Chapter 54

Sleep doesn't come easily, this final night on Earth. In the end, it barely comes at all, but that's just fine with Kirk. There are other ways to pass the hours of darkness, and, as he wakes from a light doze to find the shadows just beginning to gray, Spock stretched out beneath him and sleeping the sleep of the carnally exhausted, he thinks that, if nothing else, he's said farewell in style to these long, hollow years on the planet of his birth.

Everything is ready. They're ready. It's time to go home.

He shifts slightly, unwilling, just yet, to trade the warmth and comfort of a bedful of recumbent Vulcan for the uncertain temperatures of the apartment at large. His gluteal muscles protest the movement, and a residual throbbing from his anal cavity retraces every step of every moment of the hours just past. He's going to have to put a lot of effort into walking normally today, Kirk thinks, and he grins into a nest of wiry, black chest hair. It's not as though Spock's stride is likely to be any less disjointed; they probably need to have an uncomfortable and extremely delicate conversation about a couple of things before they brave the glare of the world's press.

A glance at the chronometer tells him that he has time enough to close his eyes again, but he knows better than to think he's got any kind of a shot at meaningful repose now that his brain has decided it's morning, and, in any case, if he weren't capable of commanding his ship on the fumes of four nights of broken rest, he wouldn't have made it to the end of his first week on the Enterprise. There's a restlessness building in Kirk's bones—the lure of the possible—and it's too late now to soothe it back into stillness and silence. So, moving quietly, he peels back his share of the blankets, eases his shoulders free of Spock's encircling arm, and steps, naked, into the chilly darkness of his last Terran pre-dawn for years to come. Affronted flesh hums a memory of hours lost to lovemaking, and, Kirk thinks, he's going to stand on his bridge today, hands lightly grazing the bruises on his thighs, his hips, his arms as he goes about the business of running his ship, and remember every thrust, every grip, every bite.

He has no idea how he's going to make it through the day. The new uniforms are not exactly cut to hide the captain's erection. He wonders vaguely if they ought to have some more sex in the shower before they leave, just in case.

In the kitchen, Kirk dials up a pot of coffee and carries it to the darkened window to watch the first wash of morning frost the far reaches of the horizon. Lori's book still lies where it fell last night, and he picks it up, smoothes down a corner that's been dogeared by incautious handling, and opens it to the frontispiece. Her voice is an echo in his ear; her shadow is at his shoulder, but she's slipping into memory now, like mist dissolving in sunlight. Kirk looks at the words she's left him, familiar curling cursive in a language she loved to read, and then he closes the book, the snap of the cover shattering the silence, and carries it to the stack of boxes that line the side of the sitting room. He finds one marked Personal - Assorted and slips it inside, and feels something in his chest, something tight and long-buried, release at last.

Where would you go? he asks her, glass tilted into the light of the Casa Lavanda, tilted into the gulf of years. If they gave you your ship—what's your course heading?

I don't know, Jim, she says, and she smiles her sunlight smile. You tell me. Where's good this time of year?

He hopes she'll still be with him next time he makes planetfall. He hopes she finally found her ship.

An ancient instinct tells Kirk that he's watched, and he turns back over his shoulder to find Spock in the bedroom doorway, dark eyes hooded by shadow, face unreadable. He's slipped into Kirk's robe, which has the effect of reminding Kirk that he's naked as the day he was born—in more ways than one—and he says nothing as Kirk's gaze meets his, simply unfolds his hands from their clasp at the small of his back, and crosses the room, slowly, methodically, deliberately. Kirk lets him come, sips from his coffee and sets the cup down on top of the box at his side as Spock makes his way towards him and comes to a halt just inside Kirk's circle of personal space. His hair, Kirk notices, is disarrayed by sleep and sex, and something about his failure either to notice or correct this feels more intimate by far than anything they did last night.

Spock reaches for Kirk's hands, laces them with his, rests them between their bodies where their hips almost touch. Softly, he says, "We will honor her memory."

Kirk lets his fingers slide into place against Spock's, curves locking against curves, and thinks he can feel the faint trace of energy, of life, flowing just beneath the skin.

"I believe," he says quietly, "that she'd tell us we already have." And he pulls Spock's lips to his.

