Jim blinked, and against his desire, refrained from quickly turning from this page as he often did. Instead, he remained composed and thoughtfully silent, regarding the simplicity of the three pictures before him. It wasn't a matter of who was in the photographs, but what—and where.

The association of memories with the senses was a crucial survival instinct that had developed early on in both human and Vulcan ancestry. The difference between the two in this regard was a matter of discipline; Vulcans, from excessive training of repressing themselves, were better-suited to inhibit the flood of emotions brought on by stimuli.

Though Jim accepted Spock fully as he was, he had never envied the teachings bestowed upon his bondmate in his youth, which demanded the constant subdual of feelings. At this time, however, Jim found himself wishing for just a bit of that control—only a touch of that discipline to mitigate the way in which this particular page ravaged him.

After all, he found it utterly ridiculous that his stomach could drop, simply by seeing the classy Vulcan furniture that Sarek and Amanda had chosen to adorn their house with. It was all very ornate and fancy—beautiful and every bit full of class one would expect from an ambassador's dwelling.

Jim had a plethora of memories from the sitting room in the first picture. He had perched upon the regal sofa next to Amanda, drinking spiced tea and conversing with her. She was intelligent and entertaining company, and he had never passed up the opportunity to spend time with her.

Jim could also picture Sarek, sitting stiffly in the large chair made of leather hide, quietly sipping from his cup while he listened to their discourse. And, naturally, there would also be Spock, who often opted to sit in the other chair opposite of Sarek. His participation in the exchange depended entirely on the topic, but he often remained subdued in the presence of his parents.

The second photo was of the kitchen. Open and airy, it was full of counter space and had a large island in the middle. The floor was lined by clay-like tiles, a decorative floral pattern imprinted every so often. Like the sitting room, Jim could recall many pleasant times spent here with Amanda. Sometimes, he would watch her cook the old fashioned way without use of a food synthesizer. Other times, he would sit at the center island with her and privately discuss the humorous aspects of being bonded to a Vulcan; it never failed to amuse either of them.

The third image was the one that ruined everything, as plain and innocent as it was. It was the one that stirred up a storm of distressing memories, from a time which had been exceedingly difficult on Jim. It was affliction he damned himself to carry alone, unwilling to allow Spock to share or even know specifically of it.

And the photograph that sparked all of this self-made purgatory? It was of a three-dimensional chess set, arranged for display on an intricately-carved coffee table. The picture had been captured in afternoon light streaming through a tinted window… one Jim had sat by too often filled with hope, only to have it crushed every time.

It had been one of the most trying periods of his life that he had ever experienced.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The evening's starry blanket had crept over the large S'chn T'gai abode—a hearth now lit by soft glowing lights that brought out the warm colors of the interior. Despite the noble décor and high ceilings, there was a cozy atmosphere in the space just off of the kitchen. It had been recently transformed into a small sitting place, sectioned off by a pearly white shag rug.

Two chairs had been placed there; they were bereft of legs as they were meant for sitting on the floor, but the over-stuffed plush cushioning with fancy sequins promised luxurious comfort. Between the seats was a low coffee table that had been custom made by a local craftsman in ShiKhar.

Upon the table was a three-dimensional chess set. Its pieces constructed of glass and onyx were in a state of mid-game disarray.

A glass rook was picked up and suddenly, the silence looming in the atmosphere was broken.

"Checkmate," Spock declared.

Jim would never tire of the sound of that flat, baritone voice from the individual sitting across from him. It was like a pleasant and comforting song to his ears which played in the distance… one he wished to amplify and set on eternal repeat so he could listen forever.

However, despite his desire, he couldn't. And he didn't want to hear that particular word Spock had said because that meant the music was about to stop right then and there. And when it stopped, it would leave him to face the silence and solitude of this room which was much too empty and far too large for only one person.

A flurry of emotions swelled within his chest at that moment and he stilled himself against the dread, loneliness, and sorrow that had all made themselves known to him much too often lately. He allowed none of those feelings to be displayed outwardly, however; after all, they were just another part of his sacrifice—more pieces of collateral damage that he would just deal with later.

Jim's lips twitched into a tiny smile as he gazed down at the chess board displaying his obvious defeat and conceded, "Looks like you beat me again."

"Your mind was not on the match, Admiral," Spock replied, his tone lackluster and frank. "I struggled to understand your illogical approach to this game."

"Well, Spock," Jim began, letting his eyes wander across the board once more before making contact with the ones he missed staring into. "Logic isn't everything. Feelings help us decide how important something or someone is and what to do about that. Feelings are… what tell us to go forward when logic might say to stay back. Are you following me?"

