A/N: I'm sorry again about the confusion with the last chapter. As far as I can tell, it was just a random glitch that resolved itself in about 24 hours—in which case, I really spent too much effort stressing about it. Anyway, I hope, hope, hope that this update posts without any confusion or problems (and if there are problems, obviously this message is pretty pointless, haha). BUT, if anything should go wrong again on this site, all new updates will now be posted simultaneously here and on livejournal, under the name red_at_three. I hope that is helpful.

x

He would never admit it if asked, but Jim had honestly believed that Spock would accept the First Officer position eventually. He had believed this for the simple reason that he could not imagine any other man or woman in that role, could not imagine any other right hand. Somehow he'd had this silly idea that he and Spock were destined for something, maybe even greatness, and that that destiny started by jumping on a ship together and exploring the universe.

Now, he takes the steps up to the Academy's main administrative building two at a time and thinks, what a fool he was. He can still barely think of Spock's name without scowling, can't get over the gross bile of feeling that sways up through his stomach every time he thinks of those eight years of lies. He'd asked Bones if this ever gets better, but Bones just scowled and said, he wouldn't know.

It doesn't matter, he decides. The problem isn't Spock, it's the First Officer position; having assumed that Spock would take it, he had never bothered to come up with an alternative choice. There are plenty of talented Officers out there, Pike had reminded him, more than once, but every flip through their resumes made each one look more like all the others. At least Gary Mitchell was someone he knew. They'd taken a couple of classes during Jim's first two years at the Academy, before Gary graduated, and had had the friendly acquaintanceship of people who habitually sit near each other during lectures, though they rarely saw each other otherwise. Gary was competent, intelligent, and ambitious, and though he was known to have a high opinion of himself, Jim preferred to read this trait as a confidence that would be not only beneficial, but necessary, for anyone taking the position of second in command on a starship. Jim had seen him in a couple of in-class debates and knew he could be harsh, even ruthless, but in normal conversation he was easy going and friendly. He could imagine working with him for the duration of a mission, or at least, he could sometimes, which was more than he could say of any other candidate he'd considered. So, here he is.

He skips the lift and takes the stairs up to the second floor, then walks down the hall to the last door on the right. He has to think for a moment before he remembers the code to get into the room, which is a little embarrassing, because it is, after all, his office. Starfleet actually gave him an office. It's a temporary place, just a small, cramped room that must have been used for storage before they handed it over to the Fleet's newest captain, but it's still an office, more than he wants or needs. He's early, and Gary hasn't arrived, so he walks in by himself, commands on the lights, and settles into the chair behind the desk. He feels like a fraud.

He uses his computer to check his messages while he's waiting. One from Pike; Starfleet business most likely. Or to talk about Spock. The news has spread fast, like all good gossip will, and though no one would dare say anything about it to Jim's face, he still feels sometimes like it's all he can do to avoid hearing it whispered about wherever he goes. The Federation's latest wonder boy fathered an illegitimate son in his teens—and it gets better. The other parent is Spock of Vulcan, famous, too, for his part in the Narada mission, but not quite as golden, the Tragedy clinging too closely to him, the rumors of his burst of anger, his fight on the bridge, tarnishing his edges. It must have been the hottest gossip anyone at the Academy had heard in years. Some people joked, when they heard; others denied; a few condemned. Everyone speculated. What would this mean for the Enterprise? Would one of Starfleet's newest heroes leave the service? Would they both?

Jim tries his best to block out all of the noise. When he's asked about it outright, and that's rarely, he refuses to engage. No comment, he says, no comment, as if he had something to hide.

He skips over the message from Pike, for the moment. There's another from Scotty just above it; probably another detailed update on the transporter experiments, much too dense to skim quickly now. One from Spock above that. He commands it open. It's just a short, two line note finalizing some plans regarding Sevin, telling him that Wednesday is a suitable day if he wants to pick Sevin up after school then. Spock signs the note with his name but doesn't address it. Jim closes it without thinking about it.

