i should have been cleaning...
Title: Untitled
Author: flail
Fandom: Star Trek XI (Reboot)
Pairing/Character(s): Kirk/Spock
Rating: PG
Warnings: No Beta. Much angst. My utter fail at titles.
Summary: His mother had always said good things don't last; it's only now he realizes she might have been serious.
When he thinks back, Spock can't readily recall the moment when he decided that pursuing a relationship with James T. Kirk was a good idea, and that worries him. Normally, his memory catalogs even the most mundane detail whether he wants it to or not, and he can sift through his personal library until he comes upon the information he needs; generally, 7.8 seconds. But not this time.
That being the case, he is left to consider that, perhaps, it is some sort of coping mechanism inherited from his Human genes; it cannot be rooted in his Vulcan heritage, for it would be illogical to avoid any moment or experience. Of course, that theory is severely tested when he thinks that perhaps the moment that things ended with James T. Kirk should be the one he can't remember. Certainly that one...hurts more than the start of their entanglement, which was, however cliche it might sound, a light in the otherwise infinite blackness of his existence.
Perhaps, instead, the reason he doesn't remember the start of things is because it was so gradual. Their interactions had been antagonistic at first, worked their way up to a grudging respect for one another that eventually turned into friendship. And friendship, well, that had evolved into something else. A logical progression.
A mistake.
He had been a foolish child, believing he had found, as Humans called it, true love. That Kirk, somehow, completed him in a way that he would suffer for if ignored. For a time, somewhere between the third year of the Enterprise's tour and returning to Earth, it all seemed true; the old Vulcan had been right, hadn't he? He'd let his guard down, he'd let himself be more Human than he ever had, secure in the knowledge that no matter what happened, Jim would be there. Jim wouldn't judge him, he would guide him through the uncharted territory as easily as he seemed to do everything else. As easily as he'd ignored Spock's protests at the start of their relationship.
We cannot do this. I am not suitable. You will only be disappointed.
Why hadn't he just listened? Jim hadn't listened. He'd stood there, smirking, and had said that Spock was such a hypocrite, but it was all right, he wouldn't tell Bones; it was so plain that what he really wanted was so much different than what was coming out of his mouth. And like always, Spock let Jim Kirk talk him into something that he knew, logically, was a poor idea.
But, by the old gods, he'd...he'd loved it. Loved that it seemed as though nothing could ever tear them apart. The security, the end of a loneliness he'd felt ever since his planet's destruction. It hadn't mattered that no one else agreed with their choice; he hadn't cared about all the stories about Kirk's sexual history, or his inability to commit. It hadn't mattered; they didn't know Jim like he did, they never could. He was different now than he had been. Command had changed him; Spock had changed him, in a thousand little, unintentional ways.
Spock stands from his station on the bridge, tugs his tunic straight, and leans over to log himself off as the officer for the next shift exits the lift. They exchange a brief greeting, Spock has nothing he requires the Lieutenant to do, and he heads for the lift himself. He doesn't wait at the threshold for Jim to finish his conversation, doesn't glance over his shoulder to catch one last glimpse of him; it's not normal and everyone knows it. He certainly doesn't acknowledge that he can feel Jim's gaze on his back as the lift door closes, or that he's sure there was a collective sigh of relief now that he's gone from the bridge.
James T. Kirk's predilection for being 'loose', as he'd heard it described, had never especially bothered him; the physical aspect of their relationship had never been as important to Spock as it was to Jim. In a strange way, he had enjoyed it, as the guilty Jim that always returned to him was more than willing to endure a refresher course on just how much Vulcans did not really like to share; those nights, so intense, had seemed to bring them so close together that any doubt he might have had was quickly shoved aside as utter nonsense. It had worked for them. They had found amusement in everyone else's outrage at Jim's behavior.
His mother had always said that good things couldn't last. She had always made the statement with a playful smile on her face, as if she hadn't really meant it, didn't really believe it, but she consistently used the phrase. Spock had often thought it ridiculous; it wasn't so ridiculous anymore. It was true. She had believed it, hadn't she?
