Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They’re in the thick of it again. Again. For the third time this week. Sometimes it feels like several times a day, but then he dissects their problems and realizes it’s always the same lingering issues that neither of them know how to fix. When he remembers his father and mother, they never fought like this. ...Or maybe they were just kind enough not to do it in front of him.

Maybe they should’ve. Maybe then he would’ve learned what to do when he catches Jim’s arm and feels Jim jerk away, takes icy blues eyes full of nothing but hatred. Spock doesn’t understand how someone he loves so much could hate him so much, but on other days, he’s just as angry. Jim doesn’t clean the house properly. Jim doesn’t take his career seriously enough. Jim takes stupid risks that puts them all in jeopardy, and when Spock was little and staring at the forming name on his arm, he always though it would be so very different than this.

He thought he would grow up and meet James Tiberius Kirk, and they would be in love and move in together and perhaps adopt a child and go on little trips together and Jim would smile and Spock’s logic would perfect itself. That’s how it always went in stories. ...Jim tells him it’s a fairy tale, but when he asks Jim to show him anything—any book, and movie, any show, anything that says otherwise—Jim has nothing.

Jim tells him, “It’s not about what the goddamn logical thing is; it’s about how I feel! And you didn’t even think about that!”

Spock’s lips are tight. He’s a Vulcan, how is he supposed to understand? He has no explanation, so he says nothing, though his nerves are wearing thin from what seems like hours of listening to Jim yell himself hoarse. That fixes nothing. Why he even yells, Spock can’t comprehend. But when Spock asks, “Please lower your voice,” Jim just glares harder.

“How could you have not figured this out before? You’re not a child, Spock. You should know how to deal with people by now, and it’s ridiculous that I’m getting this burden. That I have to struggle over every single hurdle that gets in your way and wouldn’t trouble someone else for a second.”

“How would I have learned?” Spock asks, at a loss. “I have waited my whole life for you, and this is as new to me as it is for anyone.” He never dated anyone else. Never even tried. The name that formed on his arm, the one that forms on every child, dictated whom he would end up with. It’s unheard of to try a relationship with anyone else. Bitterness forms in Spock’s voice as he adds, “We do not all so blatantly disregard our fate.” He’s worded it carefully, but he knows Jim’s translating it into: Jim slept around. He’s never been forgiven for all the people he’s been with that didn’t bear the name ‘Spock.’ Spock used to be the only one that wouldn’t hold it against him.

Jim’s breathing hard. It looks like he’s going to snap, but instead he spins on the spot. He marches across the living room floor, snatching a faux-leather jacket off the back off the couch—why does he insist on leaving it there?—and Spock follows him, even more frustrated when he runs away.

Spock follows him right to the door, where he turns around and shoves Spock back, snapping violently, “I don’t have all the answers, okay? I hate that when we have one little argument it turns into this massive issue because you don’t know how to have a relationship. I can’t teach you everything. You’re too stubborn to learn anyway and we just go in circles and I’m tried of not getting anywhere. We’re literally fighting over fighting. I’m sick of having to struggle over ever damn thing.”

“Jim—”

But Jim shakes his head and hisses, “I’m leaving. Just... I need some space.” He practically punches in the code for the door, and it slides open. Jim takes half a step out before he turns and snaps, digging in one last proverbial knife, “I need to go spend some time with people who know how to feel.” The rest of the step, and the doors snap shut behind him.

And Spock’s left feeling heavy and spent and so lost. He briefly struggles between following, chasing Jim down, but he doesn’t want to disrespect Jim’s wishes. He doesn’t know what to do. He never knows what to do.

He doesn’t know how long he can hang on.

But Jim’s name is engraved on his skin too deep to ever remove, and he spent his whole life thinking this was all there ever was. He feels trapped.

He wonders vaguely if Jim wants him to cry, but instead his struggling seeps into numbness, and he sits on the couch to wait for Jim’s return, wondering vaguely what it would be like to have never met James Tiberius Kirk at all.

Chapter Text

The amount of times Jim’s willingly wandered down to sickbay, Leonard can count on one hand. All of those times have been for sex, but the moment he appears across the biobed Leonard’s collecting his tools off of, Leonard knows that’s not it.

He sees the look on his boyfriend’s face, his soulmate’s face, and he tells himself it must be the Rigelian flu that’s been going around. Doesn’t want it to be anything else; he can treat that. He picks up a medical tricorder and starts to take a proper diagnosis, asking at the same time, “What’s wrong?”

Jim pushes the scanner aside more half-heartedly than usual. He opens his mouth like he’s going to explain, but he doesn’t.

He grabs Leonard’s arm and starts dragging him across sickbay, and they plow right through everyone that looks twice. They take refuge in Leonard’s little office at the back, and Leonard tosses the tricorder aside, turning to tap the locking code into the door. Obviously, this is private. He turns to look at Jim again, and Jim...

Jim’s breaking. He’s trembling, and he lunges at Leonard so hard that Leonard stumbles backwards, grunting, forcing himself to steady and support the weight of James T. Kirk, the man that’s always been written on his arm. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. He pets Jim’s golden hair and soothingly mumbles, “Hush, it’ll be okay.” His best bedside manner pulls out, but Jim extricates himself again, trying to stand and rubbing his eyes.

Finally, he breathes out and says, “I got the file for our new first officer’s assignment.”

“Not Sulu, then,” Leonard notes. Jim shakes his head and runs his palms over his thighs. He’s nervous, twitchy. He’s always so calm and sure and radiating pure confidence that it’s difficult to see him as anything else. It takes him two tries to get any words out.

“We’ll be rendezvousing with the Stargazer in a week. His name...” He cuts off, shaking, holds the back of his hand over his mouth and grunts out, “Bones, his name’s Spock.”

Leonard’s blood runs cold.

He stares at Jim, and for a moment, that’s all he can do.

His heart’s dropped into his stomach. He tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter. They always knew this day would come. He swears, “Shit,” and looks aside. He has half a mind to tell Jim this is it; they always knew it would happen. Spock is written on Jim’s arm, always has been, and that’s who Jim is meant to be with and it stings Leonard so much to even think about that he actually considers throwing his fist through the wall, but he’s not a violent man. If Spock has Jim’s name back... it doesn’t matter. He’s already Jim’s soulmate.

Not Leonard.

It seemed to matter less when they didn’t know who the hell Jim had. When it seemed statistically impossible for them to ever meet. But Leonard’s never been so lucky in his life, and he shouldn’t have thought it would start now.

When he looks at Jim, Jim’s so scared that it breaks what’s left of Leonard’s heart into tiny crumbs. He tries to be sturdy and he growls, “I’ll understand.” He doesn’t know what else he can stay. He’ll hate it so much, but he’ll always love Jim, and he’ll understand. Wants Jim to be happy.

Jim shakes his head. He licks his lip—a nervous habit that’s always unbearably pretty, though Leonard’s too torn apart to see it right now. “I... I tried to send him away,” Jim chokes, and Leonard gapes—that isn’t done. “I told the admiral I had an on-ship candidate instead, but he wouldn’t listen, and I... Bones, I don’t want to leave you.” The last part is whispered, cracking.

Jim flings himself at Leonard again and holds on tight, so tight. Leonard will always hate this Spock. He’s shocked Jim would try to turn him away, but... they’re destined for each other, and Jim will come around. They always do. He’ll want whoever this Spock is, no matter what he is, no matter what Jim and Leonard have.

Jim’s always been one to fight the odds, and he buries himself in Leonard’s body and whispers, “I don’t care. I don’t care. I’ll stay with you. I don’t need my arm to say it; I only want you.” He clings on for dear life.

Leonard holds on and blocks out the rest of the world. Like he’s been doing ever since he first saw Jim naked. Saw someone else’s name. Jim said he didn’t care, then. But Jim’s young, and he didn’t know the consequences, and this changes everything.