There's only one newer message, this one from Gary, and since he has the time, he opens this one too and glances through. It's a rundown of his thoughts on the state of the Enterprise mission plans. Jim's not sure if he should be impressed or wary. It's good work, or seems so at first look, but on the other hand, they haven't even had their first meeting. He's not sure if he's being sucked up to or upstaged.

He's left his door open and just then, as he's about to give the first paragraph a serious read, he hears a knock-knock of knuckles rapped against it. "Jim?" a familiar, friendly, voice calls in, and then Gary Mitchell is peering his head in around the door. "Or should I say 'Captain Kirk' now?" he adds, lowering his voice in some imitation of pompous formality when he gets to the title.

"Just Jim is fine, Gary," he answers with a close-lipped smile, and waves him in with his hand. "Come in, sit down."

He's used to thinking of Gary as his peer: another man approximately his age, another soldier of his rank, a student at the same time that he himself was, a classmate. It feels strange and a little wrong to be sitting on opposite sides of a desk. He doesn't want to seem too stiff, too full of himself. But on the other hand, he doesn't want anyone to think that he doesn't take himself, or being captain, seriously.

Gary doesn't seem to be struggling with any such confusion, or going through any comparable internal debate. He relaxes back in the chair with a smile and says, "I just wanted to tell you, Jim, that I'm really glad you're giving me this chance here. I know there was probably a lot of pressure to pick someone older, more experienced, to balance out your crew, but I think we could work well together."

"There's no need to thank me, Gary," he answers. "I'm just trying to pick the best people for the jobs. I want you to know that your appointment isn't official yet—"

"Does that make this an interview?" he interrupts, but he's smiling and confident.

Jim grits his teeth a little, and leans forward in his chair, arms on the table and fingertips of one hand rubbing the fingers of the other. "No," he says, as if it were a serious question. "The position is yours if you want it. I did think it would be best if we met to talk about the mission plans, though. All of the other senior officers have been on board for a couple of months, so you're a little behind." He gives Gary a smile, his polite conversation smile, a little disingenuous and a little thin.

"Yeah of course," Gary answers easily. "Did you get my message?"

"I did. I haven't read it through completely yet, but I saw it."

"Good." He taps his fingers once, twice, against the arm of his chair, then leans forward. "You know, honestly, I'm not usually like that. The obnoxious overachiever type. All those thoughts just…came to me and I thought I'd write them down. I hope they're…okay."

Jim doesn't know what to say. He considers telling Gary that what he wants are those obnoxious overachiever types, that you can't live your life doing everything at the last minute, knowing it will be perfect anyway because you've always been the best. He used to live that way, too. But it won't be good enough now. Still, he believes that Gary is being genuine. That takes a certain amount of courage in itself. He sits back abruptly in his chair.

"I'll have to look them over more carefully," he says. "I'm sure your insight will be helpful."

"Well it better be right?" Gary smiles, still that nervous air about him. "Or else what am I doing as First Officer?"

"Exactly," Jim answers, with a smile of his own. His tone, even his words, sound false. Gary's words are a poor joke. But he cannot dwell on it, on what decisions he's made or what they mean—it's just a job, he thinks, just a position. Officially, the First Officer is simply assigned to the Captain. It's only by tradition that this was his choice to make at all, a choice he can make well or badly. And Gary is a perfectly acceptable choice, a man he could have seen himself being friends with, once, had they met under different circumstances, had they been given a chance to click. They may still find their rapport yet. They have, after all, five years to try. So he sighs and gathers his thoughts and turns his computer screen so that Gary can see it too, and calls up the latest documents from Starfleet and starts, "As I said, we have a lot to go over. Let's begin here."

x

He waits with the other parents outside of the elementary school at the end of the day, although it doesn't feel right, yet, to think of himself as just another parent. He's waited here for Sevin before, it's true. But it wasn't like this. He was doing a favor for Spock then, a favor he was glad to do and one he'd volunteered for, but still a favor. Now it's his own son he's waiting to take home, and he knows it's better not to think about it, because it gives him an unpleasant sense of jitters, but he can't seem to stop. He realizes he's been standing at attention, his hands behind his back, and tries to relax. He's been through more difficult challenges than this.

