Chapter Text
Chapter One
It was green. Very, very green. Green like the shimmer of Gaila’s skin when she was really, really, orgasmically happy. He’d never imagined that Georgia was this green. Particularly in winter. Well, he’d never really taken the time to imagine what Georgia was like, but still. The closest he’d ever come to the South was New Orleans, which counted, but was like its own little world. And the only things he’d seen in New Orleans were the insides of bars—many, many bars.
So perhaps this plan of his to retire, at the grand old age of thirty-two, was as Spock said—highly illogical. But it was his plan. Well, it was his drunkenly conceived, impulsively followed plan. But it was his. And he wasn’t gonna change it, damn it. Until he got bored.
With a mental shrug, Jim parked the shiny red hover car that was the new love of his life, grabbed his bag, and hopped out. He snorted to himself as he walked up the wooden steps (in miserable repair) and surveyed his new kingdom from his porch. Yup, still green. That was a lotta land out there. Just sitting. What the hell was he going to do with it? He’d left Iowa and the land he’d inherited from his father under his mother’s capable care because he hadn’t any desire to be a farmer. And now, he had bought a plantation in Georgia for Christ’s sake. He could well understand his mother’s consternation.
Sighing, he pulled the keys, yes, real old-fashioned keys, the realtor had sent to Starfleet out of his pocket and opened the door. Which creaked. He walked into the empty house, relieved to see that it was spider web and creepy shadows-less. Someone, most likely the realtor, had come back and opened all the shades and blinds, letting the winter sun in. Someone had even swept the bare wooden floors and polished cause there was nary a speck of dust and the faint tang of lemon hung on the air.
Trailing a hand up a curving banister, Jim headed for the bedrooms. He’d been told that the house came with furniture but after a quick glance at the bare living and dining rooms, he assumed it had been put away somewhere. But maybe he would get lucky and he wouldn’t actually have to hunt down a bed. There were four rooms on the second level of the house and he discovered his three guest bedrooms and extra bathroom before he found the master bedroom. Well, at least the crew would have somewhere to sleep when they inevitably descended on him.
The master bedroom was, naturally, the final door down the hall, furthest from the stairs. He pushed the door open, initially distracted by the old fashioned door handle and keyhole placed in it.
Finally looking up, he saw to his relief that he would not have to hunt down a bed. He dropped his bag inside the door and headed towards the bed, curious about the large box sitting atop it. None of his stuff would have gotten here yet. Was this something from the previous owners?
One look at the shipping label caused a smile to break out on his face, relieving some of the exhaustion written so expressively there. Uhura.
Ripping open the box, he found a small card sitting daintily atop a mound wrapped in tissue paper. Pulling open the card he read:
Captain-
I hope your new home is not the shack without running water Scotty has predicted it would be. Since I have no doubt you didn’t think to order linens before disappearing into the wilds of Georgia, we thought this the most logical gift. Spock would (and did) approve. Enjoy. And Scotty snuck in a bottle of whisky he thinks I don’t know about, so enjoy that as well. Not in one night.
The Valiant is a wonderful ship but it’s not the Enterprise. And you’re not here, which is peaceful, but odd. We’ll miss you, Jim. Any time you want to come back or perhaps follow Sulu’s suggestion and become a pirate-captain, you’ve got yourself a chief communications officer and engineer.
Comm us! That’s an order!
Captain N. Uhura, NCC-1809, U.S.S Valiant.
post script - Love, Nyota and Scotty.
Jim laughed aloud and dug through the paper to find an entire bedding set—sheets, comforter, cover, pillows, and even a couple of those fancy pillows he never knew what to do with. He pulled them out of the box and unwrapped them and grinned wider. All hypoallergenic and in various shades of green that seemed to compliment each other. At least, to Jim’s inexperienced eye. It’d been ten years since he’d had to worry about anything domestic and so Uhura had been right, he hadn’t thought about linens. And even if he had, he wouldn’t have known what to buy. It was, not surprisingly, the perfect gift. And perfectly Nyota.
