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) 2003 by Djinn. This
story is Rated PG-13.
Embers
by Djinn
Kirk sits, staring at the
campfire, watching as the flickering light plays on Spock's face. His friend, lost to him forever just a few
short months ago. Now restored. Reborn.
His friend--still a bit off--but growing more into the man he knew with
each passing day.
Kirk despaired of that at
first, didn't think his friend would ever reappear out of the cold husk of a
Vulcan who walked away from the Fal-tor-pan.
McCoy coughs gently to his
side, and Kirk turns to look at him. His
other best friend looks healthy again.
Back in control. It only struck
Kirk when McCoy seemed to be losing that control how much like Spock he was in
that respect. All his seeming passion,
his volatility, his fervent outbursts were carefully measured. More than anyone guessed.
Passion. Kirk sighs.
McCoy and Kirk share something--someone.
Her. Christine. He almost laughs as he sneaks a look at
Spock. They all have had her. Have loved her, to some extent or other.
McCoy hands him the
marshmallows, and he pushes one onto his stick.
The trick is to hold it close enough to the fire to brown it but not so
close that it burns. He almost laughs
again. Love is like that. Hard to find the place where the flames have
died down enough to leave powerful glowing coals. So easy to pick the wrong place and watch the
fire die or be consumed by the flames.
Maybe the best that could be
hoped for was some momentary warmth?
Maybe to turn one marshmallow the perfect golden brown was enough? Maybe it was greedy to hope to use the fire
to toast them all?
"You're awfully quiet,
Jim." McCoy shifts on the ground,
moves closer to the fire. He gets cold
so much faster now. Getting older. They all are.
"Just thinking." Kirk
smiles, deflects, redirects. McCoy will
know not to press, will recognize the tone.
But McCoy doesn't take the
hint. "What about?"
"Hmm?" Two stalls--the message will be
unmistakable. Let it go, Bones. For both their sakes, but especially for
McCoy's. Kirk doesn't think his friend
will like the territory Kirk is passing through on his mental walkabout.
Not when McCoy loves her too.
Of the three of them,
probably only Spock is unmoved by thoughts of Christine. Ironic, really. He may be the only one she really loves.
Kirk looks at him, tries to
imagine Spock and her together. Tries
and fails. It is easier to see her with
McCoy. Using him as a way to escape the
hold Spock had over her all those years.
Christine told him she and McCoy used to have sex on shore leave. McCoy has never said a word about it. All these years, and never shared that.
Kirk feels a momentary pang
of guilt for having walked into this mess.
But he squashes the feeling down.
What he has--had with Christine is his alone. He didn't know he was interfering with his
friend's love life, and, in fact, Christine doesn't consider that he was. She told Kirk how she came to McCoy at night
during those shoreleaves, how she never let him see her, kept the room dark. They had rules or she did. Pressing the truth out of her wasn't
easy. It took several nights of comfort
and sex and slow sharing before she admitted that she wished sometimes that she
could love Len. That she knew he did
love her, had always loved her.
But it was a love buried in
obsession, and she was smart enough to know that it wasn't that different than
what she felt for Spock. "Len's a
good man. And I've hurt him," she
said as she settled into Kirk's arms.
"I used him to forget."
"Just like you do with
me?" he asked. The neediness in his
voice bothered him.
She stared at him, then her
hand came up to stroke his cheek, her lips touched his softly. As she pulled away, she whispered, "You
I could love."
He pulled her back to him,
kissed her, made love to her. He thought
he could love her too. Spock was dead,
McCoy going mad, and he thought he could love Christine. Life made little sense sometimes.
It makes slightly more sense
now, or at least is more familiar. Spock is at his side, McCoy is sane again if
slightly dented by the experience. And
Kirk could still love Christine. But she
is not here.
She wasn't part of it when he
lost them, and she isn't part of it now.
But it is not wholly her fault.
He ran out on her when Sarek realized McCoy's role in saving his son's
katra. Kirk took the Vulcan's advice and
did not tell Christine what he had planned.
She was fleet, part of Command--far more than he was. No one could know what he intended to do. And she wasn't part of it.
It sounded weak to him then,
after all they shared. It still sounds
weak to him. He could have told
her. Should have told her.
But he didn't. And now she is lost to him.
