The BLTS Archive - Who Turns the Knife? by raku (raku2u@aol.com) --- Disclaimer: Copyright in the background events and characters portrayed in this not-for-profit work of fanfic belongs to Paramount and Viacom. The plot is mine. Archiving: OK for ASC/EM, R'rain's slash archive. Please keep headers intact. Author's note: a continuity error in Star Trek II shows Saavik at the movie's start undergoing the Kobayashi Maru at a time (8130.3) that's actually after the time when Spock dies at movie's end (8128.7), according to the chronometer visible when Kirk shows Sarek the Engineering tapes of his son's death. For the purposes of this story, I've ignored the date of Saavik's test, and started the clock running at Spock's death. I'm assuming there are roughly six days' entries below, though the days aren't all consecutive. Thanks to Jungle Kitty for Kirk's nickname, Tomcat, and to Greywolf for rolling his eyes over it. This story is something of an emotional PWP; the recent thread on Kirk's views of women vis-a-vis his views of Spock got me thinking. Here's the result. copyright 1998 by raku --- Captain's personal log, stardate 8133.2 --- We buried Spock today. I sit here looking at the words on the screen, and I still can't believe it. At least I got to see him one last time. I got to see that dignified grace, even blinded. He gave his life for me, for the ship, for all of us. For David my son, for Carol, who once meant the world to me. Such a gesture, so like Spock. He said it was the only logical thing to do. I'm sure he died believing that. At his memorial service... I managed to get through his service, and I almost lost control only once. Even Saavik crying, even that didn't get to me. But like a fool I called him human, and that brought him back to me in an instant. So close I could almost touch him. That sleek black coffin, what a perfect container for a man nothing could contain. Sleek, black, smooth, not giving any surface to hold on to. The very image of the man inside. It was ironic we couldn't touch him, in the end. It took two crew members in enviro suits to retrieve his body from the booth, it was so flooded with radiation. McCoy gave them both anti-rad shots as a precaution, and he even managed to decontaminate Spock's body with a little help from Scotty. But he insisted it would be too disturbing for me to see Spock, he was in such bad shape. I don't understand why he thought it would be more disturbing for me than for him. Maybe it's that medical training, I don't know. If I could think more clearly maybe I could figure it out. Where's that bottle Bones gave me? He thought it would be helpful. I'm not so sure... Where was I? Oh yes... Something tells me these words are important, that I have to keep every thread of today's events. I suppose Sarek and Amanda will want information, to say nothing of Starfleet. But someday, this grief will be less, and maybe I'll have forgotten some of this. Or not. Hard to tell. Feels like this grief is sinking right down into my soul, part of me forever. Like Spock His service, so short. How to say what he means, in just a few words? He's part of us, all of us, part of my bones. Oh, god, Spock... --- Captain's personal log, stardate 8141.2 --- One day after the day. The Day. It'll be that way always for me, for the rest of us. I'm glad the planet formed up well, for Carol and David's sake. Such wonderful scientific work is a fitting epitaph for Spock. But how to go on. Our dearest blood. No one wants to take Spock's old station on the bridge. The Enterprise is almost beaten to pieces from that fight, Scotty's a madman, cables snaking all over Engineering and the J-tubes. Probably that's his own way of coping, since Khan cost him his sweet nephew. And for me, paperwork, more paperwork. I tried to visit his cabin this morning but couldn't do it. I got to the door, I got my palm on the door, and I lost control completely. I stood there for I don't know how long, just pounding my fists gently on the door. Someone finally called Bones and he gave me some kind of shot. Also a shot for the hangover I woke up with. I've lost crewmen before, people I was very fond of--talented, crucial officers. But never anything like this. How can I tell Sarek and Amanda. Their only son, blasted to bits by a crazy man. No, that's not right. A man who *chose* his fate, who controlled his destiny right up until the very end. How many of us can say that? A death of dignity, and value, a death that saved hundreds of people. I should be happy, I should be rejoicing that the lovely Enterprise and her crew are still here. But Spock, ah Spock, to pay that price. No price at all, really. I know now I'd give it all, I'd give Carol, and David, and the whole crew, for this one man. There it is. Terrifies me. To learn this now, too late. I've lost my only friend, my best self. Just one Vulcan, that's all I ask And I ask too much. Never again to see that eyebrow raised. Goodbye, Spock, and godspeed. I never gave the order, but--the order is given. --- Captain's personal log, stardate 8151.2 --- Soon we make spacedock. This has at least kept me busy, there's so much to do in advance. Forms and records to sign off on, all manner of tedious bureaucratic rubbish for an acting