Leonard murmurs, “I love you,” into Jim’s ear, and he hopes with everything he is that that’s enough.

Chapter Text

Though his father’s jerked away from his arm as if burned, when Spock looks at his limb, he sees only pale, harmless skin and a blackened confirmation of what he’s always known. In a way, it’s a relief to see James engraved there. It tells him that when he looked at other boys and never had much interest in girls, it was just the way he was meant to be. He wasn’t mistaken. He can’t be told otherwise. But the look on his father’s face snatches his relief, and Spock rolls his sleeve back down.

He sits on the bench in the garden where his mother used to read. His grey sweater is too hot under the Vulcan sun, but his father wanted to look at it here, wanted to see how their legacy would continue in Amanda’s favourite place. But now, there’s a higher chance there’ll be no legacy, and Spock knows better than to bitterly suggest adoption.

It’s more than that. He’s different than the vast majority of the population, and he’s different than logic dictates. Sarek tells him coldly, “There is no sense to a man lying with another man.” In almost every case, they can produce nothing, and Spock’s tongue is thick, dry. He doesn’t want to suggest that they’ll have love: that’s the only thing the soulmate brand ever means.

He got it three weeks ago. Around the transition from boyhood to manhood, like everyone else. He woke up in bed with the name James Tiberius Kirk carved into his skin, and he stared at it, eyes wide with awe and wonder. What will this ‘James’ be like?

He hopes kinder than his father.

He didn’t want to show his father. He’s never mentioned his feelings of confused sexuality. He’s not so foolish. He loves his family, even if none of them will ever say it.

But Sarek knew the time was coming, and while Spock could evade the truth, could refuse to speak, he could never lie to his father. Sarek dragged him to the gardens and pushed up his sleeves, saw the name and flinched. Spock’s never seen his father flinch in his life. That’s the only emotional outburst; Sarek regained control.

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t threaten Spock with harm or with being cast aside, not physically, at least. He only shakes his head and says, hollowly and sad, “You have disappointed me greatly.” Though Spock didn’t do anything; he was born this way, and at a time, he would’ve done anything to change it.

His father’s disappointment is almost too much to bear. All he’s ever wanted is Sarek’s approval. He doesn’t even hope for pride anymore; he knows he’ll never earn it. Now he’ll never have anything but bitterness and regret, and Sarek whispers solemnly to no one, “Our line ends here.”

He retreats back to their home. Spock knows better than to follow.

Chapter Text

They don’t talk about it. Pavel doesn’t want to. Hikaru asks, once, and Pavel cuts him off, saying he doesn’t want to “spoil things.” Hikaru is kind and understanding, and for him, Pavel’s word is enough.

That’s more than the confirmation Pavel needs that these brands can’t be all bad. He doesn’t know what’s on Hikaru’s arm, refuses to know just yet, but Hikaru Sulu is carved into his own flesh, and sometimes he lies awake at night, staring at it and feeling a mixture of agonizing fear and happiness.

Hikaru is all he ever wanted. Hikaru is slow with him, kisses him sweetly and holds onto his waist and doesn’t touch his clothes when he says he’s not ready. Pavel explains once that he’s not fully comfortable with his body, not yet. And Hikaru says he’s beautiful, and Pavel says thank you but it’s not that and Hikaru says okay and doesn’t push it. Sometimes Pavel wants to see Hikaru naked so badly that it hurts.

He wants to lie in his soulmate’s arms and spill every secret he’s ever had, even the big ones that could ruin everything. He trains with Hikaru when they get off shift, and he asks for fencing lessons instead of swimming because the fencing uniform covers all their skin. Hikaru hides his disappointment, though Pavel still sees it, and he gets better with waving the thin sword around and laughs when Hikaru lets himself be knocked over.

Then they’re back in Hikaru’s quarters, and he says he’s going to have a shower, if Pavel wants to wait, and Pavel wants so desperately to follow but has to say something first.

It’s eating him up, always has—Hikaru is a free spirit, his name doesn’t have to say Pavel Andreievich Chekov. It could say anyone else, or it could say Andreevna instead. He’s spent his whole life in worry of that.

And it would be better than someone else, in a way, but Pavel doesn’t know if he can stare at it every night when he wants to curl up in Hikaru’s arms. He doesn’t want the past and something that was never really who he was drudged up every day. He catches Hikaru’s wrist as Hikaru heads away from the couch Pavel’s fallen to, and he mutters, “Maybe... maybe now?”

He’s tense and terrified and might be starting to shake, but he has to do this someday. He knows that when he tells Hikaru, Hikaru will still love him. Or at least, will understand. Hopefully won’t judge. But Pavel... it’s harder for Pavel to face than anyone else. It’s his problem alone; he doesn’t need it branded on other people.

Hikaru, wonderful Hikaru, seems to instantly know what he means. Hikaru’s gorgeous face frowns, and he says softly, “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“We hawe to someday,” Pavel mumbles. What if Hikaru knows? It’s in Pavel’s records, even though he’s fought for it not to be. Starfleet’s thorough, dry, wants all the facts. What if Hikaru thinks it’s not an issue when it is? Pavel shakes his head and tugs Hikaru down, and he elaborates, “There is somezhing I... I hawe to tell you.”

Hikaru sits next to him and clutches his hands, both of them, always so damn sturdy. He says just, “I’m listening.”

Pavel nods. Sucks in a breath. Hikaru lends him strength, like always, and he tells himself that Hikaru is his soulmate, whatever complications lie the other way around. He says, “I want to be closer to you.” Hikaru smiles sadly, knowing there’s more, and nods. Squeezes Pavel’s hands. It’s mutual. “But you should know zhat I... I hawe had surgery—” Hikaru’s face flickers into shock, and Pavel knows he’s searching through injuries that never happened. “—medical science is amazing nowadays, it is, but it is not... it is not perfect. I... I still hawe some scars. And things are not...” he pauses to breathe. “They are good, but they are not perfect. You always... Hikaru, you are always so kind about my appearance, but I am not as pretty as you think I am.”

Hikaru says without a trace of doubt, “No, you’re beautiful. You’re always beautiful to me. I don’t care if you have scars—what’re they from?” Then he frowns deeper and adds, “If it’s not my name on your arm, that’s okay. I... I love you, Pavel. I really do. Enough to stick with you, even if the odds are against us.”

Pavel laughs bitterly. “I lowe you too.” More than he can ever express. He means to answer Hikaru’s first question, but in the interest of brushing other fears aside, he rolls up his gold uniform first. He turns his forearm to show his brand, show Hikaru’s claim to him. He says quietly, “No, zhat is not it. I am yours. I always hawe been.”

For a moment, relief washes over Hikaru’s features. Then a great deal of joy. His eyes close, and he lets go of one of Pavel’s hands to cover his own face. He looks so happy that Pavel’s tempted to drop it, to leave it at that, kiss Hikaru wildly and promise to strip all his clothes away, if only Hikaru will leave his on. But then he’ll still have to explain, and he rushes on to shatter that happiness, “But I was not... I was not born Pavel Chekov.” When Hikaru’s eyes widen in surprise, Pavel manages, looking down at their hands and forcing out every word, “I was born wizh a different body, one usually called a woman’s. It’s... I’m a man, and I always hawe been. I hawe had the surgery, and I’m not that anymore, but I... I don’t know how to tell you zhis properly, I’m sorry—”

Hikaru scoops him up. One minute he’s a trembling mass of nerves, and the next he’s wrapped in strong arms, held tightly against Hikaru’s chest. Hikaru’s voice is shocked when he mumbles against Pavel’s ear, “I... I had no idea. But... is this why you’re so upset? Pavel, I love you, I do, it doesn’t matter if you have scars or were born a certain way. I mean... I’m surprised, but I...” Pavel makes a choking noise, a weak sob, and buries his face in Hikaru’s shoulder. He should’ve known. Hikaru pets his curls soothingly.