The closer they had come to returning to Earth, the more distant Jim had become, the more he sought out McCoy's company. At first it had not been cause for concern; the two men had been close friends even in the Academy. Why should they not spend time together?
How had he not realized sooner what was taking place? How had he missed such a thing when he had always believed, truly believed that he knew Jim better than anyone else could? He had been wrong, something that happened so infrequently that the sting of it only made everything else worse.
Spock heads to the Observation Deck not because he actually believes it will be empty, but because it is, surely, one of the last places anyone would think to look for him. The few others that are there murmur greetings to him before returning to their conversations, but he mostly ignores them, taking up a seat facing one of the long viewports and staring out at the stars streaking by.
Jim had tried to rationalize. It was nothing. I never slept with him, Spock, you believe me, right? I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't even know. I'm sorry. For the first time since they'd set foot on the Enterprise he wasn't sure what to believe, except that, if Jim had only listened to him three years ago, none of this would have happened. Finally, it was clear that those protests has really been meant to protect himself; a defense strategy he hadn't even been aware of deploying.
There had never been any hope; Humans had emotional requirements that he was not fit to meet, no matter how much they protested otherwise. He had known that after his relationship with Nyota had ended, even if she had never said that was the reason, and he had found himself, rather awkwardly, no longer attracted to the female form as he had been. Was he at fault, then, for not impressing upon Jim how ill equipped he was? At the very least he had been selfish, less than Vulcan, in not doing so. In having nearly three years of happiness; for that was what it had been, he was at least sure of that.
The prospect of losing the Enterprise, of being stranded on Earth again had been too much for Jim to bear. Too much for him to struggle through alone, because Spock was unable to offer the understanding and support that he needed. He had tried. He remembered trying; Jim had smiled at him, told him thank you, that it had helped, really, and they had gone to sleep. He should have known. Why hadn't he picked out the lie?
Physical discretions were easy to forgive; there was a finality to them, more so in space than anywhere else. 'Affairs of the heart', as he'd often heard them referred to, could not be so easily wiped away. Perhaps if he'd been Human, he could have changed himself, become what Jim had needed so that they would have always been together as Spock had often imagined they would be. But he wasn't; Vulcans had spent thousands of years shaping themselves into what they were now, and to go backwards was illogical. Even half a Vulcan was still a Vulcan, and he was far too set in his ways and culture to even entertain the idea of reinventing himself.
There had been anger at first, outrage that he had held tightly in check despite the words of his parents ringing in his ears; do not try to control it, simply let it be what it is. But he couldn't. It had, at any rate, given way to even less desirable flares of emotion; sorrow, grief, hurt, loneliness. All tightly locked away even as they banded together against him in his chest, in his awkwardly placed heart. Meditation had, and still did, very little to help; peace, serenity, and balance seemed as though they had never existed. Now, the flame on his meditation lamp only reminded him of being alone; single, solitary, going on forever.
He had been so foolish, so juvenile, and now, perhaps, so over-dramatic. He had already faced the end of his world and lived; surely he would survive this, too. Logically it had to be so. And the experience was not without lessons learned; he would not allow himself to become so involved with another again.
Lost in thought, Spock is not entirely certain how much time has passed, but it's certainly enough that any search for him will have been called off, and he can safely return to the quarters he had shared with Jim to collect the rest of his things. He lifts a hand to rub his eyes, an unconscious, Human-like gesture, then pushes himself up out of the chair and leaves the room.
There will be, he thinks, a note of some kind from Jim, pleading with him to reconsider. To talk about what had happened. To let him try to explain again. But he won't read it. He knows that if he reads it, he will find it too hard to deny Jim one last chance. And one chance is all James T. Kirk has ever needed to get what he wants; Spock knows he'd forgive Jim in a Human heartbeat if it meant they could be together again, like they had been. He also knows how impossible that is, and if he doesn't look out for himself, who will?
