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.

The captain's quarters on the Enterprise are warmly lit this evening, the door sealed for privacy by the captain's order. Unlike precious times he's been expecting a visitor off the record, the chess set is put away on one of his shelves, the low table in the living quarters topped with a bottle of wine and two empty glasses.

Jim gives his quarters yet another sweep for clutter, knowing damn well there isn't any, and that even if there was, his visitor wouldn't care. It wouldn't be the first time he's seen how much of a disaster area Jim's room can be.

Stop stalling, Kirk.

Jim takes a slow breath and lets it out, then sends a signal to Hunter. Coast is clear. Come over when you're ready.

[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]

The first five days in space are damn near exactly how Starfleet expected. The Enterprise passes her warp trials with only a few minor hiccups, easily hammered out by Scotty and his team of engineers, and the new-and-improved warp core handles the stresses of maximum warp like a champ, to the captain's profound relief. Life support easily handles the workload of four hundred thirty-three souls on board, though it becomes pretty clear early on that some crew quarters will have to be reassigned if they expect to keep the peace for the next five years. And there's some minor excitement on day three when the replicators bug out and refuse to produce anything other than orange juice and potatoes, a problem that takes ten hours to fix and leads Jim to discover that his personal food stash is nowhere close to big enough to stave off a late-night panic attack.

One by one, every system on board is subjected to stresses above and beyond their normal expected operation. Phaser banks, navigation systems, artificial gravity, even uniform fabrication and recreational programs are tested to the limits, no system too small or trivial to be overlooked, not when the ship and her crew might not see Federation territory for half a decade. And the Enterprise isn't the only one being run through her paces. Her crew, too, practice drills for everything from red alerts and emergency evacuation to fire suppression and intruder alerts.

Day six.

Jim steps onto the bridge at 0800 sharp, datapad in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other, and though his face shows little sign, a knot of anticipation coils in his stomach, one that has nothing to do with today's scheduled testing.

Spock's expression, of course, might as well be carved from granite for all the emotion it conveys as the Vulcan vacates the command chair. "Captain," Spock greets him, hands clasped behind his back at parade rest. "Gamma shift reports a minor abnormality in impulse engine response time, and a defect in the starboard tractor beam. All other systems operating within standard parameters."

Yet another small bump in the road, but that's what this shakedown cruise is designed for. Nothing to worry about. "Is Scotty looking into it yet?" Jim asks, slipping into his seat as naturally as breathing, resting his padd on his thigh. "Or, wait, no, it's Keenser at this hour, my mistake." Can't fall into the habit of expecting Scotty to be up and at 'em twenty-four hours a day, even though it's damn near true nine times out of ten anyway.

Spock inclines his head a fraction. "Indeed. Both repairs are expected to be completed within the next two hours."

"Good. Thank you, Mister Spock." It's all so incredibly routine, comfortably familiar, finding easy patterns to fall into again after only five days at sail. No huge surprises, no obvious dangers, nothing outside of Starfleet's expectations.

Jim's always had a hell of a time sticking to what Starfleet has planned.

* * *

Around 1140, halfway into running science lab hazard drills and transport diagnostics, Spock abruptly straightens at the science station. "Captain, long-range sensors are detecting a large metallic mass at maximum range. It appears to be fluctuating in shape and orientation; its mass appears to exceed one thousand times that of the Enterprise."

The mild monotony of the bridge breaks as curious personnel perk up at their posts, and Chekov quickly consults the Enterprise nav system. "Stellar charts show no metallic celestial bodies in this sector."

"It is not a natural celestial object," Spock confirms, looking up from the sensor hood, one eyebrow cocked. "Composition is refined titanium and several alloys I am unfamiliar with. It is possible that the mass is either one extremely large starship, or more likely, multiple spacecraft."

Even though Jim is ninety-nine percent sure he knows who it is, he's learned better not to just assume. "Yellow Alert," he orders. "Helm, put us on an intercept course, warp three. Uhura, begin broadcasting universal greetings, and advise Starfleet we are moving to intercept a possible visitor. Spock, when we're in visual range, put it up on the viewer."

