Star Trek Fic: Past Sorrows, Present Joy

[kagedtiger]

Title: Past Sorrows, Present Joy
Fandom: Star Trek (new movie) and TOS
Pairing: none, but Kirk and Spock are always slashy
Author: Kagedtiger
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Star Trek belongs to its owners, who are not me.
Warnings/Spoilers: TONS of spoilers for the new movie. Also, spoilers for: movies 1, 2, 3, 4, and little bit 6, and TOS episodes Amok Time and Court Marshall (just a tiny bit). Also: ANGSTY. I was crying while I wrote a good chunk of this (although that may have been because I had to watch the ending of Wrath of Khan again, which always makes me cry).
Summary: Kirk experiences what might have been. (Best summary I can give without giving away spoilers. Sorry.)

Kirk wrenched himself away from the meld. Unable to bear the close proximity with Spock, he staggered towards the wall of the cavern, breath coming in ragged pants. Pain. So much sadness it was nearly unbearable. The loss of so many. Billions. He could barely breathe.

For a few moments it was all he could do to sort his own thoughts from those that had invaded his mind. It had all felt so real, as though it was happening directly to him. He had to think consciously about which thoughts were his own and which were Spock's, sifting through the memories one by one and isolating the alien presence in his mind.

It was in this way that he came back to the surface thoughts. As Spock had touched his mind, there had been a momentary flash of surface thought before the Vulcan had isolated the memories he wanted Kirk to experience. And now, beginning to recover, it was these memories that were most interesting to Kirk.

Such a deep well of emotion, despite the logical scaffolding which held it. A feeling of fondness upon seeing him, an absurd tenderness. I have been, and always shall be, your friend. Jim. T'hy'la. Brother of my soul. Kirk shook his head. It seemed impossible to reconcile the deep, ancient wisdom in this man, calm, forged through tragedy and loss, with the young upstart of a Vulcan that he had only just met.

"I apologize," said this Spock. "Emotional transferrence is a side effect of the mind meld."

"So you do feel," Kirk heard himself say, as though he had not all the evidence in the world proving it so. Spock felt. Spock felt deeply - felt anger and sorrow and everything else a human felt, and understood the worth of those feelings better than anyone. And Spock felt love. Spock loved him. So deeply, and with such conviction, that no words, human or Vulcan, could truly express it. Could humans even feel an emotion so strong?

Honestly, it scared Kirk. This man was a stranger. They'd only just met. Even he and the young Spock hadn't known each other more than a few days. He couldn't take on this kind of responsibility. This was too heavy. This was... this was soul mates, in a way, and it wasn't like they had to get married or anything but that didn't even matter because this was deeper than that. This was a bond that had survived death. A bond that had rebuilt Spock's mind when he'd been floating in a sea of uncertainty.

He wasn't the Jim Kirk that this Spock knew. And he didn't know if he could be the Jim Kirk that his own Spock might need. He wasn't even sure if he should want to. But he did. And the weight of responsibility that came with that thought scared him.

As he held Captain Pike's hand in a firm clasp, Kirk felt like the biggest man in the world. All around him was applause, and admiration shining from hundreds of faces. The Enterprise was his, and nothing could stop him now.

He looked up, and suddenly, like being thrown into a lake, his mood cooled. Spock - the older Spock - stood watching him from the balcony, an expression of poignant sadness on his face. Except... no. Kirk looked again, and the old Vulcan's face was neutral as always. It was only his own imagination - intuition, perhaps? - that assigned any emotion to that weary face. And yet he looked so lonely standing there. Unbidden, memories of Spock's emotions rose into Kirk's mind. The fondness he'd held for his version of Kirk. The many years since he'd lost him. Kirk took a step forward, barely realizing he was doing so.

He was snapped out of his reverie by a slap of congratulations on the shoulder. The noise and light of the crowd rushed back in towards him, drowning out contemplation. By the time he looked back up to the balcony, Spock was already gone. But Kirk's confusion remained, nagging like a doubt, seeking after him.

He caught up with Spock shortly before he was scheduled to make the trip over to what was now his ship. Part of him felt like this was a bad idea. A very bad idea. He barely knew this Vulcan, after all. Who was he to ask personal questions, even if they sort of pertained to himself? It would be rude. And worse than that, he'd look like an idiot. An insecure idiot. What did he care about young Spock anyway? Spock's well-being was no concern of his. Sure, they'd been through a pretty intense mission together, but that didn't mean he was responsible for the young Vulcan's whole life. He was just another officer.

