Archive of Our Own ^beta

‘I know you’re there…’

‘I know you’re there…’

‘I know…’

The words echoed through the hollow corridors of Stark’s mind, over and over, like a voice thrown down a dark well. He didn’t even remember saying them anymore, had he even said them? Was he speaking? He only knows that they came from himself, that it sounded like himself, that those words were trying to claw their way out of his mouth like something dying and raw.

It was his commander’s voice that cut through his own words. Louder. Harsher. Familiar. Painfully desperate. Powerful. It came down like thunder, crashing through the storm that was Stark’s mind, warping the walls around it until everything sounded wet and static-heavy, distorted by panic and fear.

Then: touch.

Rough hands on his shoulders. Shaking him, hard. His body jerked like a ragged old puppet, limbs flopping uselessly. Flailing like an old dog toy. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. It felt like someone had carved out his insides and left the skin behind, slumped and hollow.

Commander Lux’s tough voice cracked, cracked, with something wild and frantic. He was saying his name. Not Lieutenant Kirk, not Lieutenant Stark, just….

“Stark... Stark, come on— look at me, damn it! Please!”

Stark couldn’t open his eyes. Couldn’t reach out. Couldn’t explain that he wanted to. That he was screaming from inside whatever euphoric pit he’d fallen into, dangling between absolute peace and utter terror. That he knew Lux was there, that he could feel him, and still, his body wouldn’t obey.

He just knows Lux is there.

The storm inside his head rolled louder, harsher. Something between wind and grief, something old and sharp and familiar. Euphoria faded away.

He felt tears on his face but didn’t know if they were his own or Lux’s. His lungs stuttered against the weight on his chest, begging for air and getting almost nothing in return. His pulse was a distant thrum. His limbs were cold. Peace? Euphoria coming back, or falling further away?

The pills.

He remembered the pills.

Not many.

Just enough.

Enough to shut everything up.

Enough to make the spinning stop.

Enough to give himself a goddamn hour of silence in his over analytical, busy Vulcan mind.

And now… this.

The silence wasn’t real.

It never was.

Not when Lux’s voice thundered through it, not when guilt came back louder than the dark.

“Don’t you fucking die on me,” Lux hissed, so broken, so hoarse, “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to leave like this…”

Stark wanted to tell him he hadn’t meant to.

That this wasn’t some poetic exit.

That he just didn’t know how to cope anymore, not with the legacy, not with the disapproving silence from his lineage, not with the way people looked at him like he was already a failure wrapped in a famous name.

He just wants to sleep. Just wants to relax. Wants to lay on the beach at Risa and down tasty frozen drinks and let everything fade away.

He wants his commander, too, but those words never made it to his lips.

Only his whisper stayed.

‘I know you’re there…’

Like if he said it enough, he could convince his own soul to come back to his commander.

Stark feels something, warm, wet, sliding down the slope of his forehead.

Blood?

Maybe.

Had he hit his head when he collapsed? He remembers dropping the vial he had in his hands. Or had he clipped the corner of the console, or just gone down so fast that his body hadn’t even registered the impact? He isn’t sure.

Everything feels far away, dulled like sound under water, like thought dipped in static.

Lux, he’s here. Stark can feel him.

Not just shaking him anymore, not yelling.

Now… now he’s touching him.

Carefully. Tenderly.

He feels the rough pad of Lux’s thumb swipe through the warmth trickling over his brow, wiping the green blood away without hesitation, like it doesn’t scare him, like nothing about this scares him. Not the blood. Not the drugs. Not Stark, limp and cold and still.

The skin from Lux’s real hand, it’s warm, calloused, human and betazoid, settles against Stark’s clammy Vulcan skin like a balm, grounding and good. The contact is jarring, electric in the silence. It makes something deep in Stark’s chest flutter, not fear, but something achingly soft, like a flower pushing up through frostbitten ground.

Then there’s the other hand. The one that isn’t real. Lux’s prosthetic, cool and cold, silicone and polyurethane, cradling the back of his head with the same care, the same eerie gentleness. The contrast between them, real and artificial, warm and cold, it soothes Stark’s body and mind.

The Vulcan lets out the ghost of a breath, the faintest exhale. Still here. He’s still here, even if he’s not ready to open his eyes.