captain. But it does keep me busy, and for that I'm thankful. Just a few more days, a week maybe, and we'll be done with this voyage, to Hell and back. How Khan would laugh, to learn he finally did take the one thing from me that mattered, even though I didn't see its full importance at the time. McCoy came by to see me, saying he wanted to check how I was. He seemed pretty under the weather himself. I could swear I saw him weaving, and he almost missed the chair when he sat down, but I didn't smell whiskey. Who knows what concoctions a physician can get himself into, with only half the reason McCoy's got. I should probably be worried, if I didn't feel so numb. When Bones left, he actually shook my hand. You'd think he was going away on a trip or something. His hand was burning up--I told him I thought he was coming down with a bug. He smiled a little weakly and said he'd look into it. What a mess we all are. When he took my hand he stung me pretty strongly with a static shock--and all of a sudden it felt like Spock was there with us. Both of us sat down, hard. Both of us reached for the bottle simultaneously, bumped hands in fact. That made us hesitate--the whiskey's been flowing like water, lately, among the senior crew. The crew who knew him. And it's no kind of memorial--he'd be the last to crawl into a bottle. Maybe it was a mistake to bury him on the planet, instead of bringing him back with us. Maybe if we had some kind of tangible reminder, a headstone, a jar of ashes, maybe this would feel more complete. It's the damnedest thing. On one hand we can hardly move for grief, on the other, it feels--somehow incomplete. Like we're waiting for him to walk in the door, perhaps. I find myself writing his name on padds over and over, just looking for a reason to see it, to rub my fingers on it. McCoy's got it worse: I'd say he's dropped right down to the bottom of the bottle, I even told M'Benga to take over for him in Sickbay. McCoy can hardly put two sentences together, I've seen him weaving when he walks, and he seems to have a permanent high fever. M'Benga can't find anything wrong--no viruses, nothing--no sickness he can spot. He doesn't think it's alcohol, but--he didn't know Spock like we do--did. He doesn't know what we'd do, to make this pain go away. Have it go away, like Spock... --- Captain's personal log, stardate 8160.2 --- Today Chekov and I tackled his quarters. They were tidy, of course; they looked like he'd just stepped out. Both of us stood there for a moment in shock. Finally we began moving, like stick figures I imagine. Chekov collected some ritual implements from Vulcan that need care; Sulu knows what to do, apparently. We left most of the other items for his kin, when they arrive. I drew together his Enterprise notes and files, some scientific reports for Starfleet. I wish I had something of his to keep, but what? What could there possibly be, to stand in memory of that complex man? In the end we both worked about as fast as we could without skipping anything. We boxed what we had to, and stowed it. I did find a chip he'd left for McCoy, and one for me. I never knew he'd done that. He never mentioned it, but here it is, sitting on my desk in front of me. Pro forma instructions, I suppose. --- Captain's personal log, continued, stardate 8165.2 --- What fools we mortals be... Final instructions? more like a love letter. Final words, from a man who loved me. Yes, he gave instructions on disposing of a few items, gifts to a few crewmembers, that sort of thing. But the last section had been added fairly recently. The words are burned in my memory: -- "Jim, my friend. In recent months, I have come to realize that you are important to me. More so than other people. I have found myself thinking of you often, even occasionally dreaming of you. I must admit that I have longed to touch you, to ask --, but I know that this cannot be, ever. You have always made it clear that you prefer females to males, that your best self belongs with women. "I could wish it otherwise. I would have taken you as my t'hy'la. I do not know the Standard word. I have never met a man as fine as you, as imaginative, as dedicated and talented. And as desirable and charming. Sometimes I have wished that we could truly share our thoughts. That I could speak to you freely, openly, of what I know to be truth. But you are you, and I am what I am. "It seems to me unlikely that you will ever hear these words. Our lifespans are different, our lives have already taken us in different directions--you to headquarters, me back into space. And perhaps it will be better if you never know how I feel. But space holds many adventures, and I find I do not want this to go unrecorded, forever. Not logical, I know, but there you have it. I feel more at peace, knowing there is the possibility that this information will reach you if I should die or be killed. It is hard to be at peace, around you. "One day, if I am brave, I hope to find a way to tell you this myself, but I doubt that I will ever be that brave. I would rather be dead, than offer myself and have you turn away. "Farewell, Jim, my t'hy'la--know that you have always, as humans say, held my heart in your hands. "Live long, and prosper. "Spock, Stardate 8125.6" -- If