So Happy I Could Die

AN: Inspired by "So Happy I Could Die" by Lady Gaga. Possibly a quite fitting end.

Disclaimer: SSDD

Rating: M

He loved him. It took a long time to admit, but he couldn't deny it anymore. The way he moved, that graceful, fluid manner, it was hard not to stare. His voice, the way that it seemed to wrap around him, that quality to it that calmed him, as if Spock's emotional control was infectious through the sound.

He wasn't obsessed. He didn't form obsessions. But he could swear he was damn close, though he would never let himself to compromise their friendship, with everything he's fought for. His love wasn't worth enough to jeopardize everything. He would be able to hold it back, he knew, so long as he was able to stay right here, where he belonged.

But in the silence of the night, those long nights, always growing longer when he would wake up in the middle of the darkness, with every inch of his skin flushed and he was so hot and even the brush of his own fingertips made his body quiver.

Tonight was one of those nights.

But it wasn't the same dream. There was something dark in it something powerfully hurtful and it was frightening and it pulled him under, and he tried to find the surface, drowning in this horrible blackness, but the fire on his skin, finding every sensitive inch, pulling moans from him in spite of his fear.

His father's death flashed in front of him; the car going off the cliff played before him, he could feel his fingers and arms strain to pull himself up; Nero; the Jellyfish; Delta Vega, the meld. Everything shot through him and tears welled in his eyes as his back arched into the touch.

He woke up then from the lie and he fisted the sheets, so shaky and breathless, and felt actual tears on his face and he wiped them away with the back of his arm. His body felt as if it were charged with electricity, every muscle tightening with each breath, each thought and residual feeling from the dream, or the nightmare.

His hand trailed down his skin, shivers rising up in response to the touch, his own fingers cold than those from his dream, but they would be enough. They would have to be, just like they always end up being. Just good enough.

His body tensed as he stroked himself, faster and faster as he got closer, his back arched completely off the sheets. His voice cut through the silence heavily, the moan echoing in the silence. The tension inside him quelled, but didn't fully disappear. He cleaned himself up as best he could, pulling on a pair of boxers before slipping into the shower, hoping to ease away the rest of the tension in his body.

He didn't really think that the sound of the shower running might disturb his First Officer. He didn't even know what time it was. He had no sense of time. He probably drowned it in alcohol in his younger years, and it's never fully recovered. When he finally turned off the water, he hadn't really expected the knock on the door. His heart skipped a beat, and he so ungracefully tripped, falling on the floor with a heavy thud.

The door slid open then, and he tried to push himself up off the floor, but he cracked his head on the sink as he fell and he was so dizzy. Spock caught him just as his arms gave out and he was about to fall on his face.

He could smell his blood and he laughed, bringing his arm up to feel the wound. Spock seemed utterly puzzled at his reaction, but didn't say anything. Somehow in his grace, he managed to call McCoy, who rushed in and inspected him, checking for signs of a concussion, which it turned out he did have. He wouldn't be able to go to sleep for a while, and Spock offered to stay with him, even though he silently prayed McCoy would suggest otherwise.

Bones didn't seem to hear his prayers and instead headed back toward his quarters to get back to 'sawing a log,' but not before jabbing another hypo in his neck. The wound throbbed and the headache raging inside his brain made it hard to discern what was going on, but he could swear, pressed against the aching spot on his neck, were two delicate fingertips. They dulled the pain and he shut his eyes and started to fall asleep, but Spock's voice jerked him awake

He grumbled and tried to roll away, covering his ears, but Spock wasn't having any of that, apparently taking McCoy's task more seriously than he anticipated. He ceded and lay on his back, staring aimlessly at the ceiling, woken up every few seconds by the sound of his name spoken into his ear carefully and slowly.

He wished he could have been lucid for this, but it was probably for the best because the last thing he needed was to be aroused right now. But in this moment, his drunk on pain mind was happy where he was, just close enough, the closest he'd ever get to his dreams.

"Are you troubled, James?" Spock asked suddenly, his voice loud in the quiet room.

"I'm fine." He answered, still staring straight up. "Why?"

"I could not help but observe that you seem to be suffering from an inability to sleep." Spock stated so scientifically. Jim sighed a little, wishing there had been something more in that voice. If Spock noticed, he didn't acknowledge.

"Yeah, that would probably be the only reason I would be in the shower at…" He looked briefly at the chronometer then back at the ceiling. "Three in the morning." He finished.

Spock moved to sit on the edge of the bed, taking a minute to look at the ceiling as if to ascertain what it was he had been staring at all this time.

"James, what are you looking at?" The Vulcan asked, the calculated precision still in his tone.

"I'm looking at the ceiling." He answered honestly. In the corner of his eye he saw Spock's eyebrow arch and he burst into laughter. "There doesn't have to be a deep meaning to everything. I can't see straight anyways. Try me." He said, sitting up, holding his head in his hands at the blood rush and pain that tore through his head. Looking up his vision was double. "Whoa."

