Fic; An Epilogue for a Beginning, Spock/Kirk
Author: Oncetwiceforever/Tara1031
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,600 words
Pairing: Pre-slash Kirk/Spock
Warnings: MAJOR Star Trek Into Darkness spoilers.
Summary: Jim Kirk was the kind of boy who leaped before he looked; ran before he walked. He climbed the trees in his yard to reach the highest branches, always ran the fastest and never ever looked back. Post-STID, spoilers galore. Angsty, but we all know how it ends.
An Epilogue for a Beginning
In the end, there's nothing but a solid glass door and deafening silence and it's even more terrifying then he could have ever imagined.
---
Jim Kirk was the kind of boy who leaped before he looked; ran before he walked. He climbed the trees in his yard to reach the highest branches, always ran the fastest and never ever looked back. His life was tinged with bittersweetness at being the kid whose father died on the Kelvin, the kid whose dad was a hero. Jim, he didn't understand it, never, not once. His holos had always taught him that the heroes came out on top, smiling and saving the world with barely a scratch. Jim's dad was nothing to him, nothing really but the father who wasn't there. He was the reason why his Mom cried at night; why she looked at him That Way sometimes.
Jim, his childhood wasn't as terrible as he'd like it to have been. He set his own traps, was his own downfall. His mother was absent sometimes and he felt it keenly; his stepfather cold and disinterested, his brother bullying, but he was clothed. He was fed. He was handed freedom and allowed to make his own mistakes and climb as many of those trees as he wanted. He disappeared for days, hiking across Iowa in search of adventure. He ran away to discover himself and get in trouble but he always came back - never hesitated to come back.
It was a lonely existence, but it's who he is. It's who he was. Stir up trouble, make some memories, retreat. Rinse and repeat.
He often stood and stared at the stars because it's all he ever knew of his father, this vast emptiness that claimed a life he'd never know. When he was younger, very young, he'd watch other boys with envy - playing baseball with their dads, tending to the family farms, coming into school with stories of family trips and memories Jim would never make. It burned inside of him, this envy, and it'd created a young Jim Kirk with a very complicated relationship with Death, with this finite idea that removes opportunities and changes lives forever.
As he grew older, he played with the idea, of what it meant, of how it must feel. He loved the thrill, the risks, wouldn't hesitate to do anything he wanted, even the things that had the highest probabilities of his demise. He'd lie awake at night and imagine what it'd be like to just cease to exist, to never have any more thoughts, to never again feel love, to never know again what it's like to feel fresh air on your face or the thrill of speeding down the highway on his 'cycle.
He tried to convince himself he had to dwell on it because it's what changed his life - a death. He couldn't forget that. He couldn't ever change it. He had to move forward, at least.
----
Later, a whole planet of peaceful people are obliterated because of the delusions of a madman. Jim Kirk, twenty-something and way out of his comfort zone, can only do what he has to do.
He'll never forgive himself for causing that look on Spock's face, and swears one day he'll explain to his first officer, apologize and make him listen. Maybe he'll force him into a game of chess, a meal together in his quarters. They will dance around the awkwardness of their first mission, of the emotional pain they both clearly felt. Jim will speak candidly about his relationship with death, about how it's a tricky and awful thing. How he'd lay in bed at night and imagine his funeral when he was a kid, because he was fascinated and enthralled and horrified and completely fucked up over it. Spock will stare his carefully blank stare and perhaps think Jim a bit crazy, but mostly he hopes Spock understands, sort of, in his own way.
They never get to have this moment because after the mission there's the ship's refitting and then Spock almost leaves Starfleet, and then they're out to Nibiru, where everything changes again.
----
Admiral Pike's death makes it so very real.
Later, in the cockpit of the shuttle with Spock and Uhura Jim realizes he doesn't need to have the conversation with Spock because Spock doesn't get death like Jim gets death, but the fear is the same. He wonders if Spock lay awake the night after Pike's death and imagined dying the way Jim had. Jim doesn't think it's a logical thing to do, so it's likely Spock wouldn't, but he is so desperate to connect to Spock sometimes that he imagines Spock thinks of things like he does just because it's easier then to dwell on how different they really are.