The euphoria is still moving through him in slow, rhythmic waves. Not the sharp, chemical rush of whatever he’d taken, this is something deeper, knowing he can feel Lux’s presence, maybe. That silent, endless warmth that seeps into him every time the man looks at him too long, or touches him like this.

Stark doesn’t want to wake up. Not yet.

Here, in this in-between space of two worlds, he doesn’t have to think about expectations. Or failure. Or what his name means. He doesn’t have to feel like a living disappointment wrapped in a beautiful body with nowhere to go.

Here, there’s only the tide... And Lux.

If this is what dying feels like, he welcomes it.

Except—

There’s something in Lux’s touch. Something that holds on a little too tight. Something desperate, something alive. Something that tells him waking up… might be worth it.

Eventually.

Just… not yet.

Lux felt it, a subtle shift beneath his palms. A whisper of air against his cheek.

He exhaled.

Not much.

Not nearly enough.

It was something.

It cracked open a space in Lux’s chest that had been locked tight since the moment he’d found Stark slumped on the floor, skin clammy, breath so shallow it barely stirred the air.

He clung to that breath like it was a rope pulling him out of hell.

“Come on,” Lux murmured, voice still raw. He adjusted his grip, curling Stark’s half-limp form tighter against his chest, “Come on, don’t do this to me…”

He pressed two fingers to the side of Stark’s neck. Still a pulse, faint and unsteady. There.

Still here.

Still here.

His hand shook as he reached for the emergency hypo in his uniform pocket, pre-loaded with a stimulant, standard medical issue. He’s taken to carrying it. His fingers trembled as he pressed it to Stark’s neck and injected it, heart in his throat.

This had happened before.

Twice.

Just… not like this.

Not because of him.

He couldn’t stop seeing it in his head; two days ago, in Stark’s quarters. The way Stark had curled into him on the couch, asking for something stronger to take the edge off. Something to quiet things down. The joking way he’d said it. Testing the waters of what he could ask of his boyfriend. The tired smile. The kiss he’d pressed to Lux’s jaw like it was nothing. The little way he looked at him through his thick lashes and said, “Everett?…”

…And Lux, ‘idiot,’ he tells himself, he had let it happen. Had made it happen.

He knew people. Old contacts. A small vial, crystals barely the size of a thumbnail. Just to take the edge off... Just one.

The kid is an addict, the substance doesn’t matter. He didn’t think twice.

“God,” Lux whispered now, clutching Stark tighter, dragging in a shaking breath, “I’m such a fucking idiot—”

He would have given him the world if he asked.

He wiped Stark’s brow again with the sleeve of his uniform, smearing blood he didn’t care about. His thumb brushed the sharp curve of Stark’s ear, so distinctively Vulcan, and he flinched at the reminder of who he was holding.

Ambassador Spock’s son.

Admiral Jim Kirk’s only boy.

…And Lux had helped him get the drug.

It didn’t matter that Stark had asked. That he’d smiled. That he’d looked beautiful and broken in the half-light and Lux had just wanted to give him anything, earn trust and dedication, show loyalty, be warranted an introduction to his parents.

Now he might’ve given him death.

“Wake up,” he whispered, voice faded in his throat as he leaned closer, forehead against Stark’s, “Wake up, beautiful, please, please…”

He wasn’t supposed to feel this much. Not anymore. Not after the war. Not after what he’d been through. Not after everything the right side of his face had lost. Stark had slipped under his skin with that
vanilla scent, like the most intoxicating contradiction the galaxy has ever known.

An unmistakable sweetness of wild Madagascar Vanilla, rich and decadent, as though it’s been aged in sun-warmed barrels and bathed by starlight. It wraps around him, velvet and golden, immediately alluring, almost dizzying in its perfection. He has that crooked smile, those haunted hazel green eyes that looked at him with Kirk’s gaze, and looked at him like he mattered.

Now he was limp in his arms, and Lux didn’t know if he’d ever forgive himself.

“Stay with me,” Lux whispered, tears catching in the seam of his mouth, where his lip splits with the deep scar running down his face, “Stay with me, Stark…”

He didn’t even realize he was rocking him, gently, like a rhythm that might keep their souls tethered. He didn’t even notice when the med team he called burst into the room; only that when they tried to take Stark from him, he didn’t let go.

