Chapter 5
His eyes are hazel. In some lights, Jim had almost mistaken them for blue, but in truth Chekov's eyes are gentle-warm brown, the light shade of hope. Sulu's are darker - he's seen more, he's seen worse - but Chekov's still look wide and innocent and every tint of young. They all three stand in front of a line of new-dug graves, the earth turned over and staring at the sky, like eyes shadowed by headstone eyelids.
Each man and woman lying underneath - (rotting, decomposing, accusing) - gave their life in that final brave plunge, in explosions of fire in deep space and breaches in the gleaming metal. Each man and woman passed away fearlessly and devotedly and proudly. Each man and woman died, including Jim, and yet he's still standing here with the tears not-falling and his hands clenched tightly enough to be not-shaking.
"I did not know you were dead until you were alive. Did you know zat? I knew something was wrong, because Mister Spock's voice was shaking - it newer shakes. But I only found out what when the dust settled."
"There was no time-"
Chekov holds up a hand. "I am not angry. It was a brave death you died. I would be honoured to die zat death. I think, perhaps, you would like to die zat way again? But you must know zis - if there is a way we can bring you back, we will do it. No matter what it costs."
Sulu lays a hand on the slope of his shoulder, an agreement and a comfort, both at the same time.
"I'm not a religious man, but to that I say amen."
Jim smiles through a sweet ache, looking upon these two great men and seeing that they will one day be greater. His communicator nuzzles and buzzes into his hip. Flipping it open, he holds up an apologetic hand to Sulu and Chekov.
"Captain Kirk here."
"Admiral Komack here. You and Spock are required at a meeting at 'Fleet headquarters."
Spock is standing with textbook-perfect posture at the end of a row in the near distance, watching silently as Uhura reaches out to touch the headstone reverentially. When she turns away there is a hand pressing the sobs back behind her lips; Spock cups her elbow like one would hold glass, and Uhura steps just an inch too far into his personal space. They're no longer together, but it almost seems like they don't know that, and so it must be curiosity that lodges a piece of shrapnel into the base of Jim's spine.
"Gaila." He says with all the weight of the world, coming to stand beside them and looking at the inscription on the grave.
"Yes. I… I miss her. She was always bringing guys back to our room - mostly you, to be honest, but I still miss her."
"Me too. And just to clarify that I'm not as much of a slut as you think I am, I didn't actually know that she was sleeping with about five other guys at the same time as me."
Spock raises an eyebrow - Jim is trying to joke, but it comes out thick with unshed tears and affection. Something rears up in his chest, familiar and recognizing its own kind.
"Would you have ceased sexual relations with her, if you had known of her promiscuity?"
He hopes that it comes out edged with just enough warmth that Jim understands his attempt to lighten the mood. It seems that he does, because a half smile quirks the soft curve of his lips.
"Probably not. She was an absolute whirlwind, and I mean that in every sense of the word."
Uhura laughs like stained glass. "I know what you mean. She was her own kind of creature."
Spock thinks on this - her own kind of creature. He thinks that perhaps this applies to Jim, who is a walking contradiction, a being of bright-eyes and smart brashness, whose laugh feels like sunlight and sounds like scraped knuckles, flawless in his flaws and he is his own kind of creature.
"Oh, Spock. I came over here to tell you that we've been called to headquarters. Admiral Komack wants us for some reason or other." Jim catches Spock's arm and makes to go.
"Uhura? You'll be okay, right?"
His sympathy shows in his voice and in his face. Uhura nods and shoos them away. There is a second in which Spock miscalculates and thinks that Jim will link his arm in Spock's. For a moment, his hand is cradled in the crook of Spock's elbow, warm and insistent, their arms pressed together inappropriately. Then it's gone and Jim is striding ahead, walking backwards as he so often does in his almost-boyish enthusiasm.
His own kind of creature.
…
"As you know, the Enterprise will be re-christened soon."
Jim nods, rocking up onto the balls of his feet in excitement. "Yes, sir. I'm looking forward to it."
Admiral Pike smiles. "I'd noticed. Anyway, she needs a mission to go on. And we were thinking that, as our flagship, she deserves to boldly go where no man has gone before, as it were."
The Captain is almost fidgeting now, and Spock can calculate the precise moment that he understands.
"The five year mission…" He breathes.
"Exactly. It would mean a couple of weeks of extra work, to make sure she's self-sufficient and ready for a long journey. Something of this magnitude has never been attempted before, but I believe you and First Officer Spock have proven yourselves up to the challenge."
Admiral Komack's face is as kindly as Spock has ever seen it - not precisely difficult, as he has often privately compared the Admiral's facial expressions to that of an average Vulcan's.