Spock's the strongest person Jim's ever met, even if it's because he keeps himself under such lock and key, even if much of it's a facade. It's the most frightened Jim's ever heard Spock, listening to him speak about Pike's last breaths. It's the most human he's ever sounded. Jim, he wonders for the first time what it's like to live in Spock's skin, and it's also the first time he wished he could, even just for a day.
-------
The death of the Enterprise feels like the resolution.
She groans under the weight of her failing machinery, ails and plunging through space in a freefall that sends Jim and Scotty on a race to delay what feels like the inevitable.
---
It's during the last climb that Jim momentarily forgets about his relationship with death - how complicated it is. For the first time, he's free from its binds, because he knows this is the only way. As he feels the pressure of the radiation on his skin, he's hit with the stark realization that he knows now, and only now, how his father must have felt. It doesn't trip him up, though, just pushes him further. He thinks of Spock, manning the bridge, of his loyal crew locked in to go down with the Enterprise. It's their home. It's his home.
He does all he can. It's all he can. It's the last thing he can.
---
In the end, he only reaches the door because he somehow knows someone will be there to say goodbye. (Or he hopes. He truly hopes.) He's torn when it's Spock because Spock has always been a beacon for him, a symbol of things he has yet to achieve. He has the other Spock to thank for that realization, for that beacon, for the few moments he knows he'll never live, for knowing about the relationship he'll never truly get to have. Spock being there makes the inevitable feel darker, lonelier. For the smallest moment he hates him for it, for the tears he sheds for him, despite also being so so thankful for the few memories they've gotten to share.
He swears he can feel the warmth of Spock's hand through the glass, hopes that Spock can feel his, even in his own imagination. For the briefest of moments he wishes he could actually have felt that hand in his, anchoring him to this reality and somehow keeping him from going adrift. He thinks about many things, his fear mounting, even as he tries his hardest to be strong. He holds no regrets for his actions, just wishes it didn't have to end this way. Never this way.
In the end he thinks about his bridge crew, so young with such bright futures. He thinks of Bones and his daughter Joanna - a little girl who will still have a Daddy to grow up with. He thinks of Scotty and Keenser and Cupcake and Uhura and Sulu and Chekov and everyone who will walk off the ship shaken up but with families to welcome them. He thinks of those they've lost. He thinks how the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. He thinks of death and his relationship with it, thinks about how his many nights lying awake thinking about what it'd be like was never ever like this.
Through the glass, Spock cries, and Jim hates that he's Spock's breaking point. He hates that he doesn't know what's going to happen next in their little story, in their novel of the life and times of the USS Enterprise, because his chapter is over. His epilogue written.
In the end, Jim Kirk isn't alone when he takes his last breaths. It's nothing like he thought it'd be but it makes perfect sense. In the end, Jim Kirk dies while his ship breathes a reviving breath, promising the safety of his crew. In the end, Jim Kirk doesn't get to know the man through the glass like he'd hoped, but is tremendously grateful for him, for not leaving him alone.
In the end, death isn't as lonely, as dark, or as enlightening as Jim had ever dreamed. It's strangely uneventful, strangely forgiving, like it knows he'd fought so hard that it's time for him to rest. He's frightened. He's tremendously sad.
In the end, he closes his eyes and that's it. He's written the last word of his story.
---
One day, much later, after all of this, he'll sit across from Spock and have that conversation about death. It'll be a long time coming, horrendously overdue. They'll sit in Jim's quarters, chess board untouched in front of them and talk frankly- much more frankly then Spock would have ever with him months earlier. They'll discuss the loss of Vulcan, of Jim's dad, of Spock's mother, of Pike - of Jim himself. It'll hurt. It'll leave Jim raw and Spock wide-eyed at his honestly. Their fears will be spilled in front of them in such a way that one wrong move could taint their future forever. They will tiptoe around one another at the conclusion, unsure of what to do, how to go forward.
