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(My Only) Guiding Light
by 1lostone
There was something hauntingly familiar about looking out into the black. He could see countless stars streaking by, racing past in a blur too fast for his naked eye to catch. Galaxies rippled and distorted, their colors bleeding together so that he caught just a hint of the blue and red hues. That one. That right there—was that planet home to a new civilization? Was that star right there host to the next species to join the Federation? Jim squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, staring out into the nothingness that was both familiar and unfamiliar.
When the SS Astral Queen had flown from Earth to Tarsus IV, Jim had pressed his forehead against the glass, watching worlds pass by with a sense of anticipation. His mom hadn’t wanted him to go so far away, but Jim had felt like an explorer in old Earth history, bumping over the next horizon in search of adventure. He’d felt a strange connection to his dad out there, and had imagined that in his travels, George Kirk had maybe looked out a similar viewport into a similar vast array of space and had felt comforted— connected to his dad in a way he’d never experienced.
(Later, the adults who had rescued him had let him be, ignoring the small, too-skinny, too-bruised kid as he stared and stared and stared until he couldn't see anything through his tears.)
Now, Jim rested his forehead on the glass once again, feeling the heartbeat of his girl echoing against the surface as she came alive in the thrum of her engines. He pressed harder against the cold glass, watching as particles drifted by, their faint trails of light reminding him of the time he and Bones took Spock camping for Jim’s fiftieth birthday. The two of them had been utterly charmed by how enthralled Spock had been with the play of light from the sparklers against the dark sky. The streaks of passing stars looked a lot like the movement of the embers on the small stick that had been clutched in Spock’s long fingers. Jim blinked back to the now, ignoring as he always did the complicated tangle of feelings that thinking of his First brought. Time, as it always did, seemed to stretch and blend into the quiet susurrus of the sounds of his ship, minutes feeling like hours, hours like days. Jim was used to it now, the strange flow of time no longer unsettling but instead a familiar rhythm that matched the steady beat of his own heart, reverberated in the pulse of his ship. He could get lost here in memories if he let himself.
Jim took a deep, steadying breath and purposefully stepped away from the large viewport. In his reflection, he could see the reality: time caught up with everything. With everyone. He could see it in the way his once-full head of hair had faded to a silvery ash, the remnants of its youthful color still visible in a few stubborn strands that clung to their once-familiar ‘James T Perfect Hair Kirk’ glory. It was thinner now, receding slightly at the temples and at his forehead, but it suited him. The shape of his face had softened, and despite Bones' constant yammering about his health and his heart, his once chiseled physique bore evidence of a few too many nights lingering over dinner and chess with his first officer. Lines and other wrinkles marched across his face, evidence of years and years of laughter and shared grief.
The glass didn’t reflect the way his knees would pop like phaser blasts when he stood up too quickly, or the way the knuckles on his hands sometimes ached in the morning when he gripped his toothbrush. It didn’t show how he caught himself taking a moment longer to catch his breath on an away mission when things invariably went wrong and he had to sprint to safety.
Well, that won’t be an issue for much longer. Jim sighed and turned, only to startle sharply, his hand going to his heart when he realized that Spock was standing just inside the door to his quarters in the near-silent way he had, observing. God knew how long he’d been there.
“ Je sus, Spock!”
The familiar eyebrow winged to the even more familiar hairline, seeming to suggest that it wasn’t Spock’s fault that Jim had once again failed to observe his surroundings.
“Captain. At our current speed, we will arrive on Earth in approximately twelve-point-three hours.”
Jim nodded, swallowing back the instinctive, foolish impulse to tell Sulu to slow the fuck down, to give him more ti—. “Wait. Why didn’t Sulu just inform me, instead of sending you? I’m sure that you have more important things to do than deliver messages.” He tried to force a smile, but knew his heart wasn’t in it.
Spock straightened his spine in the way he did before he said something that Jim wasn’t going to like. Jim brought his hand up to ruffle through his hair, a nervous habit that he had never seemed to be able to break. Jim brought his gaze to Spock’s, forcing himself not to react outwardly to the feeling of having captured all of Spock’s attention. He could ignore the way his heart gave an extra heavy thump in his chest.
He’d been doing it for years.
