Against the Dying of the Light, 5/?
You should know by now what this is.
"Life is not lost by dying; life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day, in all the thousand small uncaring ways." - Stephen Vincent Benet.
Dear Jim,
I'm sorry but it's just not going to be feasible to get time off between Christmas and next August - by which time, there would be little point in taking leave, as I understand it. I really am sorry, but we're in demand here because of the concerns over North Korea and their current and future actions. It would be irresponsible of me to cut my tour of duty short for an extended period right now.
I know this is probably pointless to say, but please don't get upset about this. You've always been stronger than me, and if I were in your shoes, I doubtless wouldn't be handling everything so well and so calmly. I have every faith that you can face this all with dignity and pride and that kinda shitty sense of humour you got from Dad. I can tell you this: you've done Dad proud.
I will try to get away in May, if you can keep me posted on the progression of events. I will honestly try - but I can't promise anything. So keep yourself safe and well as you can, and please look after yourself even though it might seem like it doesn't matter.
Love,
Sam.
Jim finished the email and sat numbly for several minutes, blankly staring at the screen. He had spent a week bouncing between clinics and hospitals and second-third-fourth opinions and lawyers and bank managers and more lawyers (why did death require so many lawyers?) and then this, to get this...
Slowly, he rose from the chair, noting everything in a very detached way until his own mind almost sounded like Spock, with that logical, loose way of observing facts: it was Thursday morning, so Spock would be at the hospice. His jacket was on the back of the couch where he'd dropped it. His car keys were in the pocket, and he would just be catching the tail end of the rush hour.
He was still running on a somewhat alarming autopilot when he stepped into the empty reception of St. Joseph's, and followed the steady bars of classical German music through two sets of doors and along a short corridor until he found himself stepping into an airy lounge, equipped with sofas and several elderly patients and their families - and Spock, seated at an old piano, playing with all the serenity of the Buddha himself.
Spock, who glanced up, took one look at Jim, and stopped. "Jim?" he questioned, already getting to his feet.
"I..." Jim tried, and then all the everything that he'd felt reading Sam's email came flooding back and both hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. "I..."
"Come with me," Spock said quietly, hooking a hand under Jim's elbow and leading him swiftly across the corridor and into a small room that held nothing but a sofa and a couple of armchairs. He shut the door firmly behind them, and had only half-turned before Jim secured his arms around that thin waist and locked them there tightly.
"Sam," he said into Spock's neck, and felt the reassuring - soothing, comforting, needed - weight of Spock's arms come up around him.
"Who is Sam?" Spock prompted.
"A fucking dickhead," Jim spat. He could feel himself shaking, and the anger was burning at his stomach, his lungs, his guts. It was hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to talk around the searing in his throat and vicious heat in his face. "He's my fucking dickhead son-of-a-bitch cunt of a brother!"
"What has happened?" Spock asked quietly.
"He's not coming back," Jim spat, and tightened his grip when Spock shifted. "He's not fucking coming back, and..."
"Take a deep breath," Spock said, quite suddenly interrupting him with a firm tone better suited to headmasters than the gentle, clever, wicked man that Jim had picked up in a bar last week. Jim was so surprised - jarred by it, almost unpleasantly - that he had inhaled before really registering the command. "Now exhale, slowly."
He did so, and some of the shivering inside lessened slightly.
"Sit down," Spock said, tone gentling again, and arranging Jim on the sofa as though he did this every day. Maybe he did: he slipped off Jim's shoes, lifted his legs to lie across the sofa, and tucked a cushion from one of the armchairs behind his back, with all the easy grace and relaxation of a man used to it. "I will return momentarily. Take slow, deep breaths, and feel free to punch the sofa cushions should physical exertion be required."
He disappeared, closing the door behind him softly, and Jim turned his attention to the breathing exercise, and the continual clench-unclench of his hands. He itched to have them around Sam's neck. How could he? How in the hell could patrol duty in peacetime be more important than this, more important than saying goodbye, more important than the very last time they would see each other...
"Here," and Spock had returned, pressing a mug of sweet tea into Jim's hands. He spread a light blanket over Jim's legs before seating himself on the edge of the sofa calmly. "What did you mean by your brother not coming back?"
Jim took a sip of the tea before saying, "He's in the US Navy."
"Ah. And he is on tour."
"Yeah. And when...when I broke the news about...well, you know...well, he said he couldn't get back right away. Which, you know, whatever. He doesn't need to be here now. But...but later, when..."