In the end, Spock's hand will touch Jim's, and a new chapter will begin.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,600 words
Pairing: Pre-slash Kirk/Spock
Warnings: MAJOR Star Trek Into Darkness spoilers.
Summary: Jim Kirk was the kind of boy who leaped before he looked; ran before he walked. He climbed the trees in his yard to reach the highest branches, always ran the fastest and never ever looked back. Post-STID, spoilers galore. Angsty, but we all know how it ends.
An Epilogue for a Beginning
In the end, there's nothing but a solid glass door and deafening silence and it's even more terrifying then he could have ever imagined.
---
Jim Kirk was the kind of boy who leaped before he looked; ran before he walked. He climbed the trees in his yard to reach the highest branches, always ran the fastest and never ever looked back. His life was tinged with bittersweetness at being the kid whose father died on the Kelvin, the kid whose dad was a hero. Jim, he didn't understand it, never, not once. His holos had always taught him that the heroes came out on top, smiling and saving the world with barely a scratch. Jim's dad was nothing to him, nothing really but the father who wasn't there. He was the reason why his Mom cried at night; why she looked at him That Way sometimes.
Jim, his childhood wasn't as terrible as he'd like it to have been. He set his own traps, was his own downfall. His mother was absent sometimes and he felt it keenly; his stepfather cold and disinterested, his brother bullying, but he was clothed. He was fed. He was handed freedom and allowed to make his own mistakes and climb as many of those trees as he wanted. He disappeared for days, hiking across Iowa in search of adventure. He ran away to discover himself and get in trouble but he always came back - never hesitated to come back.
It was a lonely existence, but it's who he is. It's who he was. Stir up trouble, make some memories, retreat. Rinse and repeat.
He often stood and stared at the stars because it's all he ever knew of his father, this vast emptiness that claimed a life he'd never know. When he was younger, very young, he'd watch other boys with envy - playing baseball with their dads, tending to the family farms, coming into school with stories of family trips and memories Jim would never make. It burned inside of him, this envy, and it'd created a young Jim Kirk with a very complicated relationship with Death, with this finite idea that removes opportunities and changes lives forever.
As he grew older, he played with the idea, of what it meant, of how it must feel. He loved the thrill, the risks, wouldn't hesitate to do anything he wanted, even the things that had the highest probabilities of his demise. He'd lie awake at night and imagine what it'd be like to just cease to exist, to never have any more thoughts, to never again feel love, to never know again what it's like to feel fresh air on your face or the thrill of speeding down the highway on his 'cycle.
He tried to convince himself he had to dwell on it because it's what changed his life - a death. He couldn't forget that. He couldn't ever change it. He had to move forward, at least.
----
Later, a whole planet of peaceful people are obliterated because of the delusions of a madman. Jim Kirk, twenty-something and way out of his comfort zone, can only do what he has to do.
He'll never forgive himself for causing that look on Spock's face, and swears one day he'll explain to his first officer, apologize and make him listen. Maybe he'll force him into a game of chess, a meal together in his quarters. They will dance around the awkwardness of their first mission, of the emotional pain they both clearly felt. Jim will speak candidly about his relationship with death, about how it's a tricky and awful thing. How he'd lay in bed at night and imagine his funeral when he was a kid, because he was fascinated and enthralled and horrified and completely fucked up over it. Spock will stare his carefully blank stare and perhaps think Jim a bit crazy, but mostly he hopes Spock understands, sort of, in his own way.
They never get to have this moment because after the mission there's the ship's refitting and then Spock almost leaves Starfleet, and then they're out to Nibiru, where everything changes again.
----
Admiral Pike's death makes it so very real.
Later, in the cockpit of the shuttle with Spock and Uhura Jim realizes he doesn't need to have the conversation with Spock because Spock doesn't get death like Jim gets death, but the fear is the same. He wonders if Spock lay awake the night after Pike's death and imagined dying the way Jim had. Jim doesn't think it's a logical thing to do, so it's likely Spock wouldn't, but he is so desperate to connect to Spock sometimes that he imagines Spock thinks of things like he does just because it's easier then to dwell on how different they really are.
