I think Nyota would be a semi-retired admiral who’s regularly called in to intimidate (read: terrify) anyone who’s giving the Federation a hard time. She strolls in, all five-and-a-half feet of her, uniform and gray hair immaculate, eyes hard as steel. Humans and aliens alike bend to her will with very little persuasion.
T’Pring is still pretty young for a Vulcan but she has aged, long gray hair and soft skin. She has chosen to spend this period of her life mostly at rest, to be with her human bondmate as much as possible. While Nyota is at Headquarters T’Pring putters in her garden, which is huge and eclectic as only a botanist’s garden can be.
When Nyota is home they work on the garden together, or head out to visit cultural institutions and nice restaurants. They spend hours at plant nurseries. They travel widely so Nyota can speak as many languages as possible. They visit Jim and Spock and chat about the old days.
On warm San Francisco nights they curl up together on a lounger in the garden, not talking, just feeling each other in the bond. After a lifetime of achievement and constant activity, they’ve come to enjoy the quiet.
Jim Kirk has been in desperate situations before. I mean Tarsus was a bitch. Frank had been pretty shit. The whole Vulcan thing was a frigging mess from start to finish. Not to mention, you know, dying. But none of that compared to holding the person he held dearest, who was choking and spluttering on blood, as he died.
He’s cradled in his arms, the same position they have spent rare nights in their rooms, cradling each other as they watched a holo-movie. The position is familiar, and it’s muscle memory that has his arm pulling his lover tighter. The way his hair smells is the same as it’s always smelt.
But, he can’t fool himself. He can smell the acrid stench of blood. He can feel it drying uncomfortably on his skin. He can feel stuttered breath against his neck. He can feel it all. But he can’t see it. His eyes are squeezed so tight shut that he’s seeing pops of colour erupting behind them. He won’t open them. He hasn’t opened them since he took us this position. To open them is to accept the situation. He won’t ever do that.
Chekov has gone to get help. Spock will not stop until they are back aboard. Scotty will do everything he can to overcome the communication issues.
But he can not be captain. He can not be a leader, a fighter or anything else. All he can be is a desperate and terrified man. Because he knows- oh god he knows- that Bones is bleeding far too much, has been unresponsive for far too long, for everything to be alright. He knows that if he opens his eyes he has to accept the reality that Bones will never open his.
So he squeezes them tighter. He rocks. He pleads with whatever God is up there.
And he pretends he doesn’t notice when he can’t feel Bones’ breath on his neck.
— I wouldn’t be
surprised if the body belonged to the delivery man with the strange
limp. You never did see him leave the house.
— What about the gardener? He was there too.
— Too tall. Even the primitive forensics of the mid-twentieth
century would have determined that.