Hikaru makes a small laugh and says, “You know... when I was little, I didn’t know anything about Russia. I didn’t know the name was human. ...I thought you might be Andorian or something. They have five genders.”

Pavel repeats the tiny laugh and says, “I just have one.”

“I know.” He can’t really know, but Pavel appreciates the sentiment. And he’s so relieved that he doesn’t know what to say. For that, at least. He waits for Hikaru to ask what his name used to be, but it doesn’t come. So Hikaru has a Russian name. One that he’s associated with Pavel, Pavel realizes.

He disentangles, and he pushes up Hikaru’s sleeve: the same gold uniform as him that they changed back into. It’s a personal thing, but he can’t stop himself, and Hikaru doesn’t pull away.

Pavel Andreievich Chekov shines up at him in a thin, black cursive along Hikaru’s forearm. Pavel uses his free hand to cover his mouth, choking back a sob. Hikaru holds their arms against one another and whispers, “It’s you, Pavel. It’s always been you.” Pavel’s already crying: full relief. Hikaru presses a kiss to his cheek and hugs him again, and Pavel throws himself into it. They have each other’s names. In a way, he supposes he always knew that.

He mumbles, “I love you,” into Hikaru’s hair, and Hikaru echoes back, just like he always does.

Chapter Text

They get all the way to the shore before Bones kicks into his usual complaints: indiscriminate grumbling, and then the raised Southern drawl meant to trap the other two. Spock, taking tricorder scans along the shallow water’s edge, ignores him. Jim doesn’t have that luxury, and he falls half a step back to listen.

Bones is already sweating under the hot alien sun, and Jim knows his own brow is damp. Spock, from a desert world, remains cool and unaffected. Their sleeveless, open vests atop their baggy pants match the local garb, just in case any of the natives should happen by to see them, but for now, the beach’s white sand and transparent-blue water is clear as far as the eye can see. Barefoot, Spock is careful to avoid the small fish as he wades out, stopping only when Bones barks, “Be careful, damnit! We don’t know what’s in there!”

Spock turns his head only a fraction, one eyebrow raised. “Your concern is noted, Doctor. However, ship scans show no large predators in this vicinity.”

“And how do you know one of those little guppies doesn’t have poisoned-tip fins?”

Spock lifts the other eyebrow and turns without a word, continuing his walk. Instinctively, Jim follows, dragging Bones along with him. They face mysterious poison on every away mission they take, though he’ll admit they’re not usually barefoot, strolling through soft sand with crystal water licking their toes. Their lack of sleeves is more conspicuous, all things considered, and Jim was half hoping to see a native just to check—do their arms bear the names of their soulmates, too?

And more importantly, do any of them have more than one? Or is Jim really so rare, so uncommon that walking sleeveless through the halls of his own ship draw him disapproving looks and scandalous whispers. He knows that Bones wants to talk about that, because Bones keeps glancing covertly at his own name, Leonard H McCoy engraved on Jim’s skin.

Spock’s is on the other arm, and however unusual, Jim does get a spark of satisfaction out of seeing his own name glistening under the sun on two separate gorgeous men, both of whom he’d sell his soul to keep. Whatever the stares and whispers are like, he brings them on away missions whenever he can. Bones shakes his head and notes loud enough for Spock to hear, “That kid behind the controls was staring at us.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Jim jokes, “Wouldn’t be the first time a man ogled me.”

That comment earns him a glare, and he grins back. They’ve been over this a thousand times, and he’d rather not fret, not now, not on a gorgeous, unexplored beach. ...But he lives in a universe where he doesn’t get to choose, and Bones presses on, “He was disrespectful. Did you hear what he muttered to that redshit by the door?”

A few steps ahead of them, Spock says over the wind, “Your worries are unwarranted. It is only natural for humans to dislike those that are different.”

Bones snorts. For once, he doesn’t correct the singular use of humans. “Is it natural for ensigns to call their captain a slur?” Jim abruptly stops walking, and Spock follows suit, turning to stare.

“Did Kyle really say what you’re implying?” Jim’s frowning now, though it certainly wouldn’t be the first time he heard that inference casually thrown about. ...Just not usually from ensigns under his command, right in his presence.

Bone grunts predictably, “They all say it.” Jim shakes his head, sighing. His kind, the kind that sleeps with more than one partner, does seem so very rare.

He looks at Bones with as much strength as he can muster, because he’s their captain and their boyfriend and the center of their world in so many ways, and it’s a position he’ll fight to keep. “Yes, I enjoy sex. Frequently, and with both of you. I’m not going to look at their implications in a bad light, even if they mean it that way and say it out of ignorance.” Bones shakes his head, obviously disagreeing, but Jim overrules, “Look, I’ve been getting that since I turned fifteen and woke up to find both of your names on me. I’ve steeled myself by now to how others react. I don’t want to be bothered by it.” With a subtle nod of concession, he adds, “But I appreciate your concern for me.”

Bones opens his mouth like he wants to argue more, but perhaps seeing the two of them unmoved, he backs down. He shuts it again and looks bitterly aside.

“I believe I have found it.” Jim and Bones both look around to find Spock plucking a bulbous, holed coral chunk from beneath the water. He slips it deftly into a container attached to his belt, sealing it tightly. The mission completed, he takes the couple steps back to them, and they stand in a little triangle, all carved into a mess.

Jim gives Bones’ tanned shoulder a loving squeeze before he pulls out his communicator, aware they’ve overlapped shift change. “We got it, Scotty. Beam us up.”

A chipper, “Aye, Captain,” and they’re caught in the glittering beam, temporary lost to the peaceful emptiness of the alien landscape.

They materialize on the platform, and Bones and Spock instantly move for the door, stopping when they realize that Jim isn’t following. He caught the look in Scotty’s eye, and, responding to it, he tells his lovers, “I’ll be a sec. Go on without me.” One skeptical and one only mildly curious, the pair of them nod and leave.

Jim’s left alone with Scotty, who gestures him closer, and Jim obeys, noting the nervous look on his chief engineer’s face. He’s told in a burly Scottish accent, “I’ve just been over some specs on some new technology from yesterday’s Starfleet transmission.” Jim nods, yes; he’d known vaguely of some new medical breakthrough. At least, he though it was medical. Like reading his thoughts, Scotty continues, “I’m no’ sure if Dr. McCoy has seen them, but I wouldn’ be surprised if he didn’t want to pass them on, exactly, er, no offense to the good doctor...”

Lifting his eyebrows, Jim coaxes, “Why wouldn’t he tell me?” However people might view his soulbonds, doubled up as they are, he’s just as much in love with both of them as anyone else would be. He trusts Bones implicitly, and he can’t imagine anything important being held back.

Looking supremely uncomfortable, Scotty blurts, “There’s this new procedure—fascinating technology, really, would love to get my hands on a prototype to take apart—er, but anyway, they say it can... well, that it can cover up the soul names. And no’ like those old snake oil tattoo remedies—this one actually lasts! It doesn’t come back!” For a moment, it looks like he’s about to go into one of his wide-eyed mechanical rants, but Jim’s too busy staring to comprehend.

Scotty hasn’t glanced at his exposed arms, but he might as well have. The reason he’s bringing it to Jim’s attention couldn’t be more obvious. Such a procedure has nothing to do with ship’s business. ...But, he realizes, it has something to do with a friend trying to spare another friend the burden of society’s hatred, and for a moment, Jim is torn between gratitude for the sentiment and a sickness that someone’s invented a ‘cure’ for what isn’t a problem.

He forces himself to say, “Thank you for the information, Mr. Scott.” And Scotty nearly sags with relief. “...But I don’t want it.” It doesn’t matter how hard it is. He is what he is. He doesn’t explain, because he doesn’t have to, and Scotty just nods, pointedly not looking down.

Jim heads for the doors, off to chase down the men he’s destined for.

Chapter Text

Most of the time, he doesn’t think about it. Why would he? The winters on Delta Vega are unbearable, and it’s always winter. He’s perpetually layered in so many jackets and sweaters and scarves that sometimes he forgets he even can be naked.

