Yes, he is here. But he is still gone: The Five Stages of Grief (and Seven Sorrows) of Heartbroken Kirk. Part 4 of my thoughts about TMP.
(Once again, a verrrrrrrrry long post for people like me who are into that sort of thing; abandon all hope ye who enter here, etc., etc. This is the latest in a long series of posts about my theories that the end of Season 3 of TOS details a Spirk breakup arc that remains unresolved at the end of the series, then comes to a head in TMP, where we now find ourselves. Get comfortable and enjoy.)
Yes. Kirk still thinks about Spock sometimes.
How could he not? They were once deeply, desperately, hopelessly in love. But the mission always came first. Neither of them knew themselves as well as they should. Mistakes were made. Feelings, which never should have existed in the first place, were excruciatingly hurt. A wedge came between them, and their love went down in metaphorical flames. Spock learned that love is a double-edged sword of both ecstasy and misery, both of which can kill. And so he decided to leave it all behind.
When Spock made the decision to leave for kolinahr, he made it clear that this tie was to be severed forever. Kirk cried for days (mostly to himself, once or twice to McCoy). Spock resolved to give up everything, including any chance at ever loving anyone again. Perhaps that made Kirk saddest of all, not that their own love ended; he could have been okay with it if he had known that Spock was happier somewhere else. But he cried for Spock, because Spock would never love at all, not ever again.
Yes, love can hurt. Kirk knows. They are two sides of the same coin. And yet, love is always worth it.
All his life, Spock pulled his pain tighter and tighter around him until he wore it like a second skin. Eventually it was just part of who he was. This allowed him to pretend that it was invisible to both himself and others. That it no longer existed. Even as it suffocated him.
For years he has been telling himself that love is only pain by another name. He has worked toward the goal of letting go of both completely. If love is gone, he believes, then pain will be gone too.
And yet, when faced with the moment of truth, the exact time to let go of love for the last time, the final time he would ever permit himself to think of his treasured friend, brother, lover; he can't do it.
He can't let go after all. He must go to him.
He tells himself it's, again, for the mission. The mission has always come first. It's not for Kirk. It's not for love. It couldn't be. That would be illogical. That is not sufficient motivation for the persona he has carefully constructed for himself over years of discipline and practice.
And yet, his t'hy'la is calling, and so he must go.
But yes, Kirk still thinks of Spock sometimes. How could he not? He was the most beautiful soul he ever encountered in all of his years of searching. He thinks of the long taut curve of his back bent over his calculations, the winding well-ordered hallways of his brilliant mind, the way that mind could always make him feel safe by making sense of the chaos around them, the electric zinging ache deep in his body every time they touched. Those desperate, intimate, fleeting moments when Spock allowed himself to truly see and truly be seen, to truly touch and truly be touched, to truly love and truly be loved, by Kirk alone. The exquisite romance of exploring one another as they explored the universe together. Of learning what it means to be human, together.
It is bittersweet, because all of that is just a memory now.
Yes, love can hurt. Kirk knows. They are two sides of the same coin. And yet, love is always worth it.
Even if it is all over now.
And yet, one of Kirk's wildest dreams has already come true: He is back on the bridge of the Enterprise, sitting in the big chair, reliving the fulfillment of his past, feeling that adrenaline surge of being in command and facing certain death in the hope of saving the day.
And yet, he can't fully enjoy it. He keeps thinking, "I wish Spock were here." He specifically requests a Vulcan science officer. The ship faces an antimatter imbalance problem that even Scotty can't crack, that he knows Spock would have been able to fix. And, as always, there's the loneliness.
Suddenly, Spock is at the forefront of his mind. The fulfillment of this dream of return is incomplete without Spock at his side.
Does he allow himself to indulge a silly fantasy, that Spock would somehow materialize on the bridge? In his fantasy, does Spock profess his love, his willingness to take the bad with the good, to accept Kirk as he is, to accept love as it is, and to never, ever leave again?
Did Kirk ever imagine, after all these years, that this other wildly hopeless dream could also come true, even partially?
And so, when Spock all at once imposes himself on the bridge, fantasy and reality collide. There stands before Kirk an otherworldly vision in black robes, with cheekbones that cut like glass and eyes that stare straight through to the soul. And Kirk nearly loses his mind. And he knows what he has always known deep within himself: once and for all time, he is deeply in love with Spock.
And now, wonder of wonders, Spock is here.
But it's not the happy reunion that Kirk wants. It is not a homecoming, or a recommitment to love and to life. Like the Nomad probe in season 2 of TOS, this moment is a Changeling, like the old earth legends. A fairy child, left in place of a human baby, that assumed the identity of the human child.
The Spock that walks through that door is not the Spock in his mind. He is not his Spock.
Kirk's jaw drops. He breathes Spock's name out like a prayer. His entire body snaps to attention. He whispers; no, he exhales, Spock's name again, like it is a deep breath he has been holding for years. He would kiss him if he could. He would have him right here on the bridge, even in front of all these people. He would hold him in his arms and cry into his neck for hours.
