Chapter 17: Ends and Beginnings

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The party goes on too long for Spock's comfort, but he resists leaving—or suggesting to Nyota that they leave together. An extrovert, she's energized by being surrounded by friends. As he always does when they are in public together, Spock delights in watching her navigate easily between conversations, moving from one knot of people to another, her body language animated and warm where people are celebrating, her voice dropping into a lower register with those who are sharing memories of the lost.

Although he rarely chimes in, he knows she is aware of him, her eye occasionally cast in his direction as if to pull him along with her. He willingly goes.

"I thought you had to finish your mission report," she says during a lull in the festivities, and he pauses long enough to do an internal assessment. He does need to work on his report—timeliness is key, but so is accuracy—and in one dedicated corner of his mind he is writing the report as he sips his drink and savors the new tenderness between them.

"I do, but I thought it would be more pleasing to engage with you socially."

He might not have always felt that, or at the very least, would not have acknowledged it if he had. He can tell she's amused by his confession. The expression on her face is the one she makes before she teases him. "You old romantic, you."

A joking nod to what he isn't—and a sly wink to the deeper part of himself that only she knows.

Looking up, he sees McCoy passing by, darting a meaningful glance at the vokaya necklace Nyota fiddles with idly.

How unexpected that he and the doctor, of all people, would end up sharing secrets.

A crewman who often rotates duty rosters with Nyota wanders over and the two women strike up a conversation. Spock turns slightly to give them their privacy and his gaze lands on Lieutenant Sulu and his husband. They aren't speaking loudly but Spock's hearing is too acute not to make out their words.

Joyful reunion, certainly, and excitement, but Spock also overhears them discussing the ordinary work of parenting their daughter.

"She shouldn't be having nightmares," Sulu says. "Have you let her see the news vids lately—"

"I wouldn't do that," his partner interrupts, a note of annoyance in his voice. "But she knows the ship was destroyed. She saw the swarm attack. Of course she's upset."

An argument brewing? To his surprise, the idea causes Spock some alarm. He likes and respects Sulu and does not wish him to have an unhappy homecoming. He steps a fraction closer.

"If she keeps waking up—" Sulu begins.

"She went through this when you first deployed. She'll settle down. She's more resilient than you know. You have to trust me on this."

Spock looks over in time to see Sulu lean in and give his husband a quick kiss. "I know. I do. I'm sorry I questioned you."

And just like that, the obvious tension and disharmony dissipates between them.

Fascinating.

Ensign Chekov and an Ednerian civilian walk past, Chekov keeping up a patter in the woman's ear. To a casual observer, Chekov sounds animated, upbeat, but Spock hears a note of loneliness in his voice, a longing to be with someone right now.

You have to learn to see the world from other people's point of view, his mother told him frequently when he was growing up. At times she bemoaned his lack of empathy, his distance from the feelings of others—and himself.

If she could see him now.

That thought brings an unexpected lump to his throat. As if sensing his sorrow, Nyota is suddenly beside him, taking his hand. The comforting electric snap of connection—and he exhales a calming breath.

"Have you spoken to the captain?" she asks. He feels her eyes searching his face and he shakes his head. "He'll be glad to know you aren't leaving Starfleet."

"I am uncertain that he is planning to stay," Spock says.

Nyota's fingers tighten on his palm. "What do you mean?"

"The captain applied for a promotion some time ago."

"How do you know that?"

"Commodore Paris contacted me for my evaluation as his first officer. Today he was called to a conference with the Commodore. I presume the promotion has been approved."

"But that doesn't mean—"

"Vice-admirals do not fly," Spock says. "He would be assigned to headquarters, or to a starbase."

She grips his hand more tightly. "And what about you? What are your plans now? Accept an assignment on another ship?"

"That depends on you."

He feels her surprise—and her pleasure—through her touch.

"Well," she says slowly, "the scuttlebutt says the new ship under construction is going to be christened Enterprise. If that's the case, I might ask for a post teaching at the Academy until it's ready to sail. Or maybe here on Yorktown, working on the communications protocols."

