Unrequited
Apr. 10th, 2011 02:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
1lostoneA (for me) extremely short fic written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
team_spockkirk for st_respect .
DL podfic here.
Title: Unrequited
Word Count: 1097
Warnings: Angst
Pairing: K/S
Rating: PG (I know, what nonsense is this?!)
Spock sits uncomfortably on the small stool grudgingly provided by Dr. McCoy. It is two hours into the Gamma shift. Spock discovers that the solitude that is usually such a welcome refuge from the constant drone of humans and their perpetual, clumsy thought processes to be too...still. He is uncomfortably aware of his own disquiet as he stares down at the still form, the familiar, excruciatingly handsome face slack in the medically-induced coma. Even after the three years, four months, fifteen days, and six hours of working with this man, Spock is unsettled by the amount of abuse the fragile frame can take.
He knows it is wrong, and indeed the very illicitness of his action sends a jolt of electricity through his fingertips. Or perhaps it is the bruise-kissed skin underneath his fingertip, cool to his fleeting touch as he slides it over the bridge of Jim’s nose, his own touch feather-light. He is unprepared for the way that his throat tightens, and wishes that he were able to express the emotion that he is feeling.
The tips of Spock’s first two fingers skip over the lips, settling instead on the slight indentation on Jim’s face. A small imperfection, made even more perfect in its singularity. Spock suppresses a shiver at the forbiddeness, feeling a most unsettling mix of desperateness to touch, to feel that Jim is solid again, whole.
Spock cannot find the balance to meditate; whenever he closes his eyes, he sees the jagged bits of metal protruding from Jim’s chest, sees the shock and fear as blood bubbled up through Jim’s lungs as the fragile organs collapsed, causing Jim to gasp for breath, mouth a shocked O of pain, cracked and chapped lips stained red as he quickly asphyxiated, Spock helpless to do anything but watch, stunned into shocked immobility as the brightness of the blue eyes began to waver.
Spock’s eyes close in penance, listening to the soft beeps and mechanical motions of the biobed. His fingers tremble as the slide up the chiseled jaw, over the fluttering pulse in the strong column of the neck and down to the collarbone peeking out of the standard-issue hospital gown that McCoy insisted on his patients wearing. Spock slides the fingers up over the psi-points he’d never been invited to touch. He is ashamed at this need he has to feel the thrum of life under Jim’s skin, this desperate search of a connection. He is reassured by the buzz of Jim’s thoughts, fleeting dreams that tumble into and around each other before Spock can understand the myriad of images he sees and he removes his fingers from Jim’s skin allowing himself a sharp exhalation of breath.
His ears pick up the doctor’s step as he walks back to check on his patient, and when he returns to the small, private cubicle Spock has settled back on the uncomfortable seat, hands placed properly onto his own legs as he leans over to read the vitals on the screen near Jim’s shoulder.
“Spock. Come on, he’s going to be fine. He won’t even wake up for a few hours yet. You need to go and rest. How are you gonna run the ship for him if you’re dead on your feet?”
Spock flinches at the rough pity underlying the doctor’s voice.
“If anyone deserves a chance for optimal rest, it is yourself, doctor. Nurse Chapel informed me that the Captain was in surgery for nearly seven hours.”
The doctor shifts, pulling down the medical blanket to peer at Jim’s bandaged wounds.
Spock does not look. He knows that he will never forget the hideous sound the metal made as it sliced through Jim’s skin, the grunt of shock as the fierce protectiveness on Jim’s face is replaced by excruciating agony.
McCoy scoffs under his breath. Spock stares at the doctor. “Yeah, well. Jim’s tough. You’d be surprised what he can handle.” The hazel gaze is much too direct. Spock lowers his own eyes, unable to bear what he sees there. He does not understand why he does not blame Spock for Jim’s near demise. It is a natural human trait for the doctor to feel a bitter anger with him; he had failed in his duties to protect his Captain and deserved his ire.
“Perhaps.”
The doctor leaves again, but not before he rests a heavy hand on Spock’s shoulder.
Spock is too sickened to flinch away, miserable and confused at the doctor’s uncharacteristic kindness, before he realizes that to McCoy, Spock is just as in need of healing as his patient.
Jim makes a small pain sound, shifting in his sleep as he tries to find some comfortable position. Spock reaches out to touch Jim’s lips, pulled towards him like a magnet. He is disgusted at his appalling lack of control. Jim, who touches everyone and every thing, who falls into intimate relations with a laugh and flash of cocky smile, allows very few people to get close to him. Touching him like this is abhorrent. Spock is certain that Jim would never want these treacherous, useless feelings that he cannot seem to stop. He can feel the humidity of Jim’s breath against his skin as Jim breathes, the measured even sound the focus of Spock’s attention.
He is so weak.
Spock shivers, cupping his hand and laying it against Jim’s cheek, swallowing hard at the memories the simple (not so simple nothing absolutely nothing is ever can ever be simple with Jim) touch invokes: his mother’s gently smiling face as Spock tolerates a kiss on the top of his head, eyes already darting around to be sure that no one will witness the way he indulges her useless human idiosyncrasies.
Jim curls into his hand and the small, unthinking motion stops Spock cold. He jerks his hand back and is standing, hands clenched in trembling fists behind his back.
Kroykah! Enough.
Just... enough.
Spock’s breath shudders in his throat as he stops at the door, looking back one time at the still form on the bed.
He has his duties. Dr. McCoy was correct. If he wished to perform at a maximum efficiency he had no time for such human foolishness. As much as his human side begged him to go back, his Vulcan side demanded he cease such shameful behavior.
Each step that took him away from his Captain allowed him a much needed, desperately wished for distance.