But Spock's only response is to meet Kirk's gaze and square his shoulders. He doesn't say a single word in response.
And yet, Kirk is brimming with hope. This person, this love, that he thought he lost forever has just walked back in the door and now anything is possible. There is suddenly a light in Kirk's eyes that we have not seen at all so far in this movie.
As Spock busies himself at the science station, Kirk looks like he is about to burst into tears of joy. He can barely believe it as he says the words reinstating Spock's Starfleet commission and position as science officer.
What is he trying to say to Spock privately, through their telepathic bond in his mind? My t'hy'la my love my Spock I've missed you I can't believe you're here There is a hole in my soul that only you can fill Please stay please stay please stay forever I love you.
But Spock does not answer, neither out loud nor through the bond in their minds. Kirk's outpouring is met with a wall of stony silence. Spock's shields are raised in every sense.
When McCoy and Chapel come in to greet Spock, he looks around for a moment like a trapped animal before fleeing for the door, explaining that he needs to consult with engineering. There is not a single extraneous word. There is no greeting. No warmth, no soul, all mission.
And then, suddenly, Kirk begins to understand.
This is not a happy ending; this is not a homecoming.
This is a tragedy. This is a train wreck.
Nothing is forgiven. Nothing is forgotten.
To Spock, love is still only pain.
Yes, he is here. But he is still gone.
And the foolish hope fades from Kirk's face. But he isn't ready to give up yet.
Oh. So you're only back for the job. Is that it? You can't even look me in the eye and say hello? Does friend, brother, lover mean nothing to you?
You'll remember that I wrote about how Spock's internal conflict during his breakup with Kirk is presented in the episode All Our Yesterdays as an allegorical journey into hell through the Seven Deadly Sins. Here is another religious allegory; the Seven Sorrows, which encompass seven painful but meaningful moments represented as seven metaphorical swords in the heart. The bookend to Spock's experience of the Seven Deadly Sins is this: Kirk's experience of Seven Sorrows, seven metaphorical knives in the heart given to him in rapid succession by Spock's return.
Spock's cold demeanor on the bridge, his rejection of Kirk's warmth, is the first of Kirk's Seven Sorrows, the first knife that his reunion with Spock plunges into his heart.
As Spock walks into the turbolift, Kirk sends out one last desperate grab for connection. His face is screwed up with pain and anger and betrayal as he says, "Mr. Spock. Welcome aboard."
Spock does not even turn around.
This rejection is the second Sorrow, the second knife that Spock plunges into Kirk's heart.
Let's take a step back from Kirk and consider Spock for a moment. Is he, in his pain, punishing Kirk on purpose? Maybe. Is he simply acting in the way his kolinahr training has prepared him, bringing some of this stoic discipline back to the secular world with him? Possibly. Is he hurting and suffering, and as always, trying to suppress it? Definitely.
In the past, Kirk was his safe person. He is no longer. Spock is overcome with pain of the memories of the way that things ended between them. This has gone beyond the usual walls he has with everyone; where Kirk is concerned, Spock has built his metaphorical walls even higher and stronger and covered them in concertina wire.
Think also of his complicated feelings about his failure to reach kolinahr. It feels like a failure to truly be Vulcan; a failure of the main goal of his life. Perhaps he still thinks that he can make his way back there after completing this last mission. He can't let Kirk in at all; it would destroy any small chance he still has of accomplishing that goal. So he goes on the offensive against Kirk.
For the next scene, Spock busies himself right away with correcting the antimatter imbalance and fixing the ship. Kirk continues his duties on the bridge.
But Kirk is still deep in the anger phase a short while later, when he and McCoy are waiting for Spock in the officer's lounge. Kirk paces nervously while McCoy tucks himself in a corner. When Spock enters, Kirk freezes.
"Science officer Spock, reporting as ordered, Captain."
Spock announces himself formally, saying his own name and position out loud, as if Kirk doesn't already know who he is. This is the third knife in Kirk's heart: You, Captain, are a stranger to me.
A wave of hurt and anger washes over Kirk's face.
Because the stages of grief are not linear, and not very sharply defined and separate, Kirk has one foot in Anger and one foot in Bargaining in this part of the scene.
Spock doesn't refuse outright, he doesn't confront him; he simply stares into Kirk's eyes for a moment and remains standing as he trades sarcastic barbs with McCoy. Kirk gestures at the couch and McCoy obediently takes a seat.
Bones, as usual, is trying to hide his feelings in that caustic humor. Spock, meanwhile, has repressed his feelings very deep within himself, as always. Kirk, however, is an open book, and the heartbreak on his face is enough for all three of them.
It used to be that Spock knew and did what Kirk wanted and needed before he even asked for it. Now, Kirk asking him to sit down is a friendly invitation, not an order, and Spock is making a small but pointed show of defiance. You can't influence me. You will get no favors from me. If this isn't coming from you as a direct order from my commanding officer, I don't have to do it.
