Still Waters
Prologue
The crowd of onlookers—civilian spectators, Starfleet officers, Federation Ambassadors, aliens of every size, shape and description—receded like an outgoing tide.
The buzz of excited chatter receded with them, leaving behind a sudden quiet stillness that suited the three remaining men in the council chamber. Two of the men, both tall and spare, at home in the silence, conversed quietly under the blue Federation banner.
The third man stood alone. A bewildered tangle of fatigue and surprise, grief and elation, overtook him and he leaned against the panel separating the spectator seats from the main floor. The days and weeks suddenly caught up with him, the improbable journey into Earth's past, the rescue of the whales, the disciplinary panel that had just concluded. And before that, the collapse of Genesis beneath his feet, the desperate journey to Vulcan, the heartbreaking—but not regretted—loss of the Enterprise.
The death of David. God, the death of David.
Jim Kirk scrubbed a hand wearily over his face. He would have to deal with that grief sooner or later. For now, he was tired, so tired... But also paradoxically suffused with anticipation at the possibilities ahead. He had entered this chamber fully expecting his career to be over before he left it. Instead, he would leave it with a future before him that he could never have imagined.
Looking across the empty chamber at the two figures opposite him, Jim realized that, for the first time in weeks, he felt...whole.
They were so similar, the men facing each other and chatting politely. Both straight and lean, both with an elegant carriage that bordered on regal. Both still wary and stiff in each other's presence, but slowly learning to bend.
There could be no doubt that the older man cared deeply for the younger one. Not anymore. Jim would never forget the depth of grief in Sarek's eyes when he'd asked why his son's living spirit had not been returned to him, nor the crushing sorrow when it seemed all had been lost. Jim had seen something of the same profound but suppressed sorrow on Spock's face once or twice before, and he vowed to wipe it from Sarek's if it was humanly possible.
Fortunately, it was.
Sarek peered intently into his son's face as if he would never tire of it. Jim sympathized with him. His eyes fixed on his old friend, standing firm and unwavering under his father's scrutiny. How long had it been since Jim had watched Spock die? The memory would not leave him, even now. The fact that Spock was alive and well and standing just a few meters away could not wash away the sight of him crumpled in the radiation chamber, his life rapidly fading from him. Jim closed his eyes against the memory.
He'd lost something of himself that day. Thank God he'd gotten it back.
Jim looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Having exchanged their goodbyes, father and son were moving in opposite directions across the chamber. Sarek exited toward the civilian area at the back of the chamber. Spock walked away from his father, looking very self-satisfied.
Jim stood still, watching him approach. It was a sight he'd never thought to see again, Spock back in uniform, memories intact, an old familiar sparkle in his eyes.
As he drew level with the end of the panel where Jim stood, Spock slowed wordlessly, favoring him with a look of quiet expectation. Jim smiled, pushed away from the panel and fell into step beside him, his weariness falling away.
The practiced rhythm was there instantly, the confidence and ease. Jim could not help but think back to their awkward stroll beside San Francisco Bay just a few days before, plagued as it had been by misunderstanding and hesitation, just as their conversation had been. That discomfort was gone now, replaced by the lightness of long familiarity, the comfort of being back where one belongs.
Their footsteps echoed through the chamber and out toward the Starfleet shuttle dock. Jim did not know precisely where they were headed. But as long as they went there side-by-side, he decided that he didn't much care.