Summary: "I want you to know why I couldn't let you die. Why I went back for you." One last glance at the final two-hundred-and-forty-one seconds of Jim Kirk's life. Kirk/Spock. Obvious spoilers for STID. _
"Forever is not so long."

All he knows is that he is running.

The whirr of color and noise and light is all irrelevant, and so Spock blocks it all out, focuses solely on the erratic thumping in his chest as he runs, the frantic pulse beating at his neck, the sweat that is beginning to form on the small of his back as he maneuvers through the ship, the uncomfortable way in which his fingernails have dug into the pads of his hands, anything besides the vast unknown that is awaiting him in the engineering room.

Because since the moment Mr. Scott com'd him a mere fifty-six seconds previously, all Spock has known is that the whereabouts of Jim were currently unknown. And the underlying weight in Scotty's words did not bode favorably as to Jim's safety. He realizes that logically this is an irrational jump in thought; their ship had just suffered significant damage; there were a multitude of reasons for which Mr. Scott might be expressing the anxiety, fear, and apprehension noticeable in his comm. Additionally, Jim was indeed the captain of the vessel, and might well be anywhere at the present moment, might well be safely secured somewhere else, might well not be the reason he is being summoned to the core with such unusual haste. Yet deep down, Spock knows this is untrue. He can feel it in his bones -the earnesty, the tension, the fear- can taste it like copper on his tongue, soaking all of him in horrific images of broken bodies and bloodied faces, each with his captain's eyes, all screaming, shouting, pleading for him to run, to run faster, so this is what he does.

As he runs he blinks once to clear away the slight perspiration on his brow, and is met this time with his mother's face, crying out as she disappears into the earth, swallowing her whole.

"Mother!"

And then she is gone.

What if Jim disappears, what if- NO.

Spock crushes the thoughts at his mind's periphery before they can surface, instead forces his body to go faster, to operate more efficiently, because now it has been ninety-eight seconds and he has seen crew members down every hallway and not a single sign of the Captain. Spock continues to run, continues to ignore the unusual tightness in his chest and the back of his throat, because any moment now, any moment he will be there, and will be able to reassure himself that this is all an overreaction and that whatever strange occurrence has happened is in no way related to the Captain's temporary absence.

The reassurance never comes.

In the end, it takes a grand total of one-hundred-and-ninety seconds for Spock to reach the core.

He enters the room quickly, and though Mr. Scott hesitates before speaking, Spock cannot wait another moment to hear an answer spoken. But the words never arrive either, only a sad shake of the head, and Spock feels the blood drain from his face.

Where is Jim.

There is very little in the room, only the single seat at the control desk and the reactor door itself. The seat is empty. But Jim is here. He knows it, knows it for certain, knows that Jim must be here, and if he is not currently visible then- And just like that the pieces fall into place.

Spock doesn't even notice his legs propelling him to the reactor until he is standing in front of the door.

"Open it." He commands. There is audible panic now, real, hard, icy panic that is settling into every fiber of his being, and the human part of him wants to shout out the order again, scream it in Scotty's face, because why is the officer just standing there when the captain is dying not ten feet away? Scotty shakes his head, and Spock can see the silent tears on the man's face as he finally speaks.

"The decontamination process is not yet complete, ye'd flood the whole compartmentThe door's locked, sir."

The words take a very long time to compute, and when they do he can feel nothing but protest.

No.

For a split second Spock contemplates arguing. The overwhelming emotion inside commands him to disagree, to crush the glass, to break the door. But then he remembers that Jim is alive, he is here, and he is still alive, and nothing in the world is more valuable than speaking to the man he loves while he is still breathing. And at this moment Jim is still breathing. Spock moves swiftly, slipping down the glass to see inside.

Heartbreaking: Such a human turn of phrase; illogical and figurative in all the wrong ways, but as he looks down, Spock suddenly understands its accuracy in a way he had not thought possible. Because Jim is beautiful. Always so beautiful. Endlessly, irrationally beautiful. And seeing Jim's lifeless body sends waves of physical pain through him. He wants desperately to touch him.

He puts out a hand. His fingertips are met with cool glass and Jim stirs feebly, coughing at the toxic irritant in his lungs, currently eating away at their fragile tissue. Spock imagines a piece of paper- sparking, charring, burning. Turning to ash. The inner door slides shut. For a moment, Jim is still, panting in gasps of air that do not exist, and Spock is left struggling for words. It hardly matters. Jim will be gone in the next three minutes, and nothing he can say or do will change this.