"By that explanation, then, your king was of extraordinary importance to you," Spock commented. "It offers motive as to why you chose to defend it so vehemently, instead of aggressively attempting to trap mine when given the opportunity."

Silence loomed for a moment.

"However," Spock continued, "This strategy defeats the purpose of this game. I must point out that in employing it, you lost your queen, this knight, and this rook. In the end, this resulted in your king's defeat, regardless."

Your queen, your knight, your rook…

My ship, my career, my son…

Jim barely winced at the words Spock had uttered so plainly without understanding the damage they dealt, and let his gaze fall once more. He found he had nothing more to offer in response other than saying, "You're right. And that resulted in my loss in the end."

It was an agonizing conclusion that Jim couldn't seem to avoid recently.

"I bid you good evening, Admiral."

The formality in Spock's voice was often a slow-acting poison that ached much worse long after his departure; however, this time, it shook Jim in a way that nearly sent a wave of panic through his entire body.

He didn't want it to end.

He didn't want Spock to walk away and leave him all by himself again, where the only sound was the echoing of his heavy thoughts in a void that was once their bond. Jim wasn't used to this strategy of lying back and not making things happen. Spock had just said it himself; it was ineffective and defeated the purpose.

Jim wasn't used to not being in control or having a steady foundation to support him.

He wasn't used to having Spock both present and absent at the same time, of looking into those dark eyes and seeing no hint of the adoration they used to hold for him. And unfortunately, as Spock was still deep within the healing process, Jim's hands were bound and the wire he treaded was as thin as lace.

The predicament he was forced into was extremely precarious, and no matter how he approached it or which path he followed, he was met with loss.

Spock was already beginning to stand, his hands folded neatly across his midsection when suddenly, Jim clumsily jostled himself to his feet.

"Please stay." The words fell from Jim's lips, his voice taking on a tone of urgency that he hadn't intended. He realized that and immediately attempted to compensate for it by shifting his eyes downward and awkwardly raising a hand to scratch at his jaw.

Spock hesitated, his head slightly cocking to the side.

"…I'd like to play one more match with you, if that's all right," Jim continued then, stiffening his spine and allowing his gaze to slowly lift and meet Spock's.

There was a pause, and then, "Very well, Admiral."

The pair settled into their seats once more. As they began setting up the next game, Jim found himself feeling very thankful that, for at least a short time longer, Spock would be there.

Even if he was different, even if he had changed, even if he didn't remember… being able to see Spock physically sitting across from him was infinitely better than an empty chair which had haunted Jim for much too long.

This time he'd play differently. He'd play aggressively, corner that king, and take what was rightfully his. …It was what Jim wanted more than anything. For the time being, however, he could only live out that dream over a game of chess and hope that one day, it would happen in reality.

"Your move, Admiral."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"You appear quite fascinated by my parents' choice in décor."

The comment brought Jim down from the clouds and back into their bedroom. Without missing a beat, a soft smile pulled at his lips and he immediately replied, "Oh, it isn't really that. I'm just thinking about my strategy for beating you at chess later."

"Let us hope for the sake of your pride that your assurance in that outcome is harmonious with reality," Spock stated, the sauciness apparent in the words themselves instead of his tone.

Jim's chin tapped into his shoulder as he turned his face to look at Spock with a quiet grin. His lips were locked together, the corners easing upward, as his eyes met Spock's.

Sometimes, sacrifice for the good of another was unhealthy, and other times, the benefits outweighed the consequences. Spock had learned later on of Jim's suffering during the time he'd needed to recover what had been lost; since then, he'd made countless gestures in atonement—gestures Jim assured him were unnecessary.

Guilt was a terrible thing to live with, especially when the blame fell on the victim. Jim wouldn't allow that to happen to Spock; he wouldn't allow the surfacing of regret to take place when they placed chess or thought about Sarek and Amanda's home—wouldn't allow Spock to forever live in the shadow of what he had no ability of preventing.

What happened had happened, and the best that could be done was to just move forward and appreciate every day.

After all, how many times had they lost everything, and witnessed the life they knew together burned to ashes? But, in each instance, like a phoenix rising from the embers, nothing could destroy what Jim and Spock had in the end. Not Kolinahr. Not even death itself.

And it was for this reason that Jim would protect Spock like something precious, something lovely. He would shield him from bad memories born out of that time, defend him from useless feelings of liability over something he had no control over.

"Heh!" Jim guffawed to Spock's response, and then looked back down at the album.

Before he turned the page, he lingered a moment more without the smile ever leaving his lips.

Sometimes, Jim was stronger than he even realized.