What Remains
Fandom: Star Trek Reboot (AU)
Pairing: Kirk/Spock, Kirk/Mitchell
Rating:R
Warnings: None
Summary: In answer to Eimeo's challenge. - An AU K/S fic based on the film "Truly, Madly, Deeply." Basically, Kirk's lover, Gary Mitchell, has recently - and unexpectedly - died and he's having a hard time getting past his grief. While Kirk hovers on the verge of despair, Gary comes back to haunt him benignly and, surreptitiously, to help him move on. Because Kirk has just met a mysterious man named Spock, who could be so much more to him if he can just let go of Gary's memory and fact up to a future without him..."
Prologue
Better to walk forth in the frozen air
and wash my wound in the snows; that would be healing;
because my heart would throb less painful there,
being caked with cold, and past the smart of feeling. - John Crowe Ransom
****
Jim Kirk awakens early and goes through the motions of getting ready for a new day. He goes outside to the backyard of his home and in the chill dawn he stands, watching the sun rise. It seems to linger on the horizon, casting its feeble honeyed glow over the peninsula. But its golden light offers no warmth, no succor.
Beyond the garden the neighborhood stretches out languidly before him. Above the slight early morning mist he can see the neighboring roof-tops, solar panels glinting, and beyond them the soft azure waters of the bay, as San Francisco slowly stirs beneath the lightening sky.
He stands in the small garden of a tall, cream-painted house that looks very much like its neighbors, though its plaster is peeling in several places revealing the dull brick beneath. A few dark shingles hang precariously. Tall and narrow painted window frames adorn the structure, their panes of glass reflecting the weak light.
The compact garden is nestled behind the house, bathed in the light of the early spring dawn. It is nondescript, nothing contained within its borders to distinguish it from the other gardens in the neighborhood. A square area of loose stones sits in the middle, framed by a wide brick path, whilst around the path thin borders run, bursting with bedding plants.
An ironwork table and two chairs rest on the loose stones of the middle square. A short washing line is strung between house and the wall at the bottom of the garden.
Stone steps, worn from use, lead to a slender dark blue back door.
He turns to regard the flowers and bedding plants growing in the dark soil. They’re mostly various shades of green - coneflowers, Shasta daisies, yarrow, poppies and phlox, all yet to flower. Small bright yellow daffodil buds dance in the early breeze and scattered among them are tiny snowdrops, their fragile white blooms beginning to wither and die.
The image blurs as tears obscure his vision. A memory rises unbidden in his mind, as clear as if he has been transported back in time.
****
The day is overcast. Grey clouds crawl sluggishly over the small garden, threatening rain. He is kneeling on a cushion to protect his knees from the cold brick path, as he digs and plants bulbs in the soft, dank earth.
Eventually, he sits back on his heels and digs the point of the trowel into the soil, and turns to watch Gary. He likes to watch him whenever he can, adores the sight of him.
The other man is busy emptying out a sack of shingle and stones for the middle square. He runs a rake over the small mound of stones to smooth them level.
They are nearly finished with their work when the rain starts; a few big, fat drops splash on the ground, then suddenly the heavens open and the rain falls to Earth in thick cold sheets, quickly drenching both men.
They attempt to take shelter in the narrow porch of the back door, laughing and dripping water in shallow puddles around their feet.
He blinks rain out of his eyes, and sees Gary smiling before him. He drinks in the spiky damp lashes, pink cheeks and sparkling hazel eyes. Studies the way his shirt clings to his chest, nipples highlighted against the damp cloth. He can only stare wide-eyed, his breath caught in his chest.
Gary inches closer, hazel eyes burning brightly, a smile hidden in their depths. His soft brown bangs are flattened by rain to his forehead.
They stand regarding each other, clothes clinging wetly to their skin, rain running down cheeks and dripping from lashes. They break into sudden laughter at the sight of each other.
Gary surveys their morning’s work. “Doesn’t look too bad, does it?”
Jim laughs. “Says the man who wanted to make the city’s biggest cat litter tray.”
A small frown appears between the brows of the other man.
“It would not have been a cat litter tray! The idea was to just cover the whole garden with stones and shingle. You have to admit it would’ve been easier. Doing it this way has meant a lot of extra work, what with making paths and adding plants.”
“Hey, we’ve got a skilled craftsman over here, you know,” Jim says, wide grin in place.
“Well at least we’ve got one then,” responds Gary, his tone self-depreciating.
“Hey, you’re not that bad,” Jim tries to reassure him.
“You’re not the one who crushed your thumb twice,” Gary retorts.
“Ah, poor baby, let me kiss it better,” Jim croons, grabbing hold of Gary’s hand and placing a soft kiss on the affected thumb.
Gary’s grin fades into something warmer, more intense. He steps in even closer and Jim cannot move, transfixed by his nearness.
Strong, muscular arms encircle him, soft lips nuzzle against his neck and slowly work their way up to the junction of his jaw. Jim tilts his head back to grant the other man easier access. Stubble brushes against his skin, hot breath skims across his cheek. Gary’s hands rest gently, but possessively on his hips.
He wraps his arms around Gary’s neck and leans in to kiss him. Their wet lips slide against each other’s. He licks across soft, plump lips to encourage them to open, gains access when they part a little. Their tongues spar, and the kiss grows more insistent. He can smell the other man’s rich, clean, masculine scent mingled with the scent of wet earth. The rain and the garden are forgotten.
****
He comes back to himself as the memory fades to find his breath coming in great, heaving gasps, and salty tears are running down his face. Something is squeezing his heart. The wilting blooms of the snowdrops provide mute evidence that winter is beginning to falter and spring is slipping into the gaps left by its retreat, but for him there is no thaw. His winter is still here, its icy tendrils chilling him to the bone.
