*Gone. He’s gone. Oh Lord, how will I live through this day? And, after that,
another. Then another. Years without him. Will it always hurt like this?*
James T. Kirk sat on the edge of his bunk, utterly defeated. Although it was
just after midnight, ship’s time, and he knew that he should try to get some
sleep, he was still wearing his uniform. He just didn’t have the strength, or
the will, to do anything, not even the simplest task.
Finally, he pulled off his boots and stretched out on his bed. That was just the
best he could manage, and it would have to do. The bed was mussed, having not
been made today, but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Besides, if
he didn’t make the bed, then he didn’t have to unmake the bed. Two less things
to deal with.
Cursing himself for being maudlin but unable to resist the impulse, Jim bunched
the covers up in his hands and brought them to his face. He closed his eyes and
inhaled, deeply. With a sudden convulsion, he buried his face in the bundle of
soft fabric, fighting back the tears.
*It still smells like him. God help me, we said goodbye to him today, sent his
body off into space and then I entered my final commendation into his record,
closing that chapter for eternity, but the traces of him linger on. I will never
touch him again, but will I see him, smell him, hear him, forever?*
Dropping his arms to his chest, he lay there and stared at the ceiling until
finally, exhausted, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The rumpled sheets
were still clutched in his hands when he awoke the next morning.
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Nearby, Leonard McCoy was also having a bad night. He’d guzzled down a couple of
bourbons too quickly, earlier, and that, combined with the stress of the past two
days, had left him dizzy and disoriented. He had excused himself from the dismal
gathering in the officers’ lounge and returned to his quarters, flopping down on
his bed, still in uniform, just like Jim.
Unlike Jim, though, he fell asleep almost immediately. He’d awakened less than
an hour later, sweating and breathing heavily, his heart hammering in his chest,
and bolted upright in his bed from the force of the images that had been running
through his mind.
*It’s just a bad dream, that same dream again, Len, calm down.*
He ran a hand over his face and gingerly stretched back out on his bed. What had
frightened him? After a moment’s reflection, he realized that he hadn’t been so
much frightened as just shaken. Like he was trying to do something really
important, but had been unable to. He concentrated, and was able to recapture a
few hazy impressions.
He’d been walking, quickly, down an endless hallway. He must have been on the
ship, yes, that’s it, he was walking down one of the corridors, but he couldn’t
see the end of it ahead of him, and somehow he knew that if he turned around, he
wouldn’t see the end of it behind him, either. Although he was calm, and in
control, he felt a sense of urgency.
Suddenly, with the vivid disorientation of dreams, he was at his destination, the
engine room door. Slowly, so slowly, the door slid open, and he saw not the
familiar scene that he had expected, but a bedroom. He tried to make it to the
bed, but he couldn’t. It was right in front of him, and there was someone in the
bed, but, no matter how far he walked, he couldn’t get any closer. Finally, in
his dream, he had called out in frustration, but only succeeded in waking himself
up.
How odd. McCoy couldn’t make sense of it. Last night, in this dream, he’d just
walked and walked, and never reached a destination. He’d awakened exhausted this
morning, as if he had truly been walking all night. This one was different. Why
the engine room? Groaning, he wondered if it had something to do with the
unthinkable events that had taken place there recently.
His chest tight, he could not keep his thoughts from returning to Engineering.
He remembered again how awful it had been when he was finally allowed to enter
the radiation chamber. Spock had been dead for over an hour by then, and Scotty
had called McCoy from sickbay, where he was tending to the injured. He would
never forget the look on Jim’s face when those doors opened, and he and Jim were
finally able to gently reach out to their friend, his solemn face and elegant
hands horribly burned but his soul beyond caring.
McCoy closed his eyes and forcibly emptied his mind. Soon, he found himself back
in the corridor.
Again, he was walking. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the
other, again and again, but the end of the corridor never appeared. It didn’t
bother him, though, because this time he knew that he would get there,
eventually. Sure enough, the engine room door appeared abruptly in front of him.
When he stepped through the door, he expected to already know what he would see.