-o-o-o-

Afterwards, freshly showered and pressed into command whites, they breakfast together at the kitchen counter as the skies above the Marin Headlands pearlesce and the city below them slowly begins to come to life. They eat in silence, air scented by the perfumed steam curling from Spock's mug, and Kirk finds himself wondering if it's going to be possible, these next few months, to find this kind of simple moment of quiet togetherness, away from the all-seeing eyes of a starship crew far from home. Living a shared life in low profile is going to take a little bit of negotiation, he thinks, and a whole lot of compromise, but this is the advantage of falling in love with a member of an insanely private species: the necessary adjustments are already made. There's probably something important in that for Kirk to take away from the experience, something about this whole thing never having anywhere to go but right where it's ended up, but he'll finish that thought some other time. For now, he's going to eat breakfast with his lover, and then they're going to work.

"That reminds me," he says aloud, and Spock's slowly arching eyebrow reminds him that, though Kirk is sleeping with a telepath, it's still necessary to verbalize the thoughts that inform the lead-up to any new conversation he might wish to start. He buries his grin in a sip of the last decent cup of coffee he's likely to drink for some time. "I've been thinking," he corrects himself, "that it might be sensible to arrive separately at the transporter room for beam-up."

Spock tilts his head, considering. "I believe your logic is sound," he says. "I concur."

Insanely private species, Kirk thinks, and buries a smile in a sip from his mug. It has its disadvantages, of course, but, once you get past those, there's a whole world of confusion, misunderstandings and offense that you get to live without.

"Good," he says. "It's just something Nogura mentioned yesterday—I'd prefer not to add any kind of fuel to the fire if we can."

To his left, there is a sudden and complete cessation of motion. Kirk glances sideways in time to see Spock's other eyebrow reach for his hairline, and realizes, abruptly, how that last sentence must have sounded.

"It's nothing really," he adds quickly. "You know how he is. He was concerned about the possibility of the press getting hold of the… ah… the nature of our trip to Idaho, and raising questions about the impartiality of my command."

"Your impartiality," says Spock, with that immutably obstinate loyalty that has the tendency to make Kirk's stomach flip over like a twelve-year-old boy in the throes of his first crush, "is beyond reproach."

Kirk grins. "Thank you, Mr. Spock," he says. "Though I'm not sure they'd accept your word on the matter, I'm afraid. In any case, he seems to think that there've been rumors that he's needed to quash, and I'd prefer that he didn't have any reason to micromanage our first mission. We're going to need room to maneuver if we're going to get it right."

"Rumors?" says Spock, because of course this is what he'd take away from everything Kirk just said. Not the mission, not the triumph of autonomy restored, not the thrill of the challenge. The privacy thing. Of course.

"There are no rumors," says Kirk firmly. "Nogura just doesn't like the look of the thing, and I can't blame him; not really. It plays poorly for the holos, but we only have to worry about that for the next few hours. The man's a living chess board: it's his nature always to think three moves ahead. But he's fighting theoretical fires before they've started; there are no rumors. I'd bet my stripes on that."

Spock's hand has frozen halfway to his chin, in the act of bringing his cup to his lips. It does not move. "Rumors," he says, "relating to the nature of our… association?"

Association? thinks Kirk, and wonders if he ought to be offended. Not thirty minutes have passed since Spock was on his knees before him on the shower floor, enthusiastically fellating Kirk's dick; moments before that, he was busy ejaculating his third orgasm of the past twelve hours deep into Kirk's body. Kirk thinks that counts as something a little more exalted than an association.

"Rumors," he clarifies, with the faintest hint of ice, "relating to the question of whether or not you and I are, in fact, intimately involved. Yes. I imagine that was what our CIC was getting at."

"I… see," says Spock, and sips from his cup.

Kirk blinks, wonders what he's missing. It takes a moment for the pieces to connect, but that could be the hour of the morning and the past week's sleep deprivation.

"You've heard them?" he sputters.

Spock peers uncomfortably into his tea. "I… have not been directly informed of their existence..." he says.

"But you're aware of them?"

Vulcans, Kirk suspects, do not do awkward; it seems like the sort of thing that would be firmly classified under illogical emotional reaction to dispassionate stimulus. But Spock is giving a damned good impression of a man trying hard to pretend he's in no way ill at ease.

"In my former capacity as instructor at the Academy," he says, and his voice, though steady, sounds like every word is carved from stone, "the matter found its way to my attention." He sets down his tea with a muted, dignified little click. "I considered it of little consequence."

