Watching Jimmy Sleep

She was amazed when she saw him walk in. It had been what – Four years? Five? And half-way 'cross the Arm.

But there was no mistaking Jim Kirk. The swagger, the grin, the blue eyes – even the look back over his shoulder was just the same.

But the company was not. The Jimmy she'd known was a lone wolf. Oh, back then he may have a friend or two in tow, but they would be jettisoned at the first opportunity, when something better presented itself.

So, surely that had changed: This Kirk came in with the crew of some starship, the lot of them unmistakable, even without the uniforms still worn by several as easily as their skins. She had seen enough flyboys to call 'em when she saw them, and this new Jim Kirk was the same, even if he'd swapped a flannel shirt for the standard Starfleet issue.

A handful broke off from the pack. There was that look back over the shoulder, again; and Jimmy said something to the others that made them nod and laugh, as they headed over to grab some tables by the jukebox pumping out synth in the corner of the bar.

Then Jimmy was coming toward her. As he got closer, she felt again the power of those eyes.

There was a woman with him, two other men, the tall dark shape of a Vulcan male – a rare sight these days, one she'd find intriguing on any ordinary night. But right this moment, she could spare these others no more than a passing glance.

Jim Kirk was coming closer.

She turned half-way; then a little more, so she could rest her elbow on the bar. She took a sip of her drink, acted casual – She willed herself to keep from staring, and thought she made a pretty decent job of it.

But still she could feel him.

Then he was there, beside her; and she suddenly had to breathe.

She turned the rest of the way toward the bar. She looked down, shook her glass, covered her intake of air with the rattle of ice. When she looked up, she saw him in the mirror standing right next to her, almost like they were together.

The bartender was headed their way. Jimmy had glanced back at his dark-haired friend in green (she assumed, to confirm his choice), and nodded at something the woman said.

Then he had turned again to the bar. He opened his mouth to speak, and in that instant their eyes met in the mirror; and time stopped, like it always did when she was fixed with that piercing blue glare.

She saw his brow crinkle a little, the lines deeper than she remembered. His mouth closed, and his hand reached up to rest on the bar. In the mirror she saw his body moving – when she turned her head, he was facing her, not-quite-recognition in his eyes.

Still there was something there, some spark, and it was enough to make her speak. "Hello, Jim." She was amazed by how steady her voice was. She might just do this every day.

She saw his brows come together before they smoothed back out, and he was speaking, too. "Angela?" His hand came down on her wrist for a second, and she was glad she hadn't let go her glass.

The bartender spoke up then, and Jimmy placed an order more complicated than seemed necessary for five.

Then Jim's hand was on her elbow. She looked at their shared reflection and saw it there. It looked good. She could feel the slight warmth of his hand through her blouse and it felt good, too.

When her eyes moved up, Jim's were meeting those of the Vulcan, whose nod was almost too small to see. She would have been intrigued, but Jimmy's eyes in the mirror were calling hers again.

She missed the slide of inscrutable dark eyes over to her - and back to the man beside her.

Jim was leaning on the bar, now, both elbows. He seemed to be waiting for something, to speak.

His friends were talking and a couple of them laughed. "Ain't that right, Jim?" asked the drawling voice of the man in green, but he didn't seem to expect an answer, or be surprised when none came.

When their order arrived, the Vulcan paid, and reached to carry a tray that seemed impossibly full. Before he could take it, Jim pulled two drinks from the middle and murmured something like, "Thanks."

Then the tray and Jim's friends were gone, and he was turning toward her with a smile and a glass in each hand. "Still like gin-and-tonic?" he asked. He didn't wait for her answer before leaning in close and moving one of the glasses toward the curling bar mat.

Her hand met his, and closed around it only an inch or two from her breast. "Yes," she said, "That'd be great."

In the hours before dawn, she rolled up on one elbow, and looked at the man sprawled in her bed. She wanted to watch him sleep: She wanted to shore up her memories with fresh pictures. He had changed, but was the same, too; and she figured that in a year or two the images she had of him would blur convincingly together.

He was just as pretty and as full of fight as he used to be; but he was also different, in a way that was hard to explain.

His body had been strong and tough, always. Now it was disciplined, even controlled – tempered, maybe, like a weapon. He had learned a lot, and enjoyed the power he wielded; but he let go with the same abandon, and she was happy to hurl herself, with him, over the edge.

Up close there were more scars, not just on his body, but on his face also. And yes, the crinkles were deeper. But they looked good on him, too, like he'd earned them.

His skin was paler, more even, without the tell-tale ruddiness of an Iowa farmers' tan, and though it seemed softer, smoother, she supposed that came from working in the controlled environment of a ship: His hands were still rough; and more scars - both fresh and healed - proved his job, whatever it may be, now, was full of its own kind of hazards.

His eyes were as brilliant blue – that was obvious – and the glare as electric. The assurance was still in them, but was supported now by a self-confidence that was more unshakable than the assurance ever had been. There was a happiness – a contentment, really – that had never been there before: That was all new. She was glad she got to see that - really glad – and she wondered if, after tonight, something in his morning smile would be even brighter for a while…

There was still pain, in his eyes, and loneliness. She thought maybe the pain was morphing into mercy, or compassion. But buried beneath a layer of bravado, the loneliness - bitter and bone-deep - was just the same.

He was both tougher and gentler than he'd been back then, as though he'd gone through times that had him staring down death, but had discovered the value of life in the process.

She was sure he was no longer the solitary creature she had taken in, for mutual comfort, on cold nights in the way-back-when.

Oh, he'd been quick enough to discard the extra company last evening - He had parted from his friends with laughing good-nights. But she had no illusions that he'd suddenly take the notion to stay with her for days at a time.

In the morning Jimmy would wake and laugh, and say good-bye. He might even give her a few more memories.

But he wouldn't give her any promises.

Jim Kirk had somewhere else to be.