Plus, when he had unfolded the comforter he found the bottle of twenty-year old Glenfiddich he held it reverently in his hands and blew out a breath of pure appreciation. Scotty must have gotten it when he’d gone home. Glenfiddich was almost impossible to get a hold of these days. You couldn’t even find it in most bars and when you could, the cost was fucking astronomical.
He moved carefully, cradling it more carefully than he would a child. Putting it very carefully on a chair next to the bed and stuffed a pillow next to it so it wouldn’t roll away. He considered possibly leaving it upstairs so as to not risk the chance of dropping it on the way back downstairs, but then thought of the glasses hopefully in the kitchen and reconsidered. He would go slowly. No doubt his leg would appreciate that anyway.
Quickly making up his new bed, Jim considered a nap. He could do that now. And the thought was appealing. Just as he was toeing off his shoes, his stomach growled—loudly. Crap. He didn’t bring any food, figuring he would check out Madison, the closest town, but he wasn’t in the mood so much anymore and his replicator wouldn’t be delivered until Monday.
The house was barely equipped with any modern conveniences- environmental controls only. Not even comms had been installed. It was the very definition of a fixer-upper. Jim was strangely looking forward to it. God knows it would give him something to do while he figured out what the hell he was going to do with the rest of his life.
Sighing, he took the precious bottle, carrying it against his chest and hugging the pillow around it for safe measure, he made his way downstairs to search out the kitchen. It was a cheery little room. The yellow paint had faded somewhat and the white curtains were looking a little dingy, but the countertops were actual wood, a golden birch, as was the center island and small table tucked into a bay window . . . a window that overlooked the land at the back of the house and the woods beyond that.
More intriguing, however, was sitting in the center of his console. Today was just a day for surprises, apparently. Jim carefully placed his bottle on the counter, moving over to the communications console sitting there. There was a message icon blinking causing Jim to blink himself. Apparently he had both electricity and communications set up. How the hell had that happened?
Pressing a finger to the screen, the console took a minute before giving out an identifying “James Tiberius Kirk” and opening his video message. Apparently he had security on his comm as well.
Jim smiled fondly as the image of his stoic first officer appeared and offered the tradition ta’al.
“Captain-
“As my last act as your first officer, I took the liberty of having your electricity and water turned on, as well as communications activated. I did not believe your plan to ‘wing it’ would be sufficient preparation for moving into a new home. As I was informed the dwelling had never been equipped with communication consoles [and Jim could fairly read the disconcertion in his eyebrows here], and I was hesitant to have one installed, I have asked that they provide you with a portable screen to prevent any damage being done to your home. Also, determining that their security was insufficient for your needs, I took the liberty of upgrading the security system to Enterprise levels. An identifying fingerprint will be sufficient for initial communication but you will need to finish the security protocols within twenty-four hours. I trust, as Madison, Georgia is not known for its nightlife, that to be sufficient time.
Spock paused, his facial features relaxing infinitesimally—Jim recognizing this as deep fondness.
“I have spoken with T’Pring regarding your invitation to visit and she asked me to relay that she is accommodating of such a request. We shall visit your home for five Terran days, commencing on the fourth of July. I understand that to be a significant date of celebration on that part of Earth and my research indicates Madison, Georgia celebrates the holiday quite exuberantly. Both T’Pring and I are curious to witness the antiquated Terran custom of fireworks.”
Jim laughed at this.
Spock’s voice switched from scientist-tone to friend:
“Furthermore, I believe our visit will be most anticipated at that time. I have found it disconcerting these last few weeks to be without the familiarity of your presence. I can only imagine this will increase as time passes.
“Also, please send a message to indicate you have arrived safely. Commander Chekov has contacted me repeatedly, seeking news of your status. As his vocal speeds continue to increase, his accent is thickening in proportion. If this continues unabated, I shall be required to send them to Nyota for translation.
