question, making carefully sure there's no accusation in the look.
"I…" Spock stops, considering his words with unusual care. "You made this final departure alone, at the end of our five-year mission."
"I know. I was there." And you were not, is clearly and loudly left unspoken.
He can't hear any animosity in his response, even if the burn of it lingers at the back of his throat, subtle and nauseating. But Spock's eyes are far too human, particularly in the dim light, and it's enough to melt any remaining anger into tiny fragments, soon to vanish like snowflakes in the sun.
"I have made many mistakes, and as a start, did not wish to repeat that one."
"If you're looking for gratitude from me for the gesture, you've got a ways to go, Spock," he replies, not unkindly, but also not impressed. It's a start; but as apologies go, it's not exactly a sonnet and rose bouquet.
But, "That was Doctor McCoy's final advice to me as well," is Spock's somewhat doleful response, and it startles a laugh out of him despite his mixed feelings.
Spock looks unutterably hopeful at the sound, but also very uncertain of what to say now. No doubt, eggshell-treading is not in the nature of a logical species. And, if Kirk is honest, they've never needed that. Their disagreements had always been so very rare that they were always a surprisingly intense, but unsurprisingly brief, explosion of epic proportions, a storm which typically blew over almost as quickly as it had begun.
But this…this is very different, and they both know it.
"There's enough memories haunting this place," he finally says, glancing one last time down the deserted hall. "So let's not add to them. Do you…where would you like to go, now?"
"Wherever you are."
The simple, completely sincere reply is almost his undoing, almost snaps that last thread of human pride and self-respect which has carried him through this strange, wonderful, horrible week.
Almost. But not quite.
"Well. I think at the least, you owe me dinner. And an explanation."
"That is correct. I am at your disposal for both."
Dinner is excellent, despite the initial awkwardness of trying to choose a restaurant which is sufficiently quiet to allow private conversation, but not so intimate as to discourage the kind of conversation they need to have.
But the temporary reprieve over the meal, mutual agreement to leave the elephant in the room unrecognized for a period, has been very pleasant, and the initial disconnect had faded almost immediately, almost as if it had never been. A euphoric sense of rightness, of completion, lingers like the satisfaction of finishing a jigsaw puzzle, of finally locating that last piece under the table and slotting it into its proper place.
Jim hadn't realized just how dark the void had been, until it was abruptly re-filled not many hours ago. It's as if color has now started seeping back into the gray ambiguity of the world, light shining hesitantly through thinning cloud cover.
It's almost enough to negate the frustration and the hurt of recent years, almost enough to make him consider just waving any explanation past, unspoken. They've rarely needed such explanations, after all.
But perhaps that lack of actual communication was part of the problem.
Once they've finished, a comfortable silence finally falls, during which their table is swiftly cleared by a member of the staff and the dishes replaced by two glasses and a bottle of locally sourced, honey-hued Violetta, compliments of a well-intentioned but clearly starstruck sommelier who apparently recognized them, even years after their last visit here.
Spock offers him one of the glasses, to which he shakes his head. He wants to be completely clear-headed for this conversation, and he knows Spock hates nearly all wines, especially non-red varieties. They're not particularly pleasing to the more subtle Vulcan palette, so it goes untouched for now.
"Well," he finally says, when it's clear Spock isn't going to start the conversation. "You promised me an explanation."
Spock's posture immediately tenses, and although his rigid expression remains the same, there is obvious regret, and something that looks horribly like fear, in his eyes.
The sight breaks Jim's heart a little, more than it already had been; and that does a lot to mitigate the hurt that still lingers. "I'm not angry with you. Not anymore, at least," he adds truthfully, with a hesitant hand on Spock's wrist.
"I would not fault you, if you were."
"But I'm not." After a second of hesitation, he allows their fingers to brush briefly when he withdraws. The physical contact should at least reassure of his truthfulness, and he can see it has, after a moment. There's still apprehension, but the tension has lessened. "I don't really have a right to be, anyway. We both made mistakes."
"Perhaps. Mine were far more overt, however."
