The BLTS Archive - Connect the Dots
by Midnight Topaz (ravaged_rhapsody@yahoo.com)

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Warnings: mentions of previous self-injury

Spoilers: post-TMP. This is the (unplanned) companion piece/sequel to
"Paint by Number" , but can stand alone.

Dedication: TreeofKnowlege.

Archive: Cross-posted to my DA account (and has been for a couple of
months, lol). (If you want to archive, please ask first.)

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He remembers the blood. He remembers the warm, slick sensation as it
seeped down his pallid skin and dripped from his fingers, each crimson
droplet a pure testament of his devotion. Of his love.

He remembers the sweet, slow drift into exquisitely numbing blackness.
He remembers these in dreams. . .  and he awakens with the same soft,
eerie laugh that echoed off the bloodstained tiles so long ago.

It is at moments like these that the dark eyes study him worriedly,
unguarded concern deeply inscribed in every line of the worn face.
Strong arms wrap gently yet possessively around his waist. When his
vision clouds and his heavy lids begin to close once more he knows
that, for one of them, there will be no sleep tonight.

Especially in his drowsy, sleep-weakened state, it is easy- too easy-
for the bond to open and reveal his innermost thoughts. Because of
this, he is careful to keep his mental shields completely intact,
despite the small twinge of guilt this action creates. He is careful.
. . but, in truth, not careful enough.

This time, he is not alone. Slender hands clutch vainly for his own,
attempt to pluck the gleaming silver from his trembling grasp. An
urgent whisper falls flat in the stagnant air. *Come with me*.

He stares up into the shocked, tortured gaze- and smiles. *It's all
for you*, he murmurs reverently, unaltered worship ringing in his
every word. *Only for you*.

The phantom voice moans in anguish, repeatedly beseeching him for
obedience. Jim. . .  Jim. . .

"Jim!"

He is abruptly jolted into reality by a tight grip on his wrist and
the pained gasp of his name. His languid glance touches on the dark
eyes that are drowning in horror and grief, yet are still tinged with
no small amount of love.

For a few prolonged, tense moments, the only motion is a warm thumb
tracing the pale scars marring his skin. Finally, the suffocating
silence is broken by a question laced with a peculiar mixture of fury
and sick despair. "*Why*?"

Shrugging unapologetically, he explains quietly, "I could have lived
without you. I just didn't want to."

He does not recoil when the pressure on his wrist intensifies even
further. "*You will not harm yourself ever again. Do you understand*?"

The dark intensity of the stare unnerves him and he averts his eyes.
He nods, once- it is the only answer that will be accepted. Though he
maintains at least some small measure of equanimity, a twisted shadow
constricts indefinably within him. . .  because, although Spock
*knows*, he does not *comprehend*.

*In life and in death, everything I do is for you*.

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The End