And yet he found himself standing outside the old Vulcan's chambers, hand raised to ring the bell, unsure as to whether he should even be there.

Before he could manage to make up his mind, a voice called "enter" and the door opened, leaving Kirk with little choice but to step inside. Spock was seated on a cushion in the center of the room, in a pose of meditation. He did not open his eyes when Kirk entered. "Welcome, Old Friend," came the low voice.

"I'm not..." Kirk muttered half-heartedly. Then, more strongly: "How did you know it was me?"

"In my state of meditation, I have some limited awareness of the minds around me even without physical contact. Even in your current state, I know your mind well. I recognized your presence. You are troubled."

It wasn't a question, so Kirk didn't bother answering it. Instead, feeling somewhat foolish, he sat himself down on the floor in front of the Vulcan. The old man felt so much like a sage that this position seemed almost natural. "I need..." Kirk started to say, and then stopped, unsure as to how to continue. Spock waited for him, patiently, unmoving as a statue. Eventually Kirk said, "I need to understand."

"Knowing your own future can be dangerous," said Spock calmly. "All or none of what happened in my timeline may come to pass in your own. The knowledge of it can impair your judgement, make you hesitate at a crucial moment. Additionally, your relationship with my younger counterpart will necessarily be different than that of mine with my own friend. What you ask will offer you no true answers, and very likely will neither offer comfort."

Kirk gave a wry half-smile. "Sure, but the thing is, you can tell me that all day, but I need to know, Spock. I'm sorry. I have to understand."

Spock nodded, eyes still closed, as though this was the answer he had expected. He reached forward, his fingers sightlessly but unerringly finding their positions on Kirk's face. "Take a deep breath," Spock instructed. "There is much to share."

And so Kirk took a deep breath, and as he exhaled, he saw,

"You have failed to learn the principal lesson of this test."

Kirk rolled his eyes. "Enlighten me again."

Annoyance rolled just beneath the surface of Spock's logic, but he kept it carefully in check. He had worked too hard, for far too long, to give in to such emotions now. "The purpose is to experience fear." Spock looked over at the young cadet as he talked, and for a moment, saw something, some spark of defiance in the young man's eye, that unsettled him. There was something about this cadet, something different. Something that hinted at a future far greater than he could possibly imagine.

The boiling in his blood dulled, cooled, died. A moment ago it had been so fierce, raging through him, blotting out all else. But there was Jim. His Jim. Dead. Dead, and he was holding the strap around his captain's neck. And the blood fever was nothing compared to the cold dread and despair that seeped into him. His logic was gone - ripped away by the Pon Farr, and all he felt was the crushing weight of what he had done. The magnitude of his loss, all the worse for being self-inflicted. There was no excuse, no justification for what he had done. There could be no happiness after this moment. Never again in his life.

And from the deepest despair to the absolute height of happiness as he beheld his captain, unbelievably whole and sound, wry smile on his lips. At that moment, he could've done anything. Danced. Sang. Laughed. Jim was alive. He was alive, by some miracle. Spock could've kissed McCoy. The brilliant doctor, to have found a solution that saved everyone. Saved Jim.

Jim was important - he only now realized just how important. Jim was the center of everything. He was the captain. He was the first true friend Spock had ever had, and perhaps the only real one. Everything revolved around Jim.

"Kolihnar? Really?" Spock could tell that Jim was hurt. But it was only logical - their acquaintance was at an end anyway, their voyage ended. Spock's assignment was up, and it was time for him to leave or be assigned to another vessel. He knew that Jim would request him again if only Spock asked, perhaps even if he didn't. But the Kolihnar was something Spock had considered for a long time. It would be the true mark of his Vulcanhood, the true proof of his blood. And logically, he would see Jim again. Perhaps their friendship would be different, without the weakness of Spock's emotions, but Spock himself would feel no loss - loss was an emotion, after all, and would have been purged. And as for Jim, he would no doubt be happy at Spock's increased efficiency. ...Or so Spock had thought.

"Yes, of course. It is a very honorable discipline, and one I have long wished to study."

