kowaiyoukai | Star Trek: We Reach Our Apogee Slowly (Part 2), eventual Kirk/Spock, Spock/Uhura, R

Title: We Reach Our Apogee Slowly (Part 2)
Author:

kowaiyoukai
Rating: R
Pairing: eventual like whoa Kirk/Spock (STFU), Spock/Uhura (blame JJ, not me)
Warning(s): Angst, meta, language, attempts at witty banter, overly-important tone, intentionally confusing parts, potentially OOC everybody
Spoilers: Star Trek XI (2009) (a.k.a. Star Trek XI, Star Trek 2009, Star Trek Reboot, New Trek, and can we please just pick one name for this fandom people?!)
Word Count: 6,062 (for this part)
Disclaimer: Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry, mostly, but also a lot of other people/groups like Paramount, J.J. Abrams, and the various writers/directors. I'm not one of those people, sadly, because if I was I'd be filthy rich.
Beta Acknowledgment: None. If you notice an error, please let me know!
Summary: Jim quickly realized he was going to have to break the rules if he wanted to survive on the Enterprise.
A/N: This chapter wasn't supposed to exist, but I realized I was being incredibly remiss and unfeeling and so I ended up writing it overnight. Yes, I do mean overnight (2 am to 4 pm HOLLA… this will not be a habit, hokay?). It's pretty heavy on the angst, just a heads up. I am also initiating an official tissue warning for this chapter. B/c I think it may need it. And OK, I'll edit this part of the fic for accuracy later, but for right now there's a filler age of 25 for Kirk. So, QUICK, someone tell me how old everyone's supposed to be in XI! Or at least, is there a guess that's currently accepted as fanon? They say Chekov's 17, but that's if I recall it correctly, and I know Kirk's the youngest Captain EVAR in Starfleet, so he must be early to mid twenties? Y/Y? Edited slightly because I suck at canon.

Part 1

Authority figures tended not to get along with Jim. It wasn't that he specifically tried to be a problem. It was more that he simply was always meant to be an authority figure himself, and when two authority figures clashed it always ended badly. Jim had never been able to imagine himself in any position of power. Growing up and having to abide by his alcoholic step-father's wishes had made Jim more keen on rebelling than on toeing the line. He saw himself not really as a "break the rules" kind of guy, but more as a "they'll need to invent new rules once I'm done" kind of guy. He lived on the edge and loved living there, balancing between sure footing and free falling with every breath.

So he had never actually envisioned himself as Captain of a starship. Sure, Admiral Pike had challenged him to do it, but in reality Jim simply could not back down from a challenge. He hadn't put much thought into the specifics of things—how he would lead people, what he would do in all the situations the manuals warned about, how he would keep his crew and ship running together smoothly. Those things had just not crossed his mind. He had only decided to go into the program overnight, after all. One night of half-hearted thought followed by a few hours of solid sleep gave Jim the only epiphany he needed to accept Pike's offer.

There was nothing for him in Iowa, in the United States, on Earth. Nothing at all. He had no true friends, no real family, no significant other, no lingering attachments. He had lived a life of chaos—ordered at times, with school and part-time jobs, but still undoubtedly chaos. His step-father had been the stereotypical asshole—loud, rude, drunk, and heavy-handed. Jim knew he didn't want to become that, and there it was, his epiphany. He had a choice. He could either stick around being a bum and doing nothing with his life, lying about getting into bar fights and screwing anyone who would have him, or he could do something. Anything; it didn't matter what. No one had ever expected him to become anything other than a mirror of his step-father, and he would do whatever necessary to avoid that. The only chance to do better anyone had given to him in his entire life would expire the next morning. Jim wasn't about to let it go to waste.

He had sent his mother a message, short and to the point: Joining Starfleet. Will kick ass. There was nothing else to say, nothing else that mattered. He wasn't going to prove to her that he deserved the sacrifice his father had made. She had said that often enough, that he had to do great things to show that he deserved that life exchange he had been born into, and he had never put any stock into it. She was in mourning, would always be in mourning. Jim couldn't remember a time when he saw his mother and didn't think there was a part of her that was missing. So he had left her, knowing she would notice but unsure whether she would really care. He knew she loved him, but he also knew her love was broken, fragile, and hard to find when he most needed it.