And then he has those rare showers, on the few times Keenser, the only other living thing for kilometers around, tells him he smells. He strips into nothing and turns the rusted showers onto nearly boiling, because any part of his skin that isn’t drenched is freezing, and any stray droplets cool too quickly.

He scrubs a thick coat of grime off every part of him, and as he wipes clean his left forearm, he stares at what he sees—amongst all the chaos of coming here, he’d almost forgotten.

Old wonderments come back to him, though he supposes now, it doesn’t really matter. Trapped in the middle of nowhere, he’s not likely to meet anyone, let alone this Nyota Uhura he’s ‘destined’ to be with. When he was little, he used to think they’d meet no matter what, and she would stroll into his life and change everything—he’d start to feel things he’d never known before. He’d know what people meant when they talked about attraction, about body parts jumping at a mere glance to someone pretty, about butterflies in the stomach and doe eyes and all those dopey things fairy tales talk about. She’d touch his hand, and suddenly everything would make sense, and Montgomery would be normal.

...But then he stopped being a child, and the lack of everything became undeniable, and he’d lie in bed at night and wonder the worst: what if none of those things ever happened. What if they found each other, and her arm said Montgomery Scott, and she loved him with everything she had, but he looked at her and felt... nothing. Maybe he’s the broken one.

Now, he’s had enough of sorrow—this world’s bitter and bleak enough—and he scrubs too vigorously in one of those crazed bouts of hope that it’ll just come off. He shouldn’t have a name, anyway. Would make more sense for how he feels. Maybe if he scrubs hard enough, the letters will peel away. They don’t, of course. They’re branded into him for life: a constant reminder of how everything’s supposed to change.

He ducks his head under the water and splutters below the thick spray—even the water seems thicker here. It’s heavy and dreary and translucent through the steam. He tries to think about his machines instead, like that shuttle he’s been building with Keenser just to keep himself from going insane. Maybe they’ll use it to escape someday. ...And then they’ll pick up a pretty hitchhiker and she’ll tell them her name, and maybe, just maybe, she’ll like machines too.

Maybe she’ll not like him too. Well, no, she’ll have to like him. She’s his soulmate. But maybe she won’t like him like that.

Maybe she’ll be asexual too. Maybe she’s not even human; maybe she’s from a race where that’s more likely. Maybe she’ll be aromantic. Maybe she’ll be the best friend he’s ever had, and they’ll grow fond of one another in a platonic but no less loving way, and it’ll be liking have a sister, but more—a partner, one that understands him and gets along with him and stops him from being so bloody lonely all the time.

He doesn’t know why he never thought of that before. Maybe it never occurred to him, but now that he’s got Keenser, who rarely talks and has never done anything sexual either and they’re two men on a tiny little outpost with barrels and barrels of Scotch and they’ve never once mentioned anything like girlfriends—maybe he’s not broken, not the only one in the universe after all. Keenser’s nice. But he’s not a soulmate.

Montgomery looks back at his arm, turned pink from the hot water, black around the letters, and he wonders if Nyota really is.

Chapter Text

Darwin oversees the transfer like everyone else. Normally, none of them would, not on the bridge anyway, but Lieutenant Olson strolls right out the turbolift and offers his name to the captain, and Darwin, interest peaked by half the name on her arm, turns to listen.

There isn’t much to note, really. The exchange is short; they only had time for a brief rendezvous, and they need a higher warp to make their next destination; Engineer Olson has to be down in Engineering. He disappears with a flashy grin and somewhat unremarkable features, though, she supposes, at least he could be considered classically handsome. ...If he’s the one, anyway. Otherwise, he’s not her usual game.

There’s only half an hour left on her shift, and she spends the rest of it in mild wonder, pouring over possibilities, things fun to daydream about when compared with the usual boring routine of a standard space route. She’s on navigation, like usual, but she’s on a later rotation and her console’s relatively simple and unexciting. The planets are the real fun: the in-between less so. By the time she’s finally relieved of duty, she’s been counting down the minutes for the past dozen.

Darwin bypasses the usual distractions she indulges once off shift. Usually, she likes a little fun on the rec deck before retiring, but right now she needs console access, and that’s best done in her quarters. As soon as she’s through the sliding doors, she heads for her desk, slipping into it and ignoring her roommate’s delighted squeal at no longer being alone. Gaila twitters over, no doubt about to complain about how dreadfully uneventful her short-as-hell shifts are, but Darwin mutters without looking, “Not now; an Olsen transferred on board.”

And Gaila goes wide-eyed, uttering instantly, “I understand. Tell me everything.” When Darwin glances back at her, she smiles excitedly and disappears to the bedroom—she knows Darwin’s a more private person. ...Even if, unlike Darwin, the quest for Gaila’s matched soulmate has consumed probably about ninety percent of her life—hence the goal of Starfleet, where they explore the galaxy and are more likely meet everything possible.

A simple search of personnel files brings his record up easily. Four crewmen transferred aboard, but only one to Engineering.

Greg Olsen. The block letters glint out of the screen with surreal luminosity, and Darwin feels her back go rigid, entirely unprepared. It’s not an uncommon surname. She’s met one or two false leads before. But this is both, and it’s suddenly undeniable—this man’s name is engraved in her flesh, and he’s her soulmate.

The relentless ramifications of that pound at her head, but she shuts them out with a precision honed by years of hardship and forced pragmatic thinking. She’ll deal with how a final, permanent, inescapable mate will inevitably change everything about her happily career-oriented life later. For now, she accesses every one of his files relevant to personality and accomplishments and records. The sudden want for knowledge grips her; Darwin never likes to fly blind.

She scans the files one by one. She’s hoping, of course, for someone intelligent. Perhaps someone interested in flight, piloting of any kind, and hopefully someone with culinary experience and an interest in food. He’s cute enough, she supposes—seems cuter by the minute, now that her brain’s labeling him as hers—but is he kind? Is he loyal? Does he have an interest in endlessly learning and alien architecture and new topography? Her pulse starts to quicken at the idea of dining in the park on the rec deck, maybe in a nice picnic, with horderves they’ve prepared together and files of new planets they’ll fly to, pouring over new sights with wonderment. She hasn’t had a good date, a really good one, in years...

But her face falls when she taps into his Academy records and sees that he just barely scraped through flight class. ...Actually, he just barely scraped through everything. Engineering is the only course he did well in, and even that, the more she looks through his grades, the more she thinks he must be related to an admiral to make it to the Enterprise.

She looks through his reports. He has three on record. Two are spiteful declarations that the engineers before him in the other ships were idiots. His tone is pompous and the word choice is inelegant at best. There’s one note where he put his entire team in jeopardy on an away mission with sheer and blatant recklessness, earning an official reprimand. When she looks at his service record in general, he has absolutely no positive comments or accommodations or recommendations. He’s older than her. By several years. But he’s done little with the time, and the data indicates that that’s not going to change, because, in his former captain’s words, he doesn’t have any drive.

She’s frowning hard and hoping that’s not it. She extends the range of her search. They’re close enough to a starbase to tap into more; she goes beyond records. She gives the computer a general search for Greg Olsen and finds his name in a dozen sites of a purely social capacity, which she scans quickly and easily—they’re repetitive and uninspired—all bragging about meager and clearly exaggerated personal feats or attempts to find women for short, ‘unattached’ flings.

She finds a public folder of images he’s posted, shared with a vast network of online friends, mostly of his attendance at parties, where he appears drunk most of the time and nearly passed out the rest. Each picture after the next lowers his attractiveness, until she finds herself practically shaking in her seat and snapping the console abruptly off. It isn’t that she never enjoys a good party, but there’s nothing like seeing your future soulmate passed out on a sofa with a crude picture of a dick doodled over his face.

Gaila calls from the other room, “Are you finished?”