The doors of the school open and, in the rush of kids that all but stampedes out, he catches sight of Sevin. He's talking animatedly with a boy with red hair and freckles, smiling and laughing and shaking his head at intervals. The other boy is making funny faces now, as if doing impressions, and Sevin laughs all the harder, but then in a moment he looks up and catches sight of Jim and his laughter staggers off and then dies. He and his friend are close enough now for Jim to hear them; when he raises his hand and smiles in greeting, Sevin just blinks back at him, then turns to his friend and says, "I have to go. Jim—my dad is here."

"Your dad?" the other boy repeats, and he sounds, Jim thinks as he tries to keep his smile firm on his face, even though he doesn't feel it, a little amazed. "The one you just met?"

"Yeah," Sevin answers. He sounds embarrassed, and he doesn't quite look at either Jim or his friend. "So I have to go, okay?" he adds in a rush. "See you tomorrow." He waves goodbye before his friend even has the chance to answer properly, and jogs over to where Jim is still standing, waiting. He decides not to comment on the conversation or to ask after the friend. Instead he just asks Sevin if he's had a good day.

He shrugs. "Yeah. It was okay."

"Well…good."

They'd started walking almost as soon as Sevin caught up with Jim, and that was the boy's decision, not his. The pace isn't fast for his long legs, but he can tell that Sevin is rushing as if he had somewhere important he had to be, and he considers telling him, hey buddy slow down, but somehow the words feel wrong in his mouth before he even forms them. He has absolutely no idea what to say. He's used to Sevin starting the conversation, running from one topic to the next with excitement and enthusiasm. He's always been full of news, or at least of questions, and each question then inspires in him his own speech. But now he's as quiet as he was when they first met, and worse. At least before his reticence had seemed the shyness of a small boy, a preparatory quiet, a sizing up. But he knows Jim now, so this silence must be of a different sort; there is no sizing up necessary this time.

Except, he realizes even as he thinks it, there is. Sevin already knows Jim. But he doesn't know his dad. He doesn't even have stories, the sort of mythical father-legends that Jim used to hear from Sam, or even occasionally from his mother, about George Kirk. Sevin's other parent has always been just a question mark to him, just a mystery.

"So," he says now, trying to sound as cheerful as he can, "what do you want to do this afternoon?"

"I don't know."

"Um, okay," he sighs. He considers the possibility that this could be a test, but though he wouldn't put it past the father, he doesn't think it likely of the son. This wall between them is genuine. Though Vulcans are known for their defenses, he can't help feeling that this is Sevin's human side showing through. He remembers the day that he and Spock told Sevin the truth, how confused he was by it, how quick to blame Jim for the secret. They have not seen each other since that day. Spock had assured him, in a series of short messages between them, that he has spoken to Sevin at more length on the topic and that he holds no grudges, but still Jim knows that the boy is wary. Of course he is. Of course. It is not even worth saying. "How about we go to the aquarium?" he suggests, forcing another infusion of light cheeriness into his voice. "You had fun there the last time, right?"

"Yeah," Sevin answers. "Okay."

The advantage of an hour or two spent watching the various fish, the turtles and the alligators and other creatures, is that they do not have to talk. He still has no idea what he should be saying. He keeps telling himself that it will get easier, someday; someday he and his son will have real conversations, will really trust each other, will look forward to the times they can see each other. He only has to be patient, force down his frustration and this sick feeling that he always gets when he feels like he's failing at something that he's really trying to do right, and keep acting this part of the parent he wanted to have when he was a kid, keep acting that part until he becomes it.