A chorus of affirmatives follow the captain's commands, and the Enterprise yaws and rolls, pivoting to her new heading, routine testing abandoned for something far more interesting. Jim forces himself to sit still in his seat, fingers drumming on the armrest as his gaze bores into the blackness of the void, as if he could see beyond sensor range and confirm the identity of the unknown contact himself.

He doesn't have to be impatient for long.

It's one thing to know just how many ships are in a fleet, and an entirely different thing to see it. As the Enterprise approaches and the image resolves, it swiftly becomes clear that the mystery mass is made up of hundreds of ships, great and small. Tiny scout craft buzz around massive bulky egg-shaped vessels like a swarm of bees, mismatched patchwork ships scattered throughout the mass of ships, and at the perimeter of the formation, several sleeker ships bristle with particle cannon thrusting out from hardened hull plating.

"Sensors indicate nine hundred sixty-eight vessels in total," Spock reports calmly, a stark contrast to the faint murmurs of his nonVulcan crewmates. "Their designs do not match anything in the Federation database. Life signs number approximately eighteen point nine one million."

That's fewer than Jim expected, and for a moment, fear clenches in his belly. Did some of them not make the jump? He can't see any battle damage on the ships, but the Death wouldn't leave any, would it? On the other hand... maybe the ship's sensors just can't distinguish K'da when they're riding their hosts.

That's what he'll have to hope, anyway. "Uhura, any response to our hails?" Jim asks.

"Coming in now, captain." Skilled fingers fly across the communications console, routing the signal to the main viewer.

The Shontin who appears onscreen isn't one that Jim is familiar with, tall and orange with tan dapples across his scalp and shoulders. Nor is the vibrant green K'da at his side, her frame slightly smaller than Faris', sitting on her haunches with her nose held high. The Shontin crosses his wrists and pulls them apart swiftly, as though snapping invisible shackles. "I am Tylinn, commander of Stillwalker and elected speaker of the K'da-Shontine fleet. Our greetings to you in peace."

"I'm Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation starship Enterprise. Greetings in peace," Jim echoes, sitting up straight in his command chair, a textbook image of confidence that belays the anxiety gnawing away at his gut. "Your fleet is well within the boundaries of Federation space. What are your intentions here?"

"We have heard of your Federation, an alliance formed of many peoples from many worlds," Tylinn says, both hands held palm-outward, fingers spread. "Many generations ago, my peoples were driven from our home by war we did not want, and since that time we have searched for a place to call home in peace. We have traveled far to ask your Federation for asylum."

A small murmur from various stations on the bridge, astonishment at the sheer size of such a refugee fleet, but Jim holds his composure well, every inch the captain he's determined to be. "Asylum?" he repeats, playing his part to the hilt. "The Federation is open to refugees, but my superiors will need to know if there is a risk of bringing a new enemy to our doorstep."

Tylinn opens his mouth, and folds his hands together. "Of course. It is wise to be cautious. We are willing to send representatives to discuss the matter, wherever they must go."

"We'll be happy to make arrangements for that." Behind him, he can hear Uhura already updating Starfleet with a request for diplomats. Jim's smile is small but confident, seizing the opportunity just as he would if this was a real first contact. Better to welcome new friends with open arms and a wary eye than to hold them at arm's length and make a bad first impression. "In the meantime, we humans have a custom of getting to know each other over a meal. If your people are willing, I'd be happy to host a small delegation aboard the Enterprise this evening."

"An admirable custom," Tylinn says approvingly. "We accept your gracious offer, Captain. I look forward to it."

* * *

It's three more days before the Enterprise returns to Spacedock, later than her scheduled arrival, but the news is already buzzing with talk of the K'da-Shontine fleet, speculation on their intentions, the logistics of suddenly having to find accommodations for millions of unlikely refugees, the ethics of possibly becoming entangled in a war with an enemy that is completely unknown. Commentary and opinions on both sides fly across the holonet, and though there are some that argue suspicion of outsiders with a one-sided history of their peoples' war, they're far outweighed by scientific curiosity and compassion, those who cite the Federation's founding principles of diversity and unity.