Spock's the strongest person Jim's ever met, even if it's because he keeps himself under such lock and key, even if much of it's a facade. It's the most frightened Jim's ever heard Spock, listening to him speak about Pike's last breaths. It's the most human he's ever sounded. Jim, he wonders for the first time what it's like to live in Spock's skin, and it's also the first time he wished he could, even just for a day.
-------
The death of the Enterprise feels like the resolution.
She groans under the weight of her failing machinery, ails and plunging through space in a freefall that sends Jim and Scotty on a race to delay what feels like the inevitable.
---
It's during the last climb that Jim momentarily forgets about his relationship with death - how complicated it is. For the first time, he's free from its binds, because he knows this is the only way. As he feels the pressure of the radiation on his skin, he's hit with the stark realization that he knows now, and only now, how his father must have felt. It doesn't trip him up, though, just pushes him further. He thinks of Spock, manning the bridge, of his loyal crew locked in to go down with the Enterprise. It's their home. It's his home.
He does all he can. It's all he can. It's the last thing he can.
---
In the end, he only reaches the door because he somehow knows someone will be there to say goodbye. (Or he hopes. He truly hopes.) He's torn when it's Spock because Spock has always been a beacon for him, a symbol of things he has yet to achieve. He has the other Spock to thank for that realization, for that beacon, for the few moments he knows he'll never live, for knowing about the relationship he'll never truly get to have. Spock being there makes the inevitable feel darker, lonelier. For the smallest moment he hates him for it, for the tears he sheds for him, despite also being so so thankful for the few memories they've gotten to share.
He swears he can feel the warmth of Spock's hand through the glass, hopes that Spock can feel his, even in his own imagination. For the briefest of moments he wishes he could actually have felt that hand in his, anchoring him to this reality and somehow keeping him from going adrift. He thinks about many things, his fear mounting, even as he tries his hardest to be strong. He holds no regrets for his actions, just wishes it didn't have to end this way. Never this way.
In the end he thinks about his bridge crew, so young with such bright futures. He thinks of Bones and his daughter Joanna - a little girl who will still have a Daddy to grow up with. He thinks of Scotty and Keenser and Cupcake and Uhura and Sulu and Chekov and everyone who will walk off the ship shaken up but with families to welcome them. He thinks of those they've lost. He thinks how the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. He thinks of death and his relationship with it, thinks about how his many nights lying awake thinking about what it'd be like was never ever like this.
Through the glass, Spock cries, and Jim hates that he's Spock's breaking point. He hates that he doesn't know what's going to happen next in their little story, in their novel of the life and times of the USS Enterprise, because his chapter is over. His epilogue written.
In the end, Jim Kirk isn't alone when he takes his last breaths. It's nothing like he thought it'd be but it makes perfect sense. In the end, Jim Kirk dies while his ship breathes a reviving breath, promising the safety of his crew. In the end, Jim Kirk doesn't get to know the man through the glass like he'd hoped, but is tremendously grateful for him, for not leaving him alone.
In the end, death isn't as lonely, as dark, or as enlightening as Jim had ever dreamed. It's strangely uneventful, strangely forgiving, like it knows he'd fought so hard that it's time for him to rest. He's frightened. He's tremendously sad.
In the end, he closes his eyes and that's it. He's written the last word of his story.
---
One day, much later, after all of this, he'll sit across from Spock and have that conversation about death. It'll be a long time coming, horrendously overdue. They'll sit in Jim's quarters, chess board untouched in front of them and talk frankly- much more frankly then Spock would have ever with him months earlier. They'll discuss the loss of Vulcan, of Jim's dad, of Spock's mother, of Pike - of Jim himself. It'll hurt. It'll leave Jim raw and Spock wide-eyed at his honestly. Their fears will be spilled in front of them in such a way that one wrong move could taint their future forever. They will tiptoe around one another at the conclusion, unsure of what to do, how to go forward.
In the end, Spock's hand will touch Jim's, and a new chapter will begin.