Spock, with his half-Human, half-Vulcan heritage, also bore evidence of the passage of the years they’d served together, but Jim didn’t think the effects of aging were as noticeable. There was a trace of gray at Spock’s temples, and crow's feet hinting at the corner of his eyes, but his body still was as lithe and powerful as it always had been.
“I wished to speak with you, Captain. Jim.”
Jim nodded. That much was obvious. The forced smile drained away. He was too damn exhausted to pretend with Spock. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d asked Spock to call him Jim instead of by his title, yet it was hard to celebrate even that small victory. “Yes. . .?”
Spock opened his mouth, then shut it, shifting slightly on his feet. “Have you finalized your plans once you return to Earth?”
Jim took a beat to think, having not expected the question. It was pretty obvious that wasn’t what Spock had initially thought of saying. Well, it was pretty obvious to anyone who knew him, which, Jim reflected, he definitely did.
Jim lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah. I report to ‘Fleet Headquarters where they either put me out to pasture or fire me.”
“You do not wish for a promotion?”
“Not really. I don’t want them to shove me into a more traditional admiralty role.” Chris had been dead for years, but Jim never, ever forgot how frustrated his mentor had been having to toe the party line. As an admiral, Pike had used his leadership and charisma to faithfully steer them victorious from one crisis to another...until he couldn't. “I like teaching well enough, but I think being trapped in a classroom sounds like torture. For me and the students.”
“I find it difficult to believe that after a quarter-century of service, your only two options are teaching or promotion.” Spock cocked his head. “Although you would excel at both, I agree that your temperament would not lend itself to contentment with either of those two choices.”
“Yeah.” Jim sighed again, dredging up some semblance of manners. While Spock would neither want nor expect Jim to put on any airs, it felt wrong to not offer, at the very least. “Can I get you anything to drink? Something to eat?”
“No. I am...fine. Jim.”
Jim nodded, then turned away and looked back out through the viewport, into the emptiness of space. “You know Komack sent me a private message?”
Jim didn’t hear his friend move (he really was going to get a damn bell for his uniform one of these days), but Spock’s voice was closer when he responded. “I did not. What was the admiral's request?”
“Computer. Replay last accessed voice file.”
“Acknowledged.” The computer’s deep voice caused a ghost of a smile to flit briefly over his lips when the sound of it reminded Jim of the time about a year ago, while mapping stars out as far in space as they could go, Chekov and Scotty had challenged each other to some manner of practical joke war. Over the course of the battle, the computer’s response had been changed to seven different languages and twenty-eight different voices; ultimately, they had called a tie and agreed on the smooth, dulcet voice of the old Earth hero, Samuel L. Jackson.
“Captain Kirk, congratulations on your promotion. You're expected to report for duty at 0700—I’ve already passed the date to your communications officer. We finally got you off that old bucket of bolts, Jimmy. Can I call you Jimmy? And I’m delighted to inform you that you’ll be serving directly under me as the Public Relations liaison. After that little sightseeing tour you’ve been on, it’s time we put your skills to real use. It’s time for you to step up and make a real difference.”
Jim tried not to grind his teeth at the supercilious tones of his commanding officer, but it was difficult.
“Ah.” Spock’s tone matched the frustration Jim felt.
“It’s just…I can’t believe that, after everything, he still plans to ride my ass as some PR stooge. That is the best way for me to serve the ‘Fleet?” Jim blinked, unable to find the comfort in the stars around him. “It just seems so. . .” Boring. Empty. Lonely. “Pointless.”
“Serving as a liaison to the Galaxy Press would prove advantageous for Command. Your charisma and leadership abilities, Jim, make you well suited for this role.” Spock’s voice had moved slightly closer, as though he were standing just behind Jim's left shoulder. “Although you are far more than just that.”
Jim scoffed. “Am I? It doesn’t seem that the higher-ups think so. I mean, I know that I pushed it with stretching our five-year mission through all these years, but we’ve done so much! We’ve done what the brochures beg us to do—seek out new life and new civilizations.” Jim paused. “And it’s not that I disagree that someone else should have a shot at this role. Which is...why I put your name up as captain, Spock. I’m not sure if they’ve told you yet.”