Ignoring Kirk's friendly invitation to sit down is the Fourth Sorrow, the fourth knife in Kirk's heart.
Kirk and McCoy are trying to make sense of why Spock is there, what happened to his choice to pursue kolinahr, but Spock doesn't provide any explanation. Kirk invites him a second time: "Sit down." This time, Kirk also sits down in demonstration, casually perching on the arm of the couch in an attempt to hide the desperate gravity that he feels in this situation.
But Spock, once again, does not sit down. It is, again, a small act of defiance. Once, long ago, he would mirror his body to Kirk's even in the most casual of situations. He would study his arms and copy them. He would study his stance and stand the same way. They would move in unison without ever thinking about it or mentioning it.
Once, long ago, he would do anything, just because Kirk was doing it. Now, he is saying, I am my own person. I will move independently of you. I will sit when I please.
Spock rejecting Kirk's second request, as well as his bodily cues, is the fifth knife in Kirk's heart.
Kirk and McCoy continue talking through their confusion about what Spock is doing there. But they ask no direct questions, and Spock volunteers no explanation. Finally, Kirk completely loses any vestiges of his external cool and begs Spock to sit down a third time, drowning in anger and exasperation: "Will you, please... sit... down!"
It's not just about the sitting down. This is the bargaining phase of Kirk's grief. If he could at least get him on the same page about sitting down together, maybe they could get on the same page about more important things. It is another desperate plea for connection. He is asking him, Are you here to stay? Or will you leave me again? Could you please at least commit to this conversation with me if you can't commit beyond that?
Spock finally sits, but it's too late. Kirk has lost his cool and Spock has won this round. Kirk knows this, and the fact that Spock is keeping score is the sixth knife in his heart. But he still has one more bargaining chip to play. He stares deeply into Spock's eyes. What is he saying to him? Spock, it's me. Let me in. Please.
Spock finally looks away and starts talking. He explains the telepathic events that led him back to the Enterprise. He explains that he hears the thoughts of The Intruder, and implies that those thoughts are what led him back to the Enterprise. But the Motion Picture Novelization specifically explains that it was Kirk's thoughts he was hearing through their bond that brought him back. He doesn't offer details in either case, but he does inform Kirk and McCoy of his telepathic connection to The Intruder. McCoy tries to break the tension with another wisecrack and Kirk shuts him down.
"Bones!" he says sideways over his shoulder. "We need him."
He turns to Spock and leans forward onto his own knees, making that deep, intense eye contact that, for them, is another form of communication.
This is a coded message. There are several places in the series and the movies where Kirk says to Spock (and occasionally to McCoy), "I need you." Any time Kirk says, "I need you," what he means is, "I love you."
This is Kirk's last bargaining chip. Love is the last salvo in his arsenal.
But it is telling that he doesn't say, "I need you," to Spock. He says, "I need him," of Spock, while looking directly at Spock, but he is technically saying it to McCoy. Kirk is cautious; he is wounded. And he is terrified of saying the wrong thing and sending skittish Spock running yet again. So he tells him, subtly, indirectly, "I love you. I still love you. Do what you will with that information."
Spock's answer is cold, professional, focused on the mission: "Then my presence is to our mutual advantage."
Kirk understands. His face falls slack. He narrows his eyes. The confusion is gone. But also, the hope is gone. All that is left is pain. This is the Seventh Sorrow, the final knife in his heart. He suddenly realizes that all the hope he felt when Spock arrived on the bridge was foolish and pointless.
Just as he realized earlier on the bridge: Yes, Spock is here. But he is still gone.
And so is Kirk's hope of the two of them bouncing back from this. His tone changes again. Welcome to stage four:
Kirk is defeated, deflated. He gives up trying to reach Spock, for now. He is resigned, matching Spock's calm, professional tone as he tells him what he needs from him for the mission.
"Of course, Captain," Spock answers. "Is there anything else?"
"No," Kirk answers, a little too quickly and a little too forcefully. It is, of course, a lie. There is so much else. He could fill a whole book with everything else he wants to say, with everything else that he needs from him.
But Spock accepts his answer and he slowly, heavily, gets up and walks out of the room. And Kirk watches him leave yet again.
And, because the stages of grief are not linear, bargaining again rears its head and Kirk springs to his feet, following Spock like a lost puppy. But McCoy, who knows all and sees all, who remembers the tears back when the wound was still fresh, stops him. He knows that it would do no good.
So Kirk puts on his best professional face, his best Admiral persona. He compartmentalizes his grief so that he is able to go to the bridge and sit mere feet away from the man he loves, who has actively decided to no longer love him back, and still face the mission like the seasoned professional he is.
The final stage of grief is, of course, acceptance. This will come later. It is a process.
Yes, love can hurt. Kirk knows. They are two sides of the same coin. And yet, he reminds himself, love is always worth it.