It's a debate that's bound to stretch through the coming months, now that the Federation's diplomats and ambassadors are on the case, especially. And in a way, Jim regrets that he won't be around to see it play out, to stand as a supportive voice for sheltering those in need. Though there's little he could do in person anyway, their fate out of his hands now, set on a course that he hopes will lead to peace and prosperity for a people who have already seen too much hardship.

But he has a pretty damn good feeling about all this.

It's been an entire year. One year since the London bombing, the attack on Starfleet Headquarters, the crash of the USS Vengeance into the heart of San Francisco. Clusters of new skyscrapers and apartment blocks have grown up to cover the wounds left behind in the city like fresh scar tissue, slowly healing as surely as the survivors of the worst terrorist attack in recent Federation history have been.

The parade ground of Starfleet Headquarters is packed today, hundreds of officers and enlisted clad in full dress uniforms, civilians in their finest. Speeches are given, honors awarded for valor and bravery, flags ceremonially folded to honor the fallen. Until at long last, James Tiberius Kirk takes the stage, doffing his cover and placing the hat on the podium in front of him. Though his career as a starship captain has been short, a small handful of medals gleam against the gray of his uniform, the newest acknowledging the sacrifice he had made to save his crew, the true story known only to few.

Perhaps once, Jim would have wanted such accolades, an opening to boast about himself and gain the attention that he so desperately craved. Validation to make up for years of neglect and abandonment, never enough to satisfy the insecurity in the pit of his stomach. But that was before. Before he truly knew what it meant to be willing to die so that others might live, before he truly grasped how severe the consequences for his actions might be.

Now, as he looks out over the assembly, he feels no desire to receive such attention. This isn't about him. It never was. And he would not want it otherwise.

( Cut for length )

Jim is not usually one to celebrate New Year. Only four days before his birthday, by far the worst day of the year, he's never once been in a mood to stay up late and watch fireworks or make out with a lover. Drinking until he can't remember a damn thing, sure, but that's not really a party activity. And there's no fucking way he wants his well-meaning friends to track him down and make him pretend like he's having a good time.

Which is why this year, he's holed up in Hunter's apartment, the traditional New York City ball drop festivities playing on television. The sound is turned down quite a bit, tinny strains of someone singing old twentieth century tunes filtering through the speakers. The glass of brandy in Jim's hand is doing little to change anything about his sobriety, but it's a small comfort nonetheless, a familiarity born from years of doing this exact thing.

What's unfamiliar is the regular thud thud thud coming from the main art room, as Hunter slings paintballs at a large canvas one-handed, creating wide splashes of color, the mural on the walls behind protected by plastic sheets. It's abstract as all hell, and Jim is pretty sure it's not meant to be anything, but Hunter is having fun doing it, judging by the look on his face.

Five minutes to midnight.

The thudding stops as Hunter takes a break, or maybe he's just done, Jim can't really tell. His own wine glass in hand, the other man joins Jim in the couch, the clock in the corner of the television screen ticking down the minutes until the new year officially begins. "Looking good," Jim says with a small smile.

Hunter knows by now not to assume that Jim means the painting, and laughs a little, clinking his glass gently against Jim's. "It's my gift," he answers.

Jim will find no better opening than that. He straightens, and reaches into the shoulder bag that has been resting on the floor, pulling a wrapped gift out of it. Hunter's look of surprise makes Jim smile a little, glad to have caught him off guard this time. "This is my gift," he says quietly, holding out the wrapped package to the other man. "I know you said you don't really do Christmas, and it's late for that anyway, but... I wanted to thank you. For Hanukkah." And so much more.

"Jim, I... thank you." Hunter doesn't say that Jim didn't have to do this, or that he didn't go through all that effort with any expectation of getting anything in return. He just smiles, sets down his wine, and pulls the package onto his lap to begin unwrapping it. There are four more boxes inside, one significantly smaller than the others. The three larger boxes contain a trio of classical art-inspired candles, something to relax the atmosphere and inspire Hunter's own creations. The smaller box holds a set of silver cufflinks, crafted in the shape of roses.

