4 Days Til End of Mission

The clock ticked away.

There were four days left of the Enterprise's 5-year mission. Boxes lined the corridors, the conference rooms were packed full of personal belongings and decorations that had made homes while aboard the ship. The crew milled about, depositing their meager possessions where they would be collected by Yeomen and Ensigns to be beamed down once they got to Port. Jim's own room was untouched by this excitement and frenzy.

Jim didn't agonize. Unless you were talking about his Mirror self, and then yes, he was pretty sure he got pretty good use out of the verb. But Jim in this universe was not accustomed to the emotional state of agonizing. Difficult command choices may have required him to invest more of his emotional capacity than he preferred at times, but that came with the territory. That's what command was all about. Making difficult choices.

Luckily, his choices usually had deadlines. Short deadlines. Agonizing, by definition, asked for large amounts of time to dwell on a certain topic. Thus, as a Captain, agonizing wasn't exactly routine. His choices were made quickly, not lasting longer than a few days at a time. Hardly a comfortable period to agonize in.

But 3 and 1/2 years was quite a long time to think about something, especially something of the magnitude which this particular issue certainly was. There was no need to rush things. And if he got busy with the mission, conversing with kindly aliens, patrolling borders, protecting the Federation from the Klingons and deadly space diseases, or discovering new oddities the Universe had to offer, well, that could hardly be helped, could it? The Captain was a busy man. Thinking about personal matters (tall, dark, and logical matters, that is) was not a luxury commonly granted aboard a starship.

And… in those small moments of respite, when things were quiet and peaceful, and the time was filled with games of chess and conversation, and wrestling matches were to be had in the rec room, and silence was shared with good books and paperwork, what was there to be said?

But now, Jim could not ignore that looming clock, ticking away. It had followed him down the halls, into his quarters; it was ever present on the bridge. It beamed down with him to the surface of planets. It stood next to him when they greeted the Admiralty, or when they welcomed special guests aboard the ship. It ticked away when danger presented itself in its various forms on their escapades, and it was still ticking at 0300 ship's time when he stayed up much later than he should ever find himself, chess pieces forgotten, partaking in conversation that he was too engaged in to insist on sleep.

Jim made his way to the bridge. He had already left for the day, and Beta shift was on now. He had no real business there at the moment, but when the turbolift doors opened on the circular room, no one questioned his presence there. Ensign Greaves gave him a nod from communications, which Jim returned stiffly. Lt. Sulu sat in the Command chair, and at the sound of the turbolift, he swiveled around. Jim waved his hand when the Lieutenant started to rise out of the chair, motioning for him to stay where he was. Lt. Wethern paid diligent attention to her post at the helm. As they came closer to the Sol system, the navigation through the busy space required more care. The Science officer's station was occupied by a Junior Lieutenant who's name slipped Jim's mind.

The Captain walked around the bridge, chatted with Officer Kyle at the Engineering station, kept an unnecessary eye on some of the monitors on the panels around him. His crew knew what they were doing. They were well trained and accustomed to the ebbs and flows of their jobs aboard the ship. Jim was reminded once again (it felt like the hundredth time) that his crew was due for promotion.

Once it was clear that the Captain was only providing moral support and that his presence on the bridge was quite extraneous, he found himself approaching sickbay. Dr. McCoy was at his desk in the back, laboring over mounds of PADD work. His eyelids were drooping and his hair looked like he'd run his hands through it about a hundred times.

"Jim," he said, looking up from a gruesome-looking form, a relieved smile blossoming on his face. "Well, if you're not a sight for sore eyes. What can I do you for?" Bones looked grateful for an opportunity to do something other than fill in boxes and write notes in tiny spaces. Jim was happy to oblige.

"Oh, I'm not in the market for anything in particular. Figured you might be bored of physicals and checkups." Jim sat down in the chair across from his friend. Bones' eyes widened in exasperated countenance.

