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New Vulcan has two suns.
It has red sand, sparse water, and a thin atmosphere.
It is, Spock thinks, the closest thing to home he will ever have again.
(It’s beautiful though, isn't it?)
He concedes there are far worse places to christen as such.
His home is on the outskirts of the city, and he stands outside his door, watching twilight descend across the landscape. The first sun has long since set, but the second takes its time to follow, casting long, solitary shadows across the desert as stars begin to twinkle in the zenith of the sky. It is easy to imagine this is the planet of his childhood.
Much is different, even if much is also the same.
To see such familiar young faces and then to look at his own hands to find wrinkled skin has been a strange thing. They are his own hands, as they've ever been, and yet—
(Speculation, Mr. Spock?)
His body does not fit in this universe, and he feels his time in it drawing to a close. He has known for a while.
A somewhat odd sense of peace settles over him as he turns from the sunset, and shuffles on tired feet into his modest house.
He is close, now.
He decides to meditate.
Routine has always been comforting, and this time is no different as he spreads his mat on the floor and lights his candle at its head. The red wax is running low—it has just enough left for approximately one hour of meditation. He does not believe he will need much more.
Old bones creak and complain as he settles onto the floor, already slipping into the recesses of his own consciousness, and when he opens his eyes, he is aboard the Enterprise.
Everything is as he remembers it—and yet, he knows he is not within one of his own memories.
(Who says we can't go one last round?)
It is almost as if he is aboard the ship again—a new day, a second chance.
Fascinating.
The familiarity of his own quarters is nonetheless welcoming. Gauzy red drapes hang just where he left them, and the photograph of him with his mother sits steadfast at his computer. On his old chessboard, the white queen’s pawn waits patiently at E4—a gambit, and a greeting.
He is compelled, as he often was in his youth, to his viewport. It was a luxury of rank he was always quite fond of, and it makes something hot ache deep beneath his ribs. Nostalgia, he believes is the word. He finds it painful and wonderful all at once.
He realizes now, as he looks at the stars, that he cannot feel the hum of the engines beneath his feet.
The ship is idle, and the constellations are unfamiliar.
And, now that he looks upon them, he is not even sure they are stars at all. He wonders at them curiously. They look like it and yet—he has never seen a star shine as such. They glow warm, brighter than anything Spock has ever seen, but he feels no pain to look upon them.
They are achingly beautiful.
“What are you still doing awake?”
It has been fifty years since Spock has heard that voice, but he has not forgotten the sound.
Jim strides toward him, a soft smile on his face, and stands quietly at his side. Warmth floods Spock’s body where their shoulders brush, and together they gaze out at the strange stars.
He cannot decide if this is a dream. He is not sure he wishes to know.
Jim is silent at his side. How often had they found words unnecessary? He is not sure how to answer Jim's question, and from the smile on Jim’s face, is not sure he needs to.
He has never felt so at peace.
Sooner, perhaps, rather than later, a hand comes to rest on his forearm.
“Spock,” Jim says gently. “You've earned your rest.”
He finds he cannot speak, and he twists his arm to hold Jim’s in return. He feels breathtakingly real.
“Come on,” Jim says, pulling him toward the door, and Spock is helpless to follow. “Everyone is waiting for you.”
“Where?” He manages, though he believes he already knows the answer.
Jim smiles, his eyes flickering back to the viewport, and Spock opens his eyes.
New Vulcan has two suns, and both have set.
He has left the Enterprise behind. But something inside him suggests that there is time enough for one last memory.
At his bedside is an old Earth puzzle box—a thoughtful gift from Doctor McCoy that he cherishes quite dearly—and he holds it in his lap, tracing the familiar contours of wood across the top. He is gratified, that of all his possessions to come with him through the black hole, this is the one that he might get to keep. It is not much, but sentiment has always been a weakness of his. He finds he no longer cares.
The photograph inside is unchanged, even if he is not. It is the last time they were all together before time and fate tore them apart.
(We’re family, Spock. You, me, Bones, the crew… We stick together until the end, and then after, too.)
He finds, curiously, that he does not miss the faces in the photo as much as he has in the past. He has a feeling that this is not the last time he will see them.
Tucking the photo back into the box, he sets it back in its place at his bedside and smooths his hands over the lid after latching it closed. His vision is blurry, and drops of something wet are staining the wood. He's crying, he realizes.
He's almost amused at himself.
In the corner he can still see Jim, leaning rakishly against the wall with a fond smile on his face.
(You were always more human than you liked to admit.)
This time Spock chuckles. It no longer feels wrong to do so, and warmth washes over his body like a long forgotten embrace as he settles into bed. The candle on the floor flickers out, the last of the wick a smoldering glow in the dark. He doesn't bother with blankets. He has a feeling he won't need them.
Jim appears to follow him, sitting at the foot of his bed silently and staring out at the night with a mischievous quirk of the lips he recognizes all too well.
He is less alone than he has ever been.
Spock closes his eyes, for the last time, with a smile.
(Come home, Spock.)
Outside, the stars twinkle against a black velvet sky.
(I am here, Jim.)