Hunter admires them all, one at a time, sniffing the aroma of the candles, rubbing his thumb over the curled metal of the rose petals, and a warm spark settles in Jim's chest, despite the numbing cold that holds him prisoner this time of year. "Happy New Year," he says, leaning in to give Hunter a kiss as the countdown reaches zero.

Maybe this year will be a better one. Jim certainly hopes so.

He's still in shock.

There's a part of Jim that consciously knows this. His body has been locked into fight-or-flight mode for hours upon hours, his hands still trembling from the adrenaline, exhaustion held at bay by survival instincts that haven't realized that the danger has passed. The Halloween costume that Hunter had worked so hard on is damn near unrecognizable, only the paint-streaked pants clinging stubbornly to his hips, his feet and chest bare save for the bloodstained cloth wrapped loosely around his shoulder. Rusty brown specks of dried blood still cling to his face along with thicker, tackier stains on his hands, unmoved by the... fur... that is no longer adorning his skin.

His senses feel... off. As he numbly follows Hunter into the Nexus apartment on autopilot, the vibrant colors of the artwork in the studio damn near leap off the canvas at him, but sounds seem muffled, scents almost impossible to pick up, his body still struggling to cope with the sudden change back to human norms. His bones ache beneath his skin, a dull throbbing in his limbs and chest, his blood practically burning in his veins as his boosted immune system destroys the last traces of the worgen's curse, a low-grade fever the only outward sign of the fierce battle being waged beneath the surface of the skin.

Part of him wants to reassure Hunter that he's okay, to deny he's in pain, to pretend like nothing ever happened. That it was all some horrible nightmare. But he can't. He's filthy and bloody and shell-shocked, and phantom echoes of ravenous hunger still pick at him like vultures picking at a carcass. He's not starving anymore. He knows that. His body knows that. But he can't forget how it felt, not when the wounds are so raw, freshly ripped back open after years of coping.

He comes to a faltering stop inside the apartment, fidgeting, uncertain, struggling to determine what comes next. How to even begin to move forward from here.


[Trigger Warning for disordered eating and PTSD]

With the restrictions on his food intake finally lifted, and with months to go until the Enterprise is ready to fly again, Jim Kirk has had all the more reasons to visit the Nexus and explore, particularly the markets. Whether it's finding interesting otherworldly seedlings for Sulu, tracking down a source of authentic Vulcan kreyla for Spock, or bringing home volumes of Russian literature for Chekov, there's always something to bring back for somebody.

Jim's been warned about LOLs before. Both through the brochure he picked up the first time he arrived here, and by some Nexus veterans, namely Hunter and Samus. But in the months since he's been visiting the multiverse, he's still never seen the phenomenon, not even once.

And so it's easy to forget for a moment that he has to be cautious.

He's discovered a Jewish cafe on one corner of the commercial district that's offering free samples to passersby, and it's been ages since he's had real, hand-made vorschmack on rye. So he doesn't think twice before accepting one of the samples on offer, and there's nothing to indicate that there's anything in it other than the usual bread, fish, and other typical ingredients he'd expect. At least, not until the woman running the sample cart asks him how he likes it.

Jim fully intends on simply complimenting her on the flavor of the food, but what comes out instead is, "It's good but not as good as my Grandma Ruth used to make." He blinks in confusion. "I don't know why I just said that. I wasn't going to tell you that." And again... he says more than he intended.

"Oh dear," the woman says, looking mournfully at the sample tray. "I used the wrong seasoning again. Sorry about that." And then she whisks the tray away, vanishing into the depths of the cafe with no explanation or any indication that she plans to return.

And only now does Jim remember the warnings he was given.

"Oh shit. This is not good." He doesn't know what the hell it's done to him, aside from making him chattier than he intended to be, but he doesn't want to go home like this. Especially not when he can't be certain there won't be more coming. And there's only one person he knows he can go to for help.

Jim calls up the coordinates for Hunter's apartment, hurrying to get his ass over there, muttering to himself under his breath.