"Jim, if I have to do one more check up on a perfectly healthy specimen, I might fall asleep at my post." Bones got up from his chair and grabbed a tall bottle of something green and two glasses from a cabinet on the wall behind his desk. He poured a healthy amount of the strong smelling liquid in each glass and then deposited one in front of the Captain. He held it up in a toast and they drank. Heavy sighs of satisfaction left both men as they swallowed their drinks.

"I thought doctors were supposed to be happy that their patients were healthy," Jim said, smiling.

"Yeah, well, me too." Bones said grumpily. "But the sheer amount of paperwork they're giving me at this 'end of mission' stuff is absurd. How many ways can I write 'healthy' on a form?" The doctor put back his drink and then poured himself a new one. "And what about you, Captain?" Jim looked over at the use of his title and settled his drink back down on the desktop.

"What about me?" Jim said. He made eye contact with the doctor for a split second but knew his friend was too close to him for him to be able to play stupid. The Doctor gave him his look. He stayed quiet for another minute, drawing his gaze away and to the far wall of his office.

"I know we've never talked about it, Jim, but…" Bones glanced again at his friend. At this, Jim's eyes moved to Bones', and in a quick movement, he picked up his glass and knocked back the rest of his own drink. "You know, we're almost outta here. Time is running out."

Jim said nothing. He'd never experienced this feeling with another person before. Not with Carol, not with any of the women he'd met in his space travels. Not with Edith. This fear was all-encompassing. He had never dealt with this kind of fear; other kinds, of course. He'd dealt with so many life and death situations that the fear of them kind of wore off after awhile. He still felt fear, but it was backlit with a warmth of confidence and another presence at his side. He was never alone when he dealt with those fears.

But the 5-year mission was ending. His crew would be parting. He would be waiting for his new orders on the ground. He was recommending all his senior officers for promotion, and he expected they would receive them. And that's what he was scared of. More than that the little group of people who had been his companions for the past five years would not be so close anymore, proximity or otherwise, but that certain members of his crew would be moving on.

Certain members of his crew.

"Thanks, Bones. I'll keep that in mind," Jim said, finally. He gave a half smile, and the doctor didn't pretend he had comforted his friend in any way.

"All right, Jimboy," McCoy said, sitting up from his comfortable position leaning back against his chair. "I've got more sanity to lose here, and I'm sure there are some things you've got to finish up elsewhere." At this last comment, the doctor gave him another pointed look.

Jim met the look, and even after his friend had focused back down on his PADD and started to fill in boxes and make more comments, Jim gave a fond smile. He knew one thing, at the very least. Wherever the good doctor ended up, he would not be so far away from Jim that their friendship would be lost. Perhaps in need of a dusting off once in a while, but always ready to be picked up where it was left off. Jim exited Sickbay comforted in this thought.

Heading down the hall, towards the turbolift, Jim bumped into his First Officer.

"Spock!" Jim said, a fluttering in his chest making the sound of his voice the minutest bit higher than usual. The anxiety coiling in his stomach gave rest as Spock looked down at him.

"Captain," Spock said. "I was just coming to collect you for our chess match this evening."

Jim's smile grew wider. "Why, Mr. Spock, that's very courteous of you. How about a meal first?" Spock gave a nod, and they both started down the hall, walking in a comfortable silence. Jim looked at his First Officer. Spock was staring straight ahead, walking and looking unencumbered by the ticking noise Jim heard now.

They got into the turbolift at the end of the hall and Jim peeled his eyes away. When the doors to the turbolift re-opened and both officers stepped out into the mess, they made their way toward the replicators and Jim ordered his meal unenthusiastically, the smell of reconstituted steak less than mouthwatering. Spock followed him to a table with his tray of greens and soup. The entire meal was a relatively quiet affair. Jim was entirely too wrapped up in his own thoughts to be a good conversationalist, and Spock was all too content to let his Captain cogitate on matters that were troubling him.

