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"Ashayam?"
Spock blinked awake, let Jim's face come slowly into focus before he smiled, just slightly. "T'hy'la," he murmured. "Why must you persist in waking me so early?"
"Habit," Jim declared. "Old, old habit. Or maybe just that I can't sleep past six without waking up to piss, and the great joy of marriage, Spock, is that—"
"—your problems are mine," Spock finished, and shuffled himself upright. "I shall never forgive the doctor for telling you so."
"A joke? So early?" Jim seemed delighted, and Spock could tell even without the bond that it was only half-feigned. "Am I finally rubbing off on you?"
It was too easy, too cheap. Spock let it pass and kissed the mild disappointment from Jim's lips. The habits of Starfleet were ingrained in him as much as his husband; it didn't take long for Spock to wake, even now, so many years out, and he was now certifiably awake. "Breakfast?"
"Already made," Jim said. "Just waiting for you."
Suspicion, that old, familiar companion, furrowed Spock's brow. Wakefulness was typical, breakfast was not. However, he knew his husband—in fact, the year was quickly approaching that would mean he had known Jim longer than he had not—and he knew that asking directly was unlikely to yeild the result he wanted. Jim was decidedly, wonderfully, irrevocably Human, but there were moments when Spock thought he would have made an excellent Vulcan.
"I got a message from Chekov last night," said Jim, about halfway through the meal.
Spock paused, strawberry halfway to his mouth, and placed his fork down. He sensed that this was the reason Jim had woken early enough to make pirmah and hummed.
"He asked me if I wanted to go for a drink tonight."
"There is nothing particularly unusual about that, is there?"
"No. I suppose not."
Wrong answer. Jim took a mournful bite of toast, and Spock supposed he must have missed the point, somewhere.
"Was there something unusual?"
"No. Only that Bones and Scotty also asked me to go for a drink. And then Uhura asked. And Sulu."
Ah.
"They have become careless," Spock mused. "They must have forgot to designate a distraction."
"I told them I didn't want a party, Spock." Jim's voice wasn't angry, or sulky, or even irritated. It was the voice of a man grieving. The voice of a man letting go of that which had sustained him his entire adult life. "I told—all of them."
"I know, adun." Spock reached over, put a hand over Jim's. "We do not have to attend. I will make our excuses."
Jim blew a long, tired sigh. "I think they're afraid I'll change my mind." Perhaps a quiet amusement crept into his eyes for a moment. Perhaps it did not. "The party's supposed to ensure I don't. The final nail in the coffin."
Privately, Spock thought so too. Privately, he thought it was probably a wise choice.
Right now, he returned to his strawberry.
The subject of Captain—then Admiral, then Captain again—Kirk's retirement was a thorny one. It had been whispered about a few times over the years, mostly by young upstarts who wanted his ship. But slowly, year after year, the voices got louder and louder as, one by one, the crew Jim and Spock first travelled with dwindled. Bones left first, pleased to return to Earth and come up with fantastic cures to the terrors of space travel. Sulu left to spend time with his grandchildren and advance the fields of botany and tactics by several decades, Scotty to design ships no other being could conceive of and terrify engineering ensigns everywhere. Uhura had revolutionised the Universal Translator twice over and, in fact, seemed likely to do so again. Only Chekov remained in the 'fleet proper, possessing the youngest (Human) bones, and was a captain now in his own right, putting out mission reports that rivalled Kirk's own for daring, courage, and absurdity.
Spock could have served longer, if he'd wished. He was Vulcan—or at least half of one. Enough of one that he was aging rather more slowly than his compatriots (though noticably quicker than other Vulcans). They would have given him a ship, too, or an admiralty, or (command stressed) almost any position he desired.
Captain Spock had served as Jim's first officer until the day he was grounded permanently, Enterprise finally being consigned to a museum, and then retired to await the day his husband inevitably recalled that he couldn't stand desks.
Twice, Jim had come close, then rescinded the papers at the last moment. Today, it would finally go through.
"Are you glad?" Jim asked. It was something of a non-sequitor, asked into the quiet of their midmorning reading.
"I will be glad to see more of you," Spock said. He kept his eyes on his book, allowed Jim that small privacy. "I will be glad that you are not bored. I am not glad that you are so troubled."
"I'm not—troubled isn't the word."
"But you are not glad."
"I'd have done it forever, if I could. Been Captain Kirk of the Starship Enterprise forever." Jim laughed without humour. "You know that."
"I do."
"But I can't. I couldn't." From the corner of his eye, Spock watched Jim shake his head. "I'm getting old, Spock."
"Jim—"
"Don't tell me I'm not. It's not—vanity. It's…"
Spock looked at him, properly. There was a shine to his eyes that they both ignored.
"Do you recall Gamma Hydra IV?"
Spock frowned. The name was familiar but sparked no memory. Some things had been lost after Genesis, he knew, but it was always unpleasant to be reminded. "Not well."
"There was radiation. It aged us, you, me, Bones…" He rubbed his hands together, uncomfortable. If they'd been on the Bridge, Spock thought, he would have been pacing. "You two… You weren't well, but you were alright. But I…"
A bright flash of memory: Jim, grey and wrinkled and furious and betrayed. Jim, confused and forgetful, giving orders that had already been followed, codes that had long been broken.