Given the state of affairs between the two of them in the first months after their return to Earth, Kirk privately doubts the accuracy of Spock's assessment. But, more to the point, and considerably more pressing, is the question of just how long the entire faculty of Starfleet and its associated body of teaching staff have been wondering if he was sleeping with his first officer.

He ought to be furious at the casual appropriation of his private life by persons unknown, but the whole damn thing is entirely too surreal for anger. It's not only the discovery that Nogura's concerns are based in actual, substantive fact; it's also the revelation that there was a rumor concerning the probability or otherwise of carnal relations between the captain of the Enterprise and his Vulcan Exec, and Spock knew of them before Kirk. It's probably a good thing, he reflects, that he did not go so far as to actually wager his command against their existence. It'd be a damned embarrassing way to drop a rank.

"Let me get this straight," he says, and he finds, to his alarm, that he's having to work hard to suppress the urge to burst into fits of slightly hysterical laughter. "Three years ago, when we returned to HQ, you encountered rumors that you and I were lovers?"

Spock could not look more discomfited were he perched on top of a sharpened spike. "Correct," he says.

"Several months before we had, in fact…?"

"Correct," says Spock again. "Although, if you will recall…."

"I do," says Kirk, who is unlikely ever to free himself of the memory of Amanda's rose garden, particularly now that there's no pressing need to do so. "And the source of these rumors was…?"

"I regret that I was unable determine their precise origin," says Spock, and Kirk takes a moment to reflect upon the fact that any regret that may exist is likely to be disproportionately shared by whomever was responsible for bringing the matter to Spock's steel-faced attention. "I first became aware that such speculation existed via a conversation that I overheard upon entering a lecture theatre some moments before the lesson was due to begin."

Kirk's eyes widen. "First became aware…?"

"Indeed." Spock glances sideways. "The Academy is, one might say, extremely fertile ground for gossip and idle speculation."

Which is, perhaps, as gross an understatement as Kirk has ever heard his first officer utter, and it has some serious competition in that respect. "How many times," he asks faintly, "have you encountered this rumor?"

Spock considers. "It is difficult to be precise."

Kirk just bets it is. "All right," he says, "let me rephrase. When did you first encounter this rumor?"

"Almost immediately upon assuming my assignment at the Academy," says Spock, "and regularly thereafter. It… appears to be a popular subject of debate among the student body."

Kirk aborts the action of sipping from his coffee moments before he's obliged to spit it back into the mug. "I… see," he says, and he's abruptly afraid that he does. "And how… what did… how did you respond?"

Spock says nothing, but, slowly and deliberately, he turns his head so that he's facing Kirk, and allows his right eyebrow to creep pointedly upwards in a gesture of silent, incredulous irritation so manifest and so pronounced that it must, at the very least, make its recipient question the wisdom of continued deliberation on matters outside his field of expertise. Kirk has been on the receiving end of that pointed scrutiny on more occasions than he cares to remember, though it has long since lost its power to cause him to rethink his life choices. It doesn't take too much imagination, however, to put himself in the shoes of the unwary cadet foolish enough to pontificate on the specifics of Spock's sex life in his immediate aural range. Kirk feels a grin begin to spread slowly across his face; surreal no longer seems entirely adequate as a descriptor for this conversation.

"Of course," he can't help but point out, "you realize that, while that's possibly a dismissal, Mr. Spock, it is in no way a refutation."

Spock takes a moment to contemplate his position, then, slowly, elegantly, he inclines his head.

"Indeed," he agrees, and sips from his tea.

-o-o-o-

Spock leaves before the sun is fully up, and Kirk lets him go without regret. This isn't where their relationship, however it may shape itself, plays out; their place is waiting for them in the lightening vaults above, and all that remains, now, is to close the door on his life-in-waiting and let the future unfold as it will. And so, when the car arrives for him, sixteen seconds shy of 0800, there's no shadow of grief or nostalgia to follow him out of the apartment that's never really felt like his; only the restless hum of all the days to come, like the static build-up before a storm. Today, he feels unbeaten, invincible. Today he feels like James Kirk.