They tried again to pull Stark away from him, but Lux wouldn’t let go, not yet. Not until he was sure. Not until Stark’s eyes opened. Not until he heard his voice, that sarcastic, too-clever-for-his-own-good voice that always made the commander feel like he was dancing the edge of something dangerous and gorgeous.

He pressed his forehead harder against Stark’s, as the medics hovered, whispering urgently, and only one thing throbbed through Lux’s mind: Keep him alive.

If he could do that, if he could keep Stark happy, keep him laughing, distracted, tucked safe in his bed at night, in his arms, sober and warm and maybe even proud of his damn uniform for once, then maybe, maybe, everything else would fall into place.

He’d make it work.

Somehow.

Lux would make the kid feel safe here. Feel wanted. Useful. He’d play the part: doting, supportive, steady. He’d help Stark hold up the illusion for his family, for the cold shadow that was Spock, and the too-large legacy Admiral James T. Kirk that left like a crater in everyone else’s orbit.

He’d make them believe it.

That Stark was thriving aboard the USS Intrepid. That he’d found his place, his purpose, under Lux’s command, and captaincy.

It was a terrible thing, he knew that.

To love someone and still think like that.

He just… he couldn’t help it. Deep down, in the ugliest, most desperate part of himself, he wanted them to notice. Not just Stark. Him.

The battle-scarred Commander Everett Lux. The man who could tame the wild son of two legends. The man who could keep him whole, sober, happy.

If Kirk saw him.

If Spock approved.

If they said his name with something resembling respect and admiration…

Maybe the promotion would come.

Maybe the captain’s chair would finally be his.

And yet, holding Stark’s too-still body, watching the medics fight to stabilize him… he felt nothing but dread.

No pip, ship, or title would mean a damn thing if Stark didn’t wake up.

If those green eyes didn’t flutter open and roll at him with some snarky comment.

He’d never forgive himself.

And even if he got everything he ever wanted… if it cost this, if it cost him…. Was this really the love of his life? After just a few short months?

Then it wouldn’t be worth it. Not even close.

The last time this happened, Lux had kept it quiet.

Stark had collapsed in his quarters, trembling and pale, but still reachable, still close enough to come back. Lux had held him, cradled him against his chest in the dark, whispering half-truths and promises into his black hair until the boy had blinked awake with a shudder and a slurred joke about being “a lightweight” over whatever he’d taken.

No med team.

No witnesses.

Just the two of them, curled around a secret like it was a lifeline.

But now… it’s different.

The corridor is filled with shouting voices, sterile light, and the urgent hiss of medical hypos. Stark lies slack in Lux’s arms like a broken marionette, too quiet, too cold, lips a frightening shade of pale instead of baby pink.

Too still…

“Another dose,” the lead medic barked, snapping open a second hypo and pressing it hard against Stark’s neck.

The hiss of pressure followed.

Still no response.

“C’mon,” Lux muttered, heart thudding like war drums in his ears, “Come on, Stark, don’t make me call your father. I swear to God, I will.”

What the fuck was he supposed to say to the ambassador, or the admiral? There’s no greeting card that said ‘Hey, I used to fuck your son, and then I killed him. My bad.’

“Stark…” His voice trembled as he reached up again, fingers shaking as he swept back the cold-sweat-matted black waves from his forehead. He still felt clammy, not Vulcan-cold but wrong-cold.

His brow had a sheen that made Lux’s stomach lurch with dread.

Lux leaned in as the nurse moved, brushing the tips of his fingers down the side of Stark’s face, thumb tracing the curve of his cheeks.

It felt like he’d given up.

Like they both had.

“Hey,” he whispered, gently, “It’s me. You’re okay. Just follow my voice. Come back, yeah? Just come back…”

And then…

Gasp.

Stark’s body jerked forward.

Lux barely had time to adjust his grip before Stark’s back arched and he choked out a violent, rasping gasp like his lungs were dragging the galaxy into the void.

His eyes, hazel now a vivid green and wild, snapped open, pupils blown, unfocused.

He looked like someone pulled from the edge of death itself.

They had.

Lux’s relief hit him so hard it was nearly as violent.

“Stark,” he breathed, voice gone with it. His arms instinctively tightened around him, pulling him upright, holding him close enough to feel the breath stutter against his chest, “You’re okay! You’re okay…. You’re here. You’re with me.”

