A/N: I am new to Star Trek, but I love this franchise so much. Enjoy, and please don't hesitate to tell me about any errors spotted.

The first sliver of sunrise hits Jim Kirk's curtains with a determination to bathe the room in light that no one wants to see in the wee hours of 5am. If Jim were a typical Starfleet cadet, this would probably elicit a groan of some kind and a definite denial that the day has started, but Commodore James T. Kirk is well and ahead of the sunrise and has been sitting at his computer for the past 2 hours. It's not uncommon for Jim to start his day this early, but with the recent attack on Tolia and the ensuing chaos that erupted in Command, he's whittled his rest down to slim hours and the repercussions are starting to catch him up. Fleet reports are still coming in, although not as thick and fast as they did in the initial 24 hours after the attack. Mostly, they're making the transition to evaluation reports from old men on the ground who are just as clueless about how the attack was pulled off, but have the experience to smoke their way through a 20 page consolidation of recommendations on protocol changes.

Jim rubs his face roughly and abruptly stands from his desk; it does not seem like any conclusions on Tolia will be coming forth anytime soon, and he really should start washing up to look like a 'Fleet officer becoming of his rank. He strides quickly to his bathroom and eyes the largest piece of furnishing—funny how it is that Starfleet thinks a Commodore will need a full sized bathtub any more than the next cadet, but it is how it is and he's learnt to pick his fights with the Admiralty. The bathtub isn't anything, really, but the ostentatious carved faucets and graceful arch of the clawfoot tub feet may as well represent everything Jim has traded the life of a Captain for.

His ship…Jim snaps back to his reflection in the mirror and quickly splashes ice cold water over his face. It would make no logical sense, as an old friend used to say, to think about matters that can't be changed. The face towel bears the brunt of unspoken frustration, as Jim scrubs his cheeks with undue force. With a swipe at the freshly laundered white turtleneck folded on the side of the sink, and the tap still running, Jim quickly pulls on his uniform. The red vest, with its array of medallions, weighs down on his shoulders as he buckles it on. It is, still, the only clothing he carries in his wardrobe.

He steps back into the study of his apartment and grabs his coat, out of habit more than anything else. The temperature isn't as biting as it was a few months back. "Computer, transfer reports-in-progress on Tolia to Fleet Ops, my office." The machine, slightly too sluggish for his patience, takes a few seconds before chiming out, "Transfer completed." He steps out of the door and heads towards Starfleet Operations, breathing in the crisp morning air of San Francisco.

-ITSOAH-

Fleet Ops is buzzing with activity—it being any other way would surprise Jim. He weaves through the crowd with experience; a year in this place and still, he is greeted by handshakes from flag officers and open adulation of fresh faced cadets who have no place in Ops but make a trip here just to perhaps, get a glimpse of Jim Kirk, former Captain of the USS Enterprise. He really could do with a strong cup of coffee right now.

Yeoman Green looks particularly busy this morning at his desk, which isn't to say he's ruffled, but he spots Jim from a distance and holds up a hand in greeting with a slight grimace that tells Jim it's going to be a few minutes before Green will be done with the call he's currently engaged in. Jim gives a nod of acknowledgement as he passes, and steps into his office. It's fairly spacious and comfortable, but Jim doesn't care for a workplace this quiet. The murmurings of busy men beyond his door does not change the fact that he cannot feel a hum beneath his feet, and that the stars are above him rather than around.

The coat that proved to be redundant is thrown over the coat hanger he installed beside the door. "Computer, call up all unread communications." His terminal at Ops processes commands instantaneously, being a far more upgraded model than his personal one back in his apartment. Settling into the office chair, Jim sifts through dozens of lines of impersonal text. A part of him still keeps his eyes open for familiar names. Cheerful greetings from a young Russian, or perhaps from a hearty Scotsman, or a warm Japanese, or a Vulcan. Mostly, he looks for vocabulary choices more emotionless than that of Weapons calling for further discussions on acquisition and procurement. Words revealing more feelings than they should by definition, only because he knows the individual behind them. An "indeed" catches his eye, but the actual communication proves to be disappointing. A knock on the door interrupts his daily routine.

"Come in, Green." The door slides open, but the face outside the door isn't the one he expected. He quickly snaps to attention and salutes.

"Good morning, Admiral. I wasn't expecting to see you here."

Admiral Mackenzie makes a vague wave to indicate that he may be at ease. Jim slips around his desk to the opposite side, allowing his CO the seat behind the desk.

"Well, I have some news, Kirk," Mackenzie begins, as she takes the vacated seat. One can never tell if such a statement is positive or otherwise, but taking into account Tolia and all related events over the past week, it's a valid extrapolation to expect bad news. Jim chooses not to reply and tilts his head a fraction to the side.