"So you're just going to abandon us all then," Jim accused.

"It is not abandonment I had intended," Spock answered calmly. "However, the crew is disbanding anyway, moving on to other projects. It therefore seemed logical that it would be time for me to move on as well."

"Not from me, Spock!" Jim was practically yelling now. Spock was somewhat confused. He had not expected Jim to take this so badly. Jim was forever unpredictable in that way. "You're going your separate way from me to purge yourself of all emotion! What about friendship? Isn't that an emotion?"

"I had thought," Spock began haltingly, "that you would be happy for me. To pursue Kolihnar is a great honor. It is the culmination of my beliefs and the beliefs of my people."

Jim sighed and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose the way he did whenever he was exasperated with Spock. "Fine," he said, but Spock could tell from the tone of his voice that he was still angry. "Go then. Pursue your logic. We'll... I'll miss you."

"Logically, it is quite likely that I shall see you again after I complete my training," Spock remarked, still somewhat confused by Jim's reaction.

A wry, almost sad half-smile, and Jim's hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, maybe. But Spock, I'll miss YOU."

And then Jim had left, leaving Spock nonplussed, and strangely uncertain.

It had been necessary. He'd known it had been necessary, and he was not sorry to have sacrificed himself for the ship, and the lives of those on board. But he could feel Jim's pain like a palpable thing, and it hurt him to know that he'd caused such pain to one he cared for so deeply. But it had been necessary.

He could barely see now, vision dimming, and stumbled against the chamber wall before he realized it was there. He couldn't see Jim's expression, but could make out the vague outline of his form just beyond the chamber wall. Spock was fairly certain he'd saved the ship, but the sheer magnitude of Jim's grief made him doubt himself. He shouldn't even be able to feel Jim's emotions without physical contact, but there was no ignoring this depth of sadness.

"The ship," he managed, the thick radiation making it difficult for him to speak, "out of danger?"

"Yes," came Kirk's answer. Spock was relieved. Then it hadn't been in vain. It had been necessary.

"Don't grieve, Captain," he tried to reassure, feeling Jim's desperation like a palpable thing. "It was logical." Necessary. Necessary, and if he kept telling himself that, maybe he could stop feeling Jim's pain so strongly. Perhaps it was magnified because he was feeling it from both souls - what he still carried, and what he had left with McCoy. Both parts of him felt Jim's pain, and they shouted it back and forth, an echoing howl of despair.

Jim needed to understand. It had been necessary. "The needs of the many... outweigh..." it was getting too difficult to speak. Spock felt himself choking, his throat closing.

"The needs of the few," Kirk supplied, sounding almost dazed.

Spock nodded, grateful. "Or the one." Jim's grief threatened to overwhelm him, and he reached for what little humor he possessed in an attempt to soothe it. "I never took the Kobayashi Maru test, until now. What do you think of my solution?" His voice was halting, but he still managed to speak the words.

"Spock..." No change. Nothing to save him from despair, and Spock told himself yet again that it had been necessary. The pain he had caused his captain had been necessary, despite how it was tearing him apart now. He could feel himself dying, slipping down the chamber wall as he lost the ability to keep himself upright. He couldn't go on much longer. He had to say his piece now, while he had the chance. Jim had to know, had to understand how important he had been, how central to Spock's life. There were no adequate words, and he once again wished desperately that it could have been Jim that he had given his soul to, his last and most precious gift.

"I have been, and always shall be, your friend," he said, the only way he could think of to phrase it. With some effort, he managed to remove his glove and, propping his hand against the wall of the chamber, made the traditional Vulcan sign of greeting. "Live long, and prosper," he intoned, meaning it with all his heart and any feelings - human or Vulcan - that he might have cultivated over the course of his life.

The world was dimming to the point of blackness now, and Spock knew the end had come. The last thing he was conscious of was Jim Kirk's hand, pressed to the other side of the chamber wall, reaching for him, but unable to touch.

He felt empty as he walked away from the dais. He was somehow conscious of the fact that where he should have memories, there were none. But he trusted his father. Trusted the Vulcans. They would heal him.

