A/N: I thought I was past having to put a disclaimer on everything I write, but apparently not, so:
Please note I am not making any profit from this work of fiction, and as such it should be viewed as just that - fiction. My interpretation of these characters is not officially endorsed by Paramount or anyone else, so it may very well differ from your and/or any official interpretations - and that's fine! There's plenty of room in the IDIC sandbox for us all to play, I think.
Thank you for reading!
Chapter One
Jim has always loved weddings.
Maybe it's because he was literally in his twenties before he actually saw a solid example of what a stable romantic relationship should look like, or maybe it's just his own personal commitment issues, or maybe it's the knowledge that he will likely never have one himself so he needs to live vicariously through someone else, anyone else – but whatever the reason, he has always liked a happy wedding.
There's something about being willing to legally tie yourself to someone for the next half-century at least, that is a little awe-inspiring. Even if it doesn't last, the dream is there, and that's a beautiful thing.
Tonight, it really is a beautiful thing, and it is likely to last, which is just the icing on the (wedding) cake.
Eight months after Khan dropped a dreadnaught-class starship out of the sky into the San Francisco Bay Area, the city cleanup is nearly finished, or at least the rubble has been removed. Section 31 has been disbanded, at least that's the scuttlebutt, and each member of the Enterprise has received a suspiciously non-committal apology from Starfleet Command regarding the actions of an admiral they are being very quick to denounce. Memorials have been held, the majority of which happened long before he came out of a month-long coma and realized the scale of the tragedy and loss all over again.
It's really only been seven months for him, but they feel like seven years.
But the 'Fleet waits for no man, and especially with this last tragedy coming from one of their own, they are proceeding with all haste to put the past behind them. The crew of the refurbished Enterprise are already being screened and sorted, and the refit itself will be finished in approximately 12 weeks, with a five-year-mission plan already on the books for her maiden voyage.
Twelve weeks before launch prep begins, and he has yet to receive official confirmation that she'll be given back to him, which doesn't really help his anxiety. The lack of appointment is not unusual, since he's not been officially re-instated yet by Medical, but it makes him uneasy not knowing if he'll be on her Bridge when she ships out.
After all that braggadocio, hard work and terrible mistakes that first, frustrating year, they've landed a five-year mission heading toward uncharted space. It was his dream for months, but now? Now, he's still not sure if he wants to take that chair again, much less is capable of it; but that's an opinion he's keeping to himself for the time being. His crew have been through enough, without worrying about their not-yet-captain's state of mind.
All things considered, however, many of the initial crew have decided to not continue into the five-year-mission, and he cannot blame them for the decision. Their postings went from being the most successful in the quadrant to the most deadly, in a matter of hours – and while none of his people seem willing to point the finger of blame, he knows full well it should fall squarely on him.
He makes sure Spock as Acting Captain signs off on any transfer requests with high recommendations, one last attempt at recompense they will never receive for the hell they've been through.
And they're the lucky ones.
Many more have decided not to transfer, but to leave the 'Fleet entirely, or at least the frontier portion of it. After the rude awakening to their own mortality Khan and Marcus had delivered, some of his people have woken up to the fact that any of them could be called upon for the ultimate sacrifice at any time; and because of that, have decided that family is more important, whether that's starting one or continuing one, out of the 'Fleet or in a new ground posting.
Jim has received invitations to fifteen wedding or civil partnership ceremonies in the last three months alone, and he can't be happier for them. His health didn't permit him attending much of anything until a few weeks ago, much less officiating it, but it was nice to be thought of even when he has no ship to his name.
While there's no regulation against marrying while on active starship duty, it's nearly unheard-of because of the legalities and red tape that have to be sorted in order for the couple to stay on the same ship, share a cabin, have conditional medical directives, etc., etc., so he's actually never officiated one even though he's technically qualified. Maybe he'll get a chance, in the next five years.
Maybe he won't.
But it's probably just as well, because he tends to get emotional at weddings, which obviously can be distracting from the happy couple.
Not to mention he still cannot be on his feet for more than a couple of hours without his blood pressure doing weird things or his core temperature plummeting unexpectedly. His body is still trying to regulate itself, freaking out under its new and not exactly improved physiology, and there are days he wonders if he will ever feel human again, rather than something not-quite-there and possibly still stuck in cryo.
But this is a good day. Two of his best Hydroponics crewmen had called it quits once they got back to Terra, and announced that they were planning to marry and start a family later in the year. He hadn't even had a clue something was going on between them aboard ship, which is full testament to how good they are at their jobs. Their kid is nearly here now, and they could not look happier about it.