Spock folded Jim's free hand into his, and Jim clutched onto those elegant fingers tightly.
"And this morning he basically told me he won't be back until August, and he's not even trying to get leave because he's got this duty to the navy and some such shit and by August, then..."
Jim's voice broke and he pulled, hard, on Spock's hand. In a moment, the mug had been removed, and he had Spock caught in a fierce embrace, clinging tightly to a man he barely knew in a desperate attempt to receive some kind of comfort and support and fucking understanding...
"I'm not asking for the fucking world," he croaked, and Spock's fingers brushed the hair at the nape of his neck.
"No, Jim, you are not," he said lowly. "But sometimes it is easier to turn away than it is to lose the ones we care for."
"That doesn't excuse him," Jim croaked.
"No, it does not," Spock agreed quietly. "It does not excuse Sam, and it does not excuse my father, and it does not excuse every other person to choose the same course of action. I would never say that it does - but, sometimes, I can understand it. It would be easier. Not right, and most likely severely regrettable...but easier."
Jim shifted, tucking his face into Spock's neck. "Did your father stay away too?" he asked quietly.
"Yes."
Jim clung tighter, couldn't think of anything to say, and shook his head meaninglessly. After a moment, he loosened his grip and shifted again restlessly. "I just...I don't want to be doing this all on my own," he whispered. "I just want someone to be there. I just want someone to...to support me and to help me and...I don't want to have to do this by myself."
Spock's chest heaved briefly in a silent sigh, and he turned his head to press a light kiss into Jim's temple. "You are not alone, Jim."
Jim took a deep breath, the simple words and the simpler action caused something to creak in the middle of his chest, like a rib painlessly snapping against his lungs and puncturing the pair of them, lessening all the pressure that had been building up for three weeks - in reality, longer, for months and months of the tests and the treatments and the endless failures and regressions and remissions and restarts...
For the first time since the very first blood test, in the arms of a man he'd known a week and in a hospice that he would pay any price not to need, Jim Kirk broke down and cried.
"I say to people who care for people who are dying, if you really love that person and want to help them, be with them when their end comes close. Sit with them - you don't even have to talk. You don't have to do anything but really be there with them." - Elisabeth Kubler-Ross.
"Life is not lost by dying; life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day, in all the thousand small uncaring ways." - Stephen Vincent Benet.
Dear Jim,
I'm sorry but it's just not going to be feasible to get time off between Christmas and next August - by which time, there would be little point in taking leave, as I understand it. I really am sorry, but we're in demand here because of the concerns over North Korea and their current and future actions. It would be irresponsible of me to cut my tour of duty short for an extended period right now.
I know this is probably pointless to say, but please don't get upset about this. You've always been stronger than me, and if I were in your shoes, I doubtless wouldn't be handling everything so well and so calmly. I have every faith that you can face this all with dignity and pride and that kinda shitty sense of humour you got from Dad. I can tell you this: you've done Dad proud.
I will try to get away in May, if you can keep me posted on the progression of events. I will honestly try - but I can't promise anything. So keep yourself safe and well as you can, and please look after yourself even though it might seem like it doesn't matter.
Love,
Sam.
Jim finished the email and sat numbly for several minutes, blankly staring at the screen. He had spent a week bouncing between clinics and hospitals and second-third-fourth opinions and lawyers and bank managers and more lawyers (why did death require so many lawyers?) and then this, to get this...
Slowly, he rose from the chair, noting everything in a very detached way until his own mind almost sounded like Spock, with that logical, loose way of observing facts: it was Thursday morning, so Spock would be at the hospice. His jacket was on the back of the couch where he'd dropped it. His car keys were in the pocket, and he would just be catching the tail end of the rush hour.
He was still running on a somewhat alarming autopilot when he stepped into the empty reception of St. Joseph's, and followed the steady bars of classical German music through two sets of doors and along a short corridor until he found himself stepping into an airy lounge, equipped with sofas and several elderly patients and their families - and Spock, seated at an old piano, playing with all the serenity of the Buddha himself.
Spock, who glanced up, took one look at Jim, and stopped. "Jim?" he questioned, already getting to his feet.
"I..." Jim tried, and then all the everything that he'd felt reading Sam's email came flooding back and both hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. "I..."
"Come with me," Spock said quietly, hooking a hand under Jim's elbow and leading him swiftly across the corridor and into a small room that held nothing but a sofa and a couple of armchairs. He shut the door firmly behind them, and had only half-turned before Jim secured his arms around that thin waist and locked them there tightly.