This time, though, it was subtly different. The bedroom was not quite as dark,
lit instead with a strange reddish hue. It was warmer, too, but the heat was not
uncomfortable. It actually felt good. His eyes moved to the figure on the bed.
With a start, he realized that the person on the bed was not sleeping, but was
waiting. For him. He tried to go to the bed, but he couldn’t. He wanted to move
his feet, more than anything he’d ever wanted before, but it was as if they were
attached to the floor. He reached out with his arms, but the figure on the bed
was too far away. Nothing he did would bring him and the other person together.
He was crying, now, sobbing, calling out as if his heart were breaking, but,
somehow, he also knew that his cheeks were dry and that he had not uttered a
sound.
When he thought that he could not stand it a moment longer, the shadowy figure
rose and came to him. Yes, yes, come to me, join with me, I need you, I want
you. The figure was almost within his grasp…
With a start, he woke. His cheeks were wet, his pillow soaked. The tears had
been real.
He did not try to sleep again that night.
* * * * * * * *
The next day was a long one. Admiral Kirk sat on the bridge and thought about
what he would do next, but he couldn’t visualize tomorrow, much less next week or
next month. He had always thought of the Enterprise as his life and his home,
but it wasn’t the same anymore. It might still be his home, but it was empty,
now. Just like his life.
As for McCoy, he went through the day as if in a trance. His mind kept running
over those dreams, but he couldn’t understand them. Maybe he just needed a good,
long rest. Sadness and desolation seemed to leach from this ship and everyone
aboard, and he needed to get away. They would be back in spacedock in two days,
and he’d ask for leave, then.
* * * * * * * *
Bedtime again. McCoy settled himself on his bunk, dreading sleep.
He thought about his options. He could stay up all night, but that was only a
temporary measure, because, eventually, he’d have to sleep. He could get drunk,
but that had only made things worse yesterday. He could medicate himself, but
his emotional state was so fragile that he couldn’t trust himself to take the
right amount. No, he’d have to take his chances and just hope that the dream
wouldn’t recur.
He closed his eyes and made himself relax. It did not take long for him to fall
asleep. The dream began again.
The corridor went on forever. Before, he had been walking, but, this time, he
was jogging. He ran and ran, amazed at his own endurance. When he reached the
engine room door, he wasn’t even winded. The door opened and he entered the dim
bedroom.
He saw the shadowy figure on the bed, and, once again couldn’t move. He was
paralyzed. Mentally, he struggled, but physically, he was motionless. He wanted
to reach out, but he couldn’t. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t. He was
frozen. He couldn’t even look closely at the other person. With joy, he saw the
person stir, then move toward him.
Suddenly, he felt cool hands on his face, brushing back his hair. As if that
touch had freed him, he found that he could move again. The unknown person took
him by the hand and led him over to the bed, gently pushing him down. With the
disconnectedness of dreams, his clothes fell off, one garment at a time, and he
gasped as he felt the brush of cool fingers against his skin.
He was lying on the bed now, breathing heavily, his eyes closed. He could feel
his penis stirring, growing hard. Gentle lips kissed his eyelids, his ear, his
chin, his chest. Ghostly fingers brushed against his erection, vanished to
stroke his belly, returned to caress his scrotum.
His head was thrown back, now, and he felt moistness enclosing his penis. *Ah*,
he wanted to gasp, but the sound was stopped before it escaped his throat. He
writhed, overcome with the sensation of hands and lips on his skin. It seemed
like his phantom lover was everywhere, kissing him all over his body, impossibly
moving from nipple to thigh to glans without pausing for a second. His entire
being was rising, rising, and, just when he could not contain himself, strong
fingers grasped his erection and stroked it. His body tensed and he came,
soaring, losing himself, and in the midst of his orgasm, he found his voice.
“Jim!”
McCoy’s eyes flew open. Horrified, his heart pounding, he was sickened by the
knowledge that his erotic dream had been about his commanding officer. Jim. Oh
my God, how could he dream like that about his friend? He realized with disgust
that his pajamas and sheets were soaked and sticky. A wet dream. He closed his
eyes for a moment, groaned, then rousted himself to his feet and staggered into
the shower.