Captain's were not customarily given confirmation on whether their recommendations were approved, and so they had no way of knowing (bar asking) where their crew ended up. Jim was too sure that the answer would be one he disliked no matter what that he hadn't asked Spock yet. Jim knew that in the past Spock had been vocal about his lack of desire for a command of his own. Surely some station on a science vessel would be a highly appealing offer. There was still so much to discover out here in space. And besides, what other options were there?

Stay with me. Well, that option wasn't quite realistic. To ask Spock to give up whatever he had planned next for something as unknown as Jim's next post was selfish and he abhorred the thought.

The Admiralty had been less than forthcoming with their orders for Jim post-mission. Their transmissions for him had been short and never left any room to ask direct questions. Jim wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answers anyway.

After the quiet dinner, they both made their way towards Spock's quarters. They were nearly there when Spock broke their silence.

"Captain," he started, and Jim looked up sharply. "There is a Terran colloquialism that is designed to encourage communication through payment when one finds-"

"'Penny for your thoughts,' Spock?" Jim chuckled. Spock gave a short nod.

They entered into Spock's quarters then, and Jim sat down in the seat across from Spock's. Their chess board (although Jim knew it was Spock's, he had come to think of it as "theirs") was set up neatly and ready to be played. Spock took a moment to center the board between them on the desk and made a point of looking at his Captain with an eyebrow raised.

"Yes, well," Jim said. There wasn't a whole lot of room for hedging. "I've been thinking about plans after the mission ends." Spock's eyes had drifted back down to the chessboard in the time it took Jim to say the words; they stayed there after the words were out.

"The Admiralty has not been explicit with your next assignment?" Spock said, at last, seemingly content with the neatness of the pieces on the board, and motioning for Jim to make his move first.

"No, no, they haven't," Jim said, moving a pawn forward. Spock opened with his knight.

"I am unsurprised they have not decided their plans." Spock studied the board as Jim moved out a bishop from its safe haven.

"Oh?" Jim said, watching Spock decide on his next move. "Why is that, Mr. Spock?" The Commander glanced up at his name, and leaned forward, moving his knight once more. Then Spock steepled his fingers and leaned his elbows on the desktop, fingertips resting against his mouth.

Jim stared at his mouth for a few seconds and then his gaze traveled up to make eye contact, shaking his head. Spock spoke, and his eyes met Jim's.

"I believe Starfleet has been very pleased with your Captaincy, and though I disapprove of some of the ways Starfleet chooses to operate, it does not make it any less likely that they will do what is in their best interest and keep you close to their resources on the ground."

The Captain's shoulders sagged. He was hearing the fears that had been running around in his head spoken aloud.

"Jim," Spock said quietly. The softness in the intonation made him look up from the chess board sitting between them. Spock's eyes were warm when he met them, but after a second, Spock broke the eye contact in favor of staring at his king, sitting next to his queen. "I am honored to have had the opportunity to serve as First Officer aboard the Enterprise. It has been a most gratifying experience, one that I believe has been made so largely by your presence."

Spock continued to look at his chess pieces but did not make a move. Jim couldn't remember whose turn it was. All he could do was stare at his First Officer.

"Thank you, Mr. Spock." Jim figured it must be his move now, and he threw forward a random pawn. Spock retreated back into himself after his comment. The warm softness that Jim was accustomed to seeing on nights like this was gone, and in its place was a stony exterior.

Jim's heart was not in the game. He carelessly moved pieces around, each one being picked off by his opponent until there was nothing left to guard his King. Their game was much shorter and much more subdued than their usual matches. There was no more conversation, and the silence was not completely comfortable. There was a tension in the air that chilled the usually stifling room.

When Spock tipped Jim's king over, he didn't wait to be dismissed. He stood up from his chair and walked to Spock's door. He knew the Vulcan was following behind him politely, seeing him out of his quarters. As the door opened onto the slumberous hallway, Jim turned around and put his hand on the doorframe. He wanted to say something, wanted to reach out to Spock. But Spock stood far enough away from the Captain for that.