Stark didn’t answer at first, just stared straight ahead, blinking, trying to focus, trying to be alive.

He looked like he didn’t know if he’d survived, or if this was some cruel trick of the brain right before it all ended.

Then his fingers curled, weak, shaking, unsteady, into the front of Lux’s uniform; that was enough.

The commander closed his eyes, forehead pressing against his lieutenant’s temple, ignoring the shouting medics, the questions, the fear still clawing through his gut.

He was back.

He had him.

That was all that mattered.

The doctor was speaking, saying things Lux couldn’t hear.

It was like sound moved through fog.

“Vitals are stabilizing,” she said eventually, scanning Stark’s neck and chest, “Heart rate’s erratic, but responsive. We should, he needs to be in the med bay, Commander, with all due respect—”

“No,” Stark rasped, his voice weak and raw, but firm. One hand pressed flat against Lux’s chest, the other flinching away from the doctor’s tricorder, “Not going. I’m fine… I’m fine.”

The doctor glanced sharply at Lux, waiting for his override.

She didn’t get it.

“He’s staying here,” Lux said, quietly, “I’ll monitor him.”

“You’re not a—”

“He’s staying,” Louder now. Enough edge in his voice to carve through the air.

The medical officer hesitated, lips pressed tight in frustration… but nodded.

“Fine. Against medical recommendation,” she snapped, snapping her tricorder shut, “If anything changes, call us.”

“I will,” Lux said, but he was already looking back at Stark, “The whole ship doesn’t need to hear about this,” he growled, hands adjusting their hold, letting Stark settle again against his chest as the medical team packed up and filed out, the door hissing shut behind them.

Silence dropped like a stone.

A heavy, full kind of quiet. The kind that buzzed in your ears like summer cicadas.

Lux sat with his back against the wall, arms curled protectively around Stark’s trembling body. His chest rose, uneven but steady, against Lux’s ribs.

He could feel the shallow drag of each breath.

Stark’s head rested just under his jaw, those soft black waves falling over Lux’s shoulder, and he shifted slightly, murmured something too quiet to catch.

“What?” Lux asked, voice gentled.

One hand found Stark’s hair again, smoothing it back in slow, careful strokes. It always fell forward in gorgeous waves.

“M’fine,” Stark mumbled, face barely visible, eyes fluttering half-shut again, “Everything… feels good right now.”

His voice was airy. A little dreamy, still drugged. So tired… like his body had collapsed in on itself and didn’t want to bother rebuilding yet.

“Yeah?” Lux said, mouth twisted in something between a frown and a smile, “That hypo cocktail might have something to do with it.”

“Might,” Stark whispered, feeling his heart hammering, “Might also be you.”

That quiet admission settled deep in Lux’s chest, curling like smoke into the hollows of the guilt still clinging there.

He shouldn’t feel relief.

He shouldn’t feel the selfish, quiet gladness that Stark was still curled against him, murmuring soft and easy, his to take care of.

He shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t need it.

Yet, he stayed.

Holding him, listening to his breathing.

Letting Stark drift in and out, one hand still curled into the front of Lux’s uniform like he was anchoring himself with it.

Like he wanted to be there.

Lux closed his eyes.

He’d stay like this as long as Stark needed him to.

Longer, maybe.

If only Admiral Kirk could see them now. Or Spock, sharp-eyed, unreadable, judgmental in a way that didn’t require words. If they could see how good Lux was to their son, how fiercely he held him, how gently he cradled him through every crash and spiral… maybe then…

Maybe then they’d notice him.

Maybe Starfleet would finally take the hint.

Maybe they’d stop glancing past him for captain’s chair and realize what he’d built here, what he maintained.

He had the untamable son of legends in check. More than that, he had Stark thriving, by …some definitions. He was laughing more. Sleeping longer. He came to briefings… sometimes even on time.

It was wrong.

God, it was wrong, and Lux knew it.

The guilt sat like glass in his stomach, shifting, sharp and constant.

He hadn’t said ‘no,’ when Stark had asked.

Not once.

He’d gotten him what he wanted, Terakine for the edge, Hupyrian beetle snuff when he wanted something heady and strange.

Real liquor instead of synthehol, smuggled in by the same Ferengi contact Lux shouldn’t even still have.