As he walked up the steps, someone caught his eye. A spark of something. Recognition. Ah yes, of course. His father had pointed out the Admiral earlier, indicating that the man had been someone of importance to him in the past. A friend, his father had said, although that seemed illogical. Vulcans did not have friends, not in the way that humans used the term. Still, he had risked much to bring Spock back, and that deserved gratitude.

Spock turned, halting the procession. There was a spark of recognition, yes. Was it only because his father had pointed the man out? Hesitantly, Spock lowered his hood, and stood staring at the man, trying to work out why he felt so... important. There was an indefinable look of sorrow in the man's eyes. That seemed somehow wrong. Why?

"My father tells me that you have been my friend," Spock said hesitantly. "You came back for me."

"You would've done the same for me," said the man unexpectedly. Spock was taken aback. Risked his life and a ship full of people? That did not seem at all logical.

"Why would you do this?"

The man hesitated only a moment. "Because the needs of the one outweighed the needs of the many."

This seemed entirely incongruous, and Spock turned to go, intending to contemplate these words in solitude.

But something happened in his mind. The man's words sparked something else, dim memories, echoes of fading life. They grew stronger and stronger, quite suddenly, so that Spock turned again, confusion flooding him, and blurted out, "I have been, and always shall be your friend." The words were familiar, and seemed somehow desperately important, as though they meant something far more than what they said.

The look on the man's face, the dawning hope, confirmed this. Yes. Hope looked so much better on that face than sadness. This man should not be sad. "Yes," he was saying. "Yes, Spock."

More words tumbled out, chained by memories to the last. "The ship - out of danger?"

"You saved the ship! You saved us all!" The man's expression verged on desperate now. "Don't you remember?"

Spock wished he could. The memories were there, he could feel them. But they were blocked, stubborn. But something about this man made him want to remember, want horribly and in a terribly un-Vulcan-like way. He stared at that face, and a name rose to his mind in response, perhaps pulled up by his sudden and inexplicable need to please this man.

"Jim," he said, with a strange, unexpected confidence. "Your name is Jim."

"Yes." And there, finally, was a smile. Spock surprised himself with the gratification he felt at that smile.

As others - strangers but for the dark stirring shadows of memory in his mind - began to gather around him, Spock felt awash in the unfamiliarity of it all. But Jim was there, solid, known, and the center of everything. And that was the first thing since he'd awoken that felt right.

It was Uhura who had first called him with the news. At that point it had been over a year since he'd last seen James Kirk. It was strange how not seeing someone for a while was so much different than the prospect of not being able to see him ever again. He'd been busy, of course. He was an ambassador now, like his father before him, and Jim had had his own duties. But there had always been the thought, the possibility, of going back, of seeing him again, at least for a few moments, and sitting together with him, sharing their lives and their history through a simple, companionable silence. There had always been the possibility of that indulgent smile, the dry sense of humor. One more thing that he understood about humans thanks only to Jim.

Without this prospect, without the knowledge of Jim's continued existance, somewhere out there, Spock had felt empty. Adrift. Lost. He'd disconnected from Uhura and sat quietly in his room for a long time, sorrow settling over him softly, like a blanket.

And then he'd taken it. With careful training and control, the type of mastery over his emotions that only a lifetime of Vulcan training could give, he pulled up the sadness and wrapped it tightly around himself, magnifying the grief, indulging it, reveling in it, bringing it forward to experience it as fully as possible, until finally he began to weep uncontrollably. The most fitting and perhaps the only tribute he could give to the man who had so changed him, who had brought forth his human side and taught him to embrace it, to understand and incorporate both sides of himself into a unified and finally peaceful whole. He'd cried only a handful of times in his entire life, but for James Kirk - perhaps only for James Kirk in all of existance - he willingly let the tears come.

Spock almost didn't recognize the boy when he first saw him. It had been so very long since he'd seen Jim at all, let alone seen him so young. But he would recognize Jim Kirk anywhere, in any timeline. In a way, there was a weird sense of symmetry about it. With this new life opening up in front of him, perhaps the last chapter in a long, long existance, it seemed fitting that it should begin with one last meeting with his t'hy'la, the brother of his soul.

"I have been, and always shall be your friend." The words that had always meant so much to him, echoing across time and space. The words that could never quite adequately express what Jim meant to him, but which they both understood to stand in for everything ever unsaid. Here, at the end of his world, was the return of hope.