Nogura has invited half the world and most of several others to see them off, of course, and the crush of cameras and bodies and questions erupts around Kirk before the transporter beam has fully released him into the Centroplex's press room. He's ready for it, admiral's smile fixed seamlessly in place, so calm and practiced that he's certain it looks, to anyone who doesn't know him well, as though it sits naturally on his face; and it's only when the crowd parts to let him through and he sees, waiting for him on the dais at the far side of the room, the one person that he wants to see, that Kirk feels it settle, ease, jaw muscles releasing their tension as something approaching genuine warmth rushes in to fuel his manufactured good humor. Bones is there too, at the front of the crowd, and Scotty, and Uhura, and Sulu, and they get to their feet to greet him, hands lifted in applause, but it's Spock's impassive nod, the elegant glide of his right hand as it rises in the ta'al, that moves Kirk forward to meet them.

Ready for this? he hears himself ask, long ago, from the wings of an auditorium bathed in mid-spring sunlight and the excitable chatter of hundreds of waiting voices.

Insofar as it is possible, answers Spock, to adequately prepare for a venture that is, by its nature, both illogical and unpredictable.

Neither am I, says Kirk's shadow self, and he steps out onto the stage.

-o-o-o-

"I swear," mutters Bones, some forty-five minutes later, dark-eyed and mutinous as they follow a terrified ensign along the back corridors to the Centroplex's main transporter bay, "this whole damned Federation gets giddier and more empty-headed with every passing year. Anyone mind telling me what in blazes that damned nonsense was all about?"

The question is either rhetorical or else exaggerated for belligerent effect, since their party consists of precisely four people, one of whom is Bones himself, and another of whom is almost certainly not yet past his nineteenth year, and who is, in any case, currently over-awed beyond the capacity for coherent speech. Still, Kirk has some sympathy for his friend's position. Some of the questions skirted disconcertingly close to uncomfortable territory, and Kirk suspects that his CIC is probably now nursing the beginnings of a stress-related ulcer on the back of nothing more momentous than one unscheduled trip to the Idaho Rockies. But, on the whole, he thinks, he deflected pretty well, even if he didn't dare chance a look at Spock while he answered. James Kirk can prevaricate with the best of them, but he's damned sure he wasn't going to keep a straight face if he caught sight of his First's expression during that particular information exchange. Kirk swallows a grin; there's something effervescent bubbling a little higher in his chest with every step, and he's entirely too jubilant right now for Georgian irascibility, no matter how familiar—or justified—it may be.

"Come now, Dr McCoy," he says cheerfully. "You weren't gone long enough to forget a good, old-fashioned Starfleet send-off, I'm sure?"

Bones glowers sideways, though it lacks its customary ire. "Some things," he says stubbornly, "shouldn't ought to be remembered."

"As I recall," says Kirk, who cannot keep the smile from his voice, try as he may, "you got off somewhat lightly last time."

"You talking about that time they kept us all holed up in orbit for the best part of three damned days while the whole world fawned and fainted over Starfleet's newest golden boy," says McCoy, "or about that time you had me drafted?"

"Just the former," says Kirk. "I got off somewhat lightly the second time, too."

"Depends what you mean by 'lightly,'" says Bones, with just the right balance of choler and restraint to make his point for him. That point, of course, might be anything from the state of Kirk's coronary arteries in the twilight weeks of his thirties, to the holosphere storm that's followed him like a godhead for the past seven days, to the doctor's medical opinion of the weight of emptiness that Kirk has carried around on his shoulders during three long years of absence and loss. Bones's meaningful glares tend to rely heavily on context for full interpretative effect, which rather dilutes the impact when the context itself is somewhat lacking in precision. Still, it hardly seems like the time to mention as much.

Scotty and Sulu and Uhura have been aboard for almost half an hour. They'll be settled at their stations by now, hands gliding easily across consoles that they know as well as the contours of their bodies: focused, absorbed, one with their work. Kirk can feel the pull of homecoming tugging at the cords of his chest, dragging him upwards and out into the vast, velvet blackness, and he knows, because he can feel it in the warmth behind the doctor's downturned mouth that calls him a liar, because he can see it in the crease of Spock's eyes and the light that dances behind them, that he wears his impatience like a sparking cloak of white noise and restlessness. They read him very well, these two men, but he's happy, these days, to be read.