The silence hung in the air, heavy with unspoken possibilities. Jim felt Spock move even closer and couldn’t help the way he swallowed hard at the proximity. He inhaled sharply on a gasp of air. Jim felt like a plant leaning toward the light, soaking up the heat of Spock’s body, the sound of his voice, and the smell of his skin like some sort of deranged squirrel, stockpiling nuts for the cold winter months.
Yet, no matter how much he tried to ignore it, their time together had an expiration date.
It broke his fucking heart.
“I declined.”
Jim froze. It took him a moment to process what Spock had said. “Wh-what?”
“There is only one captain of the Enterprise, Jim, and I am not him.”
Jim started to shift his body to turn to look at Spock, but, before he could, one warm palm slid softly against the skin of his neck, keeping him in place. The hold was not aggressive. The idea of the Spock he’d gotten to know in the many years of serving together hurting him was incomprehensible. Spock was extraordinarily strong and could have forced Jim to keep his position. Jim had never wanted to move less in his life. The gentle feel of Spock’s skin against his might as well have been a steel vice, keeping him rooted in place.
“Spock—”
“What do you see, Jim?” Spock’s voice lowered to a rumbly whisper, and Jim found himself swallowing hard again, having only heard that intimate tone when Spock and Nyota spoke. Jim had hated himself for the jealousy he felt and had been ruthless in burying those feelings along with everything else. Spock was his friend , and Jim had been lucky to have that, especially after such an inauspicious start after Vulcan was destroyed. Hearing his voice now was confusing as hell. The fingers on Spock’s hand twitched slightly, but Spock was patient as Jim gathered his scattered wits.
“I see space.” He finally spoke, ignoring the breathless note of his voice.
The silence deepened, stretching. It was hard to concentrate with his heartbeat going wild in his chest, but Jim didn’t want to disappoint Spock before they left each other. He forced his brain to work and tried again.
“I see potential. Galaxies and stars and nebulae. I see...possibility.”
Spock’s fingers slid into Jim’s hair, less of a hold and more of a caress. If Jim hadn’t been holding every muscle in his body so tense, his knees would have buckled. He just barely managed to keep the small sound (a groan, okay? Jim knew what it was) trapped behind his teeth where it belonged. Spock gently tipped Jim’s head back, giving him a wider view of the reflection in the glass, tugging gently on his hair. The tug went through his body like a jolt of electricity.
“What do you see, Jim?” Spock’s voice, if possible, grew even lower. Jim could feel the humidity of Spock’s breath against the shell of his ear.
Christ. He was going to see his dick not so politely knocking on the glass if Spock didn’t stop touching him. Jim was much too old for this shit. He might be feeling some of his age, but having a teenager’s reaction to the boy he likes touching him was going a little too far in the wrong direction.
Jim stared, feeling a little like a kid who hadn’t studied for a quiz. What did he see? He saw everything in his life being taken away from him. He saw himself getting older, more useless...lonelier. The possibility of being alone—really alone—was devastating. Jim tried to shake away his thoughts and figure out what Spock wanted him to see. The view of the black was obscured slightly by the puff of Jim’s breath on the glass. He blinked, and realized that by Spock moving his head, Jim could see their reflections, side by side in the reflective surface.
For a second, his heart shivered in anticipation and hope. But...no. That couldn’t be it. Could it? It took Jim a lot more bravery than he was comfortable admitting to say the words.
“I see us. You standing beside me.”
“And you always will, Jim.”
Jim’s eyes drifted closed again. He felt incredibly touched by Spock’s soft words, so much so that his eyes pricked with tears. He blinked again, pressing the back of his head into Spock’s touch.
Spock made a small, satisfied sound. His palm slid from Jim’s hair around to cup his face, gently steering Jim so that he turned from the glass, arranging them so Jim was looking up into Spock’s dark-brown gaze.
Jim knew his heartbeat was going fast enough that he almost expected Bones to rappel down from the ceiling with a handy hypospray. The look on Spock’s face could only be described as gentle, and the clear fact that Spock trusted him enough to let down his guard was vying with the shock of Spock touching him so intimately.
