Celebrate the Earth and Sky (20/20)
Well, here we are at the end. Thanks to everyone for reading and for commenting, it's meant the world to me. I hope you've had just as much fun as I have.
Epilogue
“Spock, come on. Come on. I’m sure they have stores on-wherever. The cab’s waiting. And don’t you have replicators anyway? Isn’t that a thing?”
“While replicator technology negates the need for stores, it is still a relatively new technology and as such, unreliable,” Spock said, meticulously folding yet another pair of black socks. He surveyed the contents of his suitcase with pursed lips.
“Oh, shut up.” Jim tugged at his shirtsleeve. Then he rubbed the material between his fingers and grinned up at Spock. “These are kind of nice, you know.”
“Of course they are nice,” Spock said, plucking the fabric of his robes from Jim’s grasping hands and closing the lid on his suitcase. “My father purchased them.”
“For you.”
“Obviously.”
“Your daddy’s kind of a big deal, ain’t he?”
“Jim, if you would desist from lapsing into your colloquialisms.”
“You love it, though.”
Spock slanted his eyes at him.
Lying on the bed, Jim propped his chin in his hands and gave Spock an unabashed stare. “I like you with the fancy robes,” he said. “They make you look all mysterious.” He frowned. “Or like you’re really into fancy bathrobes.”
Spock raised an eyebrow.
“Of course, I like you just as much without them.”
The other eyebrow shot up.
“Naked,” Jim added, as if the comment had needed any clarifying.
Spock gripped the suitcase and lifted it off the bed. He headed towards the door. “We will be late.”
“Spo-ock,” Jim whined. Nevertheless, he rolled over, swinging his legs off the bed and standing. “If we’re late, it’s your fault,” he said, catching up to Spock just inside the door. He grabbed his own bag, slinging it over his back as they hurried down the hall. “You’re the one who had to double, triple check you’d packed every goddamn thing.”
They had reached the hotel lobby before Spock turned to Jim.
“I am not confident that Risa supplies the items to which I have become accustomed,” he said. “It seems illogical, not to mention a waste of time, to search for products that I deem similarly satisfactory, rather than devoting a few minutes to making sure that I have brought my own.”
“Yeah, yeah.” They stepped outside, Jim shading his eyes against the mid-afternoon sun. “If by a few minutes, you mean twenty.”
“I did not take twenty minutes.”
The taxi they had called sat idling by the curb at the entrance to the hotel. Jim gave the man behind the wheel a nod as he and Spock stored their bags in the trunk, and then climbed into the back. In return, the cab driver blinked at Spock with only minimal surprise. Although it had been less than six months since the United Earth Council, the presence of a Vulcan in San Francisco had become, if not commonplace, at least not cause for rallying the armed forces.
“The spaceport, please,” Jim said, unable to hide the little shiver of pleasure at the thought that San Francisco now actually had a spaceport-a fucking spaceport-and that he was going to it. He settled contentedly into his seat, and rolled down his window.
The taxi driver turned around and grinned at Jim, frizzy blond hair bobbing in uneven curls around his head. “To the Frisco space-fucking-port,” he agreed.
“Humans,” Spock muttered, eyeballing the pair of fuzzy dice hanging off the review mirror. Jim elbowed him.
Technically, the San Francisco spaceport was a continuation of the regular airport, extending out into the bay like long steel and concrete fingers. By the standards of most space-faring species, it wasn’t much of a one; there were landing platforms sufficient for six Vulcan shuttles, though Spock had it on good authority that human engineers were already drawing up plans for some of their own, modified, Earth shuttles. There were also ten areas solely devoted to transporter technology, although they remained operated by Vulcan personnel only.
Spock had been to the spaceport several times before, and had watched as it had been built with an efficiency rivaling that of a Vulcan contracting team. Yet, even he had difficulty comprehending just how much had changed in such a short time and, just as equally, how easily humanity had, more or less, already adjusted to it.
Take Jim, for example. Granted, he’d had a bit longer to get used to the idea, but here he was, practically dancing up to the shuttle as if he’d done this all his life, asking the pilot a million questions in the poorly, poorly accented Vulcan Spock had been trying to teach him, and generally making a nuisance of himself. But he still knew enough not to sling a companionable arm over the pilot’s shoulder, and to practice his rudimentary shielding techniques when he got close enough to converse.