If he was going to survive and do something, if he was going to try to deserve his father's death and everything everyone expected out of him because of it, then he was going to leave. He would find a new life, people who had different expectations of him, only because he couldn't stand to live in the one he had a moment longer. Much later, when he learned that there was a different timeline out there where his life was fundamentally changed, that knowledge didn't change much. He had chosen the life he now lived above all others. A life in Iowa working at a classic automobile repair shop or a life in another timeline he couldn't envision no matter how hard he tried—what did they matter? He had fought for this life, and he wasn't about to let go of it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Two weeks into his voyage, and Jim still had no real clue about where they were going. Their mission was to seek out new worlds and life forms, to boldly go where no one had gone before, and Jim was fine with that, really he was. He was more than happy to boldly go lots of places, especially places that served blueberry pancakes on demand. Those were, in his professional opinion, the absolute best places to go. Boldly.

So it was a small, yet retrospectively obvious, surprise to him that an integral part of his daily routine was an early breakfast at the mess hall. Jim had never thought he would be someone who had daily rountines and early breakfasts, but it turned out being Captain was a twenty-four-seven job that required him to do lots of work when no one else was. So if he wanted blueberry pancakes with maple syrup and coffee that tasted like coffee, and he did, then he had to get up earlier than he'd ever done in the entirety of his twenty-five years of existence.

Luckily enough, it turned out that some of the crew he knew and talked to on a regular basis were also early risers, needlessly in their cases, but Jim certainly wasn't about to throw stones. He sat down next to Chekov, Sulu, and Scotty, prepared to eat and run as he always had to.

"Captain," they said almost as one. Jim found it oddly amusing to have three incredibly different voices speak at the same time that way, so he still hadn't told them they didn't actually have to salute him every time he sat with them. Technically speaking, they probably did have to, but Jim liked to think breakfast was a bit too early for that kind of thing. Except when it was hysterical, which it was every time they said it in sync like that.

"There's a problem with the transporter," Scotty immediately said.

Jim paused with his fork half-way to his mouth. He narrowed his eyes at Scotty. "What have I—"

"Sorry, sorry, I'll wait," Scotty said, grimacing.

Jim took his first bite of blueberry goodness and sighed, quite content with life in general and the wonderful people who made food. "All right, now you can tell me," he said, gesturing to Scotty.

"There's a problem with the transporter," Scotty repeated.

"Yeah, you said that already. So what's the problem?" Jim asked.

"It's broke," Scotty said.

Jim waited a beat. Sulu and Chekov exchanged a look. "That's it?" Jim asked. "That's the problem? ‘It's broke'?"

"Well, there's more to it than that," Scotty explained. "But it'll just go right over your head and you'll forget about it anyway. I just figured you should know. Transporter's broke."

"So fix it," Jim said, shrugging.

"Working on that now," Scotty replied. "Hope to have it running by tomorrow."

"All right, that's fine," Jim said. "Not like we're going anywhere in the next few days anyway." He looked at Sulu. "Are we?"

"No," Sulu answered. "We're in the middle of a huge, gaping, empty space of…" He paused and then sighed. "Space."

Chekov snorted. "It's a bit too early for puns."

"There's never a good time for puns," Jim said. "Remember that. I reserve the right to fire anyone who uses a pun in my presence." Jim looked at Sulu for all of a second before he said, "You're fired."

Sulu rolled his eyes. "Sure, sir. Then you'll just fly the ship, right?"

"Chekov'll do it," Jim replied, shrugging.

"Um, no, really, I won't," Chekov said. "I don't even want to try, actually."

"Then Spock," Jim said. "I'm sure he could figure it out."

"I'm glad that's settled," Sulu said. "I'll just lounge about in the rec rooms all day then."

"Nah," Jim said. "We'll beam you to the nearest planet and leave you there."

"The transporter's broke, remember?" Scotty said. "Do you even listen when I speak? At all?"

"Honestly?" Jim asked. Scotty nodded. "Not really." Jim downed the last of his pancakes and coffee while Sulu and Chekov laughed at Scotty's well-faked outrage. "Well, it's been fun, but I'm too important to sit around and listen to you guys all day long."