"Oh," said Spock. "Oh, Jim…"
"Don't," he snapped. The captain had always hated pity. "Just… don't."
"I didn't realise it weighed on you."
"How could it not? It felt like I was losing my mind, Spock. Losing command—of the ship and myself. And if that is what awaits me…" Jim tilted his head to the ceiling. "Retirement is just a step towards it. And they want to throw me a party."
"We do not have to go," said Spock.
"I know," said Jim.
Winona Kirk had died eight years ago. It had made Jim an orphan. It had meant that there was only him and Peter left.
Jim and Peter did not speak often. It was not malice. They were simply busy and, Spock thought, did not really know what to say to one another.
The grief made him work harder, mostly. Obsessively. Jim had never been particularly open with his pain. He and Spock had taken leave for the funeral, spent two nights in Iowa, then returned to the Enterprise. It wasn't until they were back there, tucked into bed together, that Jim pressed his face into the back of Spock's neck and cried.
"It'll kill me," he whispered, not only talking of his mother.
"We will endure," Spock said, because there was no other option.
It was three months before they took the next 'dangerous' mission, and Jim had gone sickly grey when Ensign Wroll was reported killed. Spock felt terrible gratitude that they had never lost a senior officer—one of Jim's circle. He felt terrible guilt, too.
"We are bonded," Spock reminded Jim as they dressed for the drinks they were almost certain was a party. "We share a mind. Share memories."
"You're saying I should piggy-back off you if I start to lose it."
He ignored the colourful metaphor. "I'm saying that you likely will, instinctively. It may be… difficult. But it should never reach that point."
He hoped it did not. More memories had returned. He remembered being the cause of Jim's betrayal—reluctant and heartsick as he might have been—and how badly it had hurt his captain. To repeat such a thing would be unbearable.
"I don't want to be a burden to you, Spock."
"Am I burden to you? When I cannot remember what came Before?"
Jim shot him a sidelong glance. The look of, you're not playing fair. "Of course not. But it's not the same."
"Perhaps not. But you are my adun, my t'hy'la. My husband. Never a burden."
Jim brushed their fingers together, then pulled on a green shirt. Even without the badge, it suited him.
Privately, Spock was often—constantly—aware of the possibility of imminent death. He would call it a side effect of dying, but he had inklings that it had preoccupied him prior to the unfortunate interlude.
Perhaps it was a side effect of being Vulcan. Always in the back of his mind, prodding as he grew closer and closer to these fragile Humans: you will outlive them. By a century, perhaps. It would ache.
Now, he dwelled often on the thought of outliving Jim. Sarek had outlived Amanda and been forced to remarry by the realities of biology. Spock didn't know whether that would have been his preference and did not care to ask. When he considered it for himself, Spock could not picture himself at another's side. He would have considered Kholinar if not for the failure of the first attempt and the fact it would pain Jim's katra to think of it.
Such morbid thoughts were illogical, of course. Spock did his best not to dwell on them.
They walked to the bar arm in arm, pleasing them both. The sunset had stained the sky a soft orange, feathered into pink at the edges, and whilst Spock didn't quite smile at it, he certainly appreciated it. He had seen a great many sunsets over the years, but there was something to be said for home.
"Do you miss Her?"
For Jim, Spock knew, there was only one.
"Enterprise was my home for a long time. Most of the friendships I have forged in my life were forged there."
"So, yes?"
"I believe I just said that."
Jim laughed at that, at least. The maudlin, reflective part of him made only rare appearances, but tended to last. Spock had worried over it and accepted it by turns; this year, he decided, he was going to accept it.
"I think I loved Her as much as I resented Her. She trapped me and She was the only place I felt—free." He cocked his head slightly, considering. "There were so many years I longed to be… relieved. To have a beach to walk on and the time to walk it. And now I do."
"Then we will find a beach."
A slightly exasperated glance. "I was being metaphorical."
A raised eyebrow. "So was I."
There was a suspicious lack of activity outside the bar when they arrived. Jim pursed his lips. "They booked it out."
"It appears so, Captain."
Jim sat, picking a table away from the windows. Spock joined him.
"Jim, I…"
Spock trailed off, sensing that his husband's attention was elsewhere. He followed Jim's gaze. Some way in the distance were two men, walking hand in hand. From here, Spock could not tell their species, but the grey of the hair told him their age. He watched; one bent and whispered into the others ear, and both of them dissolved into laughter.
"I'm not so old," Jim said suddenly.
"You are not."
"I could probably climb another mountain this summer."
"If you don't fall."
"If you don't distract me!" he shot back, full of faux outrage.
Spock looked at him, his fresh energy, and did not sigh. "We do not have to go in," he said. He meant: if you are not ready to retire, do not. The paperwork is still pending. He meant: the Enterprise-B requested your presence, you are still wanted there, if you want to be. He meant: whatever choice you make is yours, Captain.
Jim shook his head, smiled, and took Spock's hand. "I'm ready," he said.