The thing was, he and Spock didn’t touch. Part of that reason was because Vulcans’ hands were so sensitive. Part of the reason was just...them. The last time that he and Spock had skin-to-skin contact was back when he was just a disgraced Academy cadet, goading Spock into showing just how emotionally compromised he could be. Feeling a little like he was pushing the boundaries Spock had established so long ago, Jim reached up to tentatively grip Spock’s forearms with his hands. The soft fingers of Spock’s hand slid against the side of his face. Jim was close enough to see Spock’s lips tremble when his fingers drifted over Jim’s psi points.
When Jim finally managed to speak, he almost didn’t recognize his own voice. “What are you saying?”
Spock cocked his head. “You are aware that I have spent much of my shore leave on New Vulcan.”
Jim was glad that he was holding Spock’s arms, because the non sequitur made him a little dizzy. “Yes, of course. Spock, what—”
“On the last visit to my labs at the New Vulcan Academy, I satisfactorily concluded seventeen of my experiments and studies. The eighteenth requires planetside study, as exposing these particular biomolecules to the conditions of my sterile laboratory rendered them unusable.”
Jim was pretty sure he’d lost the plot somewhere. “And you want me to help?” Spock’s fingers were so warm on his skin that Jim was having trouble concentrating.
Spock glanced upward for a mere moment, which was, for anyone else, a roll of their eyes. “I am not unaware of your habit of taking control of each conversational situation in which you find yourself, but in this particular instance... hush, Jim.”
Jim hushed.
“I have commissioned a ship, pilotable by a very small crew, that is well equipped for study and for exploration. She only needs a captain…” Spock’s voice trailed off. He shifted so that there was only a hint of distance between the two of them. “And a star to follow.”
Jim felt like his heart and his stomach had switched places. If the two of them had been anyone else, Jim would have tilted his head just the slightest bit forward to kiss the being in front of him.
The silence lengthened, held. Strangely, it was not uncomfortable. Jim’s mind felt uncharacteristically blank. It took him several moments before he thought to let go of Spock’s arms. He watched as Spock’s mouth opened, then shut, then opened again, before he removed his hand from Jim’s face.
“To answer your earlier query, Jim, I am saying that I do not wish to continue my tour on the Enterprise. I am saying that after your meeting with the admiral, I would very much appreciate the opportunity to—That is to say that I—” Spock trailed off as a look of discomfiture slid across his visage.
Spock was babbling.
It was so unexpectedly endearing that Jim felt whatever distance he’d kept around his heart take a flying leap. He stepped forward, erasing the distance between them.
Once, on Relios III, he’d heard their chorus singing at some diplomatic function or other. Reliosians were well known for their ability to produce an almost clear, bell-like tone when they sang. When the conductor had cued them for their opening piece, all forty-three singers had hit the same note in unison. Hearing it then had caused all the little hairs on his arms to prickle to attention. Jim had been awed as he had stood there, listening. He had desperately wished that he could have shared it with Spock, who hadn’t been a part of that particular away mission.
Jim thought for a moment, just before their lips met for the first time, that remembered note had somehow resonated through his entire soul. It felt like all the clichés had used this moment between the two of them as inspiration. A song finding its melody, sparks flying, two puzzle pieces connecting with a click , the stars aligning just for them, both hearts beating in sync; all of that was solidly, absolutely true as the distance between them closed, inch by inch, time warping into something both infinite and fleeting. Jim’s mind raced, but his body was calm, as though every fiber of his being had been waiting for this exact moment. And then their lips met. Soft. Warm. Perfect.
Jim had expected fireworks. And sure, that might happen later when they both weren’t still on duty. His emotions didn’t explode. Spock’s certainly didn’t. It was something deeper, quieter. Inevitable: a connection made tangible, something that had lived in their hearts for years but had never dared to surface.
Then Spock tilted his lips, and Jim got his fireworks.
Some time later, after he licked shaky, trembling lips, and when he lifted his head to meet Spock’s own hazy gaze, Jim managed to speak. “In roughly eleven—”
“Eleven-point-two-six.”
Jim knew his smile was absolutely besotted, but he couldn’t find the wherewithal to care very much. “Right. Eleven-point-two-six hours, I’m gonna go in front of the Admiralty and tell them…” He trailed off, unable to help himself from leaning forward and brushing his lips against Spock’s one final time. “…tell them that I had a much better offer.”
'Cause even when there is no star in sight
You'll always be my only guiding light
–Mumford and Sons