he wakes with the thought at oh six hundred, well before an optimistic alarm, eyes remaining shut until the silence of the foreign room presses in on him with a sudden vertigo that forces him to rise. there, centre floor, begins his start-of-day routine, performed for years with very little deviation: he performs a round of stretches to shake his mind and limbs of sleep; relieves himself; strips, showers, and shaves; dresses in a pressed, pre-chosen outfit while his hair dries; and then preens in the mirror before breakfast. it's always in these moments, about to turn away, when he meets his own indurate gaze, and remembers how things are and how they ought to be.
white-knuckled, anchored to a damp counter, he feels vulnerable. they have no ship and no crew, which makes him a captain only to spock and the other half of his soul. to his acquaintances it's an unprovable fact they know to accept on his word, while any expectations they have for what the title truly means pass as easily as sand between parted fingers; his clay-like resolve is as permanent an impression to them as the grains left stuck to their palms. what is a badge with no context but a novelty pin? who is he without a starship but jim kirk, the thirty-seven-year-old something-or-other?
clairvoyant, he foresees that by march twenty-second's end he'll have ceased his senseless self-doubt; by the twenty-third, he'll have forgotten his birthday ambivalence entirely. yet his gift to himself is this lonely second, knowing that once he's pried himself away he won't allow another.
when he descends into the foyer, he stops on the landing three stairs from the bottom. across the hall is the living room and across the living room is where their walnut dining table sits, rich wood faded from direct sunlight and infrequent use; currently, it's occupied by a three-dimensional chess set, the only item his shared space with spock lacked to make it feel as though it were a piece of home. the care in its careless position, effortlessly thoughtful, encourages the sun to rise in his expression, smiling as his last steps down are taken jauntily. this present is one of a kind, but chess has never had the ability to make his morning scruples feel like the unrelatable brooding of another manβwithout question, that power has always belonged to his first officer, his brother, his friend.
a badge with no context is still a badge; he is still james tiberius kirk, the thirty-seven-year-old, twelve times decorated captain of the uss enterprise.
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he wakes with the thought at oh six hundred, well before an optimistic alarm, eyes remaining shut until the silence of the foreign room presses in on him with a sudden vertigo that forces him to rise. there, centre floor, begins his start-of-day routine, performed for years with very little deviation: he performs a round of stretches to shake his mind and limbs of sleep; relieves himself; strips, showers, and shaves; dresses in a pressed, pre-chosen outfit while his hair dries; and then preens in the mirror before breakfast. it's always in these moments, about to turn away, when he meets his own indurate gaze, and remembers how things are and how they ought to be.
white-knuckled, anchored to a damp counter, he feels vulnerable. they have no ship and no crew, which makes him a captain only to spock and the other half of his soul. to his acquaintances it's an unprovable fact they know to accept on his word, while any expectations they have for what the title truly means pass as easily as sand between parted fingers; his clay-like resolve is as permanent an impression to them as the grains left stuck to their palms. what is a badge with no context but a novelty pin? who is he without a starship but jim kirk, the thirty-seven-year-old something-or-other?
clairvoyant, he foresees that by march twenty-second's end he'll have ceased his senseless self-doubt; by the twenty-third, he'll have forgotten his birthday ambivalence entirely. yet his gift to himself is this lonely second, knowing that once he's pried himself away he won't allow another.
when he descends into the foyer, he stops on the landing three stairs from the bottom. across the hall is the living room and across the living room is where their walnut dining table sits, rich wood faded from direct sunlight and infrequent use; currently, it's occupied by a three-dimensional chess set, the only item his shared space with spock lacked to make it feel as though it were a piece of home. the care in its careless position, effortlessly thoughtful, encourages the sun to rise in his expression, smiling as his last steps down are taken jauntily. this present is one of a kind, but chess has never had the ability to make his morning scruples feel like the unrelatable brooding of another manβwithout question, that power has always belonged to his first officer, his brother, his friend.
a badge with no context is still a badge; he is still james tiberius kirk, the thirty-seven-year-old, twelve times decorated captain of the uss enterprise.
he feels younger than he ever has.)