James Tiberius Kirk

Another year.

Even when you record the exact stardate for every log you make, there's something about the impersonal, cold numbers that still makes time blend together. Without the changing of seasons, that smell of drying corn and frost on the air, there's little to mark the passage of time in a way that really sinks into your bones and tells you that today is any different from yesterday.

That's why it's all the more important to seize those little moments as they come along, ways to make the day feel more special.

It's not the first time that Jim has smuggled his boyfriend onto the Enterprise, not by a long shot. By now he knows the precautions well, locking the door and making sure his schedule is cleared for the evening. Zunar, now fully grown and fluffy as ever, lies draped across the neatly-made bed while the kneazle watches his human at work finishing up the last few tasks at his desk. The rest of his quarters are softly lit, the low table in the open area laid out with covered trays, a bottle of wine in a bucket of ice with a pair of glasses, and an unlit menorah. Outside the small window above his bed, the stars shine through the black as they always have, wrapped in the gentle blue glow of low warp.

It's easy to lose track of the months when you spend your life counting stardates.

Jim sits in one corner of the officer's mess, a padd propped up against his coffee mug so he can read while he eats, going through the last of the daily reports he has to review. Nothing terribly riveting, of course, so his mind can't help but wander a bit, snatches of nearby conversations filtering through the dry monotony that is maintenance logs.

"-happened down in the xenobotany labs yesterday?"

"-call him tomorrow, I've been saving up transmission time-"

"-and the comet's loaded with iron, right? So I say-"

"-can't believe it's almost Halloween already. I wonder if the replicators can make candy corn?"

Jim freezes mid-scroll, his breath catching in his chest, the word Halloween sinking in like a stone thrown into a deep, deep lake, its cold settling into his bones and up his spine. The conversation behind him has already moved on, but he stays, tethered to that single word as it echoes endlessly through the silence in his head.

He's not hungry anymore, but he eats his dinner anyway. Every bite tastes like ash.

* * *

It's been weeks since Zunar came to Hunter's side, providing comfort and companionship as only a kneazle can. It's become routine for him to snuggle up to the human in the evenings, claiming a spot on Hunter's bed for himself before the man even comes to bed, and meowing at him until they're both settled in for the night.

Not tonight.

Zunar sniffs around until he finds Hunter's PINpoint, chirping, and pushes it towards Hunter with a paw. Hey, you. You'll need this.

[Part One]
[Part Two]


The blue glow of warp casts deep shadows through the dimly lit officer's lounge, silent and lonely in the deep hours of the night cycle. Ribbons of azure light dance across the walls and the face of the man sitting at the bar, an untouched wineglass at his elbow, deep red-black like blood. The droning hum of the engines vibrate quietly in the deckplates, smooth and subtle, barely casting a single ripple across the surface of the drink as it waits patiently.

"You know what the answer is here, Jim."

A sigh, as he looks out through the viewpoint into the shimmering sky-wreathed void, a strange ache in his heart that has no name, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, like traveling a well-known path in the wrong direction. "It's not that easy."

"Sure it is." A figure in white turns behind the bar, idly polishing another glass with a cloth, leaning one elbow on the bartop. Its warplight shadow twists and distorts as it dances across the wall, curling upward into the shape of a man, arms stretched wide as if in song, or speech. The glass is set down, clean and shining, and a piercing blue gaze fixes on him, stern yet kind. "For once in your life, Jim, you have to be honest with yourself. You've never had an opportunity like this before, and if you reject it now, it may never come again."

"I know that," he says, defensive, pushing back on reflex, on instinct. Old habits. Don't show weakness. Never show you aren't good enough. Not worthy. He lifts the wineglass to his lips and tastes the bitterness on his tongue, coppery and wrong. Underneath the rumble of warp, he feels the distant pulse of weapons fire, or the beat of a heart, the blast of a shofar calling for teshuva.

"Do you?"

The figure leans closer, and a hand reaches out to his leather-clad shoulder, weightless where it rests. "Seems to me you have a decision to make. No more of this self-denial bull. He loves you, son. Really loves you. And if you don't decide to let him in, if you don't admit to yourself that you want this, you're going to lose him for good."