He hoped that she'd come to
him on Vulcan. Once Spock was
reborn. Once it was clear that Kirk
couldn't come to her. They were all
there waiting for her. All of her
lovers. But she did not come.
Yet, she was the one who
called Sarek, asked him to return to Earth to plead their case. That seemed hopeful to Kirk. He expected her to be happier to see him when
he came back the hero with the whales, when he was again welcome on his home
planet. And she smiled at him after the
hearing. She was pleasant. Didn't cut him down in front of their
friends. But her smile was a distant one
that kept him far from her arms.
Kirk sighs. Maybe that is just her way. He wonders if she ever told McCoy that she
could love him.
"Jim, for God's sake,
you look like your best friend died."
McCoy winks at Spock. "We
know that's not true."
"Or not permanent, in
any case," Spock says, concern on his face.
Kirk knows Spock is still
smarting from the way he reacted to Spock's siding with Sybok. Knows his friend
is surprised, hurt even.
Kirk stares into Spock's dark
eyes, wonders how much is hidden there that he cannot see. If it were not the three of them, he might
ask Spock what he felt for him. Just as
if it were not the three of them, he might ask McCoy about Christine.
But they are all there and so
he does not ask.
"I know the last few
months have been a strain, Jim."
McCoy touches his arm.
Kirk nods tightly, see
Spock's eyes narrow. His friend is
making too much progress too fast. A few
weeks ago, he wouldn't have known Kirk was trying to hide something. But he knows now, shoots Kirk the same
concerned expression he used to. Before
he died.
"Jim?" Spock's voice is low and even less gravelly
than before. The voice of the man he
loves.
Love. What the hell is love anyway? And why does he always do so badly at
it? Kirk has spent too many hours analyzing
his failures. He doesn't want to do so
now. Not when his marshmallow is almost
done. He does not want to be too bitter
to enjoy it. Does not want the toasty
sweetness ruined by the bad taste in his mouth that love leaves.
"If I didn't know
better, I'd say you were coming off a major break up." McCoy's smile is tenuous. He knows how touchy this subject can get.
Spock ventures in
cautiously. "Doctor Taylor seemed quite fond of you." When Kirk waves that idea away, Spock says,
"And you and Doctor Marcus did seem to be repairing your relationship."
They both listened to him go
on about Carol over the years. They knew
what being kept away from her and from David did to him. He and Carol had something good once,
something real. They made a child.
A child who is lost forever
now. Kirk feels the terrible pain that
has never left him since Saavik told him David was dead. The pain that starts in his gut and ends somewhere
in his throat, making it difficult to swallow.
He pulls the marshmallow from
the fire, lets it drop into the dirt. So
much wasted effort in his life. What
does he have to show for it?
Both Spock and McCoy are
staring at the marshmallow. The side
that is not covered with sandy dirt is a perfect even gold.
Kirk pushes himself to his
feet. "I'm going for a walk."
"Now? Alone?
In the middle of the night?"
McCoy stands up too. "Are
you out of your ever-lovin' mind?"
Spock seems about to add his
voice to the mix when his attention is diverted. "Commander?"
Kirk feels his heart jump
when he hears Christine say, "Don't leave on my account, Jim." Her tone is somewhere between the steel she
showed him on McCoy's roof garden and the whispering hush she used to sooth him
to sleep.
"This is a pleasant
surprise, Christine," McCoy says; his voice is full of undashed hope.
Kirk wonders if he would
sound the same were he to speak.
She walks out of the woods, turning
off a small hand lantern. He wonders how
she found them. Uhura probably. If his communications chief could be pulled
away from Scotty long enough to find the coordinates. But, if anyone could get her to do it, he
knows it would be Christine. Knows how
persistent she is from personal experience.
Admires how persistent she is. Was hurt that he didn't seem to be something
she wanted to be persistent about.
"Commander Chapel, how
nice of you to drop in." His voice
is distant, as distant as her hello the last time he saw her at Command. "You can keep them company while I
walk."
"I'd rather talk to
you."
"I'd rather you
didn't." His voice is angry, harsh. He sees McCoy react. Realizes he has just given everything
away. "Bones..."
Christine looks at McCoy, her
expression not apologetic but still full of regret. Kirk knows she cares for this man she wishes
she could love but never will.
