Chapter Text
Replicator coffee is trash. Always has been, always will be. Kirk chugs it anyway and tosses the cup into the disposal. Chekov waves at him from the corner of the mess hall and he pretends not to see, none too eager to get caught up in a long conversation when he’s finally, finally off shift.
He still finds his feet wandering sometimes back along a more familiar path through the corridors. Sometimes he’ll step from the turbolift and realize he’s gotten off two floors too early for where he needs to be. But as he traces the route to Bones’ door, he finds this walk feels more welcoming than the path to his own quarters ever did.
The room is just the way he left it this morning. Books stacked against the wall, a few uniform shirts draped over the bed, a pair of antique glasses on the vanity, playing cards and a bottle of gin.
They don’t room together, not according to official Starfleet records. But as long as Kirk is Captain, he figures the administration won’t notice one more unfiled report under the heap of ones he still owes. It’s not on record, but Spock knows to ping McCoy’s intercom if he wants to reach Kirk after hours, which makes it pretty damn official in his books.
Bones won’t be off for another three hours. He’s been working split-shifts lately, trying to get a handle on some new bioorganic study he’s been running in his back lab. When he gets back, Kirk will get up and settle into the bed – their bed – properly, but for now his eyes are burning and he needs to take the edge off the last 16 hours of mayhem.
There’s a blanket waiting for him on the corner of the couch. There always is. He grabs it and settles into the cushions for a well-deserved nap. His bleary eyes focus on the picture frame on the table for only a moment before he drifts off. The image there follows him into his dreams: a shifting vision of burnished sand, two silver rings held up to the light, and nothing but blue skies above.