They deserve this, and every child deserves to have present, loving parents. He of all people, is not going to begrudge them that.
The ceremony is short but very sweet, and there's a big enough crowd that he can slip in unnoticed on his hover-chair. It's been a bad physical therapy day, and he's just not up to pretending tonight. But he needs to start being seen outside Starfleet Medical, or the brass is never going to consider him fit for duty, and might even start looking closer at his people because of his long recovery.
Plus, he really does love weddings, even if he usually arrives and leaves alone.
As short and solemn as the ceremony itself is, the reception is the polar opposite. He's reminded again how young this crew really is, and again wonders if he's even mature enough to lead them back out into the black.
Though it's already been a long day, he sits at a be-flowered and ribboned table a couple of hours later, watching the crowd continue to enjoy themselves in an increasingly energetic fashion. He can see that Sulu's spent most of his time over by the open bar talking with one particular young man, which is interesting, and Chekov is dancing with anyone lively enough to match his own frenetic energy. Scotty disappeared earlier in the party, and Jim hopes he's getting enough rest, what with the refit schedule being as relentless as it is and Jim himself not yet able to oversee any of the repairwork.
His core temperature had dropped through the floor again right after the ceremony, so he's wearing Bones's suit jacket over the shoulders of his off-duty formal wear, and he can see the lack of said jacket plus rolled-up sleeves is doing nothing but helping McCoy chat up a pretty yeoman Jim vaguely recognizes from their cadet days. Since it's now been thirty minutes since the man left to get refills on their lemonades, Jim suspects he won't actually be coming back to the table for a while yet.
That's definitely a good thing. His overworked, underappreciated CMO hasn't smiled like that in probably six months, and Jim well knows he is mostly responsible. It's been fuel for his determination to exceed his projected recovery rate, and the fact that he doesn't have a menacing medical shadow is a good sign. For both of them.
The music changes to something slightly slower, swingier, and he only realizes he's zoned out a bit, chin in one hand propped on the table, when Spock slips noiselessly into the seat beside him, medals clinking on a blue dress uniform to break the spell. He sits up, but before he can say anything there's an outstretched hand in front of him. He follows it up to its owner, and tilts his head in question.
"You've been sitting over here by yourself long enough," Uhura says, not unkindly. "Unless you're legitimately chair-bound, get your ass up and dance with me."
He laughs, because his entire recovery period it's been super refreshing to have one officer who 100% does not take his shit or walk on eggshells around him. It's saved his sanity on days he wants to escape out a window in Medical because he just can't take any more fussing.
"That's something no one wants to see, Lieutenant." He gestures vaguely up and down his person. "I have zero rhythm and even less grace. Especially right now."
"Have you seen Chekov."
"Okay, fair point." He smiles briefly. "But I'll pass. Thank you for asking."
"I wasn't asking." Before he can do more than splutter a protest, she's grabbed his hand and hauled him bodily out of the chair, which beeps in warning as it registers its occupant now missing. The extra suit jacket falls back, muffling the noise.
Damn his lack of muscle mass, he's still trying to get it back and it definitely shows.
A perfectly-shaped eyebrow inclines slightly. "You good?"
"You are a menace," he mutters, casting a helpless glance back at the table. Spock is now absorbed in reading something on his data-padd, totally oblivious to his chaotic mostly-human surroundings and obviously having no intention of helping him. "Fine. You only have yourself to blame when I crush those expensive heels, though." They do look like expensive, particularly glittery weapons.
He must have said that aloud, because Uhura snort-laughs, a hilariously inelegant noise that means she's legitimately amused, and they move into the crowd in a vaguely passable freestyle rather than the more intimate positions most beings on the floor have taken up. Even so, within ten seconds he trips over nothing and nearly takes them both down like he's a toddler learning to walk again.
Which, to be fair, he kind of is. His brain has long since left his body behind and it is so. Fucking. Frustrating.
"Yeah, okay, you need to lead," he mutters, after he narrowly avoids stepping on her feet for the fifth time. "I still can't…I don't –"
"It's fine," she says, oddly gentle, with a calming hand on his chest. "You need to take a deep breath, Jim."
He does, because she's nothing if not perceptive, and he's not exactly holding it together as well as he thought he would in a crowd like this. Her eyes search his face for a second, and then she does switch, taking the lead as a familiar jazz number fills the floor.
"There we go."
He huffs out a painful breath and prays to anyone listening that he doesn't embarrass himself entirely here, but after a few minutes finds that no one is paying any attention to them except for Bones, who glances over periodically with a nod here and there. No doubt, to make sure Jim isn't about to pass out spectacularly and ruin the moment for the happy couple, or whatever.