It was a peculiarly human characteristic, this ability to adapt with such alacrity. Were Spock given to such thoughts, he might have even believed it worrisome, that a species so quick to reshape its worldview, and so quick to learn, and to change, was about to be truly space capable. Doubtless many of the High Command would think so. However, Spock could not find it within himself to fear. He needed only to see Jim’s face, his enthusiasm at finally, finally not just seeing the stars, but visiting them too, to set his mind at ease.
With a start, Spock realized he had been so deep in thought that he had stalled some distance away from their shuttle.
“Spock!” Jim called. He waved.
Spock resumed walking. He inclined his head at the pilot, and gestured for Jim to board the shuttle ahead of him.
“Thanks, Solkar,” said Jim.
Solkar nodded. “The shuttle will depart in ten point six minutes,” he said to Spock.
“Understood,” Spock said. “And the T’Klass?”
“The VSS T’Klass is scheduled to depart for Risa at eighteen hundred hours, by Earth time.”
Spock frowned minutely. “Not sixteen hundred hours?”
“The departure was pushed back by two hours in order to allow for recalibration of the replicators.”
Spock tilted his head. “Indeed?”
Solkar could not withhold a slight grimace. “This replicator technology seems, as yet, too new to be truly functional.”
“Indeed,” Spock agreed, this time more fervently. He and Solkar shared a commiserating look.
Jim stuck his head back outside. “Damn, you’re slow,” he said. “Come on.”
With a slight bow to Solkar, Spock entered the craft to stand behind Jim. It was a standard twelve-person shuttle, and Jim had apparently already stowed his bag, and secured a seat next to one of the viewports.
Someone whistled at him from behind. Spock turned.
“Spock, those robes make you look like a voodoo priest. You ever get into the occult?”
“Hello, McCoy,” said Spock, his back stiffening just the slightest bit.
“Bones!” said Jim, beckoning him over. “Hurry up if you want to get a window seat.”
“Not on your life,” McCoy said, looking distinctly queasy. He shoved his bag into a side compartment, and resolutely took the aisle seat, buckling his seatbelt with a little more force than necessary.
“This shuttle is much safer than your human airplanes,” Spock said. He settled himself and his bag next to Jim. “There is only a 1.7% chance of it crashing, barring unforeseen circumstances.”
“You know, Spock? You might do well to remember what happened to the last spaceship I was on.”
“That was a Romulan ship,” Spock asserted. “And you were evacuated before its explosion.”
McCoy shut his eyes. “You’re not making me feel any better.”
“Bones, this was all volunteer, you didn’t have to come,” Jim said, actually sounding worried.
At this, McCoy opened his eyes. He reached into the front pocket of his shirt and withdrew a photograph. He held it up between thumb and forefinger. “Yes,” he said, meeting Jim’s gaze. “I did.”
Jim’s gaze flickered down to it. A little girl, dark curly hair a halo around her head, and sporting a pink tutu and a gape-toothed smile, beamed up at them. He looked back at McCoy, reached over, and rested his hand on McCoy’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he said, “I know.”
McCoy swallowed, and put the picture away.
The moment was interrupted by the arrival of the rest of the human team Spock had put together. He conceded that it hadn’t been very difficult. He had selected McCoy for his medical expertise, Uhura for her languages, Sulu for his quick thinking, Chekov, the Chapel sisters, Jim . . .
“Spock?” Jim said quietly. He with drew from McCoy and leaned into Spock, just barely touching. “You still with us?”
“Yes,” Spock said. He faced Jim. “I apologize. I believe I was, as you say, lost in thought.”
“Care to share with the class?”
“Class?”
Jim rolled his eyes. “What were you thinking about?”
“The mission at hand,” Spock replied honestly. “My . . . choices for the human team. If they were the correct ones.”
“Uh huh,” Jim said, giving his hand a discreet pat.
Spock flushed.
“Hey, no PDA in front of the crew,” Uhura ordered lazily. She yawned.
“We’re just holding hands!” Jim protested.
“I went to the cultural seminar,” said Uhura, voice dry. She yawned again.
“Jet lag?” asked Sulu, sympathetically. Uhura nodded.
The shuttle began to rumble.
“Here we go,” Chekov said, eyes bright.