"Perhaps," he echoes, with a pensive sigh. "But I'm not looking to place blame. I just…I don't even know what really happened? And it's done nothing but haunt me, Spock. What did I do?"
"Nothing," is the quick, almost desperate response.
"That might be worse. What did I miss, then?"
"Nothing," Spock repeats, with increasing agitation. "The fault for my internal conflict does not lie with you, Admiral."
"I think we both know that's not quite accurate," he says quietly. The title stings, a painful reminder of his own poor decisions, both recent and not. "I may not be at fault for it, but I certainly was a factor. Wasn't I."
Spock shifts in his chair, a strangely nervous tell of discomfort. "Not intentionally."
"But most times, intention has no noticeable effect on the end result, does it."
"It…does not."
Kirk absently watches a couple sharing an umbrella, hurrying down the path in an effort to avoid the drizzle of a warm summer evening near the Bay, before turning back to the warmly-lit table with a frustrated gesture. "I know that I…well, I was crashing and burning a bit, there toward the end."
"You were losing the Enterprise, through no fault or effort of your own."
"That isn't an excuse." He fidgets uneasily with a stray napkin ring. "I had a responsibility to ensure the transition was smooth, and I definitely didn't do that. For you or anyone else."
Spock's voice is gentle. "I am aware that losing the Enterprise has always been your greatest fear."
"There was a time when I'd agree with you." He glances up, and locks eyes pointedly. "I don't think I would now, though. Funny, how our priorities rearrange themselves, when we actually do lose things."
Spock is silent for a moment. "I never wished to cause you pain, Jim," he finally says, almost inaudibly.
"But you did."
A silent nod of acknowledgment, and Spock's eyes flick away from his for a moment to the soft lamplights of the patio beyond the window.
"I just…" He pauses, and rephrases the words slightly in his head. "Did you really think I wouldn't understand? That I wouldn't support whatever you needed to do, to finally find some peace?"
Spock looks back at him, eyebrow slightly raised. "I did not see an outcome where you would be able to do so without being directly hurt by the cost of my decision."
"You never gave me the chance!"
It's too loud. He immediately modulates his voice, grateful for the semi-seclusion of their table behind a large faux plant near a soundproofed window.
"And it hurt anyway. You didn't even give me the opportunity to understand what you needed, much less why you needed it."
"I did leave a written –"
"You left a three-line note that explained nothing except that you were planning to purge every trace of humanity, permanently," he snaps, feeling the familiar anger flare up again. It's strangely liberating, after spending so long feeling next to nothing, day in and day out. "No reasons, no explanations, no real goodbye, even. Did you think I would just – that I wouldn't have any questions?"
"It was a serious miscalculation."
"It was the worst thing you've ever done to me, Spock."
Deathly silence punctuates the words, and while it's far more than he meant to admit, it's not untrue.
"I was…lost." The words, when they're finally whispered, are almost small, and so inestimably sad that the pain is palpable despite the space between them.
Kirk sighs. "I know you were. We both were."
And he does know, really. Still shell-shocked to find that their lives were being uprooted with no warning, he'd soon found out the hard way just how much his moral compass had subtly shifted over the last few years, to point primarily at one particular being. That kind of intense co-dependence certainly isn't healthy, but its sudden death had been no less destructive.
Lost is a very good word for it.
"I do not believe my decisions were illogical, from a certain point of view and given the incomplete understanding I had at the time. However, I have no excuse which would be sufficient justification for how I enacted those decisions."
"Well." Kirk swallows painfully. "I was too wrapped up in my own head, to even try to understand what was happening in yours. And I'm sorry."
"Jim, no –"
"Let me finish, or I won't be able to."
Spock nods, silent.
"I'm…not proud of everything I've done, these last few years. Including how I handled things there at the end. I fumbled it badly, and everyone suffered for it. You included."
"I do not believe anyone could properly justify blaming you for this," is the quiet reply. "In a way, you were grieving. And in retrospect, I can see much more clearly how my own internal conflict blinded me to this realization."