Jim opened his mouth, and Spock's face became even stonier if it was possible. Jim looked at him, and he was sure that his face was open, probably too open. Jim closed his mouth and looked down.

"Good night, Spock."

"Sleep well, Captain."

He did not.

2 Days Til End of Mission

"Ve vill be pulling up to ze Jupiter Station in 36 hours, Keptin." Chekov announced. Jim nodded and looked back down at his PADD where he was slowly working his way through recommendations for his crew. The Jupiter Station was their first stop. They'd be unloading half the crew there, mostly Science Officers and equipment. The Senior Officers and the other half of the crew would continue on to Earth and unload the following day.

Jim could still hear the ticking. He heard it while he punched information into forms, he heard it while he signed PADDs from department heads, authorizing final reports of the five-year mission. He heard it when he was writing his own reports, unfinished from the last missions on various planets.

The ticking persisted after the Alpha shift ended, and Jim sat in his chair for a few minutes in silence. The clock ticked as he stared at the PADD in his lap, bridge sounds beeping all around him, a new transmission from the Admiralty staring back up at him from the screen. Tick. Tick. Tick. His new orders were the loudest ticking of all.

Jim left the bridge. It was the night before they would dock at the Jupiter Station. He wasn't able to sleep much the night before; he had used the time to start packing up all his belongings in boxes. There was still quite a lot to be done. He entered his quarters, his head swimming and his ears ringing.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Commodore. They wanted to make him a Commodore. Of course, he shouldn't have been surprised. He'd known they would want to keep him grounded. He was a great asset for their publicity, to make Starfleet look better. So they made him a Commodore, and he would likely never Captain a ship again. They gave him the best ship, the best mission, the best crew, and for five glorious years, he was in his element. And now, they were asking him to pay them back by playing the Good Little Commodore for the fleet.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Jim leaned against the wall inside his quarters. His breathing was heavy. The boxes all around him took up too much space. He should be out in the rec room, or the mess hall, conversing with his crew. There was so little time left to do it.

But he didn't want to talk to his crew. He only wanted to talk to one person.

Spock. He had been offered a position on the USS Titan. Captain Riker had notified Jim good-humoredly the previous morning that he was "going to try and poach that science officer of yours." Jim had gone stiff when he read the transmission. Spock had not said anything to Jim about it. In his bad mood, he'd skirted around Spock for the last day and a half; not that it was hard to avoid the Commander, as Spock was not really making any effort to talk with him in the first place.

Now, with two nights left on board, Jim felt that deadline on top of him, heavy on his chest, making it hard for him to breathe. He couldn't have been the only one to feel it. Not if Bones knew it was there. Not if it was so tangible that Jim couldn't sleep, it was sitting beside him and keeping him awake at night. He couldn't fathom that it was just him.

But wasn't it? He knew that Spock held a deep regard for him. He knew that. He knew. But did his affection run as deep as Jim's did? Or was it merely Vulcan admiration? There must be some part of him, the human part, that could feel what Jim felt. There had to be. Otherwise, he didn't know anything.

Jim pushed himself off the wall. His forehead was beaded with sweat. He paced. There was little room for it, but he made do, walking, back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He paused. His leg shook impatiently. He wrapped his arms around himself, and a thumb pressed against his mouth as he stared at the door to their shared bathroom. He stepped toward it and then stepped back.

Would Spock tell him about his plans if he asked? Would he tell Jim whether he planned to go to the Titan? If he wasn't going to go on the Titan, what would he do? And if he was, what would Jim do?

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Jim stepped forward again, and then again. The automatic door opened and he heard it close behind him with another step, but he just stared ahead of him at the opposite door.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He stepped forward, one step and then another. Another step. And then the door opened, revealing Spock, slightly startled for the smallest second, but then his regular impassive facade was back In place.