He forces his shoulders back. His chin rises, posture stiffening as he walks out of the doorway, masks fully in place once again.
team_spockkirk for st_respect . DL podfic here.
Title: Unrequited
Word Count: 1097
Warnings: Angst
Pairing: K/S
Rating: PG (I know, what nonsense is this?!)
Spock sits uncomfortably on the small stool grudgingly provided by Dr. McCoy. It is two hours into the Gamma shift. Spock discovers that the solitude that is usually such a welcome refuge from the constant drone of humans and their perpetual, clumsy thought processes to be too...still. He is uncomfortably aware of his own disquiet as he stares down at the still form, the familiar, excruciatingly handsome face slack in the medically-induced coma. Even after the three years, four months, fifteen days, and six hours of working with this man, Spock is unsettled by the amount of abuse the fragile frame can take.
He knows it is wrong, and indeed the very illicitness of his action sends a jolt of electricity through his fingertips. Or perhaps it is the bruise-kissed skin underneath his fingertip, cool to his fleeting touch as he slides it over the bridge of Jim’s nose, his own touch feather-light. He is unprepared for the way that his throat tightens, and wishes that he were able to express the emotion that he is feeling.
The tips of Spock’s first two fingers skip over the lips, settling instead on the slight indentation on Jim’s face. A small imperfection, made even more perfect in its singularity. Spock suppresses a shiver at the forbiddeness, feeling a most unsettling mix of desperateness to touch, to feel that Jim is solid again, whole.
Spock cannot find the balance to meditate; whenever he closes his eyes, he sees the jagged bits of metal protruding from Jim’s chest, sees the shock and fear as blood bubbled up through Jim’s lungs as the fragile organs collapsed, causing Jim to gasp for breath, mouth a shocked O of pain, cracked and chapped lips stained red as he quickly asphyxiated, Spock helpless to do anything but watch, stunned into shocked immobility as the brightness of the blue eyes began to waver.
Spock’s eyes close in penance, listening to the soft beeps and mechanical motions of the biobed. His fingers tremble as the slide up the chiseled jaw, over the fluttering pulse in the strong column of the neck and down to the collarbone peeking out of the standard-issue hospital gown that McCoy insisted on his patients wearing. Spock slides the fingers up over the psi-points he’d never been invited to touch. He is ashamed at this need he has to feel the thrum of life under Jim’s skin, this desperate search of a connection. He is reassured by the buzz of Jim’s thoughts, fleeting dreams that tumble into and around each other before Spock can understand the myriad of images he sees and he removes his fingers from Jim’s skin allowing himself a sharp exhalation of breath.
His ears pick up the doctor’s step as he walks back to check on his patient, and when he returns to the small, private cubicle Spock has settled back on the uncomfortable seat, hands placed properly onto his own legs as he leans over to read the vitals on the screen near Jim’s shoulder.
“Spock. Come on, he’s going to be fine. He won’t even wake up for a few hours yet. You need to go and rest. How are you gonna run the ship for him if you’re dead on your feet?”
Spock flinches at the rough pity underlying the doctor’s voice.
“If anyone deserves a chance for optimal rest, it is yourself, doctor. Nurse Chapel informed me that the Captain was in surgery for nearly seven hours.”
The doctor shifts, pulling down the medical blanket to peer at Jim’s bandaged wounds.
Spock does not look. He knows that he will never forget the hideous sound the metal made as it sliced through Jim’s skin, the grunt of shock as the fierce protectiveness on Jim’s face is replaced by excruciating agony.
McCoy scoffs under his breath. Spock stares at the doctor. “Yeah, well. Jim’s tough. You’d be surprised what he can handle.” The hazel gaze is much too direct. Spock lowers his own eyes, unable to bear what he sees there. He does not understand why he does not blame Spock for Jim’s near demise. It is a natural human trait for the doctor to feel a bitter anger with him; he had failed in his duties to protect his Captain and deserved his ire.
“Perhaps.”
The doctor leaves again, but not before he rests a heavy hand on Spock’s shoulder.
Spock is too sickened to flinch away, miserable and confused at the doctor’s uncharacteristic kindness, before he realizes that to McCoy, Spock is just as in need of healing as his patient.
Jim makes a small pain sound, shifting in his sleep as he tries to find some comfortable position. Spock reaches out to touch Jim’s lips, pulled towards him like a magnet. He is disgusted at his appalling lack of control. Jim, who touches everyone and every thing, who falls into intimate relations with a laugh and flash of cocky smile, allows very few people to get close to him. Touching him like this is abhorrent. Spock is certain that Jim would never want these treacherous, useless feelings that he cannot seem to stop. He can feel the humidity of Jim’s breath against his skin as Jim breathes, the measured even sound the focus of Spock’s attention.
He is so weak.
Spock shivers, cupping his hand and laying it against Jim’s cheek, swallowing hard at the memories the simple (not so simple nothing absolutely nothing is ever can ever be simple with Jim) touch invokes: his mother’s gently smiling face as Spock tolerates a kiss on the top of his head, eyes already darting around to be sure that no one will witness the way he indulges her useless human idiosyncrasies.
Jim curls into his hand and the small, unthinking motion stops Spock cold. He jerks his hand back and is standing, hands clenched in trembling fists behind his back.
Kroykah! Enough.
Just... enough.
Spock’s breath shudders in his throat as he stops at the door, looking back one time at the still form on the bed.
He has his duties. Dr. McCoy was correct. If he wished to perform at a maximum efficiency he had no time for such human foolishness. As much as his human side begged him to go back, his Vulcan side demanded he cease such shameful behavior.
Each step that took him away from his Captain allowed him a much needed, desperately wished for distance.
He forces his shoulders back. His chin rises, posture stiffening as he walks out of the doorway, masks fully in place once again.