After he had cleaned himself and changed his sheets, he reached into his cabinet
and found some sleeping pills. He’d get through this night, and he’d be damn
sure he didn’t dream anymore.
* * * * * * * *
Another night. He’d avoided Jim all day, unable to face him with the guilty
knowledge that he’d blown his wad in his sleep like some sort of adolescent,
dreaming that his friend had jacked him off.
He lay on his bed. He’d taken some more sleeping pills, but they didn’t seem to
be working tonight. Several times, he drifted off, but, each time, he woke
again, unable to relax enough to allow himself to sleep.
Enough. He didn’t have any sort of sexual attraction to Jim. What was the
problem? He decided to force himself to confront these strange feelings, and go
talk to his friend, proving in the process that it was all just his imagination.
Knowing in the back of his mind that he wasn’t thinking clearly, and that this
was probably a bad idea, he rose nevertheless, pulled on his robe, and slipped
out the door.
* * * * * * * *
Jim sat dully at his desk, trying to finish some reports that he had neglected
since before… before Spock had died. Those words weren’t getting any easier.
The Enterprise would be coming into spacedock tomorrow, and his paperwork had to
be completed. He put down the padd and buried his face in his hands when he
thought about what kind of reception they might receive when they arrived. Would
they be heroes? Would he then have to face the admiralty staff and recount the
entire horrific episode, one detail at a time? He was afraid that he wouldn’t be
able to do it. Spock had retained his dignity and privacy, always, in life, but
Jim would confess everything after his death, without even needing any words to
do so. Just his grief-stricken demeanor would say it all.
He looked up when his door buzzed. “Come.”
McCoy staggered through the door. He looked so awful that Kirk jumped to his
feet and rushed over to help him find a seat.
“What is it, Bones? Are you okay?”
McCoy shook his head. At first, he seemed unable to speak, but, once he started,
the words rushed from him in a torrent.
“I don’t know, Jim. I don’t even know why I’m here. I was trying to sleep, but
I’ve had… bad dreams, weird dreams. Oh Lord, I think I’m losing my mind, and I
just knew that I had to see you, to talk to you. It was a bad idea. Never mind,
go back to what you were doing before I interrupted.”
Antsy now, McCoy rose to his feet and headed for the door, but Kirk stepped in
front of him before he could leave.
McCoy stopped dead in his tracks. Kirk was very close to him, and could hear his
ragged breathing. Their eyes met, and Jim could not look away. He had never seen
McCoy so intense, almost as if he were possessed, and Kirk shivered at the
expression on his face.
Without any warning, McCoy placed a strong hand behind Jim’s head and kissed him.
Kissed him *hard*, forcing his tongue into the other man’s mouth, bruising his
lips, digging his fingers into Jim’s scalp.
Shocked, Jim pushed him away. “What the Hell are you doing, Bones?”
McCoy did not answer, just looked at him with glittering eyes.
Suddenly angry, Jim clenched his fists and took a step back. “How could you?
He’s only been dead for three days, and you’re doing this to me? *How could you?*
Did you think… did you think…”
Jim was shaking, inexplicably furious, and couldn’t continue. He noticed vaguely
that McCoy suddenly looked befuddled, as if unable to comprehend what he had just
done, but Jim had been so unstrung by the events of the past few days that he
wasn’t thinking rationally, and didn’t allow it to fully register. He shouted at
McCoy.
“Get out, get out, get away from me!” To his horror, he realized that his voice
was breaking. “Go away.”
He turned away from McCoy, and soon heard the door open and close. He was alone
again.
What had just happened? Did McCoy think that he was looking for someone to
replace Spock? With despair, he understood that he had not only lost his best
friend and soulmate, he was in danger of losing McCoy, too. He knew that they
should try to talk it over, but it was more than he could contend with right now.
He decided to wait until tomorrow.
Before he found a minute alone with McCoy the next day, however, he received a
message that someone had broken into Spock’s quarters. His heart pounding, he
had walked through that familiar door to find the doctor, out of his mind,
talking nonsense about Vulcan.
McCoy had collapsed in his arms, and Kirk had frantically called for the medics.
Clutching his friend, he wondered if McCoy had lost his sanity, and thought that
he, Kirk, might, too.