Lightly, amiably, Kirk grins. "I'm not sure it matters anymore, Bones," he says. "We're done with the circus, for now at least. For now, we've got an entire galaxy to get through and only five years to do it. So perhaps you'd better get to your transporter pad, Doctor—it looks like Lieutenant Cowan is waiting for you."

He's not so ruthless in his pursuit of the last word that he's prepared to actively enjoy the look of horror that blanches the doctor's face as he glances sideways and evaluates the truth of Kirk's statement, but he'll concede a small moment of satisfaction at the proper order of things, the return of the conventional and the known. The terrified ensign finds his voice just long enough to direct Kirk and his First towards a small waiting room tucked behind the transporter bay, as Cowan steps forward to guide their protesting CMO towards the platform in a flurry of refusals, statistics and demands for a shuttle, and Kirk considers, for a moment, pulling rank, finding a pilot and a craft to ferry his friend the seven miles from the Centroplex to their ship, holding back the launch while they wait for the doctor to come aboard. But, in the end, he thinks, if it were really so important, Bones would have come to him apart, spoken quietly with his captain and made the request himself in private and without the eyes of the spacedock tech crew to bear witness to his insubordination. This is not, at its heart, about objection: this is about restoration. It's about remembering who they are and what they do, and, he thinks, he's going to let his friend know best, for now at least.

Kirk glances sideways as the ensign retreats, at the elegant, angular figure of his First, flanking him to his right. Alone and unobserved, he could reach for Spock's hand, twine their fingers together surreptitiously behind their backs; take this moment as it is and make it theirs, but he knows he won't. Not just because their seclusion is, at best, illusory, and not just because he knows that Spock won't welcome the gesture, but because they need to find a way to fold together these new selves that they have discovered, and the moments that will be truly theirs will be moments that they've earned, not stolen.

So, instead, Kirk stands shoulder to shoulder by his dress-uniformed First—casually close, but also casually distant, and it occurs to him, suddenly, that this is how they've always stood: as colleagues, as friends and as lovers; almost—but not quite—touching, for all the years they've known each other. There was, quite literally, no other way for this to go but where it has gone, and he's only left to wonder how it took him half a damned mission to realize it was love. Kirk feels a wide, easy grin melt the tension from his face and from the room in these final moments before Spock is called back to the transporter platform, back to their bridge: no wonder there are rumors about them.

"You realize, of course," he says quietly, "that we'll have our own bathrooms, this time out?"

"Indeed," says Spock, whose eyes are fixed on the door.

They contemplate it together for a moment in silence. "That could pose," adds Kirk, "a couple of logistical issues."

"Indeed," says Spock again. His tone is even, composed, professional: formal accommodation, as of an officer experienced in humoring his superior. "However," he adds, just as Kirk is reconciling himself to the fact that his lover has elected to perform Fastidious Exec for the transporter crew and won't allow himself to be drawn, "I would direct your attention to the institution, during the course of the Enterprise's refit, of double beds in the senior crew's quarters."

And this, this right here: this is why James Kirk never had any hope of resisting the ever-present lure of Spock of Vulcan. This is why it's so damned impossible not to fall in love with the man. This is why he fell so hard.

"You're right, of course, Mr. Spock," he says calmly, lips pursed firmly around the kind of delirious, euphoric grin that's not going to win him any points in the conversation. "The 'Fleet giveth, and the 'Fleet taketh away."

Spock's eyes slide sideways, lock with Kirk's, and, though his manner is scrupulously correct—parade rest, shoulders squared, face carefully impassive—there's a light behind his eyes that perhaps one person the galaxy across would recognize as laughter. No, there was never any hope for James Kirk. Not in this respect. Not with this man.

"Indeed," says Spock again, and there's a promise in those two syllables.

A knock at the door puts paid to Kirk's gathering arousal before it can become pronounced enough to raise any more eyebrows, and Lieutenant Cowan's voice, from the other side, informs Spock that the Enterprise has signalled her readiness to beam him aboard.

"Acknowledged, Lieutenant," Kirk tells her, and takes a step back, just far enough to get a last look at his First in these final moments before everything changes. "Captain Spock will be right out." That earns him an eyebrow, imperiously arched in protest either at the use of a title that has not yet ceased to chafe, or at Kirk's decision to answer on the new captain's behalf, and Kirk can't help it: the grin breaks free. "I'll see you on the other side, I guess," he tells his lover, his first officer, the other half of his heart, and Spock nods, opens his mouth to speak; thinks better of it, and turns to leave. "Oh, and Mr. Spock?" adds Kirk as his friend approaches the door—not close enough to activate the sensors; close enough to call him back at the threshold. "Do something for me, will you, before the end of alpha shift?"