Author: flail
Fandom: Star Trek XI (Reboot)
Pairing/Character(s): Kirk/Spock
Rating: PG
Warnings: No Beta. Much angst. My utter fail at titles.
Summary: His mother had always said good things don't last; it's only now he realizes she might have been serious.
When he thinks back, Spock can't readily recall the moment when he decided that pursuing a relationship with James T. Kirk was a good idea, and that worries him. Normally, his memory catalogs even the most mundane detail whether he wants it to or not, and he can sift through his personal library until he comes upon the information he needs; generally, 7.8 seconds. But not this time.
That being the case, he is left to consider that, perhaps, it is some sort of coping mechanism inherited from his Human genes; it cannot be rooted in his Vulcan heritage, for it would be illogical to avoid any moment or experience. Of course, that theory is severely tested when he thinks that perhaps the moment that things ended with James T. Kirk should be the one he can't remember. Certainly that one...hurts more than the start of their entanglement, which was, however cliche it might sound, a light in the otherwise infinite blackness of his existence.
Perhaps, instead, the reason he doesn't remember the start of things is because it was so gradual. Their interactions had been antagonistic at first, worked their way up to a grudging respect for one another that eventually turned into friendship. And friendship, well, that had evolved into something else. A logical progression.
A mistake.
He had been a foolish child, believing he had found, as Humans called it, true love. That Kirk, somehow, completed him in a way that he would suffer for if ignored. For a time, somewhere between the third year of the Enterprise's tour and returning to Earth, it all seemed true; the old Vulcan had been right, hadn't he? He'd let his guard down, he'd let himself be more Human than he ever had, secure in the knowledge that no matter what happened, Jim would be there. Jim wouldn't judge him, he would guide him through the uncharted territory as easily as he seemed to do everything else. As easily as he'd ignored Spock's protests at the start of their relationship.
We cannot do this. I am not suitable. You will only be disappointed.
Why hadn't he just listened? Jim hadn't listened. He'd stood there, smirking, and had said that Spock was such a hypocrite, but it was all right, he wouldn't tell Bones; it was so plain that what he really wanted was so much different than what was coming out of his mouth. And like always, Spock let Jim Kirk talk him into something that he knew, logically, was a poor idea.
But, by the old gods, he'd...he'd loved it. Loved that it seemed as though nothing could ever tear them apart. The security, the end of a loneliness he'd felt ever since his planet's destruction. It hadn't mattered that no one else agreed with their choice; he hadn't cared about all the stories about Kirk's sexual history, or his inability to commit. It hadn't mattered; they didn't know Jim like he did, they never could. He was different now than he had been. Command had changed him; Spock had changed him, in a thousand little, unintentional ways.
Spock stands from his station on the bridge, tugs his tunic straight, and leans over to log himself off as the officer for the next shift exits the lift. They exchange a brief greeting, Spock has nothing he requires the Lieutenant to do, and he heads for the lift himself. He doesn't wait at the threshold for Jim to finish his conversation, doesn't glance over his shoulder to catch one last glimpse of him; it's not normal and everyone knows it. He certainly doesn't acknowledge that he can feel Jim's gaze on his back as the lift door closes, or that he's sure there was a collective sigh of relief now that he's gone from the bridge.
James T. Kirk's predilection for being 'loose', as he'd heard it described, had never especially bothered him; the physical aspect of their relationship had never been as important to Spock as it was to Jim. In a strange way, he had enjoyed it, as the guilty Jim that always returned to him was more than willing to endure a refresher course on just how much Vulcans did not really like to share; those nights, so intense, had seemed to bring them so close together that any doubt he might have had was quickly shoved aside as utter nonsense. It had worked for them. They had found amusement in everyone else's outrage at Jim's behavior.
His mother had always said that good things couldn't last. She had always made the statement with a playful smile on her face, as if she hadn't really meant it, didn't really believe it, but she consistently used the phrase. Spock had often thought it ridiculous; it wasn't so ridiculous anymore. It was true. She had believed it, hadn't she?
