Title: Insubordination
Author: May Eve
Fandom: Star Trek: 2009
Summary: They said it was insubordination. They gave him twenty-four hours - he was gone in twenty. Captain James T. Kirk had been forced to leave Starfleet and little would ever be the same.
Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.
Characters/Pairing: Jim Kirk, Spock, Spock Prime, the Enterprise crew, the Admirals, OCs, pairing undecided
Warnings: n/a
Rating: T

Insubordination:

Chapter I

The shadows were just beginning to retreat from the Academy buildings when the young crew of the Enterprise gathered at the school's front gates. Astride an antique, cherry-red motorbike was their Captain, James T. Kirk.

Word had spread fast through campus gossips when James Kirk, hero of the Narada incident and Captain of the Enterprise, was seen exiting the Admirals' office pale and tense earlier the previous day. It hadn't taken long before there was a formal announcement of his 'retirement' by Admiral Barnett. No one was fooled. A blind man could tell how Kirk adored his captaincy and the truth soon traveled—James Kirk had been discharged from Starfleet on charges of insubordination. His retirement was a cover to protect Starfleet from any backlash at their treatment of Earth's hero.

It was designed with very good reason. Already students had threatened to drop out in their outrage on his behalf and every officer with personal experience of what was fondly dubbed The Kirk Phenomenon grew quietly mutinous.

Jim set things straight, though. When he discovered their behavior, he invited the instigators to speak with him in private. No one knew what exactly he said, but all signs of rebellion were swiftly silenced and he was ready to depart at dawn the very next morning.

Jim was terrible at goodbyes and he knew it, but he couldn't leave his crew without trying. None of them questioned the request to meet him at such a godforsaken hour, just gathered quietly to see him off - and argue, in a few cases.

"Dammit, Jim, this isn't right! How can they do this? How can you just give up!" Leonard McCoy growled at his best friend. Jim just smiled sadly and gave the man a quick hug.

"I'm gonna miss you, too. Don't worry, Bones. It'll be alright." McCoy opened his mouth to comment but Jim cut him off, "No, Bones. You're not coming with me. Starfleet needs you here. You're one of the best damn doctors in the Fleet and there's too few left." The doctor grunted and grumbled but stayed silent, his eyes fixed on Jim as though to imprint his image on his memory. He knew the kid was right, but damn it all, he didn't have to like it.

"You promise me you'll stay out of trouble, Jim. Or at least try," he added hastily at the childish pout that formed on the man's features. They'd had this argument before. Jim always maintained that he didn't go looking for trouble, it just followed him around until he got bored enough to poke it with a stick and see if it bites.

Jim grinned at Bones and clapped his shoulder with a mischievous, "Promise." The doctor sighed. He figured that was the best he would get and stepped back to allow the others their chance. Jim's grin softened as he took in the alternately sorrowful and angry faces of his bridge crew.

"I know you guys are pissed." There was a vaguely furious rumbling from Sulu and Uhura as Spock's eyebrow rose a few inches. Jim couldn't help but chuckle. Uhura's glare transferred from the ground to his face. He only grinned and respectfully ignored the wetness at the corners of her eyes.

"But this is necessary. I can't—won't—explain." Uhura actually growled at him.

"I'm sorry. I really am." And for a moment he let them see how exhausted, how utterly heartbroken he was over this. "But you guys have to know I'd never leave without a damn good reason." There were no more angry faces, but now there were tears. Taking a step forward, he gave Chekov, Uhura, and Chapel each a quick hug. He clapped Sulu, Bones, and Spock on the shoulder. Leaning in, he murmured a few words for each of his crew, gave them something to hold on to, to remember.

When he stepped back, he stood still and just looked at them for several moments, memorizing their faces. Then he forced himself to turn away and take a step toward the streak of blood-red metal that stained his horizon.

"You guys are the best crew any Captain could ask for." He heard a choked sob behind him, but didn't turn to see who it came from. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he looked back now, he'd never be able to leave. No matter the cost.

"I won't be in touch," he said abruptly. He cut off the questions and protests before they even began, "It's too dangerous. You can't know how much."

Then he allowed himself to face them one last time. He was taking a risk, but this was too important. They had to understand this, if nothing else. He met six pairs of eyes before speaking.

"But if you need me—really need me—Spock will be able to contact me. If you call, I will always come. Never doubt that." Spock spoke up then, "How shall I be able to reach you, Captain?" His face was carefully neutral and voice bland. Or at least, that was what he seemed to be trying for. Jim clearly heard the undercurrent of grief, of sorrow, of frustration.

Shaking his head slightly, Jim managed his brightest smile just for Spock, trying to tell him without words, Don't worry. Trust me. We will meet again. And of course, the same words he'd murmured to him just minutes ago—I am, and will always be, your friend.

"I'll keep our mutual friend updated with a way to reach me."

Without another word, he forced himself away, over to his new bike. He yanked the black helmet over his head, shut the visor, and zipped up his prized leather jacket. In seconds, he had gunned the engine and sped away down the open stretch of highway outside San Francisco. He never looked back.

An hour later, he skidded to the side of the road and pulled out his communicator, "Jim Kirk to Admiral Pike."

Pike answered at once and Jim tried to ignore the deepening stress lines around his forehead and eyes, "Pike. I'm gone. Make sure Barnett holds up his end." The monotone of his voice could have impressed a Vulcan. Pike only nodded, signing off with terribly sad eyes and a quiet, "Good luck, Jim."

Jim leaned on his bike for minutes afterward, staring down the flat line of asphalt to the horizon. Then he sighed, hopped on, and kick-started in one smooth motion.

James T. Kirk would not be seen or heard from again for three long years.

Edited December 22, 2011.