"We've always had a bit of a blind spot where the other is concerned, haven't we?"
"Perhaps."
"That has to change, you know, if we're going to move forward from here," he says. "No more blind spots, no more assumptions. You need to communicate more, and I need to learn to listen, even when you don't have the words."
"I believe you underestimate your ongoing ability to do the latter," Spock replies quietly. "But I do not disagree with the observation, in principle."
Jim relaxes slightly, resting his chin in one hand and smiling across the table. "Look at us, resolving our emotional differences logically and efficiently."
The incredibly human eyeroll he receives is equal parts exasperation and affection.
That's an interesting new dynamic. The openness might just be carryover from V'Ger's dangerously intense influence, but for now, it's…nice.
"I did miss you," he adds, when it seems Spock's still fumbling a bit for actual words. "Every day. I hope you know that."
"I do. But it is…reassuring, to hear. This is a far more pleasant outcome than I had been prepared for, under the circumstances." Spock glances out at the harbor, sparkling below in a flickering, blurred reflection of the skyline, and then looks back at him, eyebrow raised. "Doctor McCoy seemed to think I should be prepared for the human tradition known as groveling."
Kirk snorts, and finally reaches for the untouched bottle of Violetta Dulce. "I love the man, but he needs to mind his own business in this area." He decants a small amount into each glass, appreciating the rich amber color and sweet, fruit-forward aroma, then pushes one glass back across the table. "He means well, but we've never exactly been traditional, have we. Human or otherwise."
"I do not believe the label is applicable, no."
"Well, I see no reason to start using a label now, then. We've wasted enough time in the past." He holds up the small glass. "A toast: To V'Ger, and transcending the next step of evolution."
"This is a human tradition. An invocation of positive omen, or a wish for increased luck in achieving the subject state," Spock observes almost absently, tilting the glass slightly to watch glowing fractals dance against crystalline curves. "Most illogical."
"It is, yes." Kirk tilts his head in clear challenge, but does not drop his hand, waiting patiently in limbo for the final judgment. "And this is me saying I'd like to see us meet in the middle, sometimes, with human tradition. If that's –"
His words are cut off by the lyrical ting of a second glass literally doing just that. Spock regards him in silence, and for a moment it's as if years of painful mistakes and misunderstandings have slipped away, a tide of familiarity ebbing and flowing around this tiny oasis of calm.
And for the first time in what feels like a very long time, he knows they'll be all right.
"I believe the correct expression is, I will drink to that," Spock says quietly, and suits the action to the word.
While the rich, honeyed blend is exceedingly pleasant, he nearly aspirates it at when Spock's expression twists into a silent and very polite ew. "You've never liked most wines, even the sweet ones," he observes, trying not to laugh. "Didn't have anything like it on your solitary desert-dwelling sojourn, did they."
"I did not say I disliked it."
"Your eyebrows did." He sets the glass on the table with a sly smile. "But it probably has enough sugar in it to be effective, even on you. If you really want the full human experience of getting tipsy on a Friday night, that is."
"I believe that would be an endeavor better suited to a future evening. I do not wish to be impaired when trying to navigate the extensive security measures at the Vulcan embassy this time of night."
Oh.
"Yes, of course," he says, hopefully fast enough to cover up the fractional hesitation. "It's not that far from here."
"I remember the route, yes."
"You'll probably want a cab, though, in case this mist turns into actual rain."
"That would certainly be logical."
There's a beat of silence, and then Jim finally snorts, and starts to laugh. "What are we even doing, Spock. The weather?"
A pointed eyebrow incline. "I did not bring up the weather. Sir."
"You also didn't bring up anything else, and I did just say I'd try to listen when you refuse to use your words," he retorts. "So. In plain Standard: Would you like to finish this conversation in my apartment? Or at the least, not spend the night in a sterile embassy suite?"
Spock's lips twitch. "I did not wish to assume my presence was welcome."
"That's not an assumption, Spock, that's an established fact," he replies, far more gently. "Now and always. No groveling required, no matter what Bones said."
"Then yes, Jim. I would…like that."