The All-Nighter [1/3]
[Directly follows this thread.]
Sleep and Jim Kirk have never exactly seen eye to eye, but that night it's worse than usual. With a softly purring kneazle curled up on his chest, Jim closes his eyes and struggles to empty his mind, but an endless stream of thoughts swim to the surface unbidden. Everything from minor issues with the ship to the upcoming surface-side exploration of an uncharted world, things he's used to worrying about, easily delegated or set aside for later. But there's one that keeps circling back around, a puzzle piece that doesn't fit, jarring and out of place.
Hunter.
It doesn't really matter that the stab wounds are healed already, that Jim never saw his boyfriend bleeding on the street with his own eyes. Maybe it's even worse that he didn't, his imagination forced to fill in the gaps, the stunned shock in those gentle blue eyes, red dripping from soft artist's hands and the cold edge of a blade. And no matter how hard he tries to dismiss it, the image lingers at the corner of his mind's eye, a silent sentinel keeping sleep at bay.
It's not just that, either. Jim's never seen that look in Hunter's eyes before, disbelieving and devastated, realization sinking in that he's not as okay as he's been pretending. His acting so good that even Jim hadn't truly noticed, never realized how bad a storm was brewing under the surface, and he can't help but wonder if Hunter has known all along. If he's tried to hide it, like Jim would have. A false smile in public, cheer to hide the numbness, dropping the mask when he was alone with only his own thoughts for company.
Maybe some time alone will do him some good. Just like Hunter said. The same as Jim himself would do, hiding away to lick his wounds and get his head on straight. No doctors, no shrinks.
No Jim.
He's tried to be supportive. Tried to be neutral, to not give Hunter the idea that he cares about how his boyfriend looks, that he's just as attractive now as he was before, without passing judgment on either face. But he's never really gotten it, not fully, unable to completely grasp the magnitude of what Hunter has lost on quite the same level, without living through that same experience himself. He hadn't thought it'd mattered, that his support would be enough to show he still cares, no matter what happens. No matter if Hunter gets his magic back or not.
But now he's lightyears away, on a starship bound for uncharted waters deep in the black, with four hundred thirty lives depending on his full attention to keep them alive. To keep them safe. He shouldn't be letting anything distract him from that duty, to keep his thoughts on what he left behind, instead of what lies ahead.
Easier said than done.
And though he's never admitted it to himself before, even though it had started only as a harmless temporary fling, Jim struggles to picture a life without Hunter in it, in some way or another. Against his conscious will, he's started to put down roots, small threads of his own life tethering themselves to Hunter's. A zinnia among the roses. Maybe too close.
Maybe... maybe the distance is best, right now. Time for Hunter to come to terms with his future, without Jim hovering over his shoulder, checking on him like he can't trust him to handle himself, intruding on whatever meditation suits him best. No matter how badly Jim wants to do just that, for his own sake. He needs to trust Hunter to know how to move forward, to get his head on straight without some clueless starship captain nagging him every step of the way.
He can let Hunter have that. It's what he himself would want.
...isn't it?
Uneasy, and not quite sure why, Jim softly cards his fingers through Zunar's soft fur in an attempt to find a respite from his own thoughts. He has precious few hours to rest as it is, and the ship won't wait for her captain, no matter what his personal problems are.
[Part Two]
Sleep and Jim Kirk have never exactly seen eye to eye, but that night it's worse than usual. With a softly purring kneazle curled up on his chest, Jim closes his eyes and struggles to empty his mind, but an endless stream of thoughts swim to the surface unbidden. Everything from minor issues with the ship to the upcoming surface-side exploration of an uncharted world, things he's used to worrying about, easily delegated or set aside for later. But there's one that keeps circling back around, a puzzle piece that doesn't fit, jarring and out of place.
Hunter.
It doesn't really matter that the stab wounds are healed already, that Jim never saw his boyfriend bleeding on the street with his own eyes. Maybe it's even worse that he didn't, his imagination forced to fill in the gaps, the stunned shock in those gentle blue eyes, red dripping from soft artist's hands and the cold edge of a blade. And no matter how hard he tries to dismiss it, the image lingers at the corner of his mind's eye, a silent sentinel keeping sleep at bay.
It's not just that, either. Jim's never seen that look in Hunter's eyes before, disbelieving and devastated, realization sinking in that he's not as okay as he's been pretending. His acting so good that even Jim hadn't truly noticed, never realized how bad a storm was brewing under the surface, and he can't help but wonder if Hunter has known all along. If he's tried to hide it, like Jim would have. A false smile in public, cheer to hide the numbness, dropping the mask when he was alone with only his own thoughts for company.
Maybe some time alone will do him some good. Just like Hunter said. The same as Jim himself would do, hiding away to lick his wounds and get his head on straight. No doctors, no shrinks.
No Jim.
He's tried to be supportive. Tried to be neutral, to not give Hunter the idea that he cares about how his boyfriend looks, that he's just as attractive now as he was before, without passing judgment on either face. But he's never really gotten it, not fully, unable to completely grasp the magnitude of what Hunter has lost on quite the same level, without living through that same experience himself. He hadn't thought it'd mattered, that his support would be enough to show he still cares, no matter what happens. No matter if Hunter gets his magic back or not.
But now he's lightyears away, on a starship bound for uncharted waters deep in the black, with four hundred thirty lives depending on his full attention to keep them alive. To keep them safe. He shouldn't be letting anything distract him from that duty, to keep his thoughts on what he left behind, instead of what lies ahead.
Easier said than done.
And though he's never admitted it to himself before, even though it had started only as a harmless temporary fling, Jim struggles to picture a life without Hunter in it, in some way or another. Against his conscious will, he's started to put down roots, small threads of his own life tethering themselves to Hunter's. A zinnia among the roses. Maybe too close.
Maybe... maybe the distance is best, right now. Time for Hunter to come to terms with his future, without Jim hovering over his shoulder, checking on him like he can't trust him to handle himself, intruding on whatever meditation suits him best. No matter how badly Jim wants to do just that, for his own sake. He needs to trust Hunter to know how to move forward, to get his head on straight without some clueless starship captain nagging him every step of the way.
He can let Hunter have that. It's what he himself would want.
...isn't it?
Uneasy, and not quite sure why, Jim softly cards his fingers through Zunar's soft fur in an attempt to find a respite from his own thoughts. He has precious few hours to rest as it is, and the ship won't wait for her captain, no matter what his personal problems are.
[Part Two]