And Darwin wants to say yes and she’s disgusted, but that isn’t like her, and it’s not that simple. She stares into nothing and thinks for a moment, and it becomes very clear how she feels.

Everyone is entitled to their own interests. She isn’t disgusted, really. He can be who he is. Maybe he loves his life as it is.

But that life is destined to be half of hers, and she knows the churning in her stomach is a pit of disappointment.

Starting tomorrow, she thinks, she’ll request a long sleeved uniform to cover the reminder.

For the first time in their entire stay together, Darwin’s the one to first suggest, “Gaila, I think we need to have one of your ‘girl talks.’”

Chapter Text

She tells him coolly over dinner, after learning early on that neither her anger nor tears will get her anywhere, that when she inevitably inherits the company, she’ll do better.

He snorts and tells her she only says that because she doesn’t have credits yet. If he gave her full access to their accounts, apparently, she’d be a whole other person. She wants to tell him that no amount of Federation credits could corrupt her into the monster he’s become, but she’s older now, and she isn’t so naïve.

She likes to think that she’ll be marginally better, which is all their failing world can really hope for, and for now, she does her duties with a clipped tongue. She’s little more than a glorified secretary for him now, but someday, she’ll be in charge. Marcus Enterprises will always be in the hands of a Marcus, he likes to say, even if she is ‘weak’ with her ‘lack of understanding.’

Carol, like so many of her friends, thinks that the soulnames on everyone’s arms are a gift, meant to steer humanity to happiness on an individual level. Marcus Enterprises should facilitate that, not profit from it.

...She will, of course, continue to make enough to allot her staff the due credits. But she won’t take the huge cut her father does, and she’ll lower prices accordingly. She’ll install new technologies that will help aide the process rather than deliberately prolong it. She won’t inquire after extra, personal data, entirely irrelevant to the simple task of matching names, and she certainly won’t sell that data to third party marketing companies. Every time she gets like this, alone in his too-grand head office, she thinks of starting now. She’s a marvel with computers; how easy would it be to stroll to the main console and erase half the extra data collected? All one needs in today’s world to find the perfect soulmate is one’s own name and the name on their arm; how others are conned into providing comm numbers and bank statements and academic records are completely beyond her.

Sorting through the digital papers as she so often does, Carol collects the various PADDS scattered about her father’s office. She tries to keep facing away from her father’s desk computer to avoid temptation; if she were caught, she’d be dismissed, and any positive influence she does have would be swept out the window. Just because he doesn’t trust any of the secretaries he hires doesn’t mean he trusts Carol.

But she finishes with the scattered mass of data ports, and she inevitably checks over her shoulder—one lone PADD still on the desk.

Marching over with clicking heels, Carol tries to add it to the large pile in her arms without looking. No such luck; two picture profiles are up. Her too-quick brain automatically scans the titles before she can stop herself:

Montgomery Scott and Nyota Uhura. Match.

Yet she sees their dual billing profiles beneath their names: seven months to Scott and four to Uhura. That four months ago that Nyota Uhura applied to them, the computers would’ve instantly spit out the connection. ...Yet for four months they’ve been paying to keep themselves on the books, billed each week, likely for several more until Alexander Marcus so ordains to finish draining their accounts. The needless cruelty of it makes Carol sick. The sheer exploitation of what should be a beautiful thing. Four months worth of credits and four months two soulmates could’ve spent together.

Feeling the distinct urge to scream, Carol deliberately shuts off the PADD and takes a deep breath. She strolls to the door, feeling infuriatingly helpless and hoping, irrationally and above all else, that her own soulname, Khan Noonien Singh, will come along and help end this madness.

Chapter Text

Nyota opens the doors without even checking the DNA signature or asking who it is; she knows the sound of her girlfriend’s knock by heart. She taps the release switch and they slide aside, revealing a crushed-looking Carol with tears streaming down her cheeks. Before Nyota even has a chance to ask what’s wrong, Carol’s flown into her arms, catching her right in the open doorway. The apartment building hallway around them is completely empty, but Nyota would be frozen here in surprise even were it teaming with people.

This is one of Carol’s powerful hugs. She’s a strong woman, even by Nyota’s high standards, but clearly something terrible has happened, something that’s shaken her to her very core. She has her arms wrapped tightly around Nyota’s torso, clinging to Nyota’s sweater and catching in stray strands of hair. Her face is buried in Nyota’s shoulder, soaking the base of Nyota’s neck with free-flowing tears while her body’s wracked with sobs. Nyota can do nothing but gently hold her back and stroke her golden hair, murmuring, “I’m here.” She doesn’t say ‘it’s okay,’ because in their world, it’s not a promise she can make.

Carol whispers hoarsely, “I love you.”

Nyota, without missing a beat, replies simply, “I love you too.” Carol sniffs.

She loosens her airtight grip incrementally, but she doesn’t let go. She mumbles into the crook of Nyota’s neck, “He disowned me.” Nyota gasps, but before she can properly extend her condolences and sympathy—even though she’s always personally hated Carol’s father—Carol rushes on in a harried tumble, “H-he found Khan Noonien Singh—” Nyota stiffens at the mention of the man whose name adorns Carol’s arm, “and he just brought him home for dinner, just like that! I-I tried to take him aside and talk, but he was such a creep, and he practically forced himself on me! Father heard and came rushing out and actually yelled at me for misbehaving! I... I had to tell him the truth about us, but he just...” Carol stops to sniff before bitterly choking out, “He said I didn’t have a choice! He said our names on each other’s arms made me Mr. Singh’s property and given time I’d see that, but I didn’t... Nyota, I love you so much, I—”

“Shhh,” Nyota murmurs, trying to calm Carol down, even though she knows that if their positions were reversed, she’d be just as upset. The way Carol’s father treats her has always irked Nyota deeply, and the thought of a man forcing himself on Carol makes her sick. If she’d been there, things would’ve gone very differently.

She can feel Carol shaking her head, and she rolls on, voice cracking, “Singh’s a powerful man, with military achievements, contacts, credits... that stuff means nothing to me, but you know how father is; he thought it was a perfect match; he didn’t give a damn about my feelings! He told me I would go home with Singh or I would be disowned, and I...”

Nyota, torn, doesn’t know what to say. Her heart aches for Carol; there’s nothing quite like seeing her girlfriend shattered to ruin her world. Their very public setting’s melted into the background, and Nyota’s entire being pours into being Carol’s rock, holding Carol’s trembling form up and making soothing sounds and just being supportive and there. Finally, she opts for confirmation and mumbles, “You made the right decision, Carol. But you should’ve never been put in that position.”

“I... I know...” Carol chokes. And she’s smarter than to ever go home with a stranger, especially after such a huge red flag. Nyota doesn’t care what society says; soulnames are not infallible. They’ve left Carol cold and shivering, and she whispers, “My father... he made me sit there and watch while he contacted the authorities. He’s so high up, it hardly took him any time at all... I... I’ve been completely written off... he cut me out of the will, he had all of my things sent to a postbox, he wouldn’t even look at me, just because I wouldn’t bow to his almighty soulmate beliefs...” She’s practically spitting by the end of it, furious. But when she pulls back to look at Nyota, she’s nothing but sorrow. Her eyes are so red that they shine vividly through the veil of tears. She hisses, “I’m not even a Marcus anymore. I’m just... I’m just Carol.”

“Carol Uhura, someday,” Nyota offers gently, though she’s not sure if that joke’s in good taste. She’s relieved when Carol manages the barest of smiles. Back to her own frown, Nyota shakes her head. “I... Carol, I can’t imagine what you’re going through...”

“I guess I should be happy,” Carol mutters, glancing aside. Her face twists for a moment. “In a way, I’m finally free of his awful control...”

Nyota sadly says for her, in full agreement but understanding, “He’s still your father. You can be upset.” Carol just nods.

Carol opens her mouth but can’t seem to bear saying anymore.

Nyota says for her, “It’s... it’s going to be hard, I won’t lie. Sticking with me...”