Spock sent a concerned look over to McCoy. From the slight tremors of his hands and the white of his face, he did not appear to be comfortable, but neither did he appear to be in danger of imminent cardiac arrest. Deciding that this was sufficient, he turned back to met Jim’s gaze. “Are you ready?” he said. Then he frowned. “Jim, why are you wearing a patch over your eye?”
“Arrr, I was born ready,” growled Jim, scowling fearsomely.
More resigned than intimidated, Spock narrowed his eyes. “Is this another human cultural reference?” he queried, using that voice he used when he actually just wanted to convey that humans were lunatics-Jim chief among them.
“Space buccaneer Captain Jim, at yer service,” Jim said, apparently not receiving Spock’s less than subtle cues that if he continued to behave in such an illogical fashion, Spock would have little choice but to find seating elsewhere. Possibly on another shuttle altogether.
Spock stared at him.
Jim winked.
“I always wanted to be a space pirate,” said Sulu, a little wistfully.
Jim peeled off the eye patch and tossed it to him. “We should pass that around,” he said. “Bet we could convince the Vulcans that it’s an ancient and solemn ritual.” He grinned at Spock. “What do you think?”
“I think I am beginning to have doubts regarding the wisdom of this entire operation,” Spock said, starting to feel a kind of dread at the thought of these humans loose on a Vulcan ship. He sincerely hoped that Solkar’s English skills were as rudimentary as they had appeared, and also that he was not listening in on this conversation.
“Too late,” Jim said cheerfully, as the shuttle took off. “You’re stuck with us now.” He moved in closer, his mouth brushing the tip of Spock’s ear. “You’re stuck with me,” he said, the words barely a whisper.
Spock’s heart definitely did not skip a beat. Nor did the tips of his ears turn a little greener.
“Indeed?” he breathed back, trying to keep his voice even.
Heedless of anyone else on the shuttle who might be watching, Jim pulled him into a kiss, his fingers, meanwhile, doing filthy things to Spock’s own. Spock hazily supposed that he should regret teaching him about Vulcan forms of intimacy, but when Jim gripped his hands tight, found that caring was quite beyond him.
“Yeah,” Jim said, when they separated. “On this mission. And the next.”
After a moment, Spock rediscovered his voice. “Very well,” he said. “That is acceptable.”
He squeezed Jim’s hand back.
Jim smiled.
The End
Previous
Epilogue
“Spock, come on. Come on. I’m sure they have stores on-wherever. The cab’s waiting. And don’t you have replicators anyway? Isn’t that a thing?”
“While replicator technology negates the need for stores, it is still a relatively new technology and as such, unreliable,” Spock said, meticulously folding yet another pair of black socks. He surveyed the contents of his suitcase with pursed lips.
“Oh, shut up.” Jim tugged at his shirtsleeve. Then he rubbed the material between his fingers and grinned up at Spock. “These are kind of nice, you know.”
“Of course they are nice,” Spock said, plucking the fabric of his robes from Jim’s grasping hands and closing the lid on his suitcase. “My father purchased them.”
“For you.”
“Obviously.”
“Your daddy’s kind of a big deal, ain’t he?”
“Jim, if you would desist from lapsing into your colloquialisms.”
“You love it, though.”
Spock slanted his eyes at him.
Lying on the bed, Jim propped his chin in his hands and gave Spock an unabashed stare. “I like you with the fancy robes,” he said. “They make you look all mysterious.” He frowned. “Or like you’re really into fancy bathrobes.”
Spock raised an eyebrow.
“Of course, I like you just as much without them.”
The other eyebrow shot up.
“Naked,” Jim added, as if the comment had needed any clarifying.
Spock gripped the suitcase and lifted it off the bed. He headed towards the door. “We will be late.”
“Spo-ock,” Jim whined. Nevertheless, he rolled over, swinging his legs off the bed and standing. “If we’re late, it’s your fault,” he said, catching up to Spock just inside the door. He grabbed his own bag, slinging it over his back as they hurried down the hall. “You’re the one who had to double, triple check you’d packed every goddamn thing.”
They had reached the hotel lobby before Spock turned to Jim.
“I am not confident that Risa supplies the items to which I have become accustomed,” he said. “It seems illogical, not to mention a waste of time, to search for products that I deem similarly satisfactory, rather than devoting a few minutes to making sure that I have brought my own.”
“Yeah, yeah.” They stepped outside, Jim shading his eyes against the mid-afternoon sun. “If by a few minutes, you mean twenty.”
