Implosion

Title: Implosion
Fandom: ST XI
Characters: Spock, Kirk
Rating: T
Warnings: Disturbing imagery
Notes: Anonymouse wanted dead-eyed, crying Spock. I'm a little too good at those sorts of things, so I took it.

From this prompt:
Can we have some Spock crying. Some honest to God 'dead eyes', not even shaking crying. Just him like all dead-like and crying quietly and whoever stumbles upon him is like 'wtf, wut do i do' and he's just really depressed.

I mean he did watch his mother die and his planet explode, he was constantly picked on, and seriously he can count his friends on one hand.

He stares at his hands. They are meaningless, now. Shapes in the hazy space of — there is nothing. He can hear a hollow keening sound, and he thinks it might be coming from his throat, but he can't really tell, and it doesn't matter, anyway. Everything is over, now. The world is dead, now. It's all his fault.

And even if it isn't, it hardly matters. He watches the tears splash against his palms, confused and grateful for the sensation. That's real, isn't it? Each droplet strikes, sending an electric jolt through his body. And then the shame comes, that he can still feel, at all.

There is a complex jumble of light and low sound that is theoretically the room, but he can't see it. It doesn't matter. He sees his hands. He sees his mother slipping past his hands. And all the things he never said went with her.

He thinks Nyota might have come through the room, at some point. Some soft words he couldn't gather the meaning of, a flash of red skirt in the corner of his vision, but it doesn't matter. None of this is real, any more. There is no place for him in the world he can no longer see. All that's left are his damnable hands. So very close, but all too far away.

He thinks his fingers may be cold. It doesn't matter. He can't move them, anyway. There is nothing left. Even the water trickling across his palm has faded out. He can see the pooling droplets, but he can not feel them strike. There is no comfort left. There is nothing left to comfort. This is how it feels to be free. In that moment, he feels nothing at all.

The eyes, though, continue to betray him. They continue to feed the images in, whether those images are now, or then, or haven't happened yet. But time is an illusion. There is only now. There is only him. He is the last thing in his world, with the exception of that faint, golden haze by his feet.

This is the first time he has seen past his hands, in [longer than he can remember] [in his entire life] [in the history of his universe]. It doesn't matter. Time is an illusion, anyway.

But, the presence of that colour stirs something. He is almost gone away. He is almost everything and nothing. Emptiness. And that emptiness begins to fill with liquid rage, because of that colour, and the form he can't quite make out. It just won't leave him alone. It just won't let him leave. He is almost gone, and it keeps pulling him back.

The haze may be gold, but it makes him see green. He begins to feel, again. That creeping sense of blood coursing through him, harder and faster as the annoyance swells. Why cant he go? Why can't he just follow through, for once, and finish what he started? But those words are his father's. And his mother slips through his hands again.

The keening he hasn't been hearing has become a low-grade snarling, and it catches his attention. He feels a capillary in his eye burst from the pressure racing through it, and it is enough to clear his vision, a little farther. Why can't he just fade? It's his right. It's his right as a man, as a failed saviour, as a last link to things that should never have been, and without him, will not come to be.

"Just let me die!"

The words tear out of him, forcefully, compellingly, unexpectedly. And at his feet, kneeling, spread around his feet, Kirk looks up at him, with those startlingly clear blue eyes, and just says, "No."