A pang of guilt, ice in his belly, looking at that wiser face. Too many lost, left behind. Too afraid to let alone get close, to let them in, and then, too late. Lost forever, beyond his reach. A seedling cut short, tender roots like a scar, left behind to wither. Better never to try, to save himself from feeling that pain again?

They're the things we carry with us, the things that make us who we are. If we lose them, we lose ourselves. I don't want my pain taken away; I need my pain.

A small smile as the figure leans back again, and places an apple at his elbow, red and polished with honey sweetness. "It's time to choose, James," the figure says, dissolving into light, the man-shaped shadow thrown into stark relief against the brilliance as the engines rumble louder and louder. "Make up your mind, or he'll make it up for you."

"Wait!"

Jim sits bolt upright, darkness and shadows meeting his eyes, faintly lit by pinpricks of starlight. A soft lump rumbles softly against his hip, quiet soothing waves pushing into his head. "Lights," he croaks to the computer, and soft white light reveals the familiar sight of the captain's quarters, chasing away the haunting afterimage of Christopher Pike in his mind's eye, leaving only the shadow.

Even as one hand finds a home in Zunar's soft fur at his side, the other reaches up to trace the symbol against his forehead, the shape of the rune imprinted invisibly beneath the surface. Not just a tickle of intuition now, a momentary hunch to guide against a misstep.

More than just a dream.

A message. A warning?

Jim lies down again, and the kneazle is quick to climb onto his chest, curling up tail to nose, purring all the louder, the sound blending seamlessly with the faint rumble of engines, and the beating of his own heart. But he can't go back to sleep so easily, the dream refusing to fade in the light, the taste of bitter wine as vivid as the sweet scent of uneaten apple.

A choice.

"I'm an idiot," Jim says out loud. Too long, he's been afraid, unwilling to admit it. Afraid of the past, of failures and missed opportunity. Afraid of the future, of getting too close only to be ripped away. Avoidance. Cheating as surely as he cheated on the Kobayashi Maru test. Never facing the consequences, refusing to accept there are any, hiding his own uncertainty behind a mask of bravado and audacity. Too long he's coasted, taking the easier path, always looking outward to the stars, too focused on what could be, rather than what is, what is right in front of him. What he could have, if he let himself admit that no man is an island, not even James Tiberius Kirk.

I dare you to do better.




You cannot teach a man anything; you can only help him find it within himself.
-Galileo Galilei

[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]

Time is a strange thing, isn't it? The past year seemed to drag on with agonizing slowness, particularly during Jim's long recovery both in and out of the hospital last February, and again during the last few months. But looking back at it now, he'd be hard-pressed to say where the hell the time went. It's been an entire year since he first found the Nexus, and introduced himself to someone who has come to mean surprisingly much to him. How has it been a year already?

Anniversaries are not really his thing. Never have been, not romantically, or otherwise. The events he commemorates every year are not often the joyful type, usually revolving more about things he'd prefer to forget. To have something good to mark the year's passing... it's one hell of a novelty, that's for sure.

Jim arrives at Hunter's apartment in the early evening, dressed in civilian clothes that are several shades nicer than his usual casual look, incorporating a certain spy's fashion advice into today's wardrobe choice. A mixed bouquet of roses and zinnias is nestled in the crook of his arm as he knocks on the door, and though his face is a mask of confidence, there's an uncharacteristic nervousness in the pit of his stomach. Stupid to start worrying now, but apparently that's not gonna stop him.

Jim Kirk has not celebrated any holidays with his family for a very long time.

Sure, they started talking again after his enlistment in Starfleet made its way into several Earth newsfeeds, the usual media vultures seeking attention for their coverage of George Kirk's son returning to the fold, so to speak. Confined mostly to text-based messages, and a few short video calls, his grandparents have reached out to him over the past few years, trying to reconnect, to mend old fences, and giving a standing invitation to come visit whenever he's ready.

He's always had an excuse for not going, citing existing plans to spend time with Bones, to study for upcoming exams, or being out of the solar system on Starfleet business, among other things. But with the Enterprise still out of commission as her repairs and overhaul nears completion, and having spent several weeks sharing living space with his mother again, he can't really wiggle out of it this year.