Jim strode out to various degrees of protesting complaints, which he easily ignored, and made his way to the bridge. When he got there, Spock got up from the Captain's chair and stepped aside.

"Good morning, Captain," Spock said.

"Morning, Spock," Jim replied, flopping down into his chair with a self-satisfied groan. "Anything horrible happen while I was asleep?"

"Yes."

Jim's head turned so fast he thought he'd get whiplash from it. He slid down in his chair from the movement but didn't even notice. "Really?"

"No." Spock's face transformed from complete apathy to amusement in the space of a few seconds, and all it took was a slight lift in one corner of his mouth.

Jim gave him a serious look for as long as he could hold it, which was maybe two seconds, before he grinned back at his First Officer. "Shit, Spock, you scared the hell out of me."

"I am practicing humor," Spock replied. "I am learning that humor is composed mostly of lying about negative comments."

"It is?" Jim asked, righting himself and immediately crossing his legs to sit Indian-style in his chair. He loved his chair, but sometimes he wished it didn't engulf him so obviously.

"Yes," Spock said. "For instance, when Lieutenant Uhura asked if her hair looked attractive, I told her it did even though it did not. Unfortunately, she did not understand my humor and took the comment as a compliment. I decided the best course of action would be to allow her to think that."

"Good call," Jim said, grimacing. "Listen, just, you know, in the future, whenever a woman asks you how she looks, just say ‘you look gorgeous.' That's it, that's all you say. Don't say anything else besides that."

"Why?" Spock asked. "Is this a human ritual of some kind?"

"Um, sure, yeah," Jim replied. "It's a human ritual for keeping your balls attached and getting laid. Just make sure you say it."

"I do not understand," Spock said, frowning slightly.

Jim sighed. "Here, say it with me. You look gorgeous." Spock was silent. "Come on, just say it. You look gorgeous." Spock was still quiet. "Okay. It's an order. Say it."

"You look gorgeous," Spock said in a monotone.

"No, you need to sound more enthused than that," Jim said. "Just say it like you mean it." The lift opened and Chekov walked in, which Jim knew meant the others would be arriving within minutes. Jim sighed and said, "Hurry up."

"You look gorgeous," Spock said, and he even sounded like he meant it. Chekov's steps faltered and he stared blatantly at them.

Jim laughed. "See? That sounded much better."

Chekov shook his head, quickly walking to his station. "I'm losing my mind," he muttered, taking his seat and doing his best not to stare over his shoulder so obviously.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There were some days when it was difficult to get Jim alone. Spock knew it would be one of those days. The transporter was broken for the third day in a row despite Scotty's assurances that it was just a glitch, the last two planets they had stumbled across had been completely devoid of life, and Uhura had been picking up strange garbled transmissions all morning long. None of these things on their own would present a true problem, but when combined together they were just irritating and time-consuming enough that Spock knew he'd have to pull Jim aside and quickly speak with him if he wanted the preparations to be done satisfactorily.

"Captain, may I have a word?" Spock asked when they were walking back from their fifth meeting with Scotty about the broken transporter. He had assured them he had finally figured out what the problem was, and that opening one of the main water valves probably hadn't been such a great idea since said water had then spilled everywhere, including onto the engineering mainframe, wires, and control panel. Jim had given him a concise, completely irrelevant answer about filleted Scottish meat, and for some reason Spock could not decipher that had finally gotten Scotty to be quiet and let them leave. One day, Spock promised himself, he would master all the intricacies of the English language.

"Always," Jim replied. "What's up?"

"I would like to request the use of one of the observation decks this weekend," Spock said.

Jim glanced at him, forehead furrowed in confusion. "Sure, of course," Jim said. "Mind if I ask what for?"