“I did not take twenty minutes.”
The taxi they had called sat idling by the curb at the entrance to the hotel. Jim gave the man behind the wheel a nod as he and Spock stored their bags in the trunk, and then climbed into the back. In return, the cab driver blinked at Spock with only minimal surprise. Although it had been less than six months since the United Earth Council, the presence of a Vulcan in San Francisco had become, if not commonplace, at least not cause for rallying the armed forces.
“The spaceport, please,” Jim said, unable to hide the little shiver of pleasure at the thought that San Francisco now actually had a spaceport-a fucking spaceport-and that he was going to it. He settled contentedly into his seat, and rolled down his window.
The taxi driver turned around and grinned at Jim, frizzy blond hair bobbing in uneven curls around his head. “To the Frisco space-fucking-port,” he agreed.
“Humans,” Spock muttered, eyeballing the pair of fuzzy dice hanging off the review mirror. Jim elbowed him.
Technically, the San Francisco spaceport was a continuation of the regular airport, extending out into the bay like long steel and concrete fingers. By the standards of most space-faring species, it wasn’t much of a one; there were landing platforms sufficient for six Vulcan shuttles, though Spock had it on good authority that human engineers were already drawing up plans for some of their own, modified, Earth shuttles. There were also ten areas solely devoted to transporter technology, although they remained operated by Vulcan personnel only.
Spock had been to the spaceport several times before, and had watched as it had been built with an efficiency rivaling that of a Vulcan contracting team. Yet, even he had difficulty comprehending just how much had changed in such a short time and, just as equally, how easily humanity had, more or less, already adjusted to it.
Take Jim, for example. Granted, he’d had a bit longer to get used to the idea, but here he was, practically dancing up to the shuttle as if he’d done this all his life, asking the pilot a million questions in the poorly, poorly accented Vulcan Spock had been trying to teach him, and generally making a nuisance of himself. But he still knew enough not to sling a companionable arm over the pilot’s shoulder, and to practice his rudimentary shielding techniques when he got close enough to converse.
It was a peculiarly human characteristic, this ability to adapt with such alacrity. Were Spock given to such thoughts, he might have even believed it worrisome, that a species so quick to reshape its worldview, and so quick to learn, and to change, was about to be truly space capable. Doubtless many of the High Command would think so. However, Spock could not find it within himself to fear. He needed only to see Jim’s face, his enthusiasm at finally, finally not just seeing the stars, but visiting them too, to set his mind at ease.
With a start, Spock realized he had been so deep in thought that he had stalled some distance away from their shuttle.
“Spock!” Jim called. He waved.
Spock resumed walking. He inclined his head at the pilot, and gestured for Jim to board the shuttle ahead of him.
“Thanks, Solkar,” said Jim.
Solkar nodded. “The shuttle will depart in ten point six minutes,” he said to Spock.
“Understood,” Spock said. “And the T’Klass?”
“The VSS T’Klass is scheduled to depart for Risa at eighteen hundred hours, by Earth time.”
Spock frowned minutely. “Not sixteen hundred hours?”
“The departure was pushed back by two hours in order to allow for recalibration of the replicators.”
Spock tilted his head. “Indeed?”
Solkar could not withhold a slight grimace. “This replicator technology seems, as yet, too new to be truly functional.”
“Indeed,” Spock agreed, this time more fervently. He and Solkar shared a commiserating look.
Jim stuck his head back outside. “Damn, you’re slow,” he said. “Come on.”
With a slight bow to Solkar, Spock entered the craft to stand behind Jim. It was a standard twelve-person shuttle, and Jim had apparently already stowed his bag, and secured a seat next to one of the viewports.
Someone whistled at him from behind. Spock turned.
“Spock, those robes make you look like a voodoo priest. You ever get into the occult?”
“Hello, McCoy,” said Spock, his back stiffening just the slightest bit.
“Bones!” said Jim, beckoning him over. “Hurry up if you want to get a window seat.”
“Not on your life,” McCoy said, looking distinctly queasy. He shoved his bag into a side compartment, and resolutely took the aisle seat, buckling his seatbelt with a little more force than necessary.
“This shuttle is much safer than your human airplanes,” Spock said. He settled himself and his bag next to Jim. “There is only a 1.7% chance of it crashing, barring unforeseen circumstances.”