Spock has heard nothing about plans to rebuild the Enterprise, but he doesn't doubt Nyota. She has an uncanny ability to hear news first—what she calls scuttlebutt which is, almost always, factual. An indication of her communication skills, no doubt, and her willingness to spend copious amounts of time talking to others.

Which leads him to consider what he will do if Jim Kirk does step away from a captain's position.

Spock has little desire to captain a ship himself. He doesn't doubt his technical skill or his strategic and tactical abilities.

But commanding a starship requires something else that he can't quite articulate—a vision of himself as a leader, a willingness to see people as both individuals and integral members of a crew, an almost reckless disregard for rules when caution is illogical. Those are attributes that describe Jim Kirk, not Spock, and he has no qualms about admitting it.

"We have much to consider," he says. A simple statement of fact, but he senses another rush of Nyota's happiness.

"We," she says, smiling. "You said we."

Now it is his turn to tease. "Perhaps I used the wrong word? I was attempting to describe two people who plan a future with each other in mind."

The warmth and pressure of her hand is like a promise—and he starts to ask her if she is ready to leave the party when another crewman ambles up and begins talking. Reluctantly, Spock drops her hand and steps back a fraction. Nyota flashes him a glance and he hastily hides his disappointment.

They'll leave the party soon enough. For now, he reins in his impatience, content to let the sound of her voice wash over him like a caress.

Leonard McCoy has the worst poker face of anyone Jim knows, so the birthday party isn't much of a surprise. The surprise is where it is—in the observation lounge closest to Starfleet's Yorktown shipyards. A transparent wall affords a view of the skeleton of a ship under construction, an unnamed Constitution class starship with technology upgrades so classified that Kirk hasn't seen the specs. It pulls his gaze like a magnet—a small balm, of sorts, for the heartache of losing the Enterprise.

He's not the only one. As he drifts around the room talking to well-wishers, he notices that they, too, seem drawn to the busy hub outside—or inside, depending on how you think of the enclosed world of the Yorktown.

"You're missing your party," Bones says at his side, and Jim makes an effort to look away.

"Thanks for this." Jim waves his glass to include the room and the party guests.

"Wasn't me," Bones says, pointing across the room where Uhura is chatting with Chekov, Spock standing at parade rest behind her. "You know, if you ever get another command, you ought to create a Chief Party Officer. We could have used more parties these past three years."

"Done. Have someone in mind?"

"If you didn't need Uhura on the bridge, I'd put her in charge. Don't know how Spock would feel about that, though."

"He looks pretty mellow to me." Jim takes another sip of his bourbon.

McCoy guffaws loudly. "Don't be fooled by appearances. Scratch the surface and your mellow Vulcan is anything but."

That's true, of course. Jim can still conjure up the feeling of Spock's fingers around his neck after the destruction of Vulcan. Can recall the crucifixion in Spock's expression—and his weeping—as Jim's life flickered out in the warp containment room.

He starts to say something about this but McCoy says, "I guess by now you've heard about Ambassador Spock. If you haven't said anything to Spock yet, don't. Or don't say much. He's shattered about it, as you can imagine."

"I can't ignore it, Bones. That would be worse."

"Jim, he knows how you feel. If you have to say something, be brief. Wait until he's ready."

That doesn't sit well. Jim's never been one for diplomacy or holding back when charging forward is an option.

"Mr. Sensitive," he says at last, an acquiescence of sorts.

Scotty wanders up, drink in hand. "Did you think about what I said, sir?"

Before Jim can answer, Bones butts in. "What are you two up to?"

"Jaylah," Scotty says. "She's got no family left, and no real place to go. She's a keen engineer already. And she's got this uncanny knack for electronics. Did you know, she can actually see harmonic dissonance before the scanner picks it up? Something to do with growing up on a dark planet. With some more training, she could find a home in Starfleet."

Jim takes the PADD Scotty is holding and taps until he has Jaylah's acceptance letter to Starfleet Academy on the screen.

"Spoke to Admiral Paris about it already," he says. "Why don't you let her know."

