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Some have called him a great man.
Others an enemy of the Empire.
Many a stubborn bastard.
But no one could say that Christopher Pike didn’t keep his promises.
As the ship flies through the black, he stands firmly rooted to the floor beneath him, neither speaking or moving. He stares at the stars in front of him as his fingers tightly clutch a metal box. Pike thumbs the corner, feeling the edge press against his skin. It leaves an indentation, something to rub out later when the contents are gone. Or perhaps he’ll leave it and let the skin go back on its own. The Narada hums around him, a strange and solemn lullaby, and he can hear the murmurs of his crew who mercifully keep their distance. He needs the space to think and to reconcile that he’s letting go of something—no, someone—that was like a son to him.
Pike glances down and chuckles, musing to himself in awe that James T. Kirk who shone so brightly could be reduced to ash and contained within a box. It’s both ridiculous and sad, but at least he has found peace in knowing what has become of the young man filled with endless energy and brilliance. He may not have been there to save him, but at the very least, Pike can bring Jim back to where he always belonged. “Chekov,” he says suddenly, the sound of his own voice startling.
The young pilot turns his head. “Yes Keptin?”
“What’s our ETA?” he asks.
Chekov turns back to his console, looking at the numbers before turning around in his seat. His hair has grown out to curly profusion, hiding the scar along his hairline from an Imperial officer who tried to bash his skull in. “We are approximately twenty minutes from ze Neutral Zone.”
He lets out a sigh and nods, waving absently for Chekov and the other pilot to carry on with their duties so he can be lost in his own head once more. The Terran Empire is crumbling, the last of it going down like abandoned buildings, one brick at a time. They have a stronghold over Risa, but even that won’t hold much longer. Rebels and asylum seekers are landing on Delta Vega almost daily, coming in droves, and ready to fight; men, women, and children. What surprises him most is the Imperial officers—some faces familiar, others not—that come with intelligence and the willingness to betray their colleagues, friends, and family to do what’s right. Pike supposes that he has McCoy to thank for that, having destroyed the Imperial fleet’s most deadly ship at the cost of his own life. No, he thinks to himself, he did it to save him.
He hasn’t thought of the stranger with his Jim’s face and who also bore his name in a long time. Not since the night that the ISS Enterprise was destroyed. That’s a lie and he knows it. Pike remembers standing over this very bridge, almost in the exact same spot, speaking to McCoy over the comm.
How much longer does he have?
Less than ten minutes.
Chris, I’ll get him home. I told you I would and I will.
He recalls the dread in the pit of his stomach, the gnawing of panic and the feeling of sadness. Knowing that he is going to lose the one last thing that made his Jim’s existence real.
Are you sure?
I’m sure.
I’ll bring him back to you.
Then, just like Jim, McCoy was gone as Pike and his crew watched the Enterprise explode, torn apart and turned into fragments as Scotty tracked the shuttle carrying Jim through the disturbance. Pike as suffocated on his emotions, he didn’t need the mad Scotsman to tell him that the other Jim had made it through—forever gone from this place and back where he belonged. He knew in his heart of hearts that the other Jim would make it home, kicking and screaming if he had to and that he would go back to his life. If he was anything like his Jim, he would carry the memory on the cusp of his sleeve. Perhaps his crew would see the cracks under that cocky exterior and smile. Or perhaps this Jim would hide it and try to push it down until he too forgot. Or maybe, just maybe, the other Bones—the one that Pike had only heard about—would be the balm to soothe the terror and make that Jim whole again.
His fingers tap against the box, impatient and thrumming, as he thinks of how he and the other Jim parted. Pike curses himself for being so quick to embrace the stranger, to have the familiar body wrapped in his arms and hold him close just one more time. Even with the little voice in his head telling him that Jim was not his Jim, Pike wanted to have the young man he loved like a son back. Just for a moment. But he wasn’t his Jim. Where his Jim would listen—even when he didn’t want to—this one didn’t. He was independent, tactile, and everything he had hoped his Jim would be. Except Pike found that he wasn’t ready to see what that blue eyed kid could have become had Spock not murdered him. So he pushed Jim away and took the opportunity to betray him to push him further. It stung, watching the stranger crumble as Pike retreated. He knew that his counterpart was dead and the loss of the man hurt bitterly. Despite that knowledge, he poured salt into the wound—still bleeding and gaping—without a second thought and turned into someone as dark and uncaring as the Empire itself.