Spock's throat felt dry and he swallowed, hoping his voice wouldn't sound odd when he spoke. "I wish to hold two memorial services. One will be a public service for the Vulcans who have been killed and the second will be a private service for my mother." The silence went on for long enough that Spock looked over. Jim had stopped walking a few paces back and was staring at him. Spock turned around and walked back to stand in front of Jim, mentally berating himself for not paying more attention to his surroundings. "I apologize for the short notice as well as the unusual nature of my request," Spock continued. "I do realize a memorial service has already been held on New Vulcan, however I was unable to attend due to my duties here. I believe one day should be sufficient for my purposes, however if that is too much time I am sure I can—"

"No, Spock, no," Jim said, quietly enough Spock could only just hear him. He ran a hand over his eyes and licked his lips, then opened his mouth and closed it twice before he next spoke. "I mean, yeah, of course, you don't even have to ask. Take the whole week if you need it. I'm sorry, I should have done this for you. I didn't think. I'm sorry." Jim reached out and placed a hand on Spock's shoulder, squeezing it gently.

"There is no need for you to apologize," Spock replied, oddly feeling both comforted and saddened by Jim's response. "I do not expect you to anticipate my requests in advance."

"No, you shouldn't have had to ask for this," Jim said. He shook his head. "Anything you need, you can have it. Let me know if you need my help with anything."

"I do not believe I will require anything outside of my own belongings," Spock said. "However I will ask if a need arises."

Jim nodded and dropped his hand. "Let me know what time and day the public service is for. I'll make an announcement to the crew about it."

"I will inform you as soon as I am certain," Spock said. "The schedule depends on which observation deck I am permitted to use."

"Whichever one you want," Jim said. "Just let me know and I'll make arrangements."

"Thank you," Spock said, inclining his head. "We should head back to the bridge."

"Yeah, we should," Jim replied. "And it's okay, you don't have to thank me for this."

"As you wish."

Spock began walking towards the lift, completely taken by surprise at Jim's response. He knew his friend was both emotional and physical in his reactions, but he had not expected Jim to blame himself for some imagined fault. Spock knew he was the one person on the ship who was most affected by the Vulcan Massacre, and so it was his responsibility and obligation to arrange the memorial services. He would not have even considered expecting Jim to do it, given that Jim was already busy with his work and surely had no real personal interest in the matter.

Once they entered the lift, Jim cleared his throat and asked, "Would you mind if I came to your mother's service?"

Spock did not look over at him, choosing instead to look at the control panel next to the door. "I would be honored should you choose to attend."

They were quiet until they arrived at the bridge. Jim went back to his chair and Spock returned to his own station, where work had piled up since they had been gone. Neither of them brought up the memorial services again that day.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The differences between Vulcans and humans were so vast they could fill up warehouses of encyclopedias, thousands of terabytes of pure information that simply listed all of the ways the two species were incompatible. This was why Spock found it so impossibly hard to understand why his father and mother had fallen in love. He assumed it was love—the way she had looked at him had been full of affection, and he had told Spock outright that he had loved her. But sometimes Spock wondered about the way his father had explained it to him when he was a child. Why would his father not tell him it was love then? Why wait until she was dead and he was old enough that he had long since accepted his father's answer? There was no logic to explain this, just as there was never any logic to emotions.

He couldn't explain why they had gotten together or what their feelings for each other were, but Spock knew he could sort through their differences alphabetically if someone had asked him to. His father had always been distant, a figure that stood out to him as being omnipotent and enduring, someone who had all the answers and shared none of them. He had been present physically but not emotionally, which was a distinction he had never pointed out to anyone on Vulcan. Even the implication of having an emotional distance from his father would have been enough for everyone to label him a full human instead of just half. That one half had caused enough damage on its own. Giving it any more credence or power than he absolutely needed to would have ostracized him completely. When he thought of his father, Spock remembered that the most—being different and, no matter how much he studied or fought to maintain strict control over his emotions and expressions, knowing he would never be able to fit in with his peers or achieve the acceptance he longed for from the one person he desperately wanted to gain it from.

His mother had always been close by, full of warmth and affection and eager to give both away. She only knew how to smile when she saw Spock, no matter the time or occasion, and every smile was as sincere and whole-hearted as the last. Still, even with that overwhelming display of love, there had been times when he had doubted her. Each time he saw her he could not help but think of her position. The only human in a world of Vulcans, so full of emotions she threatened to explode from their power, and ignored or reviled by everyone except her husband and son. Spock knew the lack of emotions his father showed, and so he also knew that if his mother would get any show of affection at all, it would be from him alone. Half of him was able to give her what she needed, and she took everything he could give her, all of his smiles and affection, and it did not seem to matter to her that it was only half of what she was giving him. On a planet full of people who strived for an emotionless existence, Spock knew his mother must have longed for whatever she could get. He wondered if that was why they had been close, if a connection had been made between them due to genetics and nothing more. But then he remembered her smiles, every single day, every single minute, and Spock realized the reason behind their actions didn't actually matter.