I thought the grief before was a knife in my guts, it's a turning knife, now. --- Captain's personal log, stardate 8210.3 --- Best not to think. Simply best. Each moment, one at a time. It's getting harder to put a good face on before the crew, harder and harder, the closer we get to the end of this voyage. And yet their excitement builds--they want a return with all the fanfare. Can't say I blame them--we return triumphant, victorious. We defeated the great Khan, we return all sails flying and magnificent, the brave James Tiberius Kirk and his gallant ship. We only lost a few members of the crew, losses were well within acceptable margins. Just a few people here and there, and oh, by the way, the Chief Engineer's dearest nephew, and oh, the ship's First Officer, and did I mention? the heart and soul of the ship's captain. Well, time for bridge duty. Once more into the breach.... --- Captain's personal log, continued, stardate 8215.3 --- Helluva day. Chekov found McCoy had broken into Spock's quarters just as we were docking. McCoy's half off his head, M'Benga still doesn't know why, still can't find any illness. When Chekov spotted the flasher on the board I bolted to his quarters, and I found McCoy sitting in Spock's big chair. I could have sworn I heard Spock's voice, too, but I haven't been very reliable on that front since the letter. I hear his voice just about everywhere--the silence is deafening. We finally got Bones in to Sickbay and sedated, and then M'Benga transferred with him to the portside doctors. Maybe they can find out what's wrong with him, with better equipment. God, I can't lose them both. Later when things had calmed down, I went back to Spock's quarters and sat in the chair, like McCoy. I'm guessing Pavel knew I was going to do that--he didn't send any redshirts to see who was in the suite *this* time. I almost felt I could touch him. Is this where he sat, and thought of me? Where he reflected on the many women I've loved, no question-- I even lay on his bed for a short time. It was pretty uncomfortable-- just like Spock to pick a bed of nails to sleep on. Probably there's some Vulcan ritual that requires mortifying your spine. Obviously there's one that requires mortifying your flesh. No, that's not fair. He said nothing because he thought *I* didn't want to hear it. And I have to admit there was some truth to it. Women are -- women are food to me, and wine. They have always kept me happy, even the ones with whom things didn't work out so well. I think there will always be women in my life -- but then, I thought there would always be Spock in my life, too. Never really thought about the two compared to each other -- each had a separate compartment. If there was any point, I'd think again... If he'd made me pick, if he'd offered me the choice--who knows? If I had it to do over again -- that velvet voice, the knowing eyes, that acute intelligence. Could I look at that man, and turn away? Could I have picked him, and never looked at another woman? Would I have hurt him? Would I have been happy? Would I have been happy without him, if he'd lived? Could I *imagine* life without him? Hah. I'm still talking like I've got a choice. He's *dead.* Dead and gone. As dead as Caesar, as dead as Cleopatra, as dead as Antony. Did Antony want Caesar, I wonder? Is that why they fought, because they really wanted each other? That old joke about Caesar and the King of Bithynia... Even Caesar wasn't always sure which gender he preferred... Life without Spock. Guess I better get used to it. No point regretting stupid choices in the past. Space dock, and I must say goodbye even to these small reminders of the man. They'll be here to empty his room, soon. I'm so tired. --- Captain's personal log, stardate 8265.4 --- I'm getting used to having had my right hand cut off. I've filed the paperwork, conducted the interviews, seen Spock's ship into dock. Yet no one will tell me what's next for our crew, and I'll have to explain that to the senior staff when they arrive in an hour or two. I've started to contact Amanda and Sarek several times, but I can't bring myself to do it. I've done it a hundred times, told families, husbands and wives, of the deaths of members of my crew. But I can't do this. I fail Spock in death, even as I failed him in life. How to say to them, Your son loved me, but I was too blinkered to see it? Or maybe, Your son was the finest person I ever knew, and I let him slip away? Better yet, Your son was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I let his nature blind me to what I felt? Your son was the sexiest thing on the Enterprise, and I never even noticed, I, James "Tomcat" Kirk. Your son was a man of integrity and power, of deep affections and attraction, and I used him as a chess partner. Your son was a man superior to me in all ways that mattered, and *I* *let* *him* *go.* Spock, how can I go on, how can I live with this hole in my life... I never touched you, never kissed you, I've never told you what you mean to me. I don't even have a hair from your head to call my own. And you say I hold your heart in my hands. --- Captain's personal log, continued, stardate 8270.2 --- I have seen Sarek. Spock lives, and so do I. *** he lives *** --- The End