The closer they had come to returning to Earth, the more distant Jim had become, the more he sought out McCoy's company. At first it had not been cause for concern; the two men had been close friends even in the Academy. Why should they not spend time together?
How had he not realized sooner what was taking place? How had he missed such a thing when he had always believed, truly believed that he knew Jim better than anyone else could? He had been wrong, something that happened so infrequently that the sting of it only made everything else worse.
Spock heads to the Observation Deck not because he actually believes it will be empty, but because it is, surely, one of the last places anyone would think to look for him. The few others that are there murmur greetings to him before returning to their conversations, but he mostly ignores them, taking up a seat facing one of the long viewports and staring out at the stars streaking by.
Jim had tried to rationalize. It was nothing. I never slept with him, Spock, you believe me, right? I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't even know. I'm sorry. For the first time since they'd set foot on the Enterprise he wasn't sure what to believe, except that, if Jim had only listened to him three years ago, none of this would have happened. Finally, it was clear that those protests has really been meant to protect himself; a defense strategy he hadn't even been aware of deploying.
There had never been any hope; Humans had emotional requirements that he was not fit to meet, no matter how much they protested otherwise. He had known that after his relationship with Nyota had ended, even if she had never said that was the reason, and he had found himself, rather awkwardly, no longer attracted to the female form as he had been. Was he at fault, then, for not impressing upon Jim how ill equipped he was? At the very least he had been selfish, less than Vulcan, in not doing so. In having nearly three years of happiness; for that was what it had been, he was at least sure of that.
The prospect of losing the Enterprise, of being stranded on Earth again had been too much for Jim to bear. Too much for him to struggle through alone, because Spock was unable to offer the understanding and support that he needed. He had tried. He remembered trying; Jim had smiled at him, told him thank you, that it had helped, really, and they had gone to sleep. He should have known. Why hadn't he picked out the lie?
Physical discretions were easy to forgive; there was a finality to them, more so in space than anywhere else. 'Affairs of the heart', as he'd often heard them referred to, could not be so easily wiped away. Perhaps if he'd been Human, he could have changed himself, become what Jim had needed so that they would have always been together as Spock had often imagined they would be. But he wasn't; Vulcans had spent thousands of years shaping themselves into what they were now, and to go backwards was illogical. Even half a Vulcan was still a Vulcan, and he was far too set in his ways and culture to even entertain the idea of reinventing himself.
There had been anger at first, outrage that he had held tightly in check despite the words of his parents ringing in his ears; do not try to control it, simply let it be what it is. But he couldn't. It had, at any rate, given way to even less desirable flares of emotion; sorrow, grief, hurt, loneliness. All tightly locked away even as they banded together against him in his chest, in his awkwardly placed heart. Meditation had, and still did, very little to help; peace, serenity, and balance seemed as though they had never existed. Now, the flame on his meditation lamp only reminded him of being alone; single, solitary, going on forever.
He had been so foolish, so juvenile, and now, perhaps, so over-dramatic. He had already faced the end of his world and lived; surely he would survive this, too. Logically it had to be so. And the experience was not without lessons learned; he would not allow himself to become so involved with another again.
Lost in thought, Spock is not entirely certain how much time has passed, but it's certainly enough that any search for him will have been called off, and he can safely return to the quarters he had shared with Jim to collect the rest of his things. He lifts a hand to rub his eyes, an unconscious, Human-like gesture, then pushes himself up out of the chair and leaves the room.
There will be, he thinks, a note of some kind from Jim, pleading with him to reconsider. To talk about what had happened. To let him try to explain again. But he won't read it. He knows that if he reads it, he will find it too hard to deny Jim one last chance. And one chance is all James T. Kirk has ever needed to get what he wants; Spock knows he'd forgive Jim in a Human heartbeat if it meant they could be together again, like they had been. He also knows how impossible that is, and if he doesn't look out for himself, who will?