[ST] Spock and the Fiery Sunrise of Titian Splendour :: PG :: Gen :: 1/1
So, I commented on a post in slack_n_slash about realising that I now love Kirk more than Spock (I know, I know, I know: it's so wrong), and I couldn't let this momentous milestone pass without recognising it...
Spock sits, defeated, in the grandparental chintz, a look of anguish on his face.
“I fear I do not fully comprehend this situation,” he says. “Please reiterate your findings.”
Laura turns away from the mirror where she has been smoothing down her hair, its colour resembling nothing so much as a fiery sunrise of Titian splendour.
“Look,” she says, “I’m really sorry, darling, but it’s no use. I love Jim Kirk.” She smiles sadly, wistfully. “Oh, Spock! I wish it were different! I wish I didn’t have to break your heart like this. I know this will create emotional turmoil in you, feelings that will be impossible for you to suppress, feelings that will leave you unbalanced and lost! But I cannot deny the truth.”
She presses her hand to her forehand and reclines into the chaise longue. Spock moves to her side, tears falling down his cheeks. She sits back up suddenly. “Wait! Don’t get salt on the chaise longue!” He moves away obediently.
“Whilst I understand that Human feelings are subject to alteration, have you considered the impact your announcement will have on our habitation arrangements? There are the children to consider.”
Laura considers the children. “True enough. And we have been very happy here in our Amsterdam townhouse.”
“Where there is adequate room for all thirteen children,” points out Spock. “Each having their own quarters.”
“With themed curtains,” agrees Laura. “You make a fair point, Spock. And yet I must follow my heart.”
“Logically, your heart will go wherever your brain dictates, as it is a mere physical organ,” says Spock, and Laura scowls at him.
“I was speaking metaphorically. As Descartes once said, ‘the heart has it reasons whereof reason knows nothing.’ Only he said it in French.”
“I believe it was Pascal who expressed that sentiment,” corrects Spock. Laura scowls again.
“You know you’re not helping your case here, right?”
“I believe the correct response to be, ‘Forgive me,’” says Spock penitently.
“Whatevs. It’s too late for us Spock. The flame of passion that burned in my not insignificant breast has flickered and gone out. My love for you has withered like the vine upon the leaf. Or the leaf upon the vine. Or something. I have been true to you, Spock, Lord knows. For years (seventeen, to be precise) I have been true. I have not swayed in my affections (except for my thing for Illya Kuryakin, Russian spy extraordinaire - oh, and Pacey Witter, that adorable boy - and, fine, a bit for Xander Harris, not to mention my girl-crush on Susan Ivanova and my recent love for Nathan Scott, notwithstanding his ridiculous nipple piercing, but we’re straying from the point here). But now--- oh, now a new wave of passion has rushed over me, and I am left reeling in its wake! Oh, Jim, Jim!” She flails briefly on the chaise longue. Spock looks disturbed.
“You would forsake me for my captain?” he asks stiffly, and Laura nods cheerfully.
“Absolutely. In a heartbeat.”
“But the children…” he begins. Laura wipes away his objection with a brisk motion of her hand.
“The children will be fine,” she says. “They can have their own quarters on Enterprise. I will start designing their new curtains imminently.”
“Jim Kirk is an inveterate womaniser with the morals of a Klingon targ and has had, to my certain knowledge, at least three sexually transmitted diseases! I suspect four further instances, but Dr McCoy was not forthcoming on the subject.”
Laura shrugs. “Whatever, dude. He is HOT. And a tiny bit damaged by what was clearly a difficult childhood, not to mention the problems he will face coming to terms with being a starship captain at such a young age. I can help him with that. And yes, I can’t deny the thirteen quarter-Vulcan children might be seen by some as relationship baggage, but I am confident he will cope.”
“Then we are finished,” says Spock hollowly.
“Awesome,” says Laura. “Stroke my hair one final time, my darling, and then depart.”
Spock strokes the fiery sunrise of Titian splendour, and departs.
THE END
Spock sits, defeated, in the grandparental chintz, a look of anguish on his face.
“I fear I do not fully comprehend this situation,” he says. “Please reiterate your findings.”
Laura turns away from the mirror where she has been smoothing down her hair, its colour resembling nothing so much as a fiery sunrise of Titian splendour.
“Look,” she says, “I’m really sorry, darling, but it’s no use. I love Jim Kirk.” She smiles sadly, wistfully. “Oh, Spock! I wish it were different! I wish I didn’t have to break your heart like this. I know this will create emotional turmoil in you, feelings that will be impossible for you to suppress, feelings that will leave you unbalanced and lost! But I cannot deny the truth.”
She presses her hand to her forehand and reclines into the chaise longue. Spock moves to her side, tears falling down his cheeks. She sits back up suddenly. “Wait! Don’t get salt on the chaise longue!” He moves away obediently.
“Whilst I understand that Human feelings are subject to alteration, have you considered the impact your announcement will have on our habitation arrangements? There are the children to consider.”
Laura considers the children. “True enough. And we have been very happy here in our Amsterdam townhouse.”
“Where there is adequate room for all thirteen children,” points out Spock. “Each having their own quarters.”
“With themed curtains,” agrees Laura. “You make a fair point, Spock. And yet I must follow my heart.”
“Logically, your heart will go wherever your brain dictates, as it is a mere physical organ,” says Spock, and Laura scowls at him.
“I was speaking metaphorically. As Descartes once said, ‘the heart has it reasons whereof reason knows nothing.’ Only he said it in French.”
“I believe it was Pascal who expressed that sentiment,” corrects Spock. Laura scowls again.
“You know you’re not helping your case here, right?”
“I believe the correct response to be, ‘Forgive me,’” says Spock penitently.
“Whatevs. It’s too late for us Spock. The flame of passion that burned in my not insignificant breast has flickered and gone out. My love for you has withered like the vine upon the leaf. Or the leaf upon the vine. Or something. I have been true to you, Spock, Lord knows. For years (seventeen, to be precise) I have been true. I have not swayed in my affections (except for my thing for Illya Kuryakin, Russian spy extraordinaire - oh, and Pacey Witter, that adorable boy - and, fine, a bit for Xander Harris, not to mention my girl-crush on Susan Ivanova and my recent love for Nathan Scott, notwithstanding his ridiculous nipple piercing, but we’re straying from the point here). But now--- oh, now a new wave of passion has rushed over me, and I am left reeling in its wake! Oh, Jim, Jim!” She flails briefly on the chaise longue. Spock looks disturbed.
“You would forsake me for my captain?” he asks stiffly, and Laura nods cheerfully.
“Absolutely. In a heartbeat.”
“But the children…” he begins. Laura wipes away his objection with a brisk motion of her hand.
“The children will be fine,” she says. “They can have their own quarters on Enterprise. I will start designing their new curtains imminently.”
“Jim Kirk is an inveterate womaniser with the morals of a Klingon targ and has had, to my certain knowledge, at least three sexually transmitted diseases! I suspect four further instances, but Dr McCoy was not forthcoming on the subject.”
Laura shrugs. “Whatever, dude. He is HOT. And a tiny bit damaged by what was clearly a difficult childhood, not to mention the problems he will face coming to terms with being a starship captain at such a young age. I can help him with that. And yes, I can’t deny the thirteen quarter-Vulcan children might be seen by some as relationship baggage, but I am confident he will cope.”
“Then we are finished,” says Spock hollowly.
“Awesome,” says Laura. “Stroke my hair one final time, my darling, and then depart.”
Spock strokes the fiery sunrise of Titian splendour, and departs.
THE END