McCoy rallies, his tone more
jovial than Kirk could ever muster if the situation were reversed. "Christine and I are just old friends,
Jim."
She does not torture him with
asking if he is sure. Just nods tightly,
as if commending him on his composure, then turns to Spock. "Any reason I should stay here?"
Their eyes meet and a look of
perfect understanding seems to pass between them. Spock says gently, "None of which I am
aware."
She smiles slightly, looks
more like a cat about to pounce than anything else as she says, "Any reason
Jim should?"
Kirk's temper boils
over. She is not going to do this. Not here.
Not now.
Before he can snap at her,
Spock shakes his head. "You should
walk with him, Christine. The two of you
appear to have unresolved issues."
Spock can be the master of
understatement.
She walks by McCoy, lays her
hand on his shoulder. McCoy reaches up,
holding his hand over hers for a moment.
Then he lets go. "Go on
then."
Kirk feels a sense of wonder
that his friend can be so generous to either of them. Full of guilt, he turns and walks away from
the campfire. He can hear her footsteps
behind him. "You picked a fine time
to finally show up," he says, without turning to look at her.
"I picked the only time
I could show up."
He turns, can barely see the
woods around him, let alone her face.
She pulls out the hand lantern, turns it on. She looks under the brush and he realizes she
is checking for snakes. Then she slowly
sinks to the ground.
"The snakes here are
probably more afraid of you than you are of them," he says.
"That's what they used
to say where I went to school."
He realizes he doesn't know
where that is. Sees by her face that she
is aware he doesn't know.
"North Carolina,"
she says softly. "They have water moccasins."
He nods; he's seen the
vicious dark serpents on the ramps that lead to the brackish water they seem to
love. They lie in wait, their blackness
blending into the night. They don't
rattle, only the slight rush of movement as they strike tells you of
danger. Tells you far too late.
He realizes she and Len share
that. Similar geography, shared
hazards.
What does Kirk share with
her, other than pain?
"You left without a
word," she says, staring fixedly at the lantern. "Without warning."
"Sarek thought it best." He is amazed that he gives her such a
cowardly response.
"Oh." She does look at him then, and her
expression tells him what she thinks of his answer.
"I'm sorry."
"I trusted you."
That is news to him. He thought that he was the only one doing the
trusting. "It was a chance, the
only chance we had. I had to take
it."
"And you didn't trust
me. Didn't trust that I wouldn't tell
Command?"
"There wasn't time to
think, Christine. I had to get McCoy
away. For his sake, for Spock's."
She looks away.
"I thought you'd come to
me on Vulcan." He smiles, tries to
charm her. "If only to give me a
piece of your mind."
She is not charmed. "Someone had to stay here and look out
for you old fools."
He smiles, this time a real
reaction not an attempt to cajole her out of anger. "Thank you for that."
She nods tightly.
"Why did you come
now?"
"To say
goodbye." She does not meet his
eyes.
He remembers the Christine
who cornered him on McCoy's roof, the one with the unrelenting stare. The one who never looked away when she was
making a point. "Bull."
She looks up, a hint of
surprise and maybe even relief in her eyes. Then anger fills them. "You just left." She swallows hard.
He realizes she is letting
him see her pain, knows it is more her style to hide it, to deny it.
But she shared her pain with
him before. Was the only one who could
force him to deal with his own.
"I haven't stopped
thinking about you," he says.
She shoots him a disbelieving
glance. "Yes, I'm sure you
mentioned me often to Gillian."
"She was a friend, an
ally. Nothing more." He smiles.
"I saw you sitting with her during the hearing. I imagine you already know this."
It is her turn to smile. "It's possible. She's quite fond of you, you know."
"And I'm quite fond of
her, in much the same way that you're fond of McCoy, I imagine."
Her look changes, becomes
wary.
He sighs. "How long do we have to dance around
this?"
"I can go as long as you
can."
He stares at her, and she
stares back. Moments pass and he realizes
that for the first time in his life his opponent will not be the first one to
blink. He feels a momentary surge of
contrariness, is willing to keep this up until he wins or they at least draw.
Then he remembers what is at stake.
"Fine," he says. "I
love you."
