REV: Seven Famines and a Feast 1/1 (TOS: K/S/f) [R]

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Dec 31, 2002, 6:55:02 PM12/31/02
Title: Seven Famines and a Feast
Author: EmGee []
Series: TOS A/U - "Trefoil" Series
Rating: R for adult themes and heavy angst
Codes: K/S/f, pre-threesome
Feedback: Good, bad, early, late, long, short -- bring it on!
Archive: Trekiverse
Summary: Each day he starves a little more.

Comments: This suite of eight drabbles is part of my "Trefoil" universe,
and takes place before the events of Star Trek: The Motion Picture. This
revision is posted to correct an error in the length of the third
drabble, which due to a glitch in the Microsoft Word "word count" feature
was actually 12 words short. It's not any more.

DISCLAIMER: Claire Kendall is my own creation. Kirk and Spock are the
property of Paramount. I'm just borrowing them. Paramount can have 'em
back when I'm done, safe and sound.

Seven Famines and a Feast


The future seemed clear: the three of them would be together. In a
paroxysm of anticipation he bought a big bed, and pillows and soft sheets
and warm blankets.

Then the mirage disappeared. Claire returned to planet-hopping as a
Starfleet recruiter. Spock decamped to Gol. His promotion cost him his

Only the bed remains.

Each night he maroons himself in a vast wasteland of pale cotton, the
barren expanse around him only emphasizing his desolation. He feels more
empty than the Sahara, drier than the Atacama, colder than the Antarctic
in winter.

Each day he starves a little more.


At breakfast in the Starfleet mess, he pours maple syrup onto his
waffles. Watching the syrup flow, he remembers the glossy amber sweep of
her hair, rich and heavy in his hands. Sees it drip through his fingers.
Imagines it sweet and warm against his cheek as she presses her slender
body close to his. Wonders how it might feel spilling over his chest,
his thighs, his groin.

He doesn't remember putting down the syrup. He sits for a very long
time, immobilized by memory.

No one sees his trembling hand as he pushes his plate aside, the food


The habits of years die hard; he still turns reflexively, a dozen times a
day, to speak to the one who had been at his elbow for so long. Time and
time again he hears the sound hang heavy in the air: *Spock, what do you
think about . . . Spock, we'll need to . . . Spock, let's . . . Spock,
Spock, Spock . . .* The remembrance of his abandonment is a sharp, fresh
pain each time.

Eventually he learns to choke back the words, trapping them behind a jaw
clenched tighter than an Aldeberan shellmouth's. But still he turns,
turns and turns, a dozen times a day.


At lunchtime, he steps out to a restaurant down the street. He
automatically orders the vegetable lasagna special, then remembers it was
what the three of them had eaten, their last meal together.

Some masochistic impulse keeps him from changing his order. He stares at
the meal for long minutes. When he finally eats, the food is as ashes on
his tongue and sits as lead in his stomach. After a few bites, he pushes
the plate away.

The owner takes his credit chip. "The food all right?" she asks.

"Fine," he answers, smiling tightly, his expression cold and bleak.


As he climbs the hill toward home, a faint scent of thyme freezes him in
his tracks. Claire's scent. Whenever he smells it, he cannot help but
think of her.

His eyes devour the scene, willing her presence. But there is no sign of
her, only a garden patch releasing its subtle perfume to the air.

He turns toward the fragrance as if towards her, inhaling the memories
real and imagined, the hunger gnawing inside him.

He can almost taste her.

He draws one more slow breath, his eyes closed, lashes trembling. Then
he opens his eyes and moves on.


The chessboard looms on the coffee table, an inescapable reminder of
happier times.

He remembers the unhurried conversations of their evening chess sessions:
Spock's voice low and deliberate, precise without the pedantry of the
briefing room; his own voice quiet, unpressured by duty. He misses those
conversations, as he misses the comfortable silences when nothing was
spoken, everything understood.

He sets up the pieces and reenacts their last match, making the moves of
each side in turn. He has done this many times since Spock's departure.

Each time it's like reopening an unhealed wound. Each time, the wound
bleeds afresh.


Late in the evening, when his need for them is a ravening beast in his
gut, he can't help but think about how he's managed to lose it all.

Events had been set in motion, truths revealed, and with them had come
the fears and doubts. Spock, afraid to deal with his emotions, had run.
Claire, thinking their relationship doomed without Spock, had left.

Once again, happiness was dangled before him only to be snatched away.
He does not know what to do with his anger, with his overwhelming sorrow.

Now that he's ready to love, he finds himself alone.


He seeks sleep eagerly, for it is there that he lives as he had once
imagined. In his dreams the bed is not a barren waste but an oasis,
flowing with milk and honey.

Claire's hair spills through his fingers as he inhales her sweet perfume.
Spock is a steady presence by his side.

In sleep he feels no restless hunger, no empty ache.

In sleep the feast is laid out for him. He can smile, and laugh, and eat
his fill.

In sleep he can forget that, come morning, the famine will return.

He wishes he could sleep forever.

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