Kirk opened his eyes, and could barely see for the tears streaming down his face. He tried to breathe, gasped, sobbed, and got himself under control, heaving in huge lungfuls of air. It was too much, too much - he shook his head meaninglessly. "You loved him so much," he couldn't stop himself from saying. He could feel it in every pore of his being, how much this man had meant to the Vulcan, the deep well of emotion that had never reached the surface.

When he could breathe normally again, he looked up at Spock, still seated serenely in a position of meditation. But now that the tears had cleared from his eyes he could see a few drops standing out on Spock's own cheeks. So much memory had been hard on him. When he spoke, his voice was rough.

"What I had with my Jim, you shall not have with your Spock. Your lives will necessarily be different from ours - the destruction of Vulcan is too large a change not to have repurcussions. Indeed it already has. My younger self now suffers from the abrupt severance of the psychic marriage bond before its consummation. At least one adventure you will not share, or will share differently."

Kirk frowned. That seemed wrong. Kirk could feel how strongly that episode had shaped the old Vulcan, and through him, how it had shaped Jim Kirk. He'd been willing to sacrifice his career, his beloved ship, to make sure that Spock got home in time for his Pon Farr. It was nearly killing Kirk that had given Spock the realization of just how deep his loyalties ran. Kirk was more important to him than any lover ever could be, in duty, friendship, in life. And now... it wasn't going to happen?

Kirk felt a hand on his arm, and looked up to see that Spock had leaned forward, eyes open now, and was looking at him earnestly. "This is what I meant when I warned you about seeing the future. You cannot take what I have shown you as a blueprint for events that will or even should happen. Your life will be different. You are a different person than my Jim, and your Spock is a different person than I. What will be will be, and you must accept that you cannot control, nor forsee it."

Kirk nodded. The remnants of Spock's sorrow still hung over him, like a heavy cloak. Such loneliness!

"I'm sorry," he said haltingly, unsure of how to offer condolences for something so heavy, and yet so serenly accepted. "I'm sorry I can't be him for you. I... it's so lonely..."

A soft smile, Vulcan in its minimalism. "It is. But I have borne it before, and shall do so again. I have grown accustomed to the lack of my friend, and it no longer pains me constantly as it once did. You, on the other hand, have a destiny to embrace. And I hope my young counterpart will assist you, and that something of a bond may grow between you. What that may yet be I do not know. But I shall look forward to the observation."

"Thank you," said Kirk. He stood, his legs shaky and stiff. How long had he been sitting here?

Spock raised his hand, fingers parted in the Vulcan gesture of greeting, and bowed his head slightly. "Live long, and prosper," he intoned.

Kirk nodded, and as he left, his mind echoed with, "I have been, and always shall be your friend."

Kirk turned as the lift doors slid open. Spock. He'd known it would be Spock - it seemed somehow impossible now that they could go on a voyage without him. He'd needed a Science Officer, after all, and it could have been no one else.

"Permission to come aboard," asked the Vulcan formally.

Kirk smiled. "Granted." He stood as Spock approached him. It seemed almost odd, seeing him so young after feeling the depth of age and wisdom in the old Spock. But the sage had been right; this young Vulcan was a different person, and he had to remember that. What would grow up between them would be its own thing, however it turned out.

"Since I notice that you have yet to select a First Officer, I humbly submit my candidacy," said Spock. There was almost a suppressed humor about him, though it showed nowhere on his features. Kirk wondered how he could tell. "Should you desire, I can provide character references."

Thoughts, residue, flashed through Kirk's mind in an instant.

"In all the years that I've known you, you've never asked for a leave of any sort. In fact you've refused them. Why now?"

"Spock, you know those colorful metaphors we discussed earlier? I don't think you should use them."

"You used to call me Jim, remember? Jim?"

"Could it be that we are getting old?"

"We're talking about the death of every human being on Earth! You're half human! Haven't you got any god-damned feelings about that?"

"If I let go of a hammer on a planet that has a positive gravity, I need not see it fall to know that it has, in fact, fallen. Gentlemen. Human beings have characteristics, just as inanimate objects do. It is impossible for Captain Kirk to act out of panic, or malice. It is not his nature."

"I have been, and always shall be, your friend."

Kirk's smile widened. "It would be an honor, Commander."

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