He follows by Sevin's side as he wanders from room to room, never staying long by any one tank or at any one exhibit, and his eyes slipping from creature to creature as if he weren't really seeing any of them. There aren't many other people at the aquarium on a weekday afternoon, and eventually, they wander into a large, empty room, where a hardwood bench runs next to a rectangular tank filled with large fluorescent yellow fish. Sevin stops in the doorway and Jim stops, too, a step behind him. The light in the room is dim, so that the fish shine all the brighter. The whole far wall is only glass and on the other side two dozen long, thin, fish flit back and forth with surprising speed. They are beautiful.

"I like them," Sevin declares after a moment, and steps fully into the room. He walks to the bench and sits down, and for the first time all afternoon he gives his complete attention over, that same fascinated look on his face that Jim recognizes from the first time they explored the aquarium together. It is the same look he recognizes from when he worked with Sevin's father. He comes to sit down on the bench next to Sevin, though he doesn't give much attention to the fish. He finds that, however beautiful they are, he's more interested in watching his son's face.

After a few moments, long and dragging moments during which Sevin does not once glance at him, he asks, "How do you feel about spending the afternoon with me?"

Sevin shrugs, quickly, like a reflex. Then he flicks a glance over to Jim. "I don't mind," he says. It might be only an attempt at politeness.

"Really," he presses, bowing his head down, trying to meet Sevin's gaze. "Because it's okay if you're…confused or angry. I know that Spock—your father and I kind of sprung this on you all of a sudden and it must be hard to get used to. It's hard for me, too."

At this, Sevin turns his attention from the waters beyond the glass aquarium wall and looks at Jim instead. He tilts his head, thinking or considering or working out some problem in his mind, then says, experimentally, "I'm not angry. I…I've wondered sometimes about you. I mean, about my dad, because I didn't know he was you. I mean—"

Jim smiles. "I understand." And he does. It is not merely a polite, formulaic phrase. For a moment, the image of George Kirk in his favorite photograph comes to his mind as if swimming in front of his vision; he wishes it wouldn't but there it is. A man in military uniform, standing just outside the shade of a tree in front of a large brick building, summer sun bright on his face; he's grinning. He recognizes the place now, in a way he didn't when he was young: the Academy campus, the man younger than Jim is now. Tell me more about dad, Sam, he'd said. Tell me everything you remember. He'd been about Sevin's age, then, if he's remembering right. The memory feels sharp despite all the years that have passed since the last time he brought it out and turned it over in his thoughts.

He sighs without even hearing it and then, at the shade of concern he sees on Sevin's face, he forces back the smile that had faltered. "Well, I'm here now," he says. "If there's anything you want to know…"

"All sorts of things," Sevin answers, and for a moment he has that bright edge of excitement in his voice again, the first time Jim has heard it all afternoon. "Where did you grow up? What's your family like? What are my other grandparents like? Do I have any aunts or uncles or cousins or anything?"

"Well," Jim sighs loudly, and slaps his palms down on his knees, an exaggerated gesture and an exaggerated sound, "that's a lot."

"Sorry," Sevin murmurs, and he sounds so genuinely embarrassed that Jim regrets attempting the joke.

"No, I don't mind," he insists. "You wanted to know where I grew up? Nowhere as exciting as San Francisco. I'm from a little town called Riverside, in Iowa. Starfleet has a shipyard there, that's the most interesting thing about it. My father's family is from Iowa, so my parents bought a house there after they got married, even though they knew they'd be away a lot. They were both in Starfleet too—well, my mother still is, actually."

"But your father's not alive anymore," Sevin finishes for him. His voice is quiet, not quite a whisper, and he's looking down at his hands. "I remember you told me."

