Fic: Red, Red Wine (Kirk&Pike, G, STID)
So, I wrote a fic. And got an award. It doesn't happen to me very often, so excuse me while I squee a little. *EEEEEEEEEEEEE*
Title: Red, Red Wine
Author/Artist:
sail_aweigh/sail_aweigh
Characters: Jim Kirk
Rating: G
Warnings: Major character death, alcohol abuse
Summary: Jim does his own rechristening after the official ceremony for the Enterprise.
Word count: 753
Author's notes: Written for Trekstock 2013 prompt #2: Music in the soul can be heard by the universe
Red, Red Wine from SailAweigh on 8tracks Radio
Jim slams the door to his temporary quarters behind him, immediately stripping off his uniform jacket and dropping it on the floor next to the closet. He really couldn’t bear to be in the damn thing any longer than he had to, today. Hanging it up would take time, time that he could spend getting wasted on that bottle of red wine he’d stashed in the bottom of the shallow dresser facing the sagging double bed.
But, before he goes to get the bottle out, he stops to load a record onto the antique turntable he'd salvaged from a shop selling broken junk as "priceless antiques." Antique it was, but in the condition he'd found it, far from priceless. The song is more up-tempo than he feels at the moment, but the lyrics are fitting.
He didn’t even really know why he’d bought the wine. Jim wasn’t much of a wine drinker: beer and whiskey were more his style. Young men’s drinks. Things that slammed into your gut like a punch, made you feel alive with every sip or shot slammed back. Woke you up and kept you viral. Wine, wine was something old men drank. Something to show you had a little class, gave you gravitas. Wine drinkers were all snobs.
Jim wrestles with the cork. God knows why he bought a bottle with an old fashioned cork. Everyone knew that twist-offs actually preserved a vacuum better than corks. His anger grows at his inability to extract the cork cleanly; by the time he gets it out, his knuckles are white where his hand is clenched around the neck of the bottle. He sucks in a few deep breaths that whistle out shakier than they went in, then collapses on the floor with his back to the bed.
This had been the type of wine Chris had bought when they went out to dinner after Jim’s graduation. Pike had claimed it was to celebrate Jim’s captaincy, being awarded the Enterprise, but Jim knew it was more a word of warning. Even if it wasn’t stated explicitly, he was being told to treat Pike’s girl well or Chris would be waiting for him with a shotgun when they got back from the prom.
And wasn’t that just what had happened after Nibiru? Jim tipped the bottle up to his mouth and let the wine run. He sputtered and pulled the bottle away. God, why did Chris like this stuff? It was very nearly sour and it was warm.
Chris had been so mad at him. He’d shouted at Jim, faced him down and called him out. Told him to quit tap-dancing and stand his fucking ground. Let the arrows fall where they may, because he damn well deserved it. He hadn’t felt it then; secure in his invincibility, those metaphorical arrows bounced right off his pride. Until all the air was punched out of him when they took his girl away.
Jim sucks down more wine. He squeezes his eyes shut as he chokes it down. It’s not beer to chug, it’s not a shot to slam, but he keeps trying to anyway. He’s not treating the vintage with any kind of respect, Chris would say. Jim opens his mouth and eyes on a gasp, his eyes stinging.
He’d learned. Oh, god, he’d learned. Admiral Marcus and Khan had schooled him well. Jim wishes that Chris was still there to see him stand still. To face the world, to take those arrows without letting them defeat him. His defenses down, but standing proud and whole in front of his crew and the world. Honor was a better shield than pride ever could be.
The bottle comes up smoother this time. Jim lets the vintage slide over his tongue slowly, taking smaller sips. Maybe his tongue is getting a little numb, he thinks the wine tastes a little sweeter, like cherries and apples and almonds. Jim wipes the back of his hand against his eyes and leans his head against the bed.
Jim had given his speech today, at the rechristening of the USS Enterprise, full of lofty goals and lauds for the dead. He had meant every word. They ring hollow in his ears, though. The one man he wanted to be there, to see, to smile at him the way he smiled when he was given the Enterprise the first time was one of the lauded. More father to him than commanding officer. More of a father than Frank had ever been. He wished he had told Pike that, instead of running from him with all his ducking and dodging. Too late, too late.
Not too late to do the right thing, though. Jim knows he is ready to be a good captain at last, to prove that Pike’s faith in him was not misplaced. He thought Pike would be proud to call him son, now. Not as an admonition, but in praise. Jim’s smile at the thought wobbles a little, but it’s there. He can admit it without there being any hubris about it: Pike would be proud of him.
He holds the bottle up to the light. It’s almost empty, just a little liquid sloshing around in the bottom. Jim tips it up and lets the last few drops fall into the bowl of his mouth. He holds it there, rolls it around on his tongue. Its bouquet fills his mouth, it wakes everything up, touches every crevice with its warmth; it’s the nectar of the gods.
Jim thinks he knows now why Pike liked his wine. Whiskey and beer may warm the belly, but wine warmed the heart…and the soul.