Scotty's face is almost luminous. "Aye, captain," he says. But he stands in place without moving. For a moment Jim waits for him to leave, and when he doesn't, he says, "Was there something else, Mr. Scott?"

"It's about Kevin, sir."

"Kevin?"

"That's the name he chose. Seems no one but Uhura can pronounce his Teenaxion one."

"Our stowaway," Jim says. Scotty nods.

"He wants to learn about the Federation," Scotty says. "He's taken with the idea of Starfleet. Apparently his people have nothing quite like it. He's offered to be a sort of liaison, captain, if we'll let him live among the crew for awhile. Keenser's offered to let him bunk with him."

"I seem to recall you needed a little help the last time you addressed the Teenaxion delegation," McCoy says with a wry grin. "Might be a good idea to let him stay."

After saving Yorktown, Jim's pretty sure he has enough leverage to ask for a few more favors from Commodore Paris. "Sure," he tells Scotty, who flashes a grin before heading across the room to where Jaylah is ensconced on a sofa. He watches as Scotty crosses over to her—sees her reaction—and then joins them to congratulate her.

When he heads back toward the bar, he notices Spock quietly watching the construction outside the observation window. Bones' admonition not to say much about Ambassador Spock ties Jim's tongue and he stutters an awkward condolence.

"Is that what you wanted to mention to me that time in the turbolift?" Someone else might have forgotten such an ordinary moment, but Spock forgets nothing.

To Jim's astonishment, Spock gives an answer so imprecise, so unlike him, that it has to be a lie. "More or less," he says, his gaze shifting with unmistakable unease.

Then Spock's voice stiffens and he says, "I trust your meeting with Commodore Paris went well." Jim isn't fooled. Spock must know about the promotion—and is asking if he's accepted it.

"More or less."

So much said in those three words. Assurance that he that he's not bailing on his crew—that when they get a ship again, they'll be together. Family, that's what they are. No use calling it anything less.

The party ends in a few hours and finally, finally Jim is alone in temporary quarters in a residential area near the Starfleet outpost headquarters. He shouldn't have drunk as much as he did. His mouth is like cotton and he has the false clarity he gets after a night of bourbon.

Glancing at his watch, he calculates the time on Earth. Still his actual birthday there—and with it, an obligation. He sits uneasily on a straight-back chair and uses the subspace transmitter to call his mother.

She's at the family farmhouse in Iowa, a place Jim visits rarely, though he can picture it clearly—his mother perched on a wicker sofa on the front porch, the prairie spread out in all directions. She answers at once.

"Bet you thought I'd forgotten," Jim says as a greeting. It's an old joke between them, an acknowledgement of the dual nature of the day, unforgettable as both celebration and memorial.

"What did you do to celebrate?" His mother's voice is smoke and honey over the distance. He tabs up the volume and hears the ambient noise in the background—birds and wind and a faint flitter dopplering by.

"Oh, not much. Some friends got together for drinks."

"No dancing? No bar fights? You've gotten boring."

In spite of his somber mood, Jim laughs.

They talk for a few minutes about inconsequential things—a garden his mother is tending while she's in between off-world assignments, his brother's plan to look for a larger house on Deneva. They do not talk about the Enterprise, or his lost crew, or the near-destruction of Yorktown. Jim offers no words about Altamid and what he saw there, or Krall and the mystery of the Franklin's disappearance solved at last.

When they've talked around the subject long enough, Jim finally says, "I know you miss him."

His mother is silent for a beat and Jim wonders if he's lost the subspace connection. "Always," she says. Then her voice turns falsely chipper and she says, "So. When are you coming home? You've been away from your family way too long."

He says all the usual stuff—that he'll try to get there soon, that it would be nice if Sam and Aurelan could bring the boys for the winter holidays.

And he ends their conversation as he always does, assuring her that he does have family near—with his friends and crew. He knows she understands as only another Starfleet crew member would understand—how closely knit shipmates are, how essential to each other's well-being.

All true words, but when he hangs up, he has an overwhelming sense of being alone—not in the way that he is alone when he's on the ship, but really and truly alone, in an unfamiliar place, his future uncertain.