The words are odd, seem to
hang in the air for far too long. She
doesn't tell him that she loves him, and he wonders if she has ever said that
to anyone other than Spock.
"We weren't together very
long," she says, but her expression softens. "A few nights..."
He senses a chink in her
armor. "I know but it makes no
difference. I still love you."
She exhales loudly. He wonders what she is letting go of.
"I love you," he
says again.
"I love you too,"
she finally replies.
They stare at each
other. The words are so full of promise,
and yet he feels a reluctance to reach for her.
As if she will disappear if he does, or change her mind and take the
words back.
She starts to smile, it is a
slow, wary expression. One that pokes
fun at both of them.
"I think this is the
part where we get to kiss," he says, deciding he's tired of being afraid
of this...afraid of her.
She crawls over to him slowly. Stops midway and waits.
He smiles. She is so far removed from the Christine he
first knew. The one who would have covered
the whole distance without a thought.
He is glad she is different.
"I love you," he
says as he closes the gap between them, as his arms come up around her and he
pulls her to him.
Her lips are strong and
firm. They taste like home to him.
They kiss for a long
time. He wants to do more but one of his
best friends is just out of earshot, a best friend who still loves her, who is
worth a little patience, a little care.
She seems to be of the same
mind. Standing, she holds her hand out
to him.
He lets her pull him up.
"That was a perfect
marshmallow you let go, you know? Those
don't come around every day."
"I can do another,"
he says. He's found the safe spot, the
spot that warms but doesn't burn. He
wants to show it to her.
"Marshmallows are easy, Christine."
"And love is hard?"
He decides to stop being
surprised that she is always on the same wavelength. "Yes.
Love is hard." He makes a
face. "And I've had little luck
with it, honestly."
"Neither have I."
"Yet, we're both still
willing to try. I find that
remarkable."
She laughs, a soft, almost hesitant
sound. As if she's had too little to laugh over in her life.
He wants to make her laugh
everyday. "When is your assignment
up?"
She doesn't ask him where
he's going with the question. Just says,
"Three months."
"How do you feel about
"Been there, done that'?"
"The Enterprise?"
He nods.
She shrugs, but the smile she
gives him is an honest one, a happy one.
"What the hell? I can always
transfer off if things don't work out."
"We'll make them work
out."
"I like to have an
escape hatch handy, Jim. Part of my new
philosophy."
He nods. "I'll try to never give you a reason to
want to use it."
"I believe
you."
They stare at each other for a long time. Suddenly she seems to let down her
guard. Her shoulders slump, and the wary
expression drops. He realizes that she
is tired. Dead tired.
"Emergency ops getting
to you?" he asks softly.
She nods. "I'm burnt out."
"I've never really
thought of the Enterprise as a place to rest, but I can see how she might seem
that way to you."
Christine smiles. "I'd love to just be a doctor
again."
"Even if it means
working for Bones? Given how he
feels..."
"I've done it
before. It was messy during our first
five-year mission, but after V'ger, we found some sort of equilibrium. We can do it again. Find a new set point."
He feels his stomach do a
strange little leap. She'll be with him.
"Come on. Let me make you a perfect marshmallow."
"And then I've got to
go. Len doesn't need me sleeping
over." She leans in, kisses him
tenderly. "And I know no matter how
far away I start, I'll end up next to you."
He smiles. Then he remembers the look she shared with
Spock. "Or next to a certain
Vulcan?"
She laughs. "Somehow, I doubt that." Her look turns serious. "There's nothing between him and
me."
"There's something
between you. I saw that look."
"History. Compassion.
A reluctance to hurt." She smiles. "I guess Spock and I are friends
now. Of a sort. An odd sort." Her smile turns wry.
Friends. He can live with that.
She picks up the lantern,
leads them back to the fire. She drops
his hand before they hit the clearing, and he likes that she doesn't want to do
any more harm to McCoy than the situation will do on its own.
He supposes her kindness now
is scant consolation to his friend. He
wishes his own happiness doesn't come at the expense of McCoy's peace of
mind. But his friend has lived with this
for years. And no matter how many times
he had her, she was never his.
Christine looks back at Kirk,
smiles tentatively and he smiles back.
They'll make it work. He knows
they can.
If they just try.
And if they can avoid the
flames.
FIN