So his father had been the perfect Vulcan and his mother had been the perfect human, and that left Spock stuck in the middle, imperfect in every way. Stuck right between the two races, born onto a line he had never meant to try and live on. Balancing his two sides was about as useless an endeavor as he could imagine. Accepting his emotions and showing them without shame was just as unacceptable to Vulcans as thinking every situation through using logic was to humans. Even if he went half-way, perhaps switching back and forth between emotions and logic for whatever situation popped up, he would still be set apart from both species whose members instinctively knew what was appropriate. Years of hiding his emotions combined with the sudden need to show them, added to his confidence that logic would always come to the best conclusion in every situation, had Spock grasping at thin air. He knew eventually he would find some kind of stability, a way to accurately judge each situation or person and go from there, but until then he was forced to stand out. First Officer of the Enterprise, the first Vulcan to ever enroll in Starfleet, and one of the only survivors of the Vulcan Massacre—how could he not stand out? But he had chosen this life, a life of adventure and discovery and separation from everything he had ever known, and he would see it through no matter what.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

At the end of the second week into their five-year mission, the crew of the Enterprise held their first memorial service. Jim hoped it would also be their last. Like basically everyone, he hated all types of funerals, wakes, and related ceremonies involving honoring the memory of the recently dead. Jim had a long, personal history with funerals starting from when he was only ten days old. Not that he could remember that one, but he felt it was necessary to make his point. He had been to enough services to honor the dead. He had no desire to attend any more. All they did was remind him of how futile everything was, of how much people struggled their way through life just to end up with nothing. Funerals were the most depressing events ever created, and memorial services were equally bad.

Still, Jim knew he was sticking this one out until the end. The observation deck had been filled with chairs and a few reminders of Vulcan—some red rocks from Spock's quarters, books and treatises penned by Vulcans, and several holographic images of the planet from various angles, including images of the ground filled with buildings and people. It was the best that could be done on such short notice, and Jim was left thinking this was all that was left of an entire planet and culture. A few rocks, some books, grainy reproduced holographic images, and the solitary Vulcan in a room otherwise filled with humans.

Spock was standing alone near the images, staring at them with the intensity only he could achieve. Jim was at the other end of the observatory deck, leaning against the far wall and trying to remain unseen. The memorial was scheduled to last three hours, which would allow all members of the crew enough time to visit regardless of which shift they worked. It had been half an hour already, and more people had shown up to pay their respects than Jim had thought would come. This was for their First Officer and so some people might feel obligated to show support, but Jim didn't think that was it.

He remembered the faces of everyone he had passed that day. There had been a shell-shocked look about all of them, eyes wide and lips pressed together and moving in a rushed daze. They had jobs to do, they had to save Earth, but they had just witnessed the destruction of an entire civilization. They did their jobs admirably, performed as well as they always did, but there was a sense of desperation in the air among them, a horror that built up slowly around them all. Six billion people had just been wiped out because of one man's vengeance. Six billion people—all of them with families and dreams for the future. It was one of those imaginary numbers that people could say but were never able to really grasp. Jim remembered sitting in his room that night and thinking about how big a number three billion was. There were somewhere around five to six thousand people in Starfleet Academy at any one time, including the cadets, professors, visitors, tourists, and officials. To make the math easier, Jim had rounded it up to six thousand. Six billion divided by six thousand equaled one million. That meant the entire population of the Academy would need to die times one million, or else one million copies of each person. One million Admiral Pikes needed to be killed to equal one-six-thousandth of Spock's loss. One million Uhuras, one million McCoys, one million of his annoying physics professor who only called on him when he was hung over, one million of that girl he never talked to who always wore her skirts shorter than regulation allowed, one million of the cafeteria lady who gave him a free chocolate chip cookie when he laughed at her cheesy jokes, one million of each of the members of the board that he had been tried for cheating in front of, one million of himself, of James T. Kirks. All of them put together, one million of every single person he had seen in three years' time, still might not equal how many people had been killed. That's what Jim saw in everyone's faces that day. The knowledge that, no matter how they tried to imagine it, they never would be able to. It was a loss too unimaginable to deal with. So they had all pushed it aside, no one wanting to be the one to remind everyone else they should be in mourning, and it was only Spock who was left remembering that day. It was only Spock who had been unwilling to forget.