Fic and fanmix can also be found on AO3
Title: Red, Red Wine
Author/Artist:
sail_aweigh/sail_aweigh
Characters: Jim Kirk
Rating: G
Warnings: Major character death, alcohol abuse
Summary: Jim does his own rechristening after the official ceremony for the Enterprise.
Word count: 753
Author's notes: Written for Trekstock 2013 prompt #2: Music in the soul can be heard by the universe
Red, Red Wine from SailAweigh on 8tracks Radio
Jim slams the door to his temporary quarters behind him, immediately stripping off his uniform jacket and dropping it on the floor next to the closet. He really couldn’t bear to be in the damn thing any longer than he had to, today. Hanging it up would take time, time that he could spend getting wasted on that bottle of red wine he’d stashed in the bottom of the shallow dresser facing the sagging double bed.
But, before he goes to get the bottle out, he stops to load a record onto the antique turntable he'd salvaged from a shop selling broken junk as "priceless antiques." Antique it was, but in the condition he'd found it, far from priceless. The song is more up-tempo than he feels at the moment, but the lyrics are fitting.
He didn’t even really know why he’d bought the wine. Jim wasn’t much of a wine drinker: beer and whiskey were more his style. Young men’s drinks. Things that slammed into your gut like a punch, made you feel alive with every sip or shot slammed back. Woke you up and kept you viral. Wine, wine was something old men drank. Something to show you had a little class, gave you gravitas. Wine drinkers were all snobs.
Jim wrestles with the cork. God knows why he bought a bottle with an old fashioned cork. Everyone knew that twist-offs actually preserved a vacuum better than corks. His anger grows at his inability to extract the cork cleanly; by the time he gets it out, his knuckles are white where his hand is clenched around the neck of the bottle. He sucks in a few deep breaths that whistle out shakier than they went in, then collapses on the floor with his back to the bed.
This had been the type of wine Chris had bought when they went out to dinner after Jim’s graduation. Pike had claimed it was to celebrate Jim’s captaincy, being awarded the Enterprise, but Jim knew it was more a word of warning. Even if it wasn’t stated explicitly, he was being told to treat Pike’s girl well or Chris would be waiting for him with a shotgun when they got back from the prom.
And wasn’t that just what had happened after Nibiru? Jim tipped the bottle up to his mouth and let the wine run. He sputtered and pulled the bottle away. God, why did Chris like this stuff? It was very nearly sour and it was warm.
Chris had been so mad at him. He’d shouted at Jim, faced him down and called him out. Told him to quit tap-dancing and stand his fucking ground. Let the arrows fall where they may, because he damn well deserved it. He hadn’t felt it then; secure in his invincibility, those metaphorical arrows bounced right off his pride. Until all the air was punched out of him when they took his girl away.
Jim sucks down more wine. He squeezes his eyes shut as he chokes it down. It’s not beer to chug, it’s not a shot to slam, but he keeps trying to anyway. He’s not treating the vintage with any kind of respect, Chris would say. Jim opens his mouth and eyes on a gasp, his eyes stinging.
He’d learned. Oh, god, he’d learned. Admiral Marcus and Khan had schooled him well. Jim wishes that Chris was still there to see him stand still. To face the world, to take those arrows without letting them defeat him. His defenses down, but standing proud and whole in front of his crew and the world. Honor was a better shield than pride ever could be.
The bottle comes up smoother this time. Jim lets the vintage slide over his tongue slowly, taking smaller sips. Maybe his tongue is getting a little numb, he thinks the wine tastes a little sweeter, like cherries and apples and almonds. Jim wipes the back of his hand against his eyes and leans his head against the bed.
Jim had given his speech today, at the rechristening of the USS Enterprise, full of lofty goals and lauds for the dead. He had meant every word. They ring hollow in his ears, though. The one man he wanted to be there, to see, to smile at him the way he smiled when he was given the Enterprise the first time was one of the lauded. More father to him than commanding officer. More of a father than Frank had ever been. He wished he had told Pike that, instead of running from him with all his ducking and dodging. Too late, too late.
Not too late to do the right thing, though. Jim knows he is ready to be a good captain at last, to prove that Pike’s faith in him was not misplaced. He thought Pike would be proud to call him son, now. Not as an admonition, but in praise. Jim’s smile at the thought wobbles a little, but it’s there. He can admit it without there being any hubris about it: Pike would be proud of him.
He holds the bottle up to the light. It’s almost empty, just a little liquid sloshing around in the bottom. Jim tips it up and lets the last few drops fall into the bowl of his mouth. He holds it there, rolls it around on his tongue. Its bouquet fills his mouth, it wakes everything up, touches every crevice with its warmth; it’s the nectar of the gods.
Jim thinks he knows now why Pike liked his wine. Whiskey and beer may warm the belly, but wine warmed the heart…and the soul.
Fic and fanmix can also be found on AO3