Chapter Text
James Tiberius Kirk believes in wonder.
He has to, after his… everything.
If you asked James, “do you believe in love?” he’d answer--
At ten years old, he’s flashing a gap-toothed grin and you can see his mother’s silhouette in his eyes.
At thirteen his mouth stops running like a motorcycle, his mind quiets for the first time. His palms are sweaty as the shuttle takes off and his dad clasps his shoulder in solidarity the way a father should. They board a starship that seems bigger than any city James has ever visited but even so, he spends the whole journey with his face pressed against the viewport of his room. George Kirk remembers what he was like the first time he ventured into the stars so he doesn’t say much, just offers little Jim food when he’s been staring for too long and urges him into bed when his eyes begin to droop. He believes in wonder, love, the infinite possibilities of space and that word echoes in his mind. Space. There’s a space for me.
He pretends he’s a part of Starfleet on Tarsus. While his father is hunched over his desk Jim sneaks rations bars from the basement to take on his adventures. The chewy protein makes him wince, but the taste of foil makes him forget he’s playing pretend. Captain James T. Kirk. Someday, he thinks. Someday.
All he can remember is the taste of foil. His throat is still raw from how he screamed when he watched Kodos flip a switch like he was turning off the lights. His father...His father was among them. It hadn’t seemed real until that moment. Kodos has turned on the lights and shattered them all in the same burning moment. James still felt like he was screaming. He couldn’t tell on his own, but the way the younger children smiled at him when he passed out smaller and smaller portions of ration bars clued him in. If love was enough to leave your head with a raw space that recoiled at the slightest touch where your brain used to be, he doesn’t want to believe in it.
Three years later, James can pilot a ship and his father’s antique car. The ship is a small one, albeit, but he can pilot it so impressively they decide to let the sixteen-year-old into the Academy. He’s more numb than anything, but he feels close to something when he’s soaring through the air.
If they had had more of these on Tarsus, we coul--
But he presses the ship ever faster and doesn’t let himself think about that. He’s healing.
He speeds through the academy, a few hitches here and there. He speeds through Carol Marcus, through being an ensign, being assigned commander, commendation after commendation. It’s natural to James. Up and out and up and out until he’s pressing against every previously unexplored region of space. He can eat a full plate of food without feeling guilty, he remembers his father fondly instead of as a terrified face moments before being replaced with empty space, he’s healing and he’s almost healed. He smiles more often than he frowns and he believes in love again. He has to, or else his past would swallow him like a whale.
James Tiberius Kirk believes in love, in all the beautiful things, in the wonders of space and the inherent goodness of man.
Or at least he thinks he does. If Tarsus was a burning moment, his assignment to the USS Enterprise was a shining moment. And if that were a shining moment, the moment he realizes he’s in love with his first officer is blinding.
In retrospect, he should’ve seen it coming. Everything that was just… stopped when he met Spock. He hates himself for only feeling this way once before. Tarsus, always back to goddamned Tarsus. Spock left Jim spinning like a top, took everything he knew and picked it up with those deft hands to turn upon its head. No matter how many nights passed away from that planet that stole so much from Jim he still saw it every night. George’s expression had been burned into the back of his eyelids and stayed there, latent and waiting for Jim to let down his guard.
The first time Jim and Spock met was at a mixer meant to ease the new cadets into their lives as, Jim shuddered with excitement at the thought, starfleet students. Spock had only attended for fifteen minutes at most and Jim could hardly tear his eyes away. It wasn’t that he was an alien--a cursory glance in any direction revealed humanoids of almost every imaginable shade--it was the fact he was vulcan . The first vulcan in Starfleet. Jim would say that he was curious but the unalterable facts were that he was drawn to Spock like a moth to a flame. It was as if some imaginary thread had wrapped around his wrists and dragged him across the ballroom, close enough to get a good look but still far enough away to maintain ‘innocence’. His roommate, and damn it, what was his name? A skinny boy from Georgia who looked like he hadn’t quite hit puberty and still walked around like a newborn foal. He was so gangly you could probably hear his bones clacking as he walked if you listened hard enough.
Bones, thought Jim, good enough.
Well, Bones had left him a few short minutes after his eyes had glued themselves to the vulcan and his responses became less words and more grunts. He was alone now, painfully obvious to everyone but himself, and he would learn, years later, that the reason Spock hadn’t stuck around was because Jim’s mind was too loud for him to comfortably remain.
If Jim had any sense he would’ve been able to see that vaguely pained expression, but sense seemed to fly out the window as Spock came through. He was so enamored by each minute twitch of musculature that he forgot to examine the big things one should keep up with when not-so-subtly checking someone out. Such as, whether or not they’re staring right back with big brown eyes. While Jim wondered exactly what shade of pink those thin lips were, Spock concluded he was deeply uncomfortable, turned his heel, and left. The space Jim eye’s had been trained on for far too long was now empty. He shook his head free of the one-track mindset that had crept like a fog across it and watched him leave the room.
And from somewhere within Jim a voice said, Captain James T. Kirk, that’s your first mate! Jim didn’t question it. Gut feelings existed for a reason, and surely the superior vulcan intelligence would prove invaluable on a starship. Obviously.
When Jim went to sleep that night he didn’t even question that when he closed his eyes he saw nothing for the first time in years. Sleep came and stole him away before he could begin to question the significance of it. His dreams were of swimming images of Vulcan recycled from old textbooks and when he looked up at the sun his subconscious supplied him it was so bright he was woken up. The room was painfully dark in contrast, but the heavy breathing of Bones echoed through the room and anchored Jim and alongside the echo he heard something so quiet he almost missed it.
I’ve found a place I belong.