As the shifts changed and more people came and left the memorial, Jim realized he wanted to say something to Spock. A few people had muttered what he imagined were comforting words of loss or shared grief, but Jim knew he needed to say something meaningful. He was tired of death and the ceremonies that went along with it, but this was different. This was a friend's loss, someone he had grown inordinately fond of within a month of their first meeting. Not only that, but this was a loss on a scale so big Jim knew he had nothing to compare it to.

There might be some kind of generic statement in Vulcan to cover memorial services. Something like "I'm sorry for your loss" only much more logical. But Jim didn't know what it could possibly be. He knew next to nothing about Vulcan society. He certainly didn't know what he was supposed to do in situations like this, what the correct sayings or gestures were. What he was supposed to know was in-between pages 217 and 243 of Starfleet Academy's Introduction to Alien Worlds, but what he remembered from that section were the five factoids they had been tested on. Vulcan was the fifth planet to join the Federation, making it one of the most influential planets politically. Vulcan was an arid planet with a thin atmosphere. Vulcans had higher body temperatures than humans and lived for much longer. Vulcans were peaceful people who preferred to solve all problems using logic. Vulcans studied their entire lives to achieve a state of emotionless knowledge. That was it. The entire history of Vulcan in five bullet points every cadet was forced to remember.

They would probably re-write that section now. Jim was sure of it. They had to. There would be something in it about Nero and how genocide was morally wrong, in case anyone was in doubt about it, and maybe the Enterprise and her crew would get a line or two. Acting Captain Kirk and Commander Spock led a newly-formed crew to victory when they defeated Nero (the time-travelling Romulan, see pages 119, 218, 506), thus avenging Vulcan and saving Earth from meeting a similar fate. That sounded a bit too congratulatory and self-important, which was how most of those textbooks had read, so it was perfect. Maybe, if Jim ever got to be truly famous, they would leave off the "Acting."

Right now, though, all he knew for sure was that the memorial was wrapping up and he still hadn't said anything. Uhura had come and gone, along with all of the other members of the bridge. Scotty and McCoy had dropped by, too. Jim had barely noticed them all, giving them a small nod on their way out. His attention was focused on Spock—how his shoulders were drawn back tightly, stiffly, and how his stance was forced into looking casual. Jim could see the tightness running throughout Spock's body, and all he wanted to do was help him. He just didn't know how.

Then the room was clearing out and Jim realized three hours had passed while he had been wondering what to do. Spock still stood at the front of the room, looking at the hologram as though he could bring it back into existence by sheer force of will. Jim waited until the deck was empty and then swallowed heavily, determined to do something but still unsure what. He walked up to Spock, stride much more confident than he felt, and stopped a few inches behind him.

Jim opened his mouth to say something meaningful, something that would help Spock get through this, but then he abruptly realized there was absolutely nothing he could say. Instead, Jim put his hand on Spock's shoulder, already recognizing this gesture as one he used often when dealing with his First Officer. He let his hand rest there, a small pressure that let Spock know Jim was right behind him. Just in case.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Time passed in odd ways that day. Spock recognized a steady stream of people, some of them familiar and some he knew only from in passing. He would never be quite sure who had been there, but it didn't matter. Enough people had shown up that he knew the crew was mourning the loss of Vulcan. Anything else was superficial.

Spock remembered the holographic projections the most. They were poorly captured still frames, yet they reminded him of the life he had turned his back on when he had chosen to enter Starfleet. He had never seen that particular building or this specific ridge, but he remembered many similar landscapes and after a while, they all blended together into an amalgamation of his original memories and the last images he would ever see of his home planet.