Anything to make Stark smile, relax, stay still a while longer.

Anything to keep that dizzy sort of brightness in his eyes, the one that only came just before the crash.

Lux let it happen. Facilitated it.

Tonight, the crash had nearly killed him.

He looked down at the boy, man, really, but barely by Vulcan standards, and brushed his hair back again, staring at the long black lashes resting against too-pale cheeks.

This wasn’t control.

This wasn’t power.

This wasn’t even love the way Lux thought it should be.

It was something more pathetic.

Something darker.

As much as he wanted to be recognized, to be seen by the towering figures who made Stark possible, what haunted Lux more was the thought of losing him.

Of seeing that spark fade out entirely.

Of watching Stark not wake up next time.

Still, if Stark asked again, slurred and lovely and laughing into his shoulder… Lux didn’t know if he could say no.

He tightened his arms slightly, feeling Stark stir with the motion.

Just a little longer.

He could keep him safe.

He would.

Still, the guilt didn’t move.

It only burrowed deeper.

What was the point of saying no?

Lux stared at the slow rise and fall of Stark’s chest, warm against him, still nestled in the cradle of his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He looked peaceful.

Serene, even.

If someone walked in now, they’d see a sleeping officer resting in the arms of his commander.

They’d see quiet affection.

Not the aftermath of a near-overdose.

What would ‘no’ have changed?

Lux could picture it clearly, Stark rolling his eyes, brushing him off, vanishing down some corridor to find someone else. Anyone else.

He’d done it before.

Before Lux, before the Intrepid, before anyone had bothered trying to stop him.

Even now, Stark could find another way. Another dealer. Another Ferengi with connections. A trader, a diplomat, a doctor even… there was always someone, somewhere willing to give the son of Starfleet royalty whatever he wanted.

So what was the harm in it coming from him?

At least it wouldn’t be laced with something.

At least this way, he knew what Stark was taking.

He could regulate it, ration it, keep tabs on the amounts and the timing.

At least when it came from him, Lux was there when things went wrong.

He could be the one to pick up the pieces instead of hearing about it too late.

That was… care, wasn’t it?

He didn’t know anymore.

Keeping him happy…. that part felt real. Stark was happy sometimes. With him. When things were calm, when the haze hadn’t pulled too thickly around his mind. And they lived for those moments.

Those small, quiet victories.

Maybe, one day, Stark would say something. To his parents. Maybe he’d tell them he met someone. Someone who made him laugh. Who knew how he liked his coffee, knew what colour tiny umbrella he liked in his frozen drinks, knew he liked a bendy straw instead of a straight one, who didn’t flinch when he was unbearable.

Someone who kept him alive.

Maybe Kirk and Spock would look at Lux and say: ‘You did this. You took care of our boy.’

Maybe Starfleet would see it too.

Captain Everett Lux.

It sounded right. It sounded earned.

Still, in this quiet, flickering dark, none of that mattered… Because Lux didn’t know anymore if he was saving Stark… or making it all worse, and still, he didn’t let go.

Stark stirred again, so softly it could’ve been mistaken for sleep, but then that pale, graceful hand reached up and found Lux’s face.

His fingers were cold and clumsy, but delicate in their movements as they traced along Lux’s jawline, the rough edge of stubble there. He followed the path slowly, like he was mapping it again for the hundredth time, never in a hurry.

Then he leaned up, just slightly, lips brushing against Lux’s like he was too high to care if he hit the mark or not. It was a lazy, feather-light kiss, almost absentminded in its affection.

Lux’s breath caught like it was the first time.

“Mm,” Stark mumbled, already easing back down into his chest again, “You’re warm.”

And then he was gone again, floating, fading, snuggled in close like some creature finding the sun. He pressed in tight, nuzzling against the side of Lux’s face that should’ve repulsed him, the scarred side, the melted flesh, the milky right eye that didn’t track anything anymore.

His good hand and his android one were holding him together like Stark couldn’t tell the difference, or didn’t care to. Like every ruined part of him was a comfort.

The things that made him into body-horror for any film, normalized.

Lux swallowed hard, the feeling surging in his throat, not love, not warmth.

Anger.

At himself.

He had someone who truly loved him.

Not for rank, not for clean, smooth skin or a handsome smile, but for him.