To everyone else, he's invisible. A specter of the man he was a year ago, a ghost of the cocky cadet he was two more. Even his senior crewmen, loyal as they are, cannot resurrect or relearn his life for him.
He has no idea who this new man even is yet, and it scares him more than Khan did.
"Hey." A hand turns his face back toward his communications chief, and he only realizes he's tearing up slightly when she stops, heedless of the other couples moving around them. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he says hastily, letting go of her to brush a quick hand over his eyes. "I just…was thinking."
She pulls him gently back into the lineup, and tilts her head in question as they move. "What about?"
"Ancient history. The night we met," he replies, managing a smile. How far they have come, in so short a time.
Uhura's nose wrinkles in remembrance.
"I was a massive dick, wasn't I?"
The hand on his shoulder gently swats him. "You're only now figuring that out?"
This time, he laughs, and it's a nice feeling, if a little stilted from lack of practice lately.
"No, I just…" He clears his throat, and glances around them. "I'm realizing how lucky I actually am. Despite everything. And it shouldn't have taken me this long to figure it out."
"I think we all figured some things out in the last few months," she responds, after a thoughtful moment. "You're not alone in that. In anything, Jim."
He nods, eyes downcast, ostensibly to watch his feet but more to hide his expression from a painfully perceptive woman. He still hasn't quite dealt with the guilt of knowing if he'd been quicker, smarter, or if he'd never been such an arrogant idiot and got himself demoted in the first place, that Christopher Pike might still be alive, along with far too many of his young, bright crew.
But he never meant for any of this to happen, in order to teach him a lesson he never properly learned.
He knows she can hear what he's not going to say for fear of losing it entirely, and squeezes her hand in acknowledgment of the tact. They're nearing a completed circuit of the room, and his legs are starting to shake a bit, which she immediately notices and guides them back toward the table.
Once they reach it, he collapses back into his chair, thankfully without requiring assistance, and, before she moves away, catches her hand one last time.
"Thank you, Lieutenant," he says quietly.
Uhura acknowledges the shift from friend to officer with a half-smile, before disappearing back into the crowd like a ghost herself.
Exhaling slowly, he reaches for the nearest cup, willing his hands to stop shaking, and then stops with it halfway to his lips, staring down at the dark liquid.
It's coffee.
There is no coffee on the drink menu tonight. Just an abundance of alcohol, sparkling water and a couple tropical-flavored lemonades to go along with the season, nothing more complicated. And Bones is still engrossed in what looks like increasingly intimate conversation with Yeoman Barrows, so Spock had to have mildly terrorized one of the wait staff to get it.
It's the last straw that snaps his control like the fragile thread it is, because he has to immediately take a drink to hide his face, promptly burns his mouth in the process and ow, ow ow. Hopefully his First Officer – Acting Captain – will think it's just a human reaction to the pain and not that he's about to literally break down over eight ounces of hot liquid.
Spock silently removes the ring from an unoccupied seat's table napkin before handing the thin cloth over to him, so that theory doesn't exactly hold up.
"Thank you. Sorry."
The anti-depressant he's starting to taper off of, necessary after everything that happened recently but not a long-term fix if he has anything to say about it, is really screwing with his emotions and his sleep schedule, which in turn likely feed off of each other. He feels much better than he did several months ago, but there are definitely drawbacks to that peace that he's still trying to work out with Bones's help.
He is so tired of being tired.
"Apologies for conditions beyond your control are illogical."
"Well, gods know I need the practice, so just let me. I'm sure I owe you one for something somewhere."
Spock's eyebrows draw together slightly.
He waves away whatever protest is about to come, and sits back in the chair with a sigh, blinking drowsily into the steam curling from the cup cradled in his hands. After a moment, he sets it back on the table as he realizes they're still unsteady. He does not want a repeat of the water incident in his physical therapist's waiting room.
"Hey, I'm sorry you're losing two of your best people here, though," he finally says, to fill the silence. Even though the silence is never awkward, not with them.
"The Lieutenant has more than earned his promotion, and Ensign Ward seems to be most compatible with him." Spock's eyes briefly follow the happy couple as they take the dance floor again. "I am…satisfied, with this outcome."
He smiles, leaning on one hand to watch them as well. "Their kids will be lucky. A starship is no place to raise a family."
Spock glances over at him, eyebrow raised. "Nor is it an acceptable excuse to abandon one."
"Watch it, Spock. I don't need a Vulcan shrink in addition to the two I have."