Pairing: Kirk/Spock, Kirk/Mitchell
Rating:R
Warnings: None
Summary: In answer to Eimeo's challenge. - An AU K/S fic based on the film "Truly, Madly, Deeply." Basically, Kirk's lover, Gary Mitchell, has recently - and unexpectedly - died and he's having a hard time getting past his grief. While Kirk hovers on the verge of despair, Gary comes back to haunt him benignly and, surreptitiously, to help him move on. Because Kirk has just met a mysterious man named Spock, who could be so much more to him if he can just let go of Gary's memory and fact up to a future without him..."
Prologue
Better to walk forth in the frozen air
and wash my wound in the snows; that would be healing;
because my heart would throb less painful there,
being caked with cold, and past the smart of feeling. - John Crowe Ransom
****
Jim Kirk awakens early and goes through the motions of getting ready for a new day. He goes outside to the backyard of his home and in the chill dawn he stands, watching the sun rise. It seems to linger on the horizon, casting its feeble honeyed glow over the peninsula. But its golden light offers no warmth, no succor.
Beyond the garden the neighborhood stretches out languidly before him. Above the slight early morning mist he can see the neighboring roof-tops, solar panels glinting, and beyond them the soft azure waters of the bay, as San Francisco slowly stirs beneath the lightening sky.
He stands in the small garden of a tall, cream-painted house that looks very much like its neighbors, though its plaster is peeling in several places revealing the dull brick beneath. A few dark shingles hang precariously. Tall and narrow painted window frames adorn the structure, their panes of glass reflecting the weak light.
The compact garden is nestled behind the house, bathed in the light of the early spring dawn. It is nondescript, nothing contained within its borders to distinguish it from the other gardens in the neighborhood. A square area of loose stones sits in the middle, framed by a wide brick path, whilst around the path thin borders run, bursting with bedding plants.
An ironwork table and two chairs rest on the loose stones of the middle square. A short washing line is strung between house and the wall at the bottom of the garden.
Stone steps, worn from use, lead to a slender dark blue back door.
He turns to regard the flowers and bedding plants growing in the dark soil. They’re mostly various shades of green - coneflowers, Shasta daisies, yarrow, poppies and phlox, all yet to flower. Small bright yellow daffodil buds dance in the early breeze and scattered among them are tiny snowdrops, their fragile white blooms beginning to wither and die.
The image blurs as tears obscure his vision. A memory rises unbidden in his mind, as clear as if he has been transported back in time.
****
The day is overcast. Grey clouds crawl sluggishly over the small garden, threatening rain. He is kneeling on a cushion to protect his knees from the cold brick path, as he digs and plants bulbs in the soft, dank earth.
Eventually, he sits back on his heels and digs the point of the trowel into the soil, and turns to watch Gary. He likes to watch him whenever he can, adores the sight of him.
The other man is busy emptying out a sack of shingle and stones for the middle square. He runs a rake over the small mound of stones to smooth them level.
They are nearly finished with their work when the rain starts; a few big, fat drops splash on the ground, then suddenly the heavens open and the rain falls to Earth in thick cold sheets, quickly drenching both men.
They attempt to take shelter in the narrow porch of the back door, laughing and dripping water in shallow puddles around their feet.
He blinks rain out of his eyes, and sees Gary smiling before him. He drinks in the spiky damp lashes, pink cheeks and sparkling hazel eyes. Studies the way his shirt clings to his chest, nipples highlighted against the damp cloth. He can only stare wide-eyed, his breath caught in his chest.
Gary inches closer, hazel eyes burning brightly, a smile hidden in their depths. His soft brown bangs are flattened by rain to his forehead.
They stand regarding each other, clothes clinging wetly to their skin, rain running down cheeks and dripping from lashes. They break into sudden laughter at the sight of each other.
Gary surveys their morning’s work. “Doesn’t look too bad, does it?”
Jim laughs. “Says the man who wanted to make the city’s biggest cat litter tray.”
A small frown appears between the brows of the other man.
“It would not have been a cat litter tray! The idea was to just cover the whole garden with stones and shingle. You have to admit it would’ve been easier. Doing it this way has meant a lot of extra work, what with making paths and adding plants.”
“Hey, we’ve got a skilled craftsman over here, you know,” Jim says, wide grin in place.
“Well at least we’ve got one then,” responds Gary, his tone self-depreciating.
“Hey, you’re not that bad,” Jim tries to reassure him.
“You’re not the one who crushed your thumb twice,” Gary retorts.
“Ah, poor baby, let me kiss it better,” Jim croons, grabbing hold of Gary’s hand and placing a soft kiss on the affected thumb.
Gary’s grin fades into something warmer, more intense. He steps in even closer and Jim cannot move, transfixed by his nearness.
Strong, muscular arms encircle him, soft lips nuzzle against his neck and slowly work their way up to the junction of his jaw. Jim tilts his head back to grant the other man easier access. Stubble brushes against his skin, hot breath skims across his cheek. Gary’s hands rest gently, but possessively on his hips.
He wraps his arms around Gary’s neck and leans in to kiss him. Their wet lips slide against each other’s. He licks across soft, plump lips to encourage them to open, gains access when they part a little. Their tongues spar, and the kiss grows more insistent. He can smell the other man’s rich, clean, masculine scent mingled with the scent of wet earth. The rain and the garden are forgotten.
****
He comes back to himself as the memory fades to find his breath coming in great, heaving gasps, and salty tears are running down his face. Something is squeezing his heart. The wilting blooms of the snowdrops provide mute evidence that winter is beginning to falter and spring is slipping into the gaps left by its retreat, but for him there is no thaw. His winter is still here, its icy tendrils chilling him to the bone.