“Sir,” Scotty says.
Pike blinks and holds the box tighter. “Yes Monty,” he says.
“We’re here,” the Scotsman tells him.
Pike nods, his heart pounding in his chest, and turns to the view screen where the wreckage still floats at a safe distance from the Narada. It’s comprised of useless metal scraps and dust particles that circle the area, dancing the macabre across space. “Come with me,” Pike says to Scotty in a murmur. They walk side by side through the maze of the Narada, letting their footsteps do the talking.
Some say that Pike is mad for trusting the Scotsman, who can be a loose cannon, but in the end, he is a good man and a man that the captain can trust. “The airlock is this way, sir,” Scotty says, motioning towards a corridor near the transporter room. He follows without a word until the Scotsman stops in front of an airlock. Pike sees the sympathetic expression on the other man’s face and notices that Scotty does not ask for the box. Instead, he patiently waits.
“I said I would bring Jim to him,” Pike tells Scotty, motioning to the box in his hands.
Scotty nods. “I was wonderin’, yeh know,” he admits as he removes his cap from his head. “On the way ‘ere, I thought it was a strange place to be puttin’ ashes…in a place like this.”
“If you think about it, it really isn’t,” Pike replies matter-of-factly.
Scotty only shrugs before he hits the button to the airlock, opening the transparent tube. He is watching Pike as he opens the box and gently places the ashes inside. Pike stares as the gray remains, watching as the tube closes and goes back into the wall. “We ourselves are made of stardust,” he says quietly as he pressed the button, releasing the ashes into space.
There’s not much else to say or do except hope.
Hope that four young men find a measure of peace in the darkness.
It is spring and there is a field those golden color burns as brightly as the sun.
He is wandering under a sky that is bluer than he remembers: azure and cloudless, perfect and welcoming. He can feel the ground under the soles of his bare feet. There is a soft sound of blades of grass brushing against his jeans and nature chirping around him as he moves. It is warm, warmer than he remembers, though not unpleasant. It’s a balmy afternoon in Iowa and he knows it’s been a long time since he’s been in this place. He’s missed it, truth be told, and he never fathomed that he would. Now that he’s here in this place, it feels…
…like home.
He continues his trek, lazily and without haste because there’s no real rush, and appreciates the familiar surroundings as the sun hangs overhead, warming his body. Eventually, he stumbles upon what he’s been looking for since…forever really. It’s not a what, but a who.
A man whose long limbs stretch out on a blanket that has been laid out, partially hidden by the tall grass. He’s all golden skin with a sprinkling of freckles, dark hair, and hazel eyes that change from green to brown to gold and back again. They are the same eyes that have always mesmerized him, from the moment they met in that shuttle. It was the first thing he noticed (aside from the other man’s baritone and ranting about shuttles, space, and disease) and certainly not the last.
He stands over the man whose eyes are closed and there is a content smile on his full lips, seemingly unaware of the former’s presence and more relaxed than he has ever seen him. He takes a step closer, his body’s shadow falling over the other man’s face. Those eyes flutter and blink and stare up at him like two emeralds shining in the light. “You’re blocking my sun,” the other drawls as he pushes himself up to his elbows.
He laughs and shrugs. “Sorry about that,” he says. He tilts his head, eyeing the other man, taking in the sight of him. It’s been ages since they’ve seen each other, but he can’t say much has changed. Everything about this man makes his heart flutter against his chest and his breath hitch in his throat as if he cannot believe that this beautiful creature is really paying attention to him. “It is okay if I sit down?” he finally asks with a lop-sided smile.
The other man nods, patting his hand against the blanket and scoots over to make room. He sits down, his arm brushing against the other man’s warm skin, and makes himself comfortable. Their eyes meet—cerulean blue against hazel—and they share a shy smile before the other man wraps an arm, solid and warm, around his shoulders. He feels a pair of lips pressed against his temple and he leans into the sensation. “Have you been waiting long?” he asks as he brings his hand up to lace his fingers with the other man’s.
“No,” the other man says as he squeezes their intertwined fingers. “You’re right on time.”