He also remembered a few people in particular. Scotty, McCoy, Sulu, and Chekov had all been appropriately subdued. They had offered their condolences and went on their way, and it was very similar for each of them although they hadn't arrived together and hadn't seen each other while at the memorial. Spock vaguely realized there must be some kind of human ritual involved in similar ceremonies, and the thought comforted him. Rituals could be good. They were easy to fall back on in times when nothing else worked. He heard the phrases "I'm sorry for your loss" and "Please accept my condolences" at least a hundred times each. That was fine with him. Those were perfectly acceptable statements.

Uhura had stayed for longer than most people. Spock knew that because, for a while, every time he happened to move his head just so he could see her out of the corner of his eye, standing a few feet away from him. She was silent for a while and then offered her condolences before she asked Spock if there was anything he needed. He declined and she left shortly thereafter. Despite his intentions to be more aware of her feelings, Spock couldn't find it in himself to care that she left. He didn't want her to stand there for him. He wanted her to stand there for everyone who had died.

Jim was different, which Spock was quickly learning was normal for him. Jim had stayed for the entire memorial, or at least Spock saw him at the beginning and end of it, and he hadn't offered Spock any of the generic statements that everyone else had said. Instead, Jim had put his hand on Spock's shoulder and left it there, and for some reason that was more of a comfort than everything else he had heard put together.

Spock dimly remembered changing the set-up of the room for his mother's service. Much of it was the same, except that he had a few pictures of her and so he placed those in the front of the observation deck. Spock recalled a smaller group of people staying for longer this time. Jim stayed close by this time, and Spock was grateful for his support. Jim took his time studying all the pictures of Spock's mother. Spock hoped he was learning through them who she was. The kindness she had given out and the hope for a better future were aspects of her that should not be forgotten. Spock did not want to forget anything about his mother at all, but it scared him more than he would ever admit to wonder if he could forget the love she had shown him when everyone else in his life had rejected him.

Everyone else looked at the pictures and thumbed through the books and picked up the rocks, looking for some kind of connection that Spock knew they simply didn't have. Even Uhura did the same, although she spent more time with each object and gave them each more consideration. Still, when Chekov was staring at an image of the planet and Sulu was running his fingers along one of the rocks and Scotty was inspecting one of the holographic houses and McCoy and Uhura were discussing an essay on distributing medicine amongst species who were not entirely sentient—it was then that Spock realized Jim was holding up his favorite picture of his mother. She was standing next to one of the largest rocks on Vulcan, stretching her hands up to the top of it, not able to reach it but still trying.

"You look like her," Jim said. The corner of his mouth turned upwards in the hint of a smile.

"Do I?" Spock asked. "I have never noticed a physical resemblance."

Jim walked a step closer and held the picture up next to Spock's face. Jim's eyes flicked back and forth between the two images, Spock and his mother's faces, and Spock held carefully still.

"You do," Jim said, quietly. "I think it's the nose."

"I have never noticed," Spock repeated.

"Well, it's there," Jim said. He traced his finger lightly over the nose in the picture before reaching out and touching the spot directly in-between Spock's eyebrows, letting his finger gently skim down until it reached the end of Spock's nose. He let his hand drop and looked at Spock appraisingly. "I definitely see it."

It was suddenly harder to breathe. Jim holding his mother's picture had Spock feeling out of sorts, not necessarily unpleasantly so, but still unusual. Spock nodded once at Jim and was relieved when Jim returned the picture to its original location and moved on to the next one.

The rest of the memorial service passed in a blur. Nothing was spoken formally because no one except Spock had known her and Spock did not want to speak. There were a few small conversations in the remaining time, but Spock only stared at his mother's picture and wondered about their noses, her constant smiles, and if he would ever forget the way she had looked at him when she knew she was about to die.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Part 3

Comments are uber-love, and also convince me to write more. ♥

Current Mood: tired
Current Location: library
Current Music: "I'd Rather Dance With You" by Kings of Convenience

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

janne-d.livejournal.com

I just read part 1 and 2 together and I'm really enjoying this. I like how you are writing both Kirk and Spock and the POV shifts between them. The friendship you show there is really lovely and I'm looking forward to the rest of this.

From:

Star Trek: We Reach Our Apogee Slowly (Part 2), eventual Kirk/Spock, Spock/Uhura, R

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