"Captain," Spock said. "I apologize. The sensors must not have registered the use of the facilities-"

"That's fine, Spock," Jim said, quickly. There was a lump in his throat at the sight of the Commander. He was dressed in his Starfleet regulation sleepwear, and he held an open box. Jim realized he must be packing up some of his toiletries. He smiled weakly. "Actually, would you mind if-" Jim finished by motioning towards Spock's quarters. A slight hesitation, and then a nod, and Jim was given admittance.

Entering into Spock's living quarters through the bathroom was not something Jim had done frequently. They usually respected that unspoken boundary and entered through the hallway. It had happened maybe a handful of times, the rare nights that Jim had stayed up late with his First Officer, and he had been drinking and they had been discussing difficult topics or missions, and Jim had found himself growing too tired to be completely proper. On those nights, when it was very late, he had used this passage. But it felt very intimate.

Now, Jim walked forward into the familiar alcove of Spock's office area. He knew the Vulcan had followed behind him, but he was silent. Jim turned slowly, and in the heat of Spock's higher-temperature room he felt himself flush.

"Captain, was there something you needed?" Spock asked after a moment of silence too long. Jim looked up at him. Spock's face was a carefully constructed work of sculpture, all sharp angles and delicate touches.

"Yes, Spock." The Captain swallowed and tried to compose himself. He half turned, and played with a chess piece from the three dimensional board sitting next to the empty box that was waiting for it. "I know that Captain Riker has offered you a position on his ship." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spock nod once. He offered no other comment when Jim looked at him. He only stared back at his Captain, a tension tightening his features. Jim wanted to see his features soften, like they usually did when they were alone, but they did not. He couldn't have been imagining those soft moments when the Vulcan had let his guard drop. With him.

"Yes, well." Jim said again. He turned towards the desk now. He walked around it so that it separated him from Spock. He still fiddled with the chess piece. "It seems we were correct, when we guessed at what the Admiralty had in store for me." Jim could not look up at him now. He could feel his heart rate rising, and his breathing was gradually quickening. There was no movement in the corner of his eyes. No reaction. "Commodore," he laughed. "I figure I could fight it, like Decker," he said. He looked up now, and Spock was still just staring at his Captain, as if nothing he was saying had any effect on him at all. Jim could feel a lump forming in his throat at the sight of him, the tight black undershirt hugging his frame, the long gray pants. He had put down the box he held upon entering the room, and now his hands were at his sides. He was still. Nothing.

"Spock, do you... Do you-" he cut off, unable to finish the question. Spock's expression remained solid, unmovable, completely blank. He did not attempt to give an answer, nor even inquire that Jim finish his question. Jim stepped closer, running his hands through his hair in a rare show of anxiety, acutely aware of Spock's eyes on him. Clearly he was going to make him come out and say it. He gave a half laugh, "I mean, tell me if I'm wrong. If I've imagined this." He gestured at the small space that remained between them.

Jim watched Spock say nothing, and stand so still. His eyes searched Spock's, but they did nothing except stare directly back at him. "Tell me it's just me…" he said one more time. Spock said nothing.

Jim raised his hand slowly. He was not breathing as his fingertips made contact with Spock's cheek, his jawbone. He waited for Spock to lean into the touch, press his face closer. Even his retreat would be enough. But he was still, and Jim thought he might never move, and the result would be his own heartbreak.

He let his hand fall past Spock's face, and touched his neck gently, stepping those scant few inches closer, till the toes of his boots met Spock's toes, and there were only centimeters between their bodies, their faces. He stared at Spock's lips, not for the first time, and he tilted his head up to look in Spock's eyes, dark and harder to read than ever, but so familiar and so close… He tilted his head more, and he moved closer, and he couldn't bare to watch Spock's eyes, but couldn't close his own.

