This is dedicated primarily to Captain James Tiberius Kirk, who, although a fictional character, has a birthday today and is admittably pretty awesome. It's also William Shatner's birthday, but that's not really why I wrote this. Sorry, Will.

Constellations

"Illogical."

"Aw, Spock, why don't you just try it?"

Spock's mouth twisted into a rare Vulcan frown. "I see no purpose to it, Captain."

Jim rolled his eyes, exasperated. Once again, he internally damned Vulcan logic.

An hour they'd been there, laying on the grass at Starfleet Academy. Jim was recovering from what had been a "surprise" birthday party, something Bones had planned in the wee hours of the Enterprise's arrival on Earth for repairs. As much fun as the party had been, Jim had faked a headache and ducked out almost as soon as he delivered his birthday speech. In fleeing Bones he'd managed to stumble onto the quad in front of the main lecture hall, damn near tripping over Spock in the process. Apparently this was where the green-blooded hobgoblin liked to meditate. No surprise he hadn't gone to the party.

With nowhere else to go—nowhere else to be, really—Jim had plopped down next to the Vulcan. The silence was fine, but it got boring fast, so Jim had started looking at the stars for company. The night was perfectly clear, with the moon gleaming and the stars twinkling merrily around. He hadn't been able to help feeling like a kid again, when his mother would show him the constellations one by one. And he'd seen them again, on the quad grass, the Big Dipper and Orion.

Then he'd tried to get Spock to look, and now they were arguing again. Figured, really.

"Why do you persist, Captain?" Spock asked. His eyes were still closed like they had been when Jim had first arrived.

Jim had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Gee, Spock, I don't know. Maybe because I want someone to talk to?"

"You could return to your birthday party. The odds of finding someone to talk to there are much more in your favor than they are here."

"You know that doesn't count, Spock."

One of the sharp brows floated upward. "How not?"

Jim shook his head and flopped onto the grass. "No one in there cares, really. About the stars."

"Our comrades are all Starfleet officers. Surely they—"

"Not like that, Spock." Jim sighed, propped his head up on his arms like a pillow and gazed up at the stars.

The grass beside him rustled. Jim turned and, to his surprise, Spock was there beside him, laying down in the green and looking at him. The dark eyes were wide open, stars reflecting in them.

Jim blushed a little. Okay, that was waxing poetic, but damn if it wasn't true.

"Explain," Spock demanded.

Jim shrugged and turned back to the sky. "I'm not saying they don't care about what's out there. It's just that…well, it's silly to look at the stars as something other than a bunch of planets. Everyone's grown up too much, into something else. Uhura's fascinated by languages, Scotty has his engines and transporters and everything, and Chekov and Sulu…well."

Spock nodded. "And Doctor McCoy?"

"Bones?" Jim laughed bitterly. "Bones hates space. I swear the only reason he's in Starfleet is so he doesn't have to worry about his ex-wife."

"You are his friend, are you not? Surely he would understand your desire to…"

"To look at the stars?" Jim finished for him. He shook his head again. "I tried that one time and all I got was an eye roll."

"And what about me?" Spock shot back. "You tried with me."

"You've been telling me for the past hour that seeing things in the sky is 'illogical.' What do you think?"

The air around them fell silent then, save for the crickets chirping. Jim huffed and looked back up. He could see the outline of Taurus if he squinted, very closely, but the stars weren't helping anymore. He had been honest in his conversation with Spock; what was the point of looking up at the stars if there was no one to share it with?

And why, why did he feel the urge to share it with Spock, the most logical being on the planet? Why was there always a childish urge to make Spock see—not just the stars, but everything Jim enjoyed? Why did he want to grab Spock's too-sensitive hand and take him to a coffee shop, or to a comic book store, or just home to watch one of his favorite movies? And why, why was it that, despite knowing the astronomical odds Spock would ever say "yes," did he make a fool of himself in trying anyway?