"Of course, Admiral," says Spock, who has almost certainly connected the reference to the end of their working day with the amusement dancing its way irrepressibly across Kirk's face, but whose expression describes the careful collision of duty with long-suffering, in the manner of a Vulcan long accustomed to serving alongside Humans in general, and alongside Kirk in particular.

"I'd like you to schedule us a regular slot in the gymnasium," says Kirk cheerfully, but quietly, just in case Cowan is still on the other side of the door. "Tuesday evenings, perhaps. Preferably in one of the smaller sparring rooms."

Spock's eyebrow does not arch. His expression does not falter. "Admiral," he says mildly, but in tones that manifestly challenge the professionalism of his superior officer.

Kirk can't blame him for that. But neither can he bring himself to care. "With a privacy lock, if possible," he adds. His head feels full of air. "My Suus Mahna skills are a little… rusty these days."

"Admiral," says Spock again, meticulously correct, but there's a crease to his eyes that Kirk recognizes as a censored smile.

How he got so damned lucky, Kirk is not sure. Perhaps he never will be. Perhaps this is his life now: to wake in the morning to a dark, tousled head on the pillow beside him; to sit on his bridge and turn his head towards the science console, now inconveniently situated out of the captain's eyeline, as an elegant neck twists over an elegant shoulder to return Kirk's gaze; to open the doors to his quarters at the end of a long day to the scent of spice and heat; and to spend every waking moment wondering how on earth the stars aligned so perfectly above him as to allow these things to be true. If it is, so be it. Everything he has ever wanted is here in this moment; it all fell out right at last.

And so, when Spock doesn't make any immediate move to leave, Kirk, on impulse, steps forward, closes the short distance between them. He doesn't lift his mouth to Spock's—not here, not now—but he stands in front of him, close enough to touch; close enough to feel the radiant heat of Spock's body; close enough to catch the first scent of spice on the air. Spock draws in a deep breath, unsteady in his throat, leans in a little nearer so that their heads are almost touching. Slowly, unhurriedly, he lifts his right hand, every measured movement a performance for an audience of one, and bends his fourth and fifth fingers to his palm. Kirk knows what he's doing, of course, but he watches, transfixed, as the movement unfolds; eyes following the curve of Spock's arm as his left hand moves to lift Kirk's; as his right moves to places his extended index and middle fingers gently above Kirk's radial pulse. His skin is cool, soft, where it rests against Kirk's, and, deliberately, languidly, like chilled silk on glass, Spock trails his fingers across Kirk's wrist, his palm, the creases of his knuckles, to rest against the tips of Kirk's.

"Nam-tor wak vah yut s'vesht na'fa'wak he pla'rak," he says softly. "I'wak mesukh-yut t'on."

Kirk nods. His breath feels suddenly tight in his throat. "Taluhk nash-veh k'ish," is all he can think to reply, and he hopes that, for k'ish, Spock hears k'du.

They stand like this for a moment, hands linked, skin on skin, and it's only when Cowan's voice slices through the silence with a polite but firm, "Captain Spock, sir—it's time," that Kirk realizes he's forgotten to breathe.

He sucks in a ragged sigh as Spock's hand drops away, the memory of those long, cool fingers printed into Kirk's flesh like a brand. "Thank you, Lieutenant," says his First in a voice that's only slightly hoarse, only slightly uneven. "I will make my way to the transporter pad directly."

Between them, just to the right of Spock's heart, Kirk twists his hands so that his fingers lace through Spock's. Spice floods the air.

"Tonight," says Kirk, who is abruptly glad that embarkation protocol will keep him sequestered away, alone and unobserved, for the next ten minutes at least.

Spock inclines his head. There is a faint flush to his cheeks the Enterprise's CMO will unquestionably notice, and Kirk suspects he'll be beaming up to an eyeroll at least, perhaps an exasperated shake of the head, but there will be no fire in it, no real pique. Because Bones will know what it means. Bones has always known what it meant; it just took a little while for his friends to catch up with him.