“I don’t regret that,” Carol snaps. “I regret him making me choose, but I’ll never regret choosing you.”

“We’ll never really be able to marry,” Nyota continues, facing a truth she’s long been avoiding. She always knew she would stick with Carol, she thinks, even in the face of her own soulmate, but as she’s never met him, it was never quite so real. “Only soulmates can get insurance. We’ll always be judged...”

“I love you,” Carol repeats, and for a moment, she looks strong again: stubborn and beautiful and the powerful woman she is.

Nyota echoes, “I love you too. ...And I would’ve picked you too.”

Carol sniffs.

Then Carol lunges into her arms again. Nyota never quite let go, but this time she squeezes tighter: exuding all assurance. Carol whispers against her, “My things’ll be ready for pickup tomorrow, but... I need a place to stay...”

“I wanted to move in together last week, remember?” Nyota chuckles, and she can feel Carol’s palpable relief in the sigh against her shoulder.

A door down the hall opens, omitting a short, older human man going bald, looking instantly surprised at the two of them. Hearing it, Carol pulls back, and she wipes at her eyes.

Nyota ushers her inside the apartment, where the doors lock them into their own private world: one where they’re just perfect the way they are.

Chapter Text

He’s midway to dreamland when the ink begins to form. At first, Pavel’s dizzy brain just tells him it’s all part of the dream; he’s growing a tattoo along his inner forearm. He smiles lazily, wondering what it’ll look like. In the pale moonlight through his window, it’s hard to tell what form it’s taking. It’s a long thing, in a straight-ish line, but no, it starts to fill in differently; lots of little lines and a few curves, just faint and blurry. Pavel stares at it and waits for the rest of the dream to fill in, but it’s still just his bedroom.

Then it occurs to him like a bucket of ice water over his head: it’s on his inner forearm.

He’s getting his soulname.

In an instant, Pavel’s jerking up in bed, sleep utterly dislodged, and he turns his arm properly and stares at it, never breaking eye contact as his other hand stabs blindly at his dresser. They’re in the little heritage cottage in the Russian countryside, and the lights aren’t voice activated, but as soon as he taps the lamp with his finger, it sparks illumination. He taps it twice more to make it as bright as possible, and he shuffles closer, watching the letters grow. A shock of excitement bursts inside him, and he casts a quick, furtive glance across the room, where his model USS Vengeance hangs from the ceiling. Glossy posters fall before it, displaying a bright, celebrity grin on unusually handsome features.

Pavel, just old enough to find out who his soulmate is prays desperately, though his family’s never been religious, that his soulmate will be Khan Noonien Singh.

Ever since he was old enough to read, Pavel’s admired the enigmatic Starfleet captain. As a relic of the past, a one-of-a-kind augmented genius, Khan Noonien Singh is utter perfection: superior intelligence, superior strength, even superior looks. Pavel’s spent countless nights pouring over accounts of his exciting missions and his various exploits, and Pavel has a model of every ship Khan Noonien Singh’s ever encountered. As he’s grown older, now a couple years into puberty, his admiration shifted to utter adoration. He’s studied so hard and taken every extra class possible in the hopes that he’ll join Starfleet when he’s old enough, make it out into space, and fight for a position on Khan Noonien Singh’s ship, and maybe, even though Pavel’s just a boring little human with a giant crush, their soulbond will bring them together, because Pavel’s been absolutely wildly madly incredibly in love with Khan Noonien Singh, the man of his dreams, for as long as he can remember.

He’s been told he’s foolish, of course, but they don’t know, they don’t understand, Pavel’s so swept off his feet—and why would he feel this way, so sure in a world of pre-destined soulmates if he isn’t meant for that man? Besides, as unworthy as Pavel is, he’s been told he’s got an exemplary mind and a great attitude, and surely he’s only been given those gifts so as to better serve the utterly gorgeous man plastered all over his walls.... He sucks in a breath as the reddish marks start to shift to grey—he knows they’ll be black soon—and then it’ll be on him, the proof he’s been waiting for—

But his blood freezes in his veins when he realizes, long before the words are clear, that it can’t be right.

The name that’s forming is two names, not three. The first is longer, the second shorter. An ‘S’ sparks his hope, but it’s not followed by an ‘i’...

Pavel can feel himself beginning to tremble. It’s not... it’s not saying Khan at all.

It takes a moment to decipher, but another few seconds and the black fills it all in, settling to a clear, unmistakably message: Hikaru Sulu.

Pavel’s heart drops into his stomach.

He... he always though that getting his name would by a joy, but...

But it’s devastating. And Pavel’s shaking. He stares at the name on his arm, some completely unknown stranger that could be rude or ugly or twice his age or an idiot on a backwater planet who doesn’t even understand electricity, and Pavel wanted so desperately to be Khan’s.

The posters on his wall suddenly seem like a cruel joke. He has half a mind to rip the largest model ship down and smash it, smash it like all of Pavel’s wants and hopes. If he’s not chasing Khan Noonien Singh...

He has a brief moment of not knowing who he is anymore, because such a large part of him has been betrayed, and he starts to cry.

Chapter Text

The docking bay is a petrifying swirl of towering people with little cameras and floating microphone chips and lights that make it difficult for him to see. There are civilians too, of course, and other young cadets heading to various ships, even one or two assigned to the illustrious Enterprise, being interviewed in this last minute time space where the celebrity ship is preparing to dock. But cadets are nothing new, even for the fleet’s pride and joy of a flagship. Keenser holds something more.

Keenser’s engraved with the name of his soulmate, and that soulmate, apparently, is senior staff on the most famous ship in the Federation—the one and only Chief Engineer Commander Montgomery Scott. His reputation far precedes him. His list of accomplishments is almost too vast for Keenser to hold in his head, and all Keenser really knows about him on a personal level is that he’ll be twice Keenser’s height and fleshy and strange.

Maybe, just maybe, the fact that Keenser’s the first Roylan to ever have a non-Roylan soulname has to do with why he’s the first Roylan to join Starfleet. Perhaps it had some influence, early on, seeing the alien letters and knowing that he’d never find his mate on his world. Or maybe it’s something deeper; maybe he’s always been driven to Montgomery Scott on a primal, inescapable level. Maybe they’ll both love stars and space and the ships that get them there, and that’s why they’re meant to be.

But really, Keenser doesn’t know any of that. All he knows is that the media spins things wrong all the time, and Scott could be anything, just like Keenser’s not the star-struck young upstart of grand destiny they paint him to be. ...He’s a cowering little first-time cadet that’s been sitting on a too-tall toilet seat for half an hour, listening to the shouting and the clicking just outside the bathroom doors.

When he goes back out there, he’ll get lost in it. But he has to at some point—he’s waited so long to be on a proper spaceship, to get his hands on the nuts and bolts of a real beauty like the Enterprise, and half the thudding in his chest is excitement: sheer adrenaline.

The rest is an arresting terror. He’s a man of few words, and if he’s forced to give another interview, he thinks he’ll likely end up curling in on himself, desperately attempting to devolve into a rock. Nobody bothers rocks.

...Well, people split rocks open and mold them into things, but that’s probably easier than public speaking...

For a brief moment, Keenser considers casting aside his dream and crawling back to Royla. He rolls up his crimson sleeve and stares at the name engraved on him. There’s a tug in his chest, just like there always is, even before those officers first landed on his home planet and told him his soulmate was special.

Maybe Montgomery Scott won’t mind that Keenser’s a few steps away from a rock, just with more education. Maybe Keenser won’t mind that Scott looks tall and soft and bizarrely smooth with a bit of hair and a vivid expression in most of the pictures of him. Maybe Scott will dazzle him with never-ending engineering genius, and maybe they’ll build a little ship together and jettison themselves far, far away from noisy crowds.

There’s a slight tremble in the toilet and the floor, and the door of the stall clatters against its magnetic binding. The vibrations can only mean one thing: a sizeable ship docking in.