“You know, Spock? You might do well to remember what happened to the last spaceship I was on.”
“That was a Romulan ship,” Spock asserted. “And you were evacuated before its explosion.”
McCoy shut his eyes. “You’re not making me feel any better.”
“Bones, this was all volunteer, you didn’t have to come,” Jim said, actually sounding worried.
At this, McCoy opened his eyes. He reached into the front pocket of his shirt and withdrew a photograph. He held it up between thumb and forefinger. “Yes,” he said, meeting Jim’s gaze. “I did.”
Jim’s gaze flickered down to it. A little girl, dark curly hair a halo around her head, and sporting a pink tutu and a gape-toothed smile, beamed up at them. He looked back at McCoy, reached over, and rested his hand on McCoy’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he said, “I know.”
McCoy swallowed, and put the picture away.
The moment was interrupted by the arrival of the rest of the human team Spock had put together. He conceded that it hadn’t been very difficult. He had selected McCoy for his medical expertise, Uhura for her languages, Sulu for his quick thinking, Chekov, the Chapel sisters, Jim . . .
“Spock?” Jim said quietly. He with drew from McCoy and leaned into Spock, just barely touching. “You still with us?”
“Yes,” Spock said. He faced Jim. “I apologize. I believe I was, as you say, lost in thought.”
“Care to share with the class?”
“Class?”
Jim rolled his eyes. “What were you thinking about?”
“The mission at hand,” Spock replied honestly. “My . . . choices for the human team. If they were the correct ones.”
“Uh huh,” Jim said, giving his hand a discreet pat.
Spock flushed.
“Hey, no PDA in front of the crew,” Uhura ordered lazily. She yawned.
“We’re just holding hands!” Jim protested.
“I went to the cultural seminar,” said Uhura, voice dry. She yawned again.
“Jet lag?” asked Sulu, sympathetically. Uhura nodded.
The shuttle began to rumble.
“Here we go,” Chekov said, eyes bright.
Spock sent a concerned look over to McCoy. From the slight tremors of his hands and the white of his face, he did not appear to be comfortable, but neither did he appear to be in danger of imminent cardiac arrest. Deciding that this was sufficient, he turned back to met Jim’s gaze. “Are you ready?” he said. Then he frowned. “Jim, why are you wearing a patch over your eye?”
“Arrr, I was born ready,” growled Jim, scowling fearsomely.
More resigned than intimidated, Spock narrowed his eyes. “Is this another human cultural reference?” he queried, using that voice he used when he actually just wanted to convey that humans were lunatics-Jim chief among them.
“Space buccaneer Captain Jim, at yer service,” Jim said, apparently not receiving Spock’s less than subtle cues that if he continued to behave in such an illogical fashion, Spock would have little choice but to find seating elsewhere. Possibly on another shuttle altogether.
Spock stared at him.
Jim winked.
“I always wanted to be a space pirate,” said Sulu, a little wistfully.
Jim peeled off the eye patch and tossed it to him. “We should pass that around,” he said. “Bet we could convince the Vulcans that it’s an ancient and solemn ritual.” He grinned at Spock. “What do you think?”
“I think I am beginning to have doubts regarding the wisdom of this entire operation,” Spock said, starting to feel a kind of dread at the thought of these humans loose on a Vulcan ship. He sincerely hoped that Solkar’s English skills were as rudimentary as they had appeared, and also that he was not listening in on this conversation.
“Too late,” Jim said cheerfully, as the shuttle took off. “You’re stuck with us now.” He moved in closer, his mouth brushing the tip of Spock’s ear. “You’re stuck with me,” he said, the words barely a whisper.
Spock’s heart definitely did not skip a beat. Nor did the tips of his ears turn a little greener.
“Indeed?” he breathed back, trying to keep his voice even.
Heedless of anyone else on the shuttle who might be watching, Jim pulled him into a kiss, his fingers, meanwhile, doing filthy things to Spock’s own. Spock hazily supposed that he should regret teaching him about Vulcan forms of intimacy, but when Jim gripped his hands tight, found that caring was quite beyond him.
“Yeah,” Jim said, when they separated. “On this mission. And the next.”
After a moment, Spock rediscovered his voice. “Very well,” he said. “That is acceptable.”
He squeezed Jim’s hand back.
Jim smiled.
The End
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