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Ninety-nine years.
Spock inhaled briefly. His lungs were giving in. Good.
He fluttered his eyes open for a split second and looked at the white ceiling above.
Ninety-nine years. He could think of nothing else.
He had cursed his human nature every hour of every day, for feeling how strongly he felt. He had been so blessed during his life, and he should be grateful, he knew.
The day he had met Jim. The five-year mission. All the years together after that.
And yet. The past ninety-nine years had been painful and lonely. Worst of all was the knowledge that he hadn’t been there. Not when Jim entered the Nexus aboard the Enterprise-B. Not when he emerged—and died shortly after.
“I’ve always known I’ll die alone,” Jim had said. And Spock hadn’t been there.
He closed his eyes. He pictured Jim in his mind, and had to thank his Vulcan neurons for the clarity with which he could summon the image even after all this time.
Peace, at last. No more pain. He chose to remember the beauty of his life with Jim.
Their first kiss. Jim’s hesitant smile, his eyes bright, the way he had looked at Spock as if he couldn’t believe his luck. His expression had never changed in all the years since. He had made Spock feel as if he was the most precious thing in the world, and Jim was blessed beyond measure to have him in his life.
If only Jim knew, the depth of what Spock felt for him. He had been the blessed one.
Their wedding. The soft gradient of burnt orange and pale gold in the sky as the sun rose over Vulcan, matching sacred firelight around them. His fingers on Jim’s psi points as their minds melded. Jim hadn’t closed his eyes—he had kept them wide open, and so had Spock. Jim was giving him his soft, gentle smile, and it was full of hope. The hope of a future together.
Their intertwined hands. He could not only see them—he could feel it. Jim’s soft fingers tracing the outline of his own, feather-light, sending a shiver down his spine. Minds melding alongside their bodies, shapes silhouetted against the darkness of a warm room, their voices whispering each other’s names. Jim had always been so tender, so adoring, that every time had felt like the first, every shared moment a deepening of their bond.
Their house. The smell of hot chocolate, the warmth of the fire, the rainy afternoons and the softness of the blankets wrapped around their bodies, nestled on the couch together.
Some nights, they would simply stare wonderingly at the other, at the blessing that had touched their lives; rejoicing as they lay in the warmth of a shared bond that needed no words. It had been such a new experience for Jim, Spock knew, unimaginable. But over time there it had become familiar, it had become a necessity. The voice of the other was ever-present in their minds, sometimes faint, sometimes so close it felt they would suffocate if they didn’t press their bodies close, if they didn’t breathe the same air.
Then—
Silence.
Spock remembered that moment as the most painful of his life. The bond severed, the place where Jim should have been, empty. He hadn’t thought he would survive at the time.
But there had been people to help, tasks to complete, and the only logical next step was to keep going. And so he had, telling himself that he was living for them both.
Every life he saved, he did so in Jim’s name. But the pain had never passed, the emptiness had never been filled.
Now he chased the thoughts away and returned to that image. Back to Jim’s steady gaze, the firelight dancing in his hazel eyes. The openness in his face, the impossible kindness, the warmth of his hands holding both of his.
Nothing in his life had ever made him feel safer than having his hands enclosed by Jim’s.
He let that vision fill his world and willed his breath to slow.
Slower.
Slower.
Until there was no breath.
He lay motionless with his eyes closed, hands at his sides.
Still. Gone.
***
He had expected himself to disappear, to feel no more, but instead he felt himself expand into the infinity of the cosmos, traveling through the stars he was made of. He saw everything at once, he was everywhere, and felt a deep emotion at the unfathomable perfection of it.
What now?, he wondered.
He had never given much thought to the afterlife; it was illogical to theorize about something when one had no proof of its existence in the first place. He hadn’t even wanted his katra preserved, though many had insisted. His Jim was gone, and so would he.
And then amid the stars he felt something. It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible. A ripple through the fabric of the Universe, a star brighter than the others that beckoned in the distance. He felt himself inevitably dragged towards its light.
Odd, he thought. He could feel his body again.
He was lying on the bed, hands at his side, just like he had when he had died. Or so he’d thought. Could it be that he was alive still? No , he begged. No more life without Jim.
Then he heard his voice. It was unmistakably his. It hovered in the space between his mind and the rest of the Universe, echoing in his bones.
“‘There are always possibilities’, Spock said. And if Genesis is indeed life from death—I must return to this place again.”
Spock’s heart ached. What was his mind doing, conjuring the memory of all he had lost?
And then—Warmth. He felt something to his left, so familiar that even before he opened his eyes, his fingers reached out instinctively.
His hand was caught and held tight by a presence he knew in every cell.
As time moved and changed and lost its meaning, he was back to another time when Jim had held his hand just like this. "This simple feeling". That day for the first time he had understood—not understood, accepted, the nature of his feelings for Jim.
Spock’s eyes flew open.
No, he thought again. Not possible. Jim. My Jim. T’hy’la.
And yet—there he was, looking back at him with his unbelievably kind eyes, with the same devotion that he remembered. He looked young, as Spock had seen him last. The sun was setting to Spock’s right and it cast a deep orange glow that outlined Jim’s face and lit up his eyes.
Spock drew in a sharp breath, eyes closing briefly against the emotion. He dared not hope.
Jim placed his other hand gently atop Spock’s and looked into his eyes. I’m here.
Spock felt Jim’s thoughts through their bond as if they hadn’t been apart for almost a century, clear and overwhelming.
Jim had been waiting for him. Spock had never believed in the afterlife and all along Jim had been waiting for him. If he had known—if he had known he would have followed straight away.
Jim’s eyes were steady, but Spock could see in the way he swallowed hard and took only a short breath that he was overflowing with emotion. Spock reached out with his other hand to place it on top of Jim’s.
Jim smiled softly, looking at their intertwined hands. This was right. This was like breathing again.
He had feared this day may never come. Had feared they wouldn’t be reunited after all. But here he was, Spock, finally by his side again.
Jim’s thoughts became tender, radiant. Spock responded, trying to convey the depth of his mourning—but the tide of happiness was too great. He raised an eyebrow at Jim.
You almost make me believe in luck, his thoughts whispered through their bond.
Jim smiled.
You almost make me believe in miracles.
Spock looked to his right, towards the sun, and knew that Jim was following his gaze, eyes bright with emotion. Their bond was expanding beyond anything they had known. It became infinite, until their beings had melted into a single whole and there was no Spock, no Jim.
Only them, together, in the vastness of the Universe.
It was then that Spock realized the sun wasn’t setting after all—it was only just rising.