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Jim hadn't fallen in love with Spock at first sight. Neither at second, or at third – he didn't remember when it happened, only knows that one day, he woke up and went to the bridge as usual, but instead of looking at a colleague or even a friend, he was looking at this not impeccable, but perfect nonetheless person that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
And suddenly, nothing was the same.
He went through great pains to pretend it still was – still flirted with Uhura, pretended not to know her first name, played verbal tennis with Spock – but it wasn't, it bloody well wasn't, and he hated it. Hated that he was reduced to pining when he should have- should have- should have what?, he wondered. Requited love? Yeah, as if. Uhura had been there first, and there was no way in hell Jim would manage to get between them – didn't even want to, because he had the iron rule not to get between couples (unless he had both their expressed permission).
That wasn't the worst, though. The worst was knowing that if he indeed had been a little quicker (though how he should have managed that, he had no idea), he would be in Uhura's place now. The person closest to Spock, closer than a friend, a brother even. Because that was how it had been for the other Jim with the other Spock.
They had never really been that close, the other Spock and the other Uhura. Spock had told him after Jim had guilt-tripped him into it; they had never been nothing more than friends, colleagues, members of the same, close-knit crew.
He should give it time, the other Spock had said. Telling that Spock of his feelings hadn't been hard and at the same time harder than most other things in his life; it had almost been like telling his Spock, only completely different. It was like admitting to a parent a terrible mistake he had made, something he couldn't make right again. And the other Spock had looked at him, pain and sympathy and truth in his eyes; knowledge of a truth that Jim and Spock was the best thing to ever have happened to either, sometimes the only thing that was right for both of them when the rest of the universe was terribly wrong.
Terribly wrong, that was how Jim sometimes felt when he wanted to turn around to share a glance with Spock and found him sharing that glance with Uhura instead; and it wasn't just jealousy. It was the knowledge, the knowledge that this wasn't the way it was supposed to be.
And he couldn't even hate Uhura, even though he would have loved to be able to, nearly craved the slight relief he would get from hating her, because how could he begrudge someone holding on to Spock with both hands once they got him? How could he resent her for loving Spock when he himself was guilty of the same?
He couldn't, because despite all occasional evidence to the opposite, Jim was fair, and Jim was honest with himself. Hating Uhura wouldn't help him in the slightest, would maybe make him feel a little better temporarily, but hate had never attributed to a character, and he didn't ever want to become a person, a captain who hated one of his crew for personal reasons (or really any reason at all).
He should give it time, the other Spock had said.
Time, it looked like it, had finally run out; he didn't want to be bitter, but how could he not, today of all days?
The other Spock was sitting as far away from him as possible, because the moment he had entered the room, Jim had sent him a look and it seemed at least one Spock understood him without words still.
Please, please, he chanted in his head, please do something, but he didn't know who he was begging, what he wanted them to do. He wanted to stop this; he wanted to jump up and shout "No!" for the whole entourage to hear, but in the past year, he had become very adept at suppressing such impulses.
Nonetheless, he almost wished this were a Christian ceremony, something where a priest said "speak now or forever hold your peace" only so he could say something. Not that he wouldn't, or that it'd change anything even if he did (if the priest said it to begin with), but it was nice pretending he would, if he could.
And he watched as a Vulcan priest or doctor or elder or whoever did these things with Vulcans bonded Uhura and Spock to remain together forever, beyond death, and tried not to scream, tried even harder not to cry, because even though that was exactly who he was, he had tried very hard to be not a pining, unrequited lover who was unable to quit, as if Spock were a drug, a need. James T. Kirk didn't need anyone.
And so he watched them hold hands and look like not two persons, but one; watched them be together in a way few human couples managed, closer than close, and tried not to hate, tried not to rage, tried not to cry and not to curse the other Spock for telling him to give it time, to let Spock come to him, because it was terribly obvious that Spock never would now, never would have.
Once the whole thing was over, Bones took him to get terribly drunk and signed him ill for the next day so Jim could go through the whole shebang of a hangover, self-punishment for who-knows-what, so he would feel at least a little better the day after.
It wasn't like anything had changed, after all.