Maybe another drink wouldn't be such a bad idea.

When the door chime sounds, he has a moment of hope that Bones has read his mind and is waiting to take him out for another round.

The door slides open and Carol Marcus stands there, duffel in one hand.

"What are you doing here!"

"That's what I like. A nice warm hello."

"Uh, I mean, I thought you were in San Francisco. How did you get here?"

"You won't believe it, but there are actually transports between Earth and Yorktown. Spaceships. Marvels of the modern world. Do I have to keep standing here, or are you going to invite me in?"

With a start, Jim comes to, taking her duffel and ushering her to the sitting area. Before she takes a chair, she brushes his cheek with a kiss.

"How long are you—I mean, why did you—" He knows he sounds like an idiot, muttering and incomprehensible. The last time they'd spoken, she'd made her wishes to settle in one place clear, taking a temporary posting on Earth with the hope of a future posting on Yorktown. When he hadn't jumped at the chance to join her, the relationship faltered.

He takes a chair facing her and grins his delight that she's here.

"Did you really think I wouldn't come check on the crew?" she says. "They are my friends, too."

His grin disappears at once. Carol had been a member of the Enterprise almost three years—until she transferred two months ago. Many of her friends died in the attack. Many of her friends are now on Yorktown, waiting to be debriefed before getting new assignments. Part of her might feel guilty about not being there when they needed her.

"Yes, of course," he says, chastened. Whatever he had hoped for—

"But mostly," she continues, "I wanted to see you. Maybe get a bed for the night?"

He looks up and gives her a sly grin. She's beaming—the way she used to when they were still happy with each other.

"Just the night?"

"Well," she says, echoing the smirk on his face, "a night or two. Until someone figures out I'm missing at work."

"You didn't get permission to leave?"

"Took a page from your book, captain. Break the rules. Isn't that your motto?" She laughs at that, and before he knows what she's doing, she's out of her chair and settling sideways in his lap, her kiss heating him up and short-circuiting his ability to think clearly.

But even as he feels himself giving into the moment, something nags in the corner of his brain, like a growing shadow.

"Carol," he says, pulling back slightly so he can look her in the eye. "We need to talk."

At once she's wary, her body going rigid. "I'm listening."

"I think you ought to know," Jim says, "that I applied for a promotion and a posting on Yorktown."

Carol's eyes widen. "And?"

"And I got it."

He hears her intake of breath and he hurries on. "And I turned it down."

Immediately her expression darkens. He half expects her to rise and leave.

"I know this sounds crazy, but I feel like I know where my place is. Where I'm meant to be. And that place isn't behind a desk on a starbase. It's in the captain's chair on a starship."

Carol looks at him with an intensity that makes him squirm. "I thought you didn't believe in destiny."

"I'm not explaining myself very well," Jim says. "I mean, there's nowhere else I feel so connected as I do on my ship. Where I know what to do and how to best serve. My crew…"

He pauses, weighing his words. "My crew needs me. And I need to be there for them." He pauses again, gauging her response. Disappointment? Anger? He can't read her at all right now. "I'm sorry, Carol. I wanted to make this work, but—"

To his surprise, he feels her finger touch his lips.

"Don't say anything else."

"But—"

"You aren't very good at obeying orders, are you? I said, don't say anything else. Don't apologize for being who you are."

She kisses him briefly, and he thinks now she's going to leave me when she stands up. He braces himself for the parting—the aftermath and loneliness—but she reaches for his hand and tugs him to his feet.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Question?"

"Can I get a bed for the night?"

Relief, and gratitude, and love—he feels all three in an instance.

Temporary, perhaps, but right now, in this moment, just what he needs.

Author's Note: And so we come to the end of this "missing scenes" story! I had fun writing it, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. Thanks so much to everyone who took the time and trouble to leave reviews. I appreciate you more than you can know.

My Muse is whispering an idea about a story that follows the crew during their forced hiatus while the new Enterprise is being built. It might be fun to see what they all get up to. Keep an eye out in case my Muse gets insistent and I write something new.