At first, Jim's lips on Spock's was the only thing he could feel. Spock's lips were soft and warm and… still. Jim pulled back so that their lips were no longer touching, his nose brushing against Spock's, and he finally closed his eyes. Spock didn't move. Jim's forehead was wrinkled with his distress.

Resignedly, Jim pressed his lips close once more, chaste, soft, a goodbye kiss. His hand moved to the back of Spock's neck, and his other hand found a place on Spock's arm, and then Jim was prepared to pull back. But there were hands on him, gripping him closer, and the lips pressed into his sparked alive, and they moved against him, urgent and needy. An eagerness returned to Jim's movements, and grasping fingers wandered over torsos, always bringing closer, and closer, and closer. The hands traveled up around necks, embracing shoulder blades and strong, muscular backs.

There was little sound in the room. They only gasped, soft and quiet, as if to keep everything they shared between the two of them. Jim searched blindly for a path to a horizontal world, pushing back against the lithe body that pushed and pulled his, finding the steps to Spock's bed. The back of Spock's knees met the edge of their destination, and Jim pushed them back against the dark Vulcan sheets, which puffed around them in admittance.

Moments or hours after, the two laid side by side.

In this moment, there was only touching. Spock would not try to speak, because he knew that nothing would change his mind. It was easier to lie there and savor what had been given and what had been taken for one night than admit that it could only be one night.

Vulcan kisses were pressed on every inch of flesh that was open to the balmy air. Golden fingers caressed flushed green skin. Eyes, black and hazel, worshipped the temples they'd paid sacrifice to, each of their sacrifices costly.

Spock could have left the ship behind without ever having said a word. He could have forced it down somewhere deep inside his katra, he could have left and not looked back. These alien feelings inside him, fostered by this soft man he laid with, would never have been confronted, and he could have perpetuated his Vulcan image; emotionless.

But he'd clobbered his controls with pleasure and passion and blunt-force abandon. The pieces of his walls were scattered around him, and soon he would be forced out of this moment in time and without his walls he would not know what to do with himself.

He reveled in what he could for the moment, the loss he had just suffered so deliciously. There was nothing like this lack of control that had ever undone him so completely. He allowed himself the pleasure of the grief, the mourning for his composure. But he knew. He felt it creeping up his spine, as the gentle touches and the sweet caresses went on. He could hear the ground parting where his buried restraints all clamored to the surface to breathe life again.

But for now, he let himself touch this man he'd longed to touch for so long, and permitted the reciprocation of affection. For now, Jim could have all of him that he wanted. Tomorrow, Spock would have none to give him.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Jim woke to the alarm going off from his communicator, lost in the tumult of discarded clothing. He fumbled around for the device to shut off the incessant ringing, and then sat back and ran his hands over his face.

In the vast emptiness of the bed he could not tell himself that Spock had just gone to the bathroom, or to the replicator for food. He knew from the sick feeling in his stomach that Spock had not left with intentions of returning. The lack of boxes in the room could have had something to do with his confidence on the matter.

Still, the amount of space left in the bed with only his naked body was jarring. Dreamlike. If he just went back to bed everything could be fine. He'd wake up again and the whole of yesterday would have played out differently.

But here he was. He'd done too many things that he could not take back. He could not take back his actions, he could not take back his adoration, he could not take back every minute he's spent in the past three and a half years waiting to lie in that bed. If he could have taken it back, he would have. Anything that could have kept some semblance of what had been before, he would have done it.

But the clock did not tick backwards, only forwards, and there was not a single thing he could do about anything now. He'd made his decision.

Later he would find out that Spock had left with the other Science crew members at the Jupiter station at 0600. The other Senior Officers would laugh and smile like it was all just normal Spock, trying to get away from the warm reception waiting for them in San Francisco, and Jim would think to himself how true it was.

He would think to himself, and he would notice that his head ached where his meld points were, and they had never ached that way before.