"You should lie back down." Spock said, pushing gently against his shoulders to emphasize the point. Those thin fingers brushed a spot on his shoulder that was so sensitive and it drove thoughts of previous dreams through his mind and he arched forward into the touch, though when he realized what he had done, he collapsed back onto the mattress and willed to just be absorbed into the sheets, his face burning with the blood rushing to his cheeks, betraying the embarrassment and worry he was trying to hide. And what the Hell? James T. Kirk did not blush like a schoolgirl.

Spock's fingers brushed the spot again and even in his pain-induced stupor, he knew it was done on purpose that time. His own fingers trailed up Spock's neck, knotting in that perfect black hair as he used his other arm to prop himself up enough to kiss the Vulcan. Spock was stiff and Jim's muscles tensed, as if preparing for the shock of being struck.

But Spock didn't hit him. There was no aggression in his movements, but Jim couldn't help but flinch when Spock's hands reached around him, holding him up, as if he knew that his strength was giving out again.

Jim kissed him with more intensity then, his other hand pressed against Spock's neck, feeling the pulse beat under his palm, soothing and erotic at the same time. His eyes started to slide shut and Spock shook him to keep them open. He broke the kiss after that, resting his head against Spock's chest, ear to his collarbone. It was still weird when he didn't feel the heart beating under his ear, even though he knew exactly where Spock's heart was.

He dropped his hand to that very spot, but Spock pulled his hand away, as if he knew how that steady rhythm affected him. He rolled his eyes. Spock was taking this way too seriously.

And he was tired. Really tired. He started to nod off again, and right on cue, Spock shifted, waking him up and he groaned.

"Cut it out." He mumbled, nearly incoherently. He nuzzled his face against Spock's chest; something about the warmth that emanated was so reassuring, it made the images of his nightmare fade away. Taking a deep breath, a scent so obviously and solely Spock filled his lungs and all the tension in him that was leftover melted away.

But, ruining the moment with perfect poise, Spock pushed him back onto the sheet, oddly cold in comparison, and his eyes drifted back up to the ceiling. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. He yawned and he continued to rub his face, trying to keep himself awake.

Spock was still so controlled. He couldn't fathom why that was as much of a shock to him as it was. It made him laugh again.

But he couldn't help but think what it would be like to see under that control. What Spock looked like when he gave in, when he opened up his heart and his mind. He knew that it would never be him to see this; he didn't really deserve it. That thought doesn't hurt him as much as it used to; he's sort of resigned himself to it. But whatever just happened was not helping. He was sure he was delirious. It was the only explanation, and easily written off as the effects of a concussion and whatever the Hell Bones' had given him before he left.

But whatever had happened, he couldn't explain away that it made him happy. He could admit that to himself.

"I think you can go now. I don't think I'll be getting any sleep tonight." He said, feeling the nightmare start to creep in the peripherals of his mind, the flashes and images and words and feelings slowly pressing inwards and he was starting to feel like he was being crushed.

But Spock didn't go anywhere.

"I'd prefer it if you'd leave." He said after awhile, hoping the words didn't sound as harsh as he'd heard them. Still, he was disobeyed. "I mean it." He pressed, though there wasn't anything but exhaustion in his voice to back up his threat. The images moved in closer. Spock eventually got up. He felt alone and the nightmare rushed into his consciousness and something that didn't belong to him flashed across his eyes; death. His First Officer was trapped on the other side of something.

He sat bolt upright, and thrashed as if trying to break the glass in his vision, calling the same name over and over again. He felt hands on his arms, stilling his rampage and lying him back down, even as his mind was still racing and his heart was trying to keep up.

His eyes started to focus, and they focused on Spock, the faintest amount of worry in those dark eyes. Something that wasn't calculated. His breathing was still a little shallow, but it evened out quickly, and his heart slowed down, and he relaxed into the mattress slightly, knowing that whatever he saw wasn't true. It hadn't happened. Spock was here and he was okay.

"On second thought, mind staying here for a while longer?" He asked, his usual smile spreading across his face. Spock's eyes softened and he released his grasp on Jim's arms. He allowed Jim to guide him onto the bed, let Jim curl up against him. "If you don't tell Bones, I won't." Jim remarked before passing out.

Spock couldn't fight the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth, resting his hand in Jim's hair, his fingers twining around the locks loosely, trying not to wake his Captain up, knowing this was probably the first time in weeks that he'd been able to sleep like this.

There was something about the weakness of that usually aggressive and arrogant face in sleep that was utterly fascinating to him. He laid there, focused only on the sensations caused by Jim's breathing; the rise and fall of that powerful chest, the warm breath that passed from Jim's mouth.

Staring up at the ceiling he still couldn't surmise what was so interesting about it.

"Spock."

Jim whispered in his sleep softly, and again, he couldn't fight the small smile.

AN: So that's it guys! I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I did!

Thank you to everyone who favorited, reviewed and subscribed to this!