Keenser takes a deep breath and pushes back to his feet before stretching his legs. His best bet is to sprint past them, taking advantage of their higher field of vision, and maybe he can lunge at his destination before they even notice.

Maybe Montgomery Scott will be there to catch him, sporting a sonic wrench in one hand a smile on his handsome, grease-stained face.

Chapter Text

Her favourite bench isn’t always free, but she doesn’t mind sharing. Her sensuous approach automatically has Hendorff looking up, her Orion pheromones in full effect. She gives him a hearty smile, and he, blushing across his big, broad features, shuffles over to make room. He turns away afterwards, probably because he has to work without distraction, and maybe because he’s Starfleet, and Earth, in all its flaws, is far more respectful than Orion ever was.

Gaila’s never been particular concerned with her natural charm. She finds most people delightful. This bench is in the middle of Starfleet grounds, right in the center of the gardens, pressed against the brim of a fountain that bubbles noisily behind her. When she pulls out her PADD, the glare of the bright sunlight makes the screen temporarily illegible, but she adjusts the settings, and the words become clear.

While a number of pretty, exotic birds chirp about the neighbouring bushes and soar over her head, Gaila stares at the ever-up set of Federation vessels currently accepting cadets. Various professors have offered her various pieces of advice, of course, but Gaila subscribes to the IDIC philosophy even more than most Vulcans; any spaceship is bursting with thousands of little components to consider—hundreds of different crew members and slightly tweaked command structures and statistical records and mechanical upgrades, and the list goes on and on. Choosing where she wants to serve for her first real space-going Starfleet experience is an incredibly important decision, and while Gaila likes to plunge head first into matters of the heart, this is going to require a good deal more thinking.

She’s going over the racial makeup of the USS Stargazer when a shadow falls over her, and she looks up immediately, smiling on habit. Jim smiles brightly down at her, radiant in his grey uniform and the sun in his blue eyes. He makes as if to sit between her and Hendorff, but he receives an angry glare and switches to the other side instead. Gaila doesn’t bother with their conflict; life’s too short to worry about things like most-likely silly male posturing. Instead, she asks, “What can I do for you?”

There’s a sparkle in his eyes that says mess around, and as soon as she finishes another round of grueling contemplation, she’ll be happy to; Jim’s almost always wonderful to play with. She answers the unspoken request with a twitch of her lips, and Jim, knowing he has to wait anyway, glances at her PADD. “Picking ships to request?”

“Yes,” she chirps, scrolling back a screen to display the whole list. “So far I’m liking the Farragut, but I’m not finished my research yet.”

“Have you scanned the crew compliments for your soulname?” Jim suggests, even though every cadet ever does that first thing, so of course she did. However, unlike around eighty percent of space-lovers destined for other space-lovers, Gaila’s never found anything. Never even found a name close. Between all the apostrophes and strange accents and the single hyphen, Gaila still hasn’t determined what species her soulmate even belongs to. Sometimes she prays for a polygamist with a non-binary gender and a broad sense of the universe, but mostly she’s just content to wait and see. Jim can probably tell from the dismissive look on her that her search came up negative, because he frowns and sighs, “I’m sorry, Gaila. I’m sure you’ll meet them someday.”

Gaila laughs: a light, chiming thing that a stray bird joins in with. “I’m not. Do you have any notion how big the universe is? Maybe my soulmate’s not even in this universe! We might never meet!”

“I don’t think that’s likely,” Jim says, voice gentle and sympathetic even if Gaila doesn’t need it.

“No, probably not. It’s more likely he’s back on Orion, but since I’m one of few in the Federation and I’m never going back, we’ll still probably never meet. Oh well.”

Jim asks, “How can you not care?” And he looks tremendously puzzled, even though he messes around with other people all the time, just like her. Maybe he thinks his soulmate will come along and change all that and he’s secretly hoping for it.

Gaila’s not. Though she imagines a soulmate might be nice. Most people are nice. Some are particularly nice, but certainly more than one. She shrugs and explains smoothly, “Life’s too grand to waste on one person ‘cause of some childhood mark on my arm. I think if I never meet them, I’ll be fine, because I’ll have seen and done so many things anyway; I’m going to get on an exploration vessel and I’m going to see all sorts of strange life forms and bizarre sights and new things. My life’s going to be full.” She ends with a giant, toothy smile, because most men won’t argue with her once she’s flashed that, and as cute as Jim’s face is, she’s got ships to study.

Jims shakes his head but does look better. He shrugs at her and says, “I’m going for the Enterprise. It’s the best, no question. And they’ve got a Roylan on board.”

Eyes going wide, Gaila nearly squeals excitedly, “I’ve never had a Roylan!”

“Me either.” The devious grin on his face says he’d like to change that as much as she would.

Gaila laughs and turns back to her PADD, sliding the Enterprise up to the top of her list. Staring at it too intently to look away, she blindly shoves Jim in the arm and lets him know, “Shoo—I need to think about this. See you at the ice cream stand in thirty?”

“Make it forty-five—I gotta pick up my paper, and you know how Professor T’Pol always rambles on with corrections.”

She’s too busy looking down to look up, but she does smile, and she registers him standing up and his shadow retreating. Space is such a pretty thing, she thinks, but only as pretty as the people that play in it, and even if she dies alone, Gaila knows that she’s never really been alone, not once in her entire life.

Chapter Text

Sarek never regrets his marriage to Amanda Grayson, just as he never regretted his first wife. Neither of them is, technically, his soulmate, at least, not the one written on his arm. But T’Pel died of an unfortunate transporter accident when she was seven and Sarek nine, and it would not be logical to spend the rest of his life alone as a result. At first, he might’ve thought otherwise. It seemed a devastating thing, to know that in a world of predestined matches, he would never quite fit. In the puzzle of Vulcan, there will never be a piece that aligns against him.

But T’Pau took him aside and spoke with him. He’s of a noble line and couldn’t simply afford to waste away. His genes were, are, too valuable. T’Pau asked him what exactly he thought a soulmate was, and aside from loose synonyms, Sarek could never properly answer. No one really could, she said. And a partner is a complicated thing, one that cannot simply be written off over one or two trivial mismatches.

So Sarek followed her advice and took a woman who seemed suitable, who had also lost her named soulmate, and though they never really worked, it seemed an illogical thing to be hung up on. Their respective soulmates could not be brought back, and in the meantime, they were two powerful, important Vulcans that had a duty to their state, and for a while, their marriage was acceptable.

But she died too, and Sybok was a strange, beastly little thing with vile ideas and no respect for the Vulcan way. Sometimes, in the depths of the night, Sarek wonders if this is his fault for siring a son to a woman not meant to be his. But, again, fretting has no purpose, and he put the thought from his mind.

Now, sitting in the garden and watching Amanda work, he does occasionally wonder is this just as ill-advised? Spock is, so far, a fine child, but he is only a child, and only time will tell. He is a half-breed, in any case, and Sarek was, apparently, meant for a Vulcan.

He ponders these things on the stone bench across from the purple perennials, and Amanda, eventually, glances over her shoulder, frowning. Her tall hat warps the sun’s shadows along her face, but, even half covered, her smile is decidedly pleasing. The ends of her brown curls are dancing lightly in the wind. “Are you fretting again, my husband?”

Lifting a stern eyebrow, Sarek deflects her teasing with a firm, “I do not fret.”

“I never met my soulmate either, you know, and you don’t catch me comparing him to you.” Her tone is light, but Sarek’s wise enough to know the danger in her words. Even as she turns back to shape the soil around her flowers, he’s forming answers.

“You simply have not yet; you have no reason to believe you will not ultimately end up with the one you are predestined to.” The fact that humans can be so callous about these things has always seemed strange to him—for all Amanda knows, there is a man out there who will complete her in ways Sarek never could, yet she’s made no effort to discover who he is. “And I was not comparing you, I was simply—”

“No, I won’t,” she jumps in, “since my husband’ll live a millennia.”