He imagines this must be what it is like to drown. The crushing weight of the currents simply becomes too strong, muscles become weak and tired of fighting, and the constant weight of trying is lifted into nothingness. Spock can feel himself drowning in the air. Drowning as he watches his Jim die before him.

But then, blue. The brightest blue he has ever seen, so vibrant as to become blinding. Blue eyes meet his and Spock has the distant sensation he is being seen for the first time. Jim speaks.

"How's our ship?" The words are breathy, labored, not like Jim at all. But he does not care. They are Jim's words. They are meant for him.

"Out of danger." He pauses. "You saved the crew." The complement goes ignored.

"You used what he wanted against him. That's a nice move." There is a faint trace of humor, the barest twinkle of a wink that falls flat in the space between them. Because this is it. This is the last time they will ever speak.

"It is what you would have done." He wants to make Jim understand, to make him know how significant his existence is, how much he will be missed- how much Spock needs him to understand, because he himself cannot find the words to convey.

"Jim-" Jim interrupts him, choking back another cough.

"And this-" He glances around. "This is what you would have done. It was only logical."

It is as though a brick of lead is abruptly dropped into his stomach cavity. "This is what you would have done." "What you would have done."

This is all his fault. Spock breaks at Jim's words, breaks at the way Jim looks at him and begs for understanding. "I did this for you", his eyes whisper, "I did this all for you". Jim begins to tremble now, though whether from emotion or pain Spock is unsure.

"I'm scared, Spock."

Those eyes are locked on him now, filled with sorrow and fear, and once more Spock is overcome with the urge to hold Jim in his arms. He wants to touch him, whisper his name into those golden locks, feel the barely-there heartbeat plunk out its final notes until the last moment.

The next words nearly send him to his knees.

"Help me not be." Jim looks positively terrified. "How do you chose not to feel?"

Spock shakes his head, mind blank.

"I do not know."

He can feel the tears on his own cheeks now, scrambled in with the pain in his chest as Jim twists the knife deeper by daring to ask for help, daring to care about him enough to ask, because despite all the caring Jim cannot love him, and there will never be time in the next fragile moments for Jim to even know all that Spock had felt, had wanted of him. Of them.

"Right now I am failing."

Oh, and what a failure he is; failing to convince Jim that Khan was not to be trusted, failing to protect him from harm's way, failing to inform him of his emotions while they still had time, failing to save Jim, and now he is left to suffer in silence as he watches the man he loves die just two inches away. "Forgive me, Thy'la." He whispers silently. "Forgive me." For here they are, Jim asking for just one small thing, one tiny piece of light to guide him into the vast unknown sulking in the shadows mere seconds away, and yet Spock has nothing to offer. He blinks quickly and looks away.

This is too much. The words tremble on his lips.

"I-"

But the look on Jim's face silences him.

The agony in those blue eyes pleads for relief, and at a time like this, Spock can hardly deny him.

"I want you to know why I went back for you." Jim's breath is shallow. "Why I couldn't let you die." His eyes never leave Spock's, voice cracking slightly on the last word. He swallows, moves to continue, but Spock arrives first and answers the unspoken question.

"Because you are my friend." Jim slumps. His glances down, glances back up, and he looks as though Spock has slapped him.

And suddenly, it all makes sense. Jim's eyes meet his own, and for the briefest of moments, their gazes lock in an unspoken act of acknowledgment. The pain embedded deep within that ocean of blue, the fear, the loss, is all masked by something else, something much less complicated and equally as frightening.

Love.

Jim's fingers brush the glass between them, stretching out toward a future neither will ever know, and Spock feels a rush of something completely unknown pool in his chest. It is warm and sad and beautiful all at once, and he reaches out to bridge the gap between their hands. The glass is cold and indifferent, but if he sits very still, Spock can almost imagine the warmth of Jim's fingers on his own.

He clings to the moment, burns it inside him so that he can know it inside and out, back and forth, because he knows that in a few short moments this will be all he has left.

The seconds fade by, tick tock, tick tock.

Jim has begun to gasp for air.

Spock presses his fingertips to the glass until they hurt, trying to send some glimmer of comfort to the trembling figure just out of his reach.

Jim.

The breathing slows down, slower, slower, until-

Jim's hand squeaks down the pane, a scream of skin against glass as pale fingers flops lifelessly to the floor.

The world has stopped.

Jim is dead.

Twenty-nine seconds later, the decontamination process is finished. The door slides open without a sound, revealing Jim, lips still warm from the heat of his last breath.