"I did," Jim nods. "He died when I was born. It was—there's no reason to talk about it now." He can't imagine talking about it, here in the underwater light of the aquarium, the soft glow of the fish as they flick by. He cannot imagine it, not only because he does not want George to haunt Sevin like he haunts Jim, but because the same man who murdered George Kirk killed Sevin's grandmother, destroyed his first home, and he does not want his boy to relive those events now, does not want to chance that the conversation will find its way there. Sevin is looking at him. Jim is half sure he will ask him to go on, that undeniable, childlike, Vulcan-like, curiosity winning out again even over concern for Jim's clear agitation, but he doesn't.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" he asks instead.

"I have an older brother," he answers. "Sam. We were really close growing up. Our mother was away a lot, like I said, and we had a stepfather, but…well, we didn't get along with him very well." He tries to say this last part lightly, as if it were no big deal, as if he didn't get into a fight almost every week, at least, with that man, from the age of ten until the divorce four years later, as if Sam didn't bring him up in every drunken ranting rage he stumbled into, years after he moved out of their mother's house.

"Is he still in Iowa?" Sevin asks. "Can I meet him someday? He'd be my uncle, right?"

"So he would be," Jim agrees. It's strange to think of Sam as an uncle, especially to a boy like Sevin, a part Vulcan boy with Jim's eyes and blood, intelligent and perceptive and inquisitive, good natured and, often, so happy that one would not be able to guess he'd seen such tragedy. What would Sam make of him? Somehow, Jim can imagine them getting along quite well, and the thought makes him smile. Then he remembers their last conversation, or the parts that still stick in his memory, his own blind rage in those moments having turned those hours into nothing but a blur, and at this his smile falters. "I haven't spoken to him in…almost six years, though," he admits.

"Why not?" Sevin asks, a frown on his face that could be confusion or disapproval, and Jim wouldn't blame him for either. "What happened to him? Don't you like him anymore?"

"We…had a disagreement," he answers slowly. It's the truth, though hardly a satisfactory answer, and Sevin stares at him, open and waiting expression on his face like he hasn't even considered the possibility that this is all Jim will want to say on the topic. "He moved away from Riverside when I was nineteen. He disagreed with how I'd been living my life—that's not why he left town, but it…it was why we were fighting." He lets out a sharp breath and runs one hand quickly across his forehead, just over his eyes. "I'm not explaining it well."

Sevin tilts his head, considering, then turns back to watch the fish again. Jim has the distinct feeling, though, that his thoughts are still on their conversation. "Everyone says you're a hero, now," he says, after a moment. "How could he disagree with saving Earth?"

Jim laughs, light and a little uneasy. Sevin's right, perfectly right in his seven year old way. He's gotten so used to not thinking about Sam, not thinking about his mother, not thinking about Riverside, as if the past were the one part of the universe he could never explore, that he hadn't wondered before what his family must be thinking. Surely they know, even Sam, who hasn't tried to contact him. "I suppose he couldn't," he says. "But it's complicated."

"My father says that a lot too," Sevin answers, "when he doesn't want to explain something to me, or when he thinks I'm too young to understand."

He can imagine Spock saying it, too: the story of your dad is complicated, the explanation of death is complicated. He's heard the phrase himself, used in just that way, so long ago he'd almost forgotten. Somehow, though, he imagines that Spock never said it to Sevin in quite the way his own mother said it to him, a snappish and short dismissal that told him that it would always be too complicated, that no matter how old he got or how mature he was, or how much he knew, there would always be something beyond his ability to understand: her feelings, her loss. He swallows down the memories.

He waits, now, for Sevin, to argue with him, to press the point, but he doesn't. He just says, "I think he'd like you now, whatever happened," and Jim can only wish that he could be as optimistic as this boy. He doesn't know if he holds this same belief, that the past is just the past, that any slight, any argument, any mistake, can be forgiven and forgotten, given enough time.

"What about my grandmother?" Sevin asks, and he turns to Jim with an expectant, curious expression on his face. He's hoping that this news will be different, will be better. Jim's heart sinks at the thought that he will have to dash those hopes again. He feels as if he's taking away Sevin's family person by person, just as he discovers them.

