Hair Today Gone Tomorrow
[Following this post.]
With the adjustments from the shakedown cruise made and the wind at their backs, it's taken Jim remarkably little time to start getting comfortable in the daily routine, slipping back into old habits - a little older and a little wiser, of course. Gone is the dismissive attitude towards reports and the various minutiae that come with his administrative duties; James T. Kirk is doing his damndest to turn over a new leaf, the weight of his responsibility settled squarely on his shoulders in a way it hadn't before.
A lot can change in a year.
For the first few weeks, he devotes the bulk of his attention to the state of the ship, her crew, the day to day this-and-thats until he's comfortable with the way everything flows. He reads Hunter's letters, smiles at the sketches, listens to the audio while drifting off to sleep. And though he doesn't settle in to write a truly lengthy message back until week four, he still makes sure that he sends something back, even if it's no more than a couple sentences.
It's week seven, and Jim has been looking forward to getting off shift and having a chance to put his feet up, maybe work on this week's letter back to Hunter, or just spend a little time with a book. Or a technical journal - it helps to know what the hell Scotty's talking about sometimes, even if it's dry as the surface of Luna sometimes.
The door to the captain's quarters slides shut behind him, and Jim strips off his command gold outershirt, leaving him in his duty blacks. The sight of a new package sitting on his desk is familiar and expected, and a smile teases at his lips as he meanders over to open it up and leaf through whatever his boyfriend's seen fit to send him this time. A smile that doesn't last as he reads the lengthier-than-usual letter once, twice, until the words sink in and he's staring at it in bafflement. And not a small amount of concern.
The fuck?
For a long moment, Jim considers his options. He could call, use his PINpoint to reach across universes and hope that Hunter's picking up the phone. He could do a rush job on his next letter, send it off tonight... no, too impersonal, too slow. Hell, even the idea of calling doesn't sit well with him.
Screw it.
Jim snaps off a brief message to Spock, a cryptic note about not being disturbed unless it's vital to ship's operations, and dials up the transportation coordinates for Hunter's apartment.
With the adjustments from the shakedown cruise made and the wind at their backs, it's taken Jim remarkably little time to start getting comfortable in the daily routine, slipping back into old habits - a little older and a little wiser, of course. Gone is the dismissive attitude towards reports and the various minutiae that come with his administrative duties; James T. Kirk is doing his damndest to turn over a new leaf, the weight of his responsibility settled squarely on his shoulders in a way it hadn't before.
A lot can change in a year.
For the first few weeks, he devotes the bulk of his attention to the state of the ship, her crew, the day to day this-and-thats until he's comfortable with the way everything flows. He reads Hunter's letters, smiles at the sketches, listens to the audio while drifting off to sleep. And though he doesn't settle in to write a truly lengthy message back until week four, he still makes sure that he sends something back, even if it's no more than a couple sentences.
It's week seven, and Jim has been looking forward to getting off shift and having a chance to put his feet up, maybe work on this week's letter back to Hunter, or just spend a little time with a book. Or a technical journal - it helps to know what the hell Scotty's talking about sometimes, even if it's dry as the surface of Luna sometimes.
The door to the captain's quarters slides shut behind him, and Jim strips off his command gold outershirt, leaving him in his duty blacks. The sight of a new package sitting on his desk is familiar and expected, and a smile teases at his lips as he meanders over to open it up and leaf through whatever his boyfriend's seen fit to send him this time. A smile that doesn't last as he reads the lengthier-than-usual letter once, twice, until the words sink in and he's staring at it in bafflement. And not a small amount of concern.
The fuck?
For a long moment, Jim considers his options. He could call, use his PINpoint to reach across universes and hope that Hunter's picking up the phone. He could do a rush job on his next letter, send it off tonight... no, too impersonal, too slow. Hell, even the idea of calling doesn't sit well with him.
Screw it.
Jim snaps off a brief message to Spock, a cryptic note about not being disturbed unless it's vital to ship's operations, and dials up the transportation coordinates for Hunter's apartment.