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It’s… uh, well, it’s three in the morning, if the panel on the wall is right. It could be wrong, of course, you mean, the ship has been having some software errors lately, but the dim lights in the corridors suggest otherwise. You need to be up for alpha shift in the morning. Instead, you’re curled up in window in an isolated part of the observation deck, earbuds cutting you off from the rest of the ship. You can’t sleep, otherwise you’d be about eight decks up in bed, or asleep at your desk. At the very least, you’d be trying. No, you can’t sleep. The voice of a dead woman sings centuries old songs at you in the low light of your corner, and you search the slow-passing stars for the distortion of the warp bubble. The galaxy seems like it’s trying to tell you something in a language that you don’t understand.
You’d be lying if you said this wasn’t where you wanted to be. Out of all the things you could have done, of all the paths, good or bad, your life could have taken, this is where you wanted to be, this is where you wanted to end up. You feel at home, in the empty space between the stars, feel like you belong in the strings of cosmic dust, like coming here had more to do with coming home than it did with proving to yourself that you could actually do it. (Still, you find yourself missing the empty fields of your childhood, you find yourself missing tires kicking up dust on scarcely used streets, you find yourself missing the view of the sky when you coulf get far enough from the blinding light of the city to see the band of the milky way. You don’t miss your life before starfleet, but you miss Earth, sometimes.)
It’s sort of by accident that you catch Spock’s reflection in the window, startle a little and turn to look at him, tugging your earbuds out as you do so.
“Apologies, Captain, I didn’t intend to scare you,” he starts, pauses for a moment, frowns slightly before continuing, “I simply noticed you weren’t in your quarters and assumed I would find you here.” You don’t respond, but you shift so there’s room beside you, and he takes that as an invitation to sit. He doesn’t ask you why you’re awake, has long since passed questioning why you don’t sleep enough and why he finds you curled up in a window in the middle of the night, doesn’t bother telling you to sleep because you won’t, and he hasn’t had any luck telling you why you need to.
(You know it’s getting late even for him, though. To the best of your knowledge, he’s usually either asleep or meditating right now. You wonder why he’s down here.)
You move your legs over his lap, pop your earbuds back in, shimmy down the wall a bit to a position that definitely isn’t comfortable even if your brain has decided that it is, and turn your attention back to the stars. Time passes quietly like this, and when you turn your attention to Spock, briefly, you catch him gazing out at the stars himself. You came down here to be alone, but this is alright too.
At some point, your neck hurts too much for you to stay in the position you’re in, so you move yourself around until you’re leaning with your back against his side and your legs crossed, gaze fixed out the window again. Your eyes are getting heavy, finally, and you contemplate falling asleep here. A dead man sings in your earbuds about Joni Mitchell, and when the song fades, you play it again.
You’re about three loops in, having to fight to keep your eyes open when Spock taps your shoulder so gently that you almost don’t notice. You take out one of your earbuds and crane your neck to look at him.
“Perhaps you should go to bed, Captain,” he suggests quietly.
“Probably,” you respond, scrub your face with your hand and move to get up from your seat. “Gonna come with me?” The panel on the wall reads 0400, and you’re dreading getting up in a few hours. Spock nods, and you head for the turboshaft.
You say nothing on the way there, just take out your other earbud, switch off your music. Spock walks quietly beside you.
(The song still plays in your head, an echo of what was playing in your ears.
The sea was red, and the sky was grey,
Wondered how tomorrow, could ever follow today.
You hum it to yourself while you walk, quiet and out of tune.)
In the turbolift, you ask him, sheepishly, if he wants to sleep in your cabin tonight.
(“I mean, you don’t have to, it’s just-”
“Of course, Jim.”)
On the walk back to your quarters, you sing under your breath because you really can’t help it. The song is still stuck in your head, and there’s not much you can do to get it out.
(”Throw me a line, if I reach it in time, I’ll meet you up there where the path runs straight and high.”)
You set your earbuds down when you get inside, half collapse on the bed before you reach back to him. He obliges, lays down beside you only to have you maneuver yourself half on top of him, face half hidden in his shoulder.
“Computer,” you mutter, voice muffled. The computer still beeps acknowledgement at you. “Set alarm for three hours from now.” It beeps, automated voice letting you know that the alarm is set. Spock puts an arm around you, and you relax.
“Computer, lights out.” Your cabin is dark, lit only by the ships exterior lights, which bathe the room in faint, blue glow that you’ve grown very used to. “Goodnight, Spock.” He’s a lot more of a comfort to you than you’re ever going to be able to tell him with words.
“Goodnight, Jim.”
(You struggle to get up in the morning, but you struggle to get up with Spock, which is a measure better than you were doing a month ago.)
(The galaxy doesn't care that you're tired, doesn't care that you spent all night awake and have to get up for your shift, but staring out the window this morning, you finally understand what it's been trying to tell you. You are here. You are home and this really is where you belong.)