It's a warning, but a gentle one, because he knows it comes from a different place now, than it might have a year ago.
If only it hadn't taken him dying along with thirty percent of his crew, to make him see that.
With a nod of acknowledgment, Spock leans back in his chair, a strangely relaxed expression. He is at ease here, and that's not something Jim would have ever thought possible. They've all changed, very drastically and very quickly, adapting to their ever-changing surroundings in a much-accelerated evolution of role and relationship.
Only time will tell if it's for the better.
"I'm surprised you aren't out there with your girlfriend, though," he ventures, nodding toward the dance floor.
"We are not currently involved in a romantic relationship."
He blinks. "When did that happen?"
Has he really missed something that major in the last few months? They were always impeccable officers on duty, so it's not surprising he couldn't tell when exactly they broke up, but he'd like to think he has been more perceptive than that, the last few weeks at least. He well knows his death threw a wrench into their relationship for reasons he's still unclear on and they're definitely not telling, but he thought they had long gotten past that.
"Two weeks ago. We agreed to put our relationship on hold until the fate of the refitted Enterprise is fully established."
"Why?"
"It would only be painful to progress in a relationship which could theoretically be divided later due to circumstance, and we have been in increasing disagreement about what that divide might look like."
He blinks, and shakes his head. "In Standard, what?"
Spock sighs, a barely audible sound of frustration. "If the Enterprise does not re-launch with the same command crew, we have determined that it is likely we would seek completely different paths in Starfleet. She would wish to continue aboard the Enterprise, as the flagship is her best chance to showcase her specific skill set. And I…would likely not. We would prefer to part as friends at this time, and perhaps revisit at a later date, if our caution in the matter is unfounded."
Well, that's unexpected.
Or maybe not. Uhura's got more visible ambition than Spock does, and she could have any posting she wants, comms or otherwise, in five years. Spock is literally the smartest officer in the 'Fleet, and as a member of an endangered species is already a unique asset to any ship. He's no doubt being sought after even now by multiple captains who want to capitalize on Jim's recent blunders.
Jim certainly can't blame them there.
"I'm surprised they haven't offered the Enterprise to you. Seems like that would solve both your problems." He rubs a hand down his face, and sighs. "I wouldn't even disagree with their decision right now, to be honest."
"They have already offered command of the Enterprise to me."
He sits up straight in his chair, suddenly cold all over with mounting horror. Was this whole charade tonight just a kind way of telling him he's out of the game before it begins?
"I refused, naturally, and strongly recommended they rethink their strategic choices in more detail," Spock continues blandly, as if he hasn't just dropped a truth bomb smack in the middle of the decorated table and annihilated the last shreds of Jim's self-confidence.
"You won't get a better shot, Spock. You shouldn't throw the chance away."
"I understand the ramifications of my choice, in relation to my trajectory in the 'Fleet." Spock looks at him. "It does not change my answer, Jim."
"It could very well kill your career, though," he says quietly. "I don't even know if I have it in me anymore, you shouldn't count on that. And at least I'd know the crew was safe – safer – with you. I could live with that."
"I could not."
He shakes his head, closing his eyes for a moment to shut out the pounding beat and flashing lights of the dance floor, which is filling with increasingly intoxicated crewmen. It would be overstimulating on a good day, and this is not one of his best.
Or maybe it is, actually.
"Thank you," he finally says, opening his eyes again once he's more in control of his emotions. "I don't know where you got this blind faith, and I sure as hell don't deserve it, but…I'll try to."
Spock inclines his head in silence, and returns his attention to the venue, apparently satisfied that the discussion is closed before anyone gets too emotional. Horror of horrors.
He reaches for the coffee cup again to give his hands something to do. Beyond, the music changes to something softer, more romantic, and the floor empties slightly of the younger crowd.
"You were right, you know."
"At which time?"
"A required quality in every starship captain," he quotes, gesturing with the now-empty coffee cup, "is to accept fear in the face of certain death, and maintain control of one's self and one's crew. You were actually right. I was too full of myself to really understand that, until recently."
"I am…not the same being, who once believed those words," Spock finally says, quiet and pensive.
"No, you were kind of an asshole, Professor. I much prefer this version." Spock's lips twitch suspiciously, and Jim cracks a smile, small but genuine. "I'm not the same man either, though."
"Change is not always a negative thing, Jim."
"No, I don't guess it is." He holds his cup up, ignoring the unsteadiness for now. "To version 2.0, then?"
Spock clinks his water glass briefly against the extended coffee cup. "And to cheating death. Captain."