Jim turns to Spock, his face lit up with the purest kind of exultion that Spock has ever been privileged to witness. Spock nods, unable to prevent the fond softening of his eyes.
"Yes." Jim says. "Yes."
...
"Three months into a five year mission, and you haven't been down to engineering once."
Bones is not only stubborn, he sees everything. Jim purses his lips to stop himself laughing, as Spock tries to carefully manoeuvre himself away from the conversation, and is immediately stopped by a stern glare.
"And Spock! You're just as bad as him."
"What d'you mean? I just haven't needed to go to engineering, that's why."
"I concur."
The Doctor snorts. "A bull makes less shit. Jim, you used to be down there all the time - you didn't need an excuse. 'Course I haven't actually done a psych eval about it, but I should've seen something like this coming."
Jim fidgets and lets out a sniper-sharp sigh. Spock remains forebodingly silent.
"Something like what?"
"A phobia of the engineering department, specifically the warp-coily glass thing."
"Radioactive reactor chamber." Spock and Jim correct - absentmindedly, simultaneously.
"I'm a doctor not an engineer! What was I even- Yeah, a phobia. You've both had traumatic experiences, Spock psychologically and emotionally, and Jim physically, although it was probably pretty psychologically damaging for you too. And now, as a result, y'all associate that particular place with Jim's death, which is where your phobia comes from."
Jim rolls his eyes, almost angry, and turns to Spock, who seems more disdainful than anything.
"Vulcans do not have phobias. It is illogical to experience fear about something that cannot harm you."
"Exactly." Jim nods. "And I have a shit-ton of issues, but I'm pretty sure I'd know if I had some sort of phobia. And about my ship, too."
A smirk slides smoothly into place on Bones' face, and Jim can dimly see the edges of the trap that they've both walked into. He feels an irrational jolt of fright, and dismisses it as nothing more than a healthy fear of being hypo-d.
"Well then, I'm sure neither of you will object to paying Scotty a visit, then?"
...
They stand on opposite sides of the turbolift, pushing each other away - repulsion between two magnets. And like magnets, neither dares to turn and look at the other, afraid that the strange attraction of unspoken truths will pull them tight together.
"Do you really think we have a phobia? I always thought people knew about their fears, I mean how can you not know? Sure, I don't have great memories of that place, but I don't think I'm avoiding it."
His words are balloons and they fill up the air; large, hollow, fragile to the slightest prick of a pin. Spock's words are precise. They are that pin.
"Vulcans do not have phobias."
"...But humans do. Yeah, I get it, thanks. Should I take my frail human weaknesses away somewhere else, so's they don't offend your delicate Vulcan sensibilities?"
It kind of both impresses and scares Jim that Spock isn't offended, that he's already breached Jim's walls of defense and knows them both inside and out.
"Captain… I am aware that you are nervous. I must admit to - apprehension myself."
The doors open.
Jim breathes a silent half-breath, folding himself into Spock's personal space; leaning, curling, shying back into the radiant inch of heat around his body. Spock arches his neck, too close to touch, and the Captain's fists curl with decision. They move to stand in front of the glass door, glossed like a great and translucent eye, seeing all, even through the tears. The silence seems bereft without that keening roar, ripping out of Spock's mouth, woven and textured with pain.
Death, Spock thinks, is most commonly associated with the colour black. This is an inaccuracy. Dying is the green of illness, of dulled eyes sweeping half-lidded across his face - and Spock will forever consider it an honor that he was the last thing Jim saw before he died. It is the clear blue salt of choked-quiet conversations, and sobs being caged in chests.
It is a primary colour all of it's own, darker than the space in between the stars, yet somehow bright, vivid, incandescent in its vengeful purity.
Jim is trying not to shiver. Everyone always talks about going down in a blaze of glory, imploding, exploding, scorching the earth in a plume of flame. And that was truth, to a certain point. The closer Jim got to death, the more he burned; the white-hot thrill of fear searing through every filament of his body; the heated throb of blood salting his skin; pain sparking and lighting the tinder of his own fragility.
But death is not fire, it is ice. And it's one thing, he muses, to dance along the edge of the Other Side, losing your footing and scattering the pebbles. He had stepped straight into the abyss, scared but sure-footed.
Jim reaches out. The glass is just as cold as he remembers it. He knocks his shoulder to Spock's, a solid beat of warmth. Spock barely moves, and he does not look down, but his wrist rotates, his hand spreading into the familiar salute. Jim mimics the gesture, staring into the sterile irradiation of his own deathbed.
As one, their fingertips press together in a tentative mirror image, cupping each other's heartbeats in the palm of their hands.