Sarek ignores her hyperbole in favour of continuing, “I was not comparing you. I was simply considering how my own life might have been shaped differently by different circumstances.” She doesn’t turn around again, but he thinks she knows. Like she used their bond to discern his initial thoughts, he uses it to offer reassurance she doesn’t need but takes.

Because their son is inside and can’t hear, Sarek risks speaking aloud, “You look particularly beautiful today, my wife.”

Amanda simply chuckles, but it puts both their minds at ease.

Chapter Text

Stonn is older by a few years, but by the time they’re old enough to marry, that will hardly matter. They’re both very, very young, and they have many decades to go. Decades they will spend together, he knows, because as soon as her name forms on his forearm, his father takes him aside and explains.

He’s told about soulmates and how important they are, and he sees all the strange, illogical things behind his fathers eyes—the emotions they’ll invoke. Soulmates are a part of each other, a partner for the ages. Stonn is told that the soulname is a blessing. It prearranges his marriage and assures that he will never be alone.

He doesn’t tell anyone, of course. That isn’t how things are done, not on Vulcan. Mating rituals of any sort are very, very private, and once the name forms on Stonn’s arm, he’s never to wear short sleeves again. His parents give him only robes and long-sleeved things, and now he’s wearing a thick, black sweater, even under the sweltering Vulcan sun when he asks T’Pring to join him for a walk. She flashes him her tight, young smile, halfway between youthful exuberance and the regal restraint of a lady. She offers him her arm, and they walk along the weaving path through the gardens of the Institute they both currently study at. He’ll be a well-known scientist some day, he thinks, and he’ll be a worthy husband.

And she’ll be his beautiful bride, even if she doesn’t know it yet. If she’s gained her soulname, she has yet to show it. But hers may take a few more years. It doesn’t matter. In the hundred-or-so years they’ll spend together in the future, what does a few in the beginning mean? He needs to focus on his studies if he hopes to accomplish anything, anyway, and when he’s with T’Pring, sometimes that becomes difficult.

The way her arm wraps around his is delicate, peaceful. He wants to lay his hand over hers but knows better. He holds her elbow and leads, though only by half a step, and he sets his pace slow, because he wants this to last. Even when she isn’t smiling, which is the vast majority of the time, her face is radiant, her eyes alight with a cool, calculating fire that betrays her reeling intellect. Her hair is bundled up today, not the more common, short style, but a long and intricate thing as complicated as her being.

She stops them by a tall bush of dla-daels, and she stares at the flowers for a moment while he stares at her, feeling somewhat unpracticed and clunky and unworthy of such a woman. But she’s on his arm, and that secures him. For no reason he can discern, she suddenly leans up, balancing on her toes, to reach for a particularly large, yellow-and-pink flower. She’s too short by a few scant centimeters, and Stonn automatically reaches to help.

But as he extends his arm, her sleeve’s fallen partially down, her fingers trembling in the air to snatch what they cannot. The black letters on her arm seer into his peripherals, and he almost flinches back as though burned.

Only years of self-control training lets him pick the flower and pass it to her. She takes it with a clipped nod—no need to thank him for reasonable aide—and tucks it into her skirt pocket, her sleeve falling back down.

But the damage is done, and the name on her arm isn’t his.

It’s of some illustriously ill-bred half-human who’s even planning to leave for Starfleet and never understood the Vulcan way. Stonn realizes his fingers are digging deeply into his palms a fraction too late; she glances aside and spots his tension. Stonn forces himself to relax, to be sensible, to not hate a man for what is not his fault.

But Stonn never really liked Spock anyway, and T’Pring was supposed to be his.

T’Pring is too good a woman for Spock. She takes Stonn’s arm again without a word to his inappropriate display, and Stonn is forced to continue walking, though in truth, he’s suddenly begun to drown.

Chapter Text

Somewhere far away, they’re tucked under a shuttle, on their backs on little hovering boards that can slide easily along the greasy floor. Their workshop’s messier than the rest of the complex combined, even the century-old shower area, but Montgomery doesn’t much mind.

Montgomery’s got his nose half a centimeter from the processor, a hatch open and spilling sparks. Keenser wordlessly hands him the coupling nut, and Montgomery starts to pull out wires. They’ll get this thing flying if it takes all week, and knowing them, it probably will.

Maybe if they had a hand on Delta Vega, things would go a little faster. But then they’d also have to share the scotch and the glory, and when this shuttle soars off their frozen little rock, Montgomery’s going to be damn proud.

They’ve been under here for hours. His back’s sore, but he’s been an engineer long enough to learn to ignore it, even if his commanding officers always told him that’s unhealthy. Unhealthy is living in a blizzard on icky Starfleet rations. His stomach grumbles, but he doesn’t feel like dealing with that problem just yet, and besides, he thinks, he might finally be getting somewhere.

He distracts himself instead by striking conversation, even though most of them are one-way and clipped; Keenser’s not much of a talker. Montgomery asks him anyway, “What’s your soulname?” Because lord knows Montgomery wastes enough time worrying over his. Even though it’s unlikely he’ll ever get off this godforsaken planet to meet the person of his destiny, his soulmate’s out there somewhere, and that’s worth a few thinks. It’s a painful subject, sometimes, but more in his own head; Keenser’s never been anything but comfortable.

Keenser opens his rocky little mouth to grunt, and he shrugs his shoulders. Normally, Scotty would just roll on, talk about himself and rant and work himself up into shouts and drink in Keenser’s soothing confirmations, the generic nods and the grumble here or there.

But now he’s really thought about it, and he wonders, and he presses, “Doesn’t it bother you? Keep you up at night? In this whole wide universe, there’s only one person out there for you, and for all you know they’re some big gross Klingon or a tribble or dead already, and if you ever do find love somewhere else, you’ll always be wondering, could it’ve been better? Not to mention the bloody government and the way everyone else’ll treat you.... And what if you meet them and you don’ like ‘em, ey?” He degenerates more into his accent as he goes, actually stopping his work for once to stare, wide-eyed, at the machinery, tripping over organic fallacies that are so much more troublesome than nice, clean mechanics, and he rants, “Or what if you spend all your money on some agency tha’ takes all yer credits and tells you nothin’? Or if you meet ‘em and they’ve got someone else’s bloody name or they don’t like you or they’re boring? Or let’s say you do meet them, and you settle dow’, but then they up and die and leave you broken hearted and suddenly aware of how ridiculously alone you are and you might as well just snuff it, too?”

He looks at Keenser expectantly, like Keenser will have all the answers, or maybe they just really need to push back out from under the crushing weight of the shuttlecraft and drink down a whole barrel of alcohol. Keenser’s beady little eyes are looking at him back, exceptionally bottomless.

Keenser shrugs again and grunts, “Never looked.”

“Wha’?” Whole face scrunching up, Scott looks at Keenser like a Vulcan telling jokes. “You never looked? How could you never look?”

“S’on the back,” Keenser says, and Scotty takes it to mean that it is for Roylans, then, not on his forearm like most species, blaringly obvious every moment of the day. Still, there’re mirrors, and someone could’ve told him, and how could he not know—but Keenser just repeats, “Never looked.” And he turns back to working like that’s all there is.

For a moment, Scotty’s too baffled to move. He starts sprouting things, half-asked questions and confused noises and general odd looks, but nothing seems quite right, so he settles.

Then he finally realizes, “I wish I were that brave.”

Keenser nods a vague acknowledgement. It’s unhelpful and lacking any conclusions and doesn’t answer a damn thing, but Keenser’s calm, and that’s... that’s something. Scotty shakes his head and turns back to the open hatch, stomach back to rumbling. He sighs and takes a moment to decide, “Let’s get something to eat.”

Really, he supposes, as he and Keenser push back from the grey hull, even if he never meets his soulmate, if he could just get a toasted sandwich, he’d be happy.