Fic: Two Summers, 1-21
Grief has changed him.
Jim can’t deny it.
In splitting him wide open, it has made him see things he never saw before, understand things in a way he never could have hoped to comprehend. He won’t say that he regrets the knowledge-perhaps it’s closer to wisdom-that he’s gained. But he regrets the cause. Grief has made him more human and Jim gets the feeling that it’s making him a better person, in a vague sense of the word “better.” But the fucking cost.
He would rather have Spock back than know about all this.
He would rather have learned about these two sides of grief in the way that should come naturally to humans. Because this kind of knowledge-wisdom-should come in old age, not when he’s this young.
Still, what is done is done, as Spock would say.
The dull haze of sadness, the grey expanse of his existence makes him realize exactly how precious happiness is. He once felt guilty about laughing and smiling. Now he treasures the times he can laugh and smile. Because the more he sees and the more he lives and mourns with his crew, the more he realizes just how much sadness the universe contains.
This isn’t who he is. Jim Kirk is brash and bold. Jim Kirk is invincible, confident, always has a charming smile and always has a third option.
But this is who he is. Jim Kirk finds reasons to live despite the shit that life throws at him. Jim Kirk is brash because he’s faced death and sorrow and trauma and anger and despair and he dares to continue living and laughing. Jim Kirk is bold because he faces things that should break another person but he just keeps going with a light behind his eyes and a grin on his face. Jim Kirk is invincible because he’s still alive, still breathing. He’s confident because he has the audacity to hope things will get better. He’s got that charming smile on his face that hides secrets and the exact magnitude of the heart wrenching grief he’s felt, gut stopping fear he’s known. He’s got a third option because death is unacceptable, sorrow is miserable, and life is precious. Life is short.
In some ways, he feels that this whole experience of losing Spock has brought him closer to his elusive Vulcan lover. Because in mourning Spock’s death, he finds himself truly mourning the loss of Vulcan itself. And in realizing that Spock kept going, kept living, joined Starfleet and allowed Jim and the Enterprise to change him, allowed Jim into his life and loved him, he sees so much more clearly the man he fell in love with. He sees so much more clearly the spirit of the Vulcan people and the ability they have to reform themselves from their ancient and violent ways, the ability they have to rebuild their destroyed world. Jim always knew that Spock was stubborn. He did not know that Spock was resilient.
He finds that he is resilient as well. He finds that their love is resilient, despite death and grief.
And his crew. They were blasted apart by Spock’s death. They’re still reeling from his loss. But they’re pulling together in unexpected way, providing for each other so they can live just another day, another hour. It’s not a matter of replacing Spock. They all know at the bottom of their hearts that Spock is irreplaceable, nor do they want to replace him. Still, they all have to get by. Spock is dead. They are alive. These are the facts, and they must live with them. So they make do.
This is what Bones sees, this is what Bones marvels at and sustains him as a doctor. The remarkable resilience of the human body and human spirit. No, not just humans, but life as a whole. This is what Bones accepts-that death is inevitable, that life is sometimes a matter of walking a tightrope between two extremes. This is what Bones loves-doing cartwheels on a balancing beam.
Doing cartwheels and backflips is exactly what Jim does very well.
Is that also what Spock saw? Jim sometimes wonders what Spock saw in him that he loved so much. He never asked Spock the question and now regrets not doing so.
If-and this is just a hypothetical-if Spock were to come back to life, return to him somehow, would he still love this changed Jim?
In so many ways, Jim is still uncomfortable with the changes that have been wrought in him. He looks at himself in the mirror and sees the toll of grief. The light in his eyes is different, the lines on his face are deeper. He’s young and handsome, but this experience has marked him irrevocably. Would Spock still love this Jim whose smile is tempered by sadness, whose laugh is not so bright and free? Would Spock still look at him with those dark eyes and listen to his heartbeat when his heart has been broken?
Time has passed, but not so much time has passed that Jim feels that this grief does not define him. He looks back to the time when Spock was alive and wants to be that person again. Wants never to have tasted this kind of sorrow. Feels that the universe has taken so much from him already, it’s not fair that they take away the last of his youth and leave him feeling like an old man trapped-blessed or cursed-in a younger man’s body.
Time has passed but Jim still thinks something inside him is broken. He’s not sure it can be fixed. He’s not sure he wants it to be fixed. It’s the last powerful thing he has connecting him to Spock, and he’s afraid that if he lets go of the grief, Spock will disappear too. Jim has so little of Spock left that anything else lost, no matter how small or large, is devastating.
One summer gone. The next summer seems so far away. And does he want the next summer to come? He doesn’t want time to go forward, he’s always wanted time to go back. To before, to Spock alive, to living and loving. This isn’t who he is. Even after Tarsus, even knowing the fate of his father in the Kelvin, even after Vulcan imploded, Jim never looked back. He never wanted to go back and fix things, try again, get another outcome. Now he does. Now, for this Vulcan and this lover and this instance and this grief, he wants to go back.
Spock always was the exception to every rule. Even Jim’s rules.
Two summers.
Somewhere inside, he gets the feeling-he doesn’t know if this is true, but he gets the feeling-that Spock does want him to move forward. He doesn’t want Jim to stay stuck in the past. Jim thinks he can feel Spock gently chide him that going forward does not imply forgetting, that moving on does not mean Jim loves Spock less. It is necessary and Spock understands this. He does not blame Jim for anything, he would never hold it against him. If Jim needs permission or some kind of forgiveness, he does not need to ask it from Spock. Jim already had it, has always had it ever since Spock stepped onto the bridge that first shift so many summers ago.
The only permission and forgiveness Jim needs is from himself.
But it’s not fair, Jim wails. It’s not fair, and maybe he doesn’t want to continue living without Spock, maybe he doesn’t want to endure another summer because life is a fucking struggle. Jim protests that he’s lost so much and give me one reason why I should keep walking forward, or give me some kind of reassurance that we are eternal, that you are waiting for me, that our love will outlast even your death.
And Jim imagines that Spock raises an eyebrow. That Spock reminds him he’s having a conversation in his head right now, that none of this is real, that uncertainty will follow him until he himself meets the final frontier and dies. Spock tells him, with that relentless logic of his, that no one knows what happens after death and the way the living deal with death is to keep memories alive. He speculates that the construct of an eternal soul and afterlife might simply be wishful thinking on the part of humans and aliens alike. But if it is a construct, it is a necessary one, else men might go mad with despair.
That’s not an answer. You always sucked at comforting people.
And you, Jim, would never accept anything less than the truth, no matter how much it costs.
Then lie to me for just this once. Lie to me and tell me you’re real, that you love me after death, that we will never be parted.
Jim is met with silence. He imagines dark eyes and that look-the one that his mother wears, the one that’s in his own eyes now, the one that Spock had but he’s not sure he ever really saw. The look that seems to be in every single one of his crew, the one that holds no answers but some measure of comfort.
Tears stream down his cheeks.
And into the darkness, he hears someone, probably himself, whisper.
“I’m sorry.”
Heart beats steadily in his chest.