Jim quietly bumped the back of his head into the grass. This was turning out to be the most depressing birthday he'd had in years.

There was a sudden tap on Jim's shoulder, and he turned. At least Spock wasn't looking at him this time, but his pale hand was still half-way hanging in the air. "Yes, Mr. Spock?"

Spock exhaled. "Will you not laugh at what I am about to say?"

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Me, laugh? At you, Spock? Wouldn't the universe explode if I did that?"

Spock ignored the taunt (Thank God, Jim thought) and went on, his voice quiet and musical in the night. "'Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck, and yet methinks I have astronomy; but not to tell of good or evil luck, of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality.'"

Jim's eyebrows and heart rate shot up exponentially, but he did not speak.

"'Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind, or say with princes if it shall go well by oft predict that I in heaven find.'" His thin lips curled upwards and he exhaled. Next to Jim, the thin hands clenched and unclenched in the grass. "'But,'" he continued, his voice now even softer, "'from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, and, constant stars, in them I read such art as truth and beauty shall together thrive if from thyself to store thou wouldst convert.'"

Jim chanced to look towards Spock. The Vulcan's eyes were closed, cheeks tinted green in blush or poetic fever, but his voice was still as steady and commanding as a beating drum. "'Or else of thee this I prognosticate—"

"'Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date,'" Jim recited, in unison with Spock.

Spock's eyes opened in shock, and Jim met them. "I was unaware you read Shakespeare," the Vulcan said. His voice still possessed that strange musical quality, like he was still declaiming.

"Same for you," Jim replied. "You memorized the entire sonnet?"

Spock gave him a look.

"I mean, why did you do that? Doesn't seem like part of a Vulcan's education."

Spock nodded minutely, turning his gaze back to the stars. "When I was younger, my mother would read to me," he explained. "Her selections tended to be Terran prose, but when she read poetry…" He sighed. "I cannot logically explain it. It simply connected more than the prose did. Sonnet 14 was not her favorite, but she read it to me often. Logically it followed that I enjoy this sonnet somewhat more than the others."

Jim opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Spock was talking about his mom. That was personal enough for a normal person, but this was Spock. Talking about parents to him was tenfold what it was to normal people, especially after what Nero did. And favorite poetry, well…

"My mom showed me the constellations when I was little," Jim said softly. "Not to induct me into Starfleet or anything, just because. She'd been interested in them ever since her time at the Academy, and on accident she'd memorized them, and taught them to me. Whenever she was off-planet, I'd look up and see Gemini or Pegasus, and I'd think of her." He smiled a little in spite of himself. "I've always liked looking for them."

More silence. Jim felt a touch against his forearm. Much to his surprise, Spock's hand stayed.

"If you are ever in need of someone to listen, Captain, I will gladly lend you my ears."

Jim nodded as his heart soared. "Same to you, Spock. But don't make me pick between sonnets and plays."

"Is that an order?" Spock asked. His lips were curling again, into an ultra-rare smile.

"Not really." Their shoulders touched, then their fingertips. "Just a suggestion."

Spock hummed in response. "Will you show me your favorite constellation?"

Jim couldn't help smiling as he looked around for Orion. Maybe, he thought as Spock's hand slipped fully into his, this isn't such a terrible birthday after all.

Author's Notes: Early post! I know this is a humongous change from the last thing I wrote, so let me try to explain.

I honestly have no idea why I came up with this, or how. I was at a burger joint Sunday and it just popped into my head, and I scrawled on a paper napkin until I got home to type. Roll with what you get, yes? Also, don't ask me why I put in a sonnet. It just felt appropriate, even if Picard knew more Shakespeare than Spock.

Speaking of sonnets, the one here is legitimately Shakespeare's Sonnet 14, word for word. Most of the punctuation is accurate too, somehow.

Innumerable thanks to my beta xladyjagsvolleyball16x. Enjoy the fluff!