"Sit, please. There's really no need for the formality," Mackenzie sighs in exasperation. Jim hesitates, because there was a time not too long ago when his relationship with his CO was on the icy side, but it seems she's done with the awkward level of professionalism they keep around each other. He seats himself down, and Mackenzie steeples her fingers.

"I've been moved to Command, Archer's office," Mackenzie leans forward to look Jim straight in the eye. "I expect you'll be hearing about a promotion within the day. 'Fleet's never been known to take long."

Reaction comes slow to Jim, even though his mind has registered what has been said and everything it implies for his career. There's not been an Admiral who's headed a deep space mission, and he vaguely considers the possibility while his higher cognitive functions white out. Loss isn't something he's ever handled well. He chokes out a grunt of acknowledgement, and he knows it's insufficient response to such an announcement, but it's the best he can manage to get out right now. The Admiral sweeps him over with an assessing glance, and her mouth twitches as though she is about to say something, but thinks better of it and looks over Jim's shoulder instead.

It is slightly less than a minute before she stands and gently places the tips of her fingers on Jim's clenched fist. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I tried my best, but the Admiralty stands firm on this. I'll still be around for the next two days, you know where to find me." She gives it a moment longer before withdrawing her hand, nodding acknowledgement to a response that wasn't given and heading to the door.

Just as she's one step out of his office, Jim croaks out, "Who…who's her captain going to be?" He swivels round on his chair and stares at her back like a predator waiting to pounce.

"Word is they intend to ask for your recommendation," she quietly replies without turning around. "They'll take a while to ratify it, but the Admiralty knows what it will take to keep you grounded at Ops. Your word will go through." He's not sure how much of a relief that should be, knowing that even if he cannot be in that command chair, he can choose who will captain his Enterprise. Not much, at this time. He nods slowly, and even with her back turned to him, the Admiral knows he has heard and whispers, "Take care, Jim," before assimilating with the steady flow of people outside the door.

Jim turns back to his desk, the name plate proclaiming Commodore James T. Kirk in obnoxious gold lettering facing him. He sweeps it off the table and listens for the heavy clunk of metal on carpet, and it does nothing to soothe his mind. He slowly lowers his head to the glass surface, arms dangling towards to the ground, limp. They've got him this time. As a Commodore, he may have been able to delay promotion while in deep space, or at least have ratification postponed till post-mission. The Admiralty knows the game as well as he does, and maybe it was foolish, but a part of him thought the brass would understand the yearn for deep space that they've all held before. A part of him, the part that does not believe in no-win situations, protests that there may be a chance of him gaining back his ship just yet, but deep inside he knows, he's lost her forever.

Just like Spock.

Head still down, his fist meets the desk with a solid thunk. A whole year later, and thoughts like these continue to come forth, and it seems he will never be able to forget. Grieving for what is lost, he has realized, does not just fade away. At some point in every day, the memory of that day unfurls itself in his mind unfailingly, accompanied by throbs of aching sadness that only grow sharper with time.

"Kaiidth."

"No. Not this time, Spock, not again."

Spock still hasn't looked up to face him. Jim's fury, tightly wound, barely harnessed.

Spock murmurs, "It is only logical. My emotions are unbecoming of a Vulcan, and I seek Kolinahr as the most optimal option, Commodore." To any other man, his tone would be a dead monotone, but Jim is Jim, and Jim reads through the carefully selected words to the underlying message of, You draw emotions out of me, Jim, and I am not sure of who I am anymore.

That appears to be the final straw, and Jim's anger rushes out in a voice of cold, cold fury. "You know how I feel for you. You know. Let's stop pretending you don't, Spock, and let's stop pretending I don't know what you feel either."

He pauses, takes a breath, and sighs. "Sorry. I'm not...It's not you I'm angry at. Spock, Starfleet is everything to me. Duty calls, and I take it on, because I know no other way. They want me to be a Commodore, I will be a Commodore, but I don't have to be happy about it, and being unhappy with duty is not a crime, Spock. It's not the first time a Commodore will put in a request to command a starship, it's been done before. I can still have my ship back. But the Enterprise isn't my Enterprise-" Another deep breath, "if you aren't on it."

Spock's breathing has become laboured, and finally he looks up, face stoic but eyes betraying desperation that he has no hopes of ignoring for logic. "Jim." And the use of his name is more telling than anything else, and Jim knows that what comes next will be the end of this conversation.

But nothing comes forth, and instead, Spock turns for the door in a run that is certainly too fast for any human to match. Jim hears a strangled gasp coming out from himself, and why aren't his feet moving, dammit, and he is seconds too late when he starts giving chase. Spock is already out of the main building doors.

Spock is already gone.