Chapter Text
At Admiral Kirk’s home, inside an antique oak cupboard, under two boxes of command uniforms that were out of use and wouldn’t fit now anyway, next to a pile of disks that contain hours and hours of Captain’s logs, discarded because those memories won’t be forgotten any soon -or ever-, lay buried two letters.
Paper letters. Curious; no one writes them anymore. Of course, these two are an exception, a most peculiar abnormality. Either way, that doesn’t matter much. They are unsent letters.
And will remain so.
If you were to open the letter in the pastel blue envelope, you’d find a paper of the same color, folded in three. The text on the page, neatly written despite the shaky hand that happened to wrote it, would read as follows:
Dear Bones,
It’s been a long time since I last heard your voice. Sometimes, when an admiral or an ambassador from who-knows-where protests about something I’ve said or done, I hear them speak with your voice. Isn’t it funny? I used to hate being shouted at by you - not that I didn’t deserve it most of the time - and now my mind, in an attempt to be funny? ironic?, reminds me of you every time I get reprimanded. And I can’t help but smile.
They don’t understand why. I must seem crazy to them! Although perhaps, if I explained myself, they’d think I’m out of my mind anyway.
How are you, old friend?
I’ve heard that you’re back in Georgia, back to your ‘old country doctor’ routine. I’m happy for you, if that’s the case. And if it’s not, I’m happy for you too.
Is Joanna there with you? She graduated with honors just a few months back, didn’t she? I can’t remember what she majored in, you’ll have to forgive me, my memory’s not what it used to be - but please tell her I’m proud of her. Or don’t. I know it’s been a while.
Maybe you won’t even write back. That would be fair. You know I’m not one for apologies, that I’m as stubborn as Spock when it comes to them, but this letter is my overcomplicated way to say a single word I can’t bring myself to say to you. It seems that when I try to write it, the ink evaporates before me and I’m left with a blank piece of paper over and over again. So I have to take a longer, more complex route.
I will say this though, which would please you even more than the word I’m unable to write down: you were right.
I should’ve known.
I miss space. Every single day. Do you miss it? I know you didn’t especially like it up there, but I imagine that, as it happens with most things, familiarity breeds affection, in the end.
Well, you can probably see the stars from your country house, when you’re out sitting on the porch with - and forgive me if I’m making the next part up - a nice glass of bourbon. In San Francisco, all I get is the lights of the buildings across the Bay, of the starships overhead, coming and going from Starfleet headquarters, of the ships at sea. No stars.
You were absolutely right.
And nothing’s the same without you.
You can see I’m not only getting older, but also disgustingly sappier. If you come visit, I’ll let you laugh all you want at my over-sentimentalism. I’ll just shut up and take it. I think it’s what I deserve, and what you deserve.
But please, come visit. That’s all I ask. I can’t tell you to really come back - because why would you? But hell, I think spending an hour with you would be the highlight of my year. Come visit, really. We’ll share a bottle of a suspiciously bright drink like we used to aboard the Enterprise. We don’t even have to say anything; we know each other too much for words to be necessary.
In the meanwhile, take care - of others, I know you will, you always have. Take care of yourself as well, please.
Your regretful friend,
James T. Kirk