"I don't speak with her often," he admits.

"Why not?"

Jim hesitates to answer and Sevin asks, "Is this complicated too?"

"In a way," Jim answers, and quirks his lips up, a smile at his own inadequacy, how none of the right words come to him. "My mother wasn't around a lot when I was growing up. She had her job at Starfleet—" His words catch, and he sees Sevin turn away.

"I had to live with my grandparents for a year," he says, "when father went away on a training mission. Like that?"

"Yes," Jim nods, "like that. Except that my mother took all the opportunities she had to get away from Earth, and I don't think your father would do that." He doesn't add, you don't remind your father of bad things. He doesn't look at you and see a dead man.

"So," Sevin says now, slow and considering, "that means you don't really have a family?"

The words aren't meant to be cruel, simply an observation, but at the sound of them he feels a sharp pain between his ribs, like a stabbing in his lungs. "Well, I wouldn't say that," he manages. "I have you, don't I?" Then he reaches out to ruffle Sevin's hair, an instinct he wonders a second later if he should regret. But Sevin doesn't seem to mind.

"Yeah," he answers, and smiles a little. "And you have father, too."

"Sevin—" He starts to object, to correct, but then stops himself. It's oddly touching that Sevin should see them this way. It's also logical, purely and simply sensible, that his two parents, his family, should be each other's family too. Considering the years that he hasn't spoken to Sam, for the cool and awkward congratulations his mother had sent him in the beginning of the summer, no more, as if he were a colleague instead of a son—considering all of this, and what it tells him about family, those people to whom you'll never be able to break your ties, Spock may as well fall under the title. They'll certainly be tied together for the rest of their lives, as surely as he and his mother, or he and his brother are.

So he just claps his hands down on his knees and says, "I guess so. I guess I do."

They spend the rest of the afternoon there, in that room with the glowing yellow fish, and Sevin asks him questions about what he liked to do growing up, why he joined Starfleet, what he likes in San Francisco, who his friends are. Jim tells him about Bones, and how he makes sick people well for a living; about how he got lost on his first day in San Francisco and ended up walking what felt like half the city before he found his dorm room again; about how he often wondered, his first year at the Academy, if Starfleet was really for him, how it was the first thing he felt he had to work for in his life. But Sevin is most interested in stories of Jim's childhood. So he tells his son about Iowa. He tells him about going to the Riverside aquarium with Sam; about saving up to buy himself a motorcycle for his seventeenth birthday, and spending long nights driving past dark fields, on roads so deserted that it felt like it was just him and the stars in all the universe; about how, when he was young, he used to take his old, ratty, paper-bound books out to the backyard behind his mother's house and lie in the grass all long summer afternoon and read.

"You had real paper books?" Sevin asks, at this, and Jim smiles at how excited he seems.

"Oh yeah," he says. "I collect them. Nothing compares to being able to turn the pages in your hands."

"I like them, too. We've had some for as long as I can remember. Father doesn't really read them himself, but he used to read picture books to me all the time when I was little."

The smile is still on Jim's face, but really his mind has wandered, trying to picture it now: father and son, the same black hair, the same ears, sitting on some chair or sofa somewhere, next to each other or the boy on his father's lap, and a book open in front of them, real paper pages that the father flips slowly, his son's eyes scanning the pictures on each one and the words he cannot read. He's jealous of the image but there is something else about it, too, beyond the jealousy it piques. Spock doesn't read paper bound books. But he bought them for his son. He instilled a love of them in Sevin at an early age, so that now, sitting in the aquarium with the dad he's only just found, they have something over which they can start to bond. It isn't much. But it's a start, at least. He is grateful for that. And a part of him wonders if it's possible that this could really be a coincidence at all.

x

In chapter thirty-five, Sevin meets Bones.