“Captain Sulu has asked that I once again repeat his offer of the Endeavor to become your new, quote-unquote pirate ship.
Spock raised an eyebrow, this time offering Jim to share in his amusement
“He continues to fail to see the illogic of such an endeavor. As you would most certainly be captured by the Federation and tried for treason, I can only recommend that you continue to ignore Captain Sulu’s offer and perhaps speak to Admiral Pike and request he keep a stringent eye on the U.S.S. Endeavor.
“Dr. Chapel has settled comfortably into her accommodations on New Vulcan and has asked me to reiterate her cautions against any strenuous activity. Have thus reminded you, I believe I shall simply say, live long and prosper, my friend. Spock out.”
Jim ignored the foolishness he felt at returning the ta’al to a faded image, but did so anyway. He missed his crew deeply and Spock in particular. It had ultimately been the fact that he and Spock would not be allowed to serve together that had caused him to retire his commission. Starfleet command had deemed it an almost criminal waste of resources. Jim deemed command criminally stupid. They were the most efficient, successful command team in the fleet. Hell, the only reason he was alive was because Spock had saved his ass so many times.
But they had wanted to promote Jim to admiral, Spock to commodore and give him his own ship. Jim hadn’t wanted to be shoved behind a desk and Spock hadn’t wanted command. Spock had never wanted command. He was a scientist first and foremost. While he was brilliant at diplomacy and was a great commander, he had never wanted the captain’s chair. And he had absolutely no interest in serving under any other captain.
When they both had informed Starfleet that they would serve together or not at all, Starfleet had called what they believed to be a bluff. It wasn’t. Both men had resigned their commissions, much to Starfleet’s shock and chagrin. Spock had been offered the opportunity to chair the Astrophysics department at the VSA and he had taken it, a gleam of excitement in his eye. T’Pring, his bondmate, had also been offered a position at the VSA for her work in xenopsychology.
And while Jim had been inundated with offers—everything from private sector ship design to teaching to hosting his own holovision show—he had turned them all down.
He was thirty-two years old and grounded. The youngest captain to ever be granted command, the most decorated officer, in Starfleet history, but they wanted to ground him. Felt he had become too famous to still make an effective captain and would do better in the admiralty.
It’s not like there wasn’t a part of Jim that didn’t understand that. After ten years on the Enterprise there were few worlds that hadn’t at least heard of him. In the last couple of years, his notoriety and reputation had caused significant problems on some worlds they have visited. And while his presence often made enemy ships hesitant to attack, there had been some run-ins with Romulan and Klingon ships eager to test themselves against the legendary Enterprise and her captain. So Jim understood. He did.
But he wasn’t going to become a Starfleet paper pusher—other than Pike, most admirals spent so much time behind a desk that they became complacent, mentally and physically. Starfleet had some of the toughest fitness requirements in the quadrant and their admirals all had a paunch. Nuh huh. No thanks. Jim would keep his toned abs and sanity because for as many promises they’d made, Jim understood the political reality of his position. He had as many enemies in the admiralty as allies, but it was Admiral Komack who was in charge and Komack couldn’t stand him. To have to report directly to that old bastard? Yeah, wasn’t gonna happen in this universe.
So, here he was. In Georgia. With absolutely nothing to do and no idea what he wanted to do. Should be great.
Jim shook himself out of his dreary thoughts and reached for the one golden ray of sunshine in all of this. A glass dish filled with . . . oh god, was that chicken pot pie? Yes! Actual chicken pie. From all appearances, homemade chicken pot pie. A small card sat next to it that simply read, Welcome to Madison. Eleanora McCoy.
Suddenly deeply grateful to Spock for having his utilities turned on, Jim spent five minutes figuring out how to work the oven and then shoved in the potpie. He then danced around the kitchen anxiously, managing to wait all of ten minutes before going to take it out.
Crap! He needed a . . . towel-thingy. He’d seen them in his mother’s hands before. Frantically searching for whatever those things were called, Jim opened every drawer in the kitchen, gratefully finding forks and seizing one triumphantly, but no towels. Huh.
