DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters
are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc and Viacom. The story contents are
the creation and property of Djinn and are copyright (c) 2004 by Djinn. This
story is Rated PG-13.
Bargains in the Dead of Mind
by Djinn
I watch Spock watching me
with Jim. I know he's watching, even as
he tries to pretend he's only absorbed in his tricorder readings. Tries to act as if his gaze
does not slide off the panel of that little machine and work itself our way.
I enjoy that he watches
us. Not very big of me, I know. Not very noble. But there it is. I enjoy that he watches us.
I do not, however, enjoy that Len does.
He's watching us too much, and even though his expression would do a
Vulcan proud, I know that he's in pain.
I almost wish there was something I could do for him. But I know what that something would be, and
I can never give him the love that he craves.
I don't love him. I never have.
Not the way he wants. I love him
as a friend, as a man with whom I've had a close professional association for
years. But as a lover, I cannot say that
I felt those things.
He once told me in a moment
of anger that he thought I could not love anyone who actually returned my
feelings. That if I
didn't have an emotionless automaton to fixate on, I wasn't happy.
But he's wrong. I know it and he knows it. Because I do love Jim. And he loves me back. And that's what tears Len up inside. That after all, I really can love someone who
loves me too.
I wish I could make it stop
hurting for Len. But only he can do
that. And I doubt that he will even
try. Not when he seems to enjoy wallowing
in the misery we've made of his life.
Oh, I know I had a part in
it. I may not have loved him, but I
cared for him, and that should have been enough to keep me away from Len's bed. I knew how he felt, and yet I kept going
back. I said never again, and then
showed up at his door.
It wasn't the sex. Not that the sex wasn't good, because it
was. But it wasn't like it is with
Jim. Jim's fantastic in bed, better than
Len, better than what I remember of the Pon Farr with
Spock. But that's not why I'm with him. Jim finds a way to connect, finds a way to
make what happens between us mean something more than just sex. We touch in so many other ways than just with
our bodies.
With Len, it was only our
bodies that joined. He and I never did. But I wasn't looking for that when I went to
him. I was looking for oblivion. I wanted to forget how empty I was by sucking
the life out of him. His love, his
obsession with me, it was like fuel. It
kept me going for so long. It was also
like a balm on badly burned skin. He
helped me to forget that I loved Spock.
And that Spock didn't love me.
That Spock only loved one thing. One person. Jim.
I know this. Not just suspect, or think, or believe. I know what Spock feels for him. I know because I've seen and felt and tasted
those feelings. From
inside Spock's mind, from a place where he could not hide. I know how he loves Jim. And how he never loved me.
It was during the Pon Farr. That
disastrous joining where I thought he'd finally see my worth and found that he
did. And I was worth very little to
him. Nothing, in fact. Less than nothing possibly.
Although he
was kind to me. He didn't want to hurt me, took precautions
so that he would not harm me overmuch during the burning. As his body pounded mine incessantly, he took
my mind away to somewhere dark and safe.
Somewhere deep inside his own mind.
And he left me there. He didn't stay with me, possibly because his
own thoughts and emotions were so volatile.
He left me there where I could ignore what was happening to my body,
happening so very far away from where my consciousness resided. He kept me safe.
But being inside that dark
place was rather boring. I don't mean
Spock was boring, but he'd picked a spot not only safe for me but also safe for
him. It was like being in a market after
the vendors have closed up their booths and gone home. I knew there were interesting things to see
and touch, but they were locked away from me.
I was craving Spock's love by
then. Craving it and wondering if he had
ever felt it. So I went looking for
it. I wandered out of the dark, secure
cubbyhole in Spock's mind and sought love.
And I found it. Spock's love for Jim. I found it and I nearly smothered in it.
I fled then. Fled back to the soft, dark, and reassuringly
emotionless place he'd left me in. I
knew that he would discover what I'd done when he came back for me, came to
himself. But surprisingly, when the
burning was over, he did not seem to notice what I had done. It took me only seconds to understand why as
I felt his mind pushing at me in other ways.