Not that he's even sure he wants to, anymore.

His family life has never really been the poster child for well-adjusted people, but... they're still his family. And maybe it's time to stop running away from his problems and pretending they don't exist. He's not a traumatized thirteen-year-old anymore, overwhelmed and isolated in the knowledge that none of them can truly appreciate the horrors he lived through, lashing out at a world that allowed such things to happen to him. He's turned his life around, cleaned up his act, and started down a path that is far more important than just fulfilling his own wants, regardless of the legality. And this particular holiday seems like the appropriate time to try to make amends.

Fortunately, he doesn't have to deal with it alone.

Jim patiently waits just outside a public transporter terminal in the Chicago suburbs, sitting on a park bench. While still wearing civilian clothes, he's on the slightly more formal side of things today in a white dress shirt and dark pants, though he's not bothered to wear a tie. It's about mid-afternoon, and the streets are mildly busy with people out for a stroll or out running errands of some kind, a steady flow of foot traffic both on the sidewalks and beaming in and out at the transporter platforms. He idly watches them pass by, keeping an eye out for his expected guest, whose PINpoint coordinates should bring him out exactly where everyone expects people to appear out of nowhere.

It's a beautiful spring day in Riverside, Iowa. The skies are clear and the weather is pleasantly mild, and across the endless fields that stretch out into vast distances, automated farm machinery is hard at work planting corn for the season.

There's no such machinery around the Kirk farm, though someone has bothered to zap away some of the weeds threatening to devour the foundation. The old homestead still sits disturbingly empty, all but abandoned if not for a few small signs that someone has been there recently. One of those signs sits just outside the house, leaning up against his motorbike as he waits for another rider to come join him, a set of riding goggles resting against his forehead.

The motorcycle has clearly seen better days, but it's nothing like twenty-first century bikes. There are no spokes in the wheels, for one thing - indeed, the wheels don't even seem attached by anything visible, held in place by some invisible force. It's keeping itself upright without a kickstand, as well, even though the young man in question is leaning most of his weight against it.

Jim had been looking forward to getting drinks with Hunter after the end of the Nibiru mission.

Sure, it didn't exactly go according to plan, but when does it ever? And with the news of a five-year mission in the works, not yet assigned to a ship, he's pretty excited that the Enterprise might have a shot at the most prestigious and ambitious assignment Starfleet has ever offered. No crew is more prepared, he feels. And getting to explore uncharted territory every day for five years is a dream come true.

But that's before he gets called into Pike's office and busted back to fucking cadet.

Before the admiral tells him that the Enterprise is no longer Jim's.

Before Pike tracks him down in a dive bar, spiraling into the black hole of his own thoughts, consuming everything except the horrible, sinking feeling in his gut that somehow he's done everything horribly wrong, and the admiral tells him that he's not out of the running just yet.

He's not captain anymore. But Commander Kirk is the first officer of the Enterprise now, and as awful as it is that Spock has been reassigned, it's a rope thrown to a drowning man.

He's not okay. But maybe eventually he will be. And he barely has time to process any of this before the call comes in, that there's an emergency session called at Headquarters. Something like that is never, ever good news. And no matter what it's about, Jim has the distinct feeling that he's not going to be able to get around to having drinks with Hunter tonight.

He hurries to get into his gray dress uniform, and fires off a quick text message to the now-familiar number. Need raincheck. Emergency @ HQ.

Surely he'll have the time to reschedule later, once the crisis is over.

True to his word, about five days after Jim's first venture into the Nexus, he finds the time to send a message to Hunter's PINpoint via his own version of the gizmo, an attachment he's hardwired into his standard-issue communicator.

Hey handsome. Enterprise in port for minor repairs. You free this evening? -Cpt. JTK

He sure hopes so. It's been a long day, and he'd love the chance to relax with a friend. Bones and Spock are both busy with personal business, but that's just fine with him, since he owes the friendly neighborhood artist a night at a bar someplace.


[[OOC: Image link to replace broken one below: Jim's civilian outfit]