"Sam," he said into Spock's neck, and felt the reassuring - soothing, comforting, needed - weight of Spock's arms come up around him.
"Who is Sam?" Spock prompted.
"A fucking dickhead," Jim spat. He could feel himself shaking, and the anger was burning at his stomach, his lungs, his guts. It was hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to talk around the searing in his throat and vicious heat in his face. "He's my fucking dickhead son-of-a-bitch cunt of a brother!"
"What has happened?" Spock asked quietly.
"He's not coming back," Jim spat, and tightened his grip when Spock shifted. "He's not fucking coming back, and..."
"Take a deep breath," Spock said, quite suddenly interrupting him with a firm tone better suited to headmasters than the gentle, clever, wicked man that Jim had picked up in a bar last week. Jim was so surprised - jarred by it, almost unpleasantly - that he had inhaled before really registering the command. "Now exhale, slowly."
He did so, and some of the shivering inside lessened slightly.
"Sit down," Spock said, tone gentling again, and arranging Jim on the sofa as though he did this every day. Maybe he did: he slipped off Jim's shoes, lifted his legs to lie across the sofa, and tucked a cushion from one of the armchairs behind his back, with all the easy grace and relaxation of a man used to it. "I will return momentarily. Take slow, deep breaths, and feel free to punch the sofa cushions should physical exertion be required."
He disappeared, closing the door behind him softly, and Jim turned his attention to the breathing exercise, and the continual clench-unclench of his hands. He itched to have them around Sam's neck. How could he? How in the hell could patrol duty in peacetime be more important than this, more important than saying goodbye, more important than the very last time they would see each other...
"Here," and Spock had returned, pressing a mug of sweet tea into Jim's hands. He spread a light blanket over Jim's legs before seating himself on the edge of the sofa calmly. "What did you mean by your brother not coming back?"
Jim took a sip of the tea before saying, "He's in the US Navy."
"Ah. And he is on tour."
"Yeah. And when...when I broke the news about...well, you know...well, he said he couldn't get back right away. Which, you know, whatever. He doesn't need to be here now. But...but later, when..."
Spock folded Jim's free hand into his, and Jim clutched onto those elegant fingers tightly.
"And this morning he basically told me he won't be back until August, and he's not even trying to get leave because he's got this duty to the navy and some such shit and by August, then..."
Jim's voice broke and he pulled, hard, on Spock's hand. In a moment, the mug had been removed, and he had Spock caught in a fierce embrace, clinging tightly to a man he barely knew in a desperate attempt to receive some kind of comfort and support and fucking understanding...
"I'm not asking for the fucking world," he croaked, and Spock's fingers brushed the hair at the nape of his neck.
"No, Jim, you are not," he said lowly. "But sometimes it is easier to turn away than it is to lose the ones we care for."
"That doesn't excuse him," Jim croaked.
"No, it does not," Spock agreed quietly. "It does not excuse Sam, and it does not excuse my father, and it does not excuse every other person to choose the same course of action. I would never say that it does - but, sometimes, I can understand it. It would be easier. Not right, and most likely severely regrettable...but easier."
Jim shifted, tucking his face into Spock's neck. "Did your father stay away too?" he asked quietly.
"Yes."
Jim clung tighter, couldn't think of anything to say, and shook his head meaninglessly. After a moment, he loosened his grip and shifted again restlessly. "I just...I don't want to be doing this all on my own," he whispered. "I just want someone to be there. I just want someone to...to support me and to help me and...I don't want to have to do this by myself."
Spock's chest heaved briefly in a silent sigh, and he turned his head to press a light kiss into Jim's temple. "You are not alone, Jim."
Jim took a deep breath, the simple words and the simpler action caused something to creak in the middle of his chest, like a rib painlessly snapping against his lungs and puncturing the pair of them, lessening all the pressure that had been building up for three weeks - in reality, longer, for months and months of the tests and the treatments and the endless failures and regressions and remissions and restarts...
For the first time since the very first blood test, in the arms of a man he'd known a week and in a hospice that he would pay any price not to need, Jim Kirk broke down and cried.
"I say to people who care for people who are dying, if you really love that person and want to help them, be with them when their end comes close. Sit with them - you don't even have to talk. You don't have to do anything but really be there with them." - Elisabeth Kubler-Ross.