Spock inclines his head and his hands contract, long fingers pressing silent promise into his lover's hand before they release Kirk's.

"Tonight," he says, and steps through the door.

The room seems a little smaller without him, in the way that the world itself seems to shrink when Spock's not there, but, Kirk realizes, there's a skill to letting him go, and a whole lot of it depends on the understanding, possible now, that it's not a parting, just a hiatus between meetings: the necessary ending to one moment that allows the next to fall into place. Because, really, Kirk thinks, there was no other conclusion for their story but a series of beginnings: for all the times it has looked like it was over, it was only ever paused, only ever gathering momentum before leading inescapably to the next cycle. Their life together has been a succession of ever-decaying orbits; paths through time that circle relentlessly back towards each other, towards this moment, towards an endless parade of moments. The past is a river, flowing carelessly out of reach, and some day, Kirk thinks, that's going to bother him again, but not yet. Some day, he's going to look in the mirror and see more years written into the lines of his face than he remembers passing; some day, he'll look at the man across the bridge from him and see that the time they have ahead of them is less than the time that they have spent. But not today. The past is a river, flowing carelessly out of reach, but it carries the future in ripples on its restless current, and the present is wherever the two connect. That's good enough for now, Kirk thinks. It's good enough for whatever comes next.

So he's ready for Cowan's knock before it comes, spine straight, eyes fixed on the door as it glides open on her deferent face. He's ready, and he follows her with a nod along this final stretch of this particular road, turning a smile and a friendly greeting on the transporter tech as he passes, feeling the tension melt from his spine, feeling the weight lift from his shoulders, feeling the path return once more to the familiar, to ground he's walked before. It started once with Ilion, and that's where it starts again: circles without beginning or end, only waypoints on the journey, and his feet have learned the road at last.

Tonight, they will stand in his quarters or Spock's quarters, and they will watch the starlight stream past the window, feel the tremble in their feet of a ship at warp, feel the world resolve, set itself right; feel the blanket contentment of belonging. They will stand together, hands entwined, and there will be no need to hurry, no need to rush; their lips will meet when the moment arrives, and they will undress each other without haste, letting their hands roam freely over hard-won bodies, letting the silence fill with words there's no need to speak, letting touch say everything that needs to be said, and, when they are ready, they will make their way to the double bed and make love there, while their ship streaks through the void. And tomorrow, they'll wake together in Kirk's bed or Spock's, and they'll know that they've made it home.

"Systems online, sir," calls Cowan from the transporter console. "Enterprise reports ready to receive her commander."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," says Kirk and his grin, which is already at capacity, manages to find another quarter inch across his face. "Engage at will."

"Engaging, sir," she says, and there's a moment of weightlessness inverted, an endless sucking pull, and the first thing he registers is the sound of applause as his atoms reconstitute, the shrill whine of a ship's whistle and Scotty's voice, bursting with pride and contentment, barking, "Admiral on the deck!"

The second thing he registers is Spock's eyes on his, ready to meet him as he recalibrates, re-orients, finds himself again in the center of his brave new world.

Kirk's hand tingles.

THE END

-o-o-o-

A/N: Guys, it's been a blast. Thank you to everyone who's stuck with this monster fic, thank you to everyone who's commented, and thank you most of all for enabling my obsession over the past three years. Huge, gargantuan thanks to my betas—frodolass, penguin_attie, and miloowen—for their insights, knowledge, and help, and for the inordinate amount of work they've put in to get each chapter postable; and to T'Lara, who came up with the Lava Lube idea in the first place (though I claim credit for the name!), and didn't immediately go, "Uh…" when I asked her if she'd mind very much if I angsted it up, eimeo-style, and then took a Prologue and 46 chapters to get to the actual challenge.

I am now in advanced post-Spice cold turkey and cannot remember how to live a full and productive life without writing these guys, so, if anyone's still interested, I guarantee there will be more stories in this universe. Thank you all for reading, and, because I seriously cannot sign off any other way: dif-tor heh smusma, everyone.

-o-o-o-

Vulcan Transalation:

Nam-tor wak vah yut s'vesht na'fa'wak he pla'rak. I'wak mesukh-yut t'on - Surakian saying: "Time is a path from the past to the future and back again. The present is the crossroads of both."

Taluhk nash-veh k'ish - "I cherish it."

K'du - "You."