Looking longingly at the potpie, he considered his options. He would not be defeated. He hesitated for about one second before stripping off his sweater, the blue one Gaila had knit for him for Christmas last year, and prayed he wouldn’t light it on fire. Man, would she be pissed.
Carefully wrapping the sweater around his hands, he carefully slid them around the edges of the glass dish, trying to avoid the hot rack for fear he would go up in flames. Finally he was in position, tensed his muscles, and then seized it!
Not waiting for the glass to burn his hands, he fairly tossed it onto the main island, wincing as it slid across and hit his new portable console. Jim chased it and nudged it away with a cashmere wrapped finger, choosing to ignore the burn mark now at the edge of the console.
Figuring the sliding worked well enough; he slid it once more, smiling when it neared the opposite edge without tipping over. Fairly leaping onto a stool, Jim unwrapped his hand, brandished his fork, and dug in. Oh sweet baby Vulcans, it was PHENOMENAL!
Barely warm, in fact, cold in some places (clearly he hadn’t worked out the kinks of his oven quite yet), but sooo good anyway. Oh, may the Kirk ancestors bestow blessings on Eleanora McCoy, whoever she was. Jim vowed to find her and offer her his hand in marriage, which could be the only appropriate response to this potpie.
He ate greedily; suddenly remembering it had been at least twenty-four hours since he had eaten last. Four minutes, four glorious minutes, later the pie was gone. Sated and feeling a little sleepy, Jim decided that so far Madison was a lovely place. It was green, it was quiet, it was polite (by not bugging him on his first day), and had amazing women like Eleanora McCoy who provided food to hungry ex-captains. So far, so good.
Jim’s pleasure was doubled when he found the whiskey glasses—honest to goodness whiskey glasses—hiding in a cabinet. Enjoying the heft of the glass beneath his fingers, Jim grabbed the bottle plus pillow and headed back upstairs, trying to ignore the steady throb in his leg.
He thought he had seen a door . . . ah, right there. Jim swung open a door to reveal a staircase and with a grin he headed up. When his head cleared the floor, a slow smile stretched across his mouth. This here was the whole reason he’d bought this house.
When looking for houses, the only requirement he’d put in the search engine was a library. Hundreds of pictures of generic rooms with bookshelves later, he’d come across this.
It was clearly initially used as an attic—a very spacious attack. It must span the majority of the house, Jim considered, looking at the sheer square meters of space in front of him. It was wooden floors like the rest of the house but there a chaise perched near the center of the room.
Jim trailed a hand over the oak bookshelves, admiring the craftsmanship. They themselves were beautiful and the fact that the house had come with the previous owner’s books, actual paper books, had nearly sealed the deal for Jim. But it had been was what above those shelves that had determined he would be moving a farm in Georgia.
For there, in the most unlikely places, was a library that spoke to Jim’s soul. For the previous owner had had the roof replaced. Wood had been ripped out and replaced with the same kind of glass that had been in the Enterprise’s observation room. In about fifteen minutes, Jim gauged, he would be able to see the stars.
Feeling relaxed for the first time since he had said goodbye to the Enterprise and her crew, Jim trailed his fingers along the shelves and stopped when he came across an old, battered volume. Gently tracing the spine, Jim considered this particular moment. He didn’t believe in destiny. If anything, he had been shown, quite violently, that a single choice could change an entire universe. But this, this slim volume of William Blake tested that. Just a little.
He settled onto the chaise, broken open the bottle and poured himself a single drink. Leaning comfortably against the old piece of furniture, making a lazy mental note to have it reupholstered at some point, he opened the volume of poetry and found was he was looking for. Reading the words, he waited for the last vestige of sunset to fade.
When it had he leaned back, toasted the sky where most of his family now lived, found a particular planet, and spoke gently, “Thou fair-haired angel of the evening . . . Smile on our loves . . . protect them with thine influence.”