I think if I had not been so
hyper-aware of my own trespass, I would not have noticed his. And he did trespass. He pushed and melted and transformed my
feelings for him. I could see what he
was trying to do. And I did not try to
stop him.
He was setting me free. And I let
him. I never said a word. I've never spoken of it since then.
But I know what he did to
me. And he does not appear to know what
I did.
And that seems like a fair
bargain.
I wonder if he ever asks
himself how I came to understand so clearly the nature of his feelings for
Jim. When I smirk at him, as I'm doing
now, does it ring any bells? When I grin
in this sneering way and watch him slowly unclench fingers that only became so
tightly furled because of me and Jim, does he never
ask himself how I know?
I think he does not believe
me clever enough to have escaped that dark mental cage to go wandering through
his mind. But I was clever enough. Or stupid enough. I have never been able to decide which.
There used to be days when I
wished I'd never found out how Spock felt about Jim, but now I roll over and
see Jim next to me and I know that I can never regret the knowledge. For it led me to him, and he
is mine now, and I am the lucky one in that bargain.
I rest my hand on the bench
between Jim and me, and his hand steals toward mine. He touches me and I shiver with love. He is so sweet, so warm. He is much more than just that of
course. He is all the things I admired
over the years. Courageous
and commanding, loyal and trustworthy.
He would die for me, I know that.
And I would follow him into
hell if I had to. And he knows that
too. After all, I followed him to
Actually, I came out alone;
he came to me the next day.
I grin, and he whispers,
"What are you thinking of?"
"Marshmallows," I
murmur back and I hear his low laugh. It
moves me as always.
His hand tightens on
mine. He knows that despite my ability
to roast a perfect marshmallow, I detest the things. But they are a symbol, part of the shared
language we are perfecting.
"Not snakes?"
I glance over at McCoy. Then at Spock. I imagine I hear a dull rattle. "Not snakes," I answer back.
He laughs again. He is not as suspicious as I. But then he has never been as deeply inside
Spock's mind, has never slept with McCoy.
Has never been me with them; he has only ever been Jim with them. And they treat Jim very differently than they
do Christine.
"Not much longer,"
he says, and I realize that he is more aware of the dynamics between the four
of us than I give him credit for.
I should not be surprised at
that. He is a smart man, maybe the
smartest I've ever known in his ability to read people. To know what they are capable of. To use their strengths, downplay their
weaknesses.
I love that he's that
way. I love so much about him. I try to think of things I don't like, but
they are only small things. They don't
matter. I know there must be as many of
those things that I do that drive him crazy.
But they are insignificant, and no one has perfection anyway.
And I think we're coming damn close. Certainly closer than I've ever been to it. I'm more comfortable with Jim, in this short
time, than I've ever been with anyone.
He touches me effortlessly. He
reaches for me, and I open up to him as I have never done, and give him
whatever he wants. Love. Honesty. Trust. Things I thought I locked away inside me
forever.
And he does the same for me. He is open when I need him to be. He withholds nothing.
I want to kiss him. Right now. I do not, but the need to touch him does not
go away. I spend my days wanting to kiss
him and my nights doing just that.
Kissing and touching and discovering after all these years what it means
to love someone who truly loves you back.
It is heady, it is wild, and it is wonderful.
I sink deeper and deeper into
this love between Jim and me, and I don't even try to fight it. I know I am drowning, but I believe that once
I am submerged, I will be stronger. I
will find myself in a better place, a truer place.
I see Jim sinking with me,
and he is not fighting either. If the
bravest man I know is not fighting this, why would I ever try? Why would I even want to?
I love him. I love him, and he loves me, and I love that
he loves me. And I think somewhere deep down, he too is rejoicing that finally someone he cares for
loves him back just as much.