All his broken pieces. Somehow that still wasn’t enough. He still found himself reaching, grasping, aching for the attention of people who didn’t even know his name. For Kirk’s thunderous approval. For the impossible nod of a Vulcan who barely blinked.

For a promotion that felt like it could finally mean he was worthy…

This…. This was the only thing that had ever made him feel truly seen.

A beautiful, high, stubborn disaster of a man clinging to the ruined side of his face like it was home.

So, he’d nearly lost him.

Again.

Lux held Stark tighter, his lips brushing his dark hair. He closed his eyes. Maybe he didn’t need Kirk’s praise. Or Spock’s approval. Or Starfleet’s goddamn pips.

Maybe this was enough… But if it was, then why did it still feel like he was falling?

He shouldn’t want the approval of some overfed admiral, swollen with ego and clout, medals straining against his gut. Shouldn’t want the sharp nod of a Vulcan ambassador who probably hadn’t smiled in fifty years, who’d probably calculate his every flaw with one glance and deem him insufficient. For command and his son.

He shouldn’t want it.

Excdpt he did have their son; and that… that should be more than enough.

Stark shifted in his arms again, breath ghosting against Lux’s neck, his pale hand curling instinctively in the fabric of Lux’s uniform like he didn’t want to be anywhere else in the universe. Like the storm had passed and this was the only place he trusted to rest. He breathed a sleepy, contented sound, the kind that twisted around Lux’s ribs and made his chest ache.

He had this.

He had him.

All the medals in Starfleet couldn’t touch the weight of Stark’s trust. No title, no rank, no seat in a captain’s chair could compare to the way Stark murmured his name like it was a promise for a lifetime.

Maybe Spock would never acknowledge him.

Maybe Kirk would look at him and see nothing more than a scarred man holding onto a mistake.

Lux knew that what they called a mistake was the only real thing he’d ever held in his arms. He had their son. The chaos and the beauty. The wreckage and the warmth. Past the name, the bloodline, had the soul underneath it all.

It was more than enough.

It had to be.

Lux sat there, unmoving, listening to the soft, slurred little breaths that came and went against his chest, brushing warm against his skin like the tides.

Stark’s body was heavy with calm now, curled around him like he belonged there. He did. Something in Lux settled with terrifying clarity.

He could do this forever.

True love after a few months? Maybe so.

Not just the nights in bed or the lazy, joking kisses or the way Stark looked at him sometimes like he’d jumped through the stars just to pull him through. No, this. The whole thing.

The late-night collapses, the whispered lies to medical, the guilt, the panic, the fading in and out of consciousness. The quiet, wounded apologies and the mornings that came after, where Stark couldn’t meet his eyes but still reached for his hand.

He could live a lifetime of Leporazine injections and snatched hypo sprays. He could scour every quadrant and back alley for his preferred liquor, decipher every Ferengi trader’s slang for drugs, and learn to recognize every faint shift in Stark’s expression before the crash came.

He’d already memorized the signs.

He knew the sharp edge to Stark’s grin when the high started to rise. The way his voice got too smooth, too slow. The distant glaze in those green eyes, bright but detached. He knew how the cigarettes got more frequent and the biting sarcasm lost its rhythm. He knew the calm that came after was a lie.

Still… he’d chase it all. Again and again.

He was more concerned with whether they had enough packs of tobacco stored in their quarters than the shadowed, half-spoken fears Stark sometimes mumbled in his sleep. Fear of living up to his name. Fear of being loved. Fear of being left.

Lux wasn’t going anywhere.

God help him, he loved this broken, brilliant, maddening Vulcan more than anything he’d ever known.

More than his pride.

More than his ambition.

More than a captaincy or the uniform or the carved-out hopes of his career.

Stark was it.

Stark was the gravity dragging him forward.

Lux leaned down, lips brushing the top of his head, whispering into the black waves of hair like a secret.

“Love you, kid.”

“Love you too,” Stark murmured, his voice sticky and soft, curling with warmth and intoxicated affection.

His breath hit Lux’s neck in a warm puff, and his fingers gave a tiny, barely-there tug on the front of Lux’s uniform, like a child clutching a blanket in sleep.

Lux stilled.

His heart didn’t. It crashed around in his chest like something alive and panicked, like it had only now realized it had a place to beat freely.