I don't know why he's had so
little success with relationships.
Cannot imagine how anyone could walk away from him. But I know that I dredged feelings out of him
that night we first came together.
Feelings and secrets and things he might never have shared with anyone
else. And secrets get in the way, they
poison things.
He and I have no secrets--none
that matter anyway. I tell him
everything that is significant. He tells
me just as much. It's as if we are both
using what we learned in the past as a primer on how not to conduct a
relationship. We will not make the same
mistakes. We will endure.
Or both of us will go down
trying. I glance at him. He is looking at me with such tenderness that
I feel something catch in my throat. My
god, I love this man.
I never expected that. Not when I set out to find him that night--a
night that seems like a lifetime ago but is in reality only a few months
past. Spock was dead and McCoy was going
mad and I set out to find Jim Kirk.
Because I knew he'd be hurting.
Because I
was hurting.
Because I
wanted to see him hurting. Wanted to know that I
wasn't alone in my pain.
And because
I wanted to find out the truth. I wanted to finally find out if he loved
Spock as much as Spock loved him.
I found Jim reeling. Grief had leveled him. He was angry with me, impatient. I didn't give up. I pushed, and pushed. And I told him the truth--or as much as
mattered--about Spock and me. That we'd been together.
That I meant nothing to him.
And I told him about
McCoy. I didn't mean to do that. But something about Jim makes me honest,
drags up the truth. It's his gift, his
magic.
I found out his truth
then. That he did love
Spock but not in a way that I could hate him for. That he could grieve over his friend with as
much intensity as he would a lover. That Jim Kirk wasn't afraid to feel. And when pushed, he wasn't afraid to share
his pain and his anger and his loss.
Or himself. He gave me
himself that night and in so doing blasted me apart. I had come to him out of some sick sense of
closure. I wanted to see his pain. I wanted to know what his pain meant. I wanted to know all his secrets.
And I got them. And in the process I laid my own soul bare
and took him in and loved him and began the slow, soothing, sensual process of
drowning. Drowning in
him, in us. In
love.
God, he even makes me wax
poetic. It would be disgusting if I
didn't find it so charming, so welcome.
After all these years of feeling insignificant, even worthless, I
finally have someone who treasures me.
Who holds me in the highest regard possible.
And the great irony is that he was my rival for so long. And I hated him. I hated him more than anyone. He was kind to me when we found Roger. He supported my decision to go back to medical
school. And still I hated him.
I do not hate him now. I don't believe I could ever hate him again.
"Are they all
right?" he asks softly, and I know he's glancing over at Spock and Len.
"They will be," I
say with more assurance than I really feel.
I think that they might turn
to each other. I wonder what that would
bring to them. Would it work the kind of
magic in their lives that being with Jim has worked in mine? Or would it be even more self-destructive
than just sitting in the dark obsession that fills them both?
I do not know. But I am blissful enough in my own life to
wish them the same kind of happiness in theirs.
"I hope so." Jim edges closer.
I smile, enjoying his
warmth. Warmth that I
can feel no matter how close he actually is. I can feel it from across the crowded rec lounge when we are at a crew party, and from across his
quarters when he is still in bed and I am getting ready in the bathroom. And I can feel it now, tendrils of heat, like
little fingers, reaching out for me, telling me, "Here is the one who
loves you with all his heart."
I ended up with this. With Jim and happiness and the soul-deep
knowledge that the one I love will never knowingly hurt me. It is irony at the highest level. And I am suddenly in love with irony.
I wonder if Spock ever
realized what setting me free would do.
And does he curse himself for the act?
Given how happy I am, maybe
he should.
The
But now she is mine. She shares him
willingly, something I did not expect.
She shares him and seems to smile on us.
And that is far too whimsical a statement for me to be saying it. But I guess Jim's love for his great metal
mistress is rubbing off on me.
Jim is rubbing off on
me.
And that can only be a good
thing.
FIN