‘Love you too.’

Not said as a joke.

Not slurred with bitterness.

Not masked in irony or thrown as a weapon. Just… said.

With the kind of dreamlike certainty that made Lux feel like they were underwater, floating far from everything except each other.

He smoothed Stark’s hair again, feeling the weight of it, the silk of the jet black strands curling against his palm. He traced a finger across one of those infamous eyebrows, Vulcan, sharp and arched, a permanent look of judgment even when half-conscious, and he smiled.

“I don’t know what mirror you’re looking into,” Lux whispered, brushing a thumb down the side of his face, “but it’s lying.”

He couldn’t count how many times Stark had muttered about getting work done. Whispered threats of changing his face, fixing the nose he claimed was too Kirk, softening the cheeks he said made him look ‘puffy’, trimming down the lips that made every grin look seductive whether he meant it or not.

Lux didn’t care about the things Stark fixated on, the fears that whispered through him like bad transmissions in the night.

He wasn’t going to end up like the admiral, rolled into Starfleet functions on anti-grav wheels, his once-legendary physique buried under layers of fat, of indulgence and overfed hedonism.

Stark didn’t even eat.

Lux couldn’t remember the last time he saw him touch a full meal, half a protein bar, maybe, or a few sips of black coffee with something stronger mixed in.

Weeks, maybe.

Stark existed on a cocktail of vices, sleep deprivation, and misplaced charm…. But he wasn’t wasting away. No, not quite..

He was long, lean, Spock’s frame through and through, made up of sharp angles and impossible grace, a body that had never once betrayed him, no matter how much he pushed it.

He never understood it.

Stark was ridiculously beautiful.

A mash-up of two legendary men who should never have made something so delicate, so sharp, so impossibly magnetic.

Lux loved that nose. It turned up a little when he laughed. He loved the fullness of his cheeks, the curve of his mouth…. those lips, good God, and the way his green eyes darkened like moss when he was tired, or pissed, or passionately defending some obscure Earth cocktail from the 21st century.

Even his hair, Lux could lose himself in it. Deep black and just wild enough to constantly look mussed, like Stark had been dragged out of bed or into trouble or both.

The bone structure? Unfair. The brows, green eyes with a splatter of blue on his lids , the ears? Straight Spock, and stunning.

Those legs… those goddamn legs, legs up to the stars; so long and lean, spanning forever, always folded up under him or sprawled out languidly. He moved like water sometimes, like something poured into humanoid form and too lazy to fully contain it.

Everything about him was so unfairly balanced, as if the universe had taken the best of both icons and decided to mock them by giving it all to someone who couldn’t care less.

Who looked like he’d walked out of a fever dream and still didn’t find himself good enough.

Lux loved that about him too.

That contradiction.

That beautiful, fragile chaos.

Stark was everything… and he didn’t even see it.

‘You don’t need to change,’ Lux would comment, almost angry about it, the idea of Stark begging a starbase’s plastic surgeon to cut him up to meet some internal fantasy of …mediocrity.

He’d always press a kiss to his temple, lingering there, letting the scent of cigarettes and vanilla and something inexplicably Stark fill his lungs. The zest of pear, crisp and fresh, followed by the subtle shimmer of clementine and the juicy bite of red apple, like the memory of a red hot summer on Earth you’ve never actually lived because you were too busy at the academy studying. It’s playful, seductive, a teasing flirtation made scent.

“You’re perfect the way you are. You’re mine.”

Stark would smile faintly, eyes fluttering as he let out a hum of satisfaction, one leg shifting lazily over Lux’s lap like he was draping a blanket. Like he was home.

“And if I get fat?” Stark sighs, a quiet, drifting sound, like an afterthought, like a fear so worn it had smoothed down into inevitability…

Bones wrapped in velvet.

That’s what stark was.

Lightly muscled, but powerful, coiled strength wound into his long limbs, Vulcan-born and human-laced. His body didn’t seem like it could even imagine excess. It was made for tension. For beauty. For burning out, not growing out.

Lux let out a low breath and studied the slope of his jaw, the sharp collarbone peeking from his loose undershirt.

“If you get fat,” Lux said finally, “I’ll rub your chubby feet and bring you extra bagels with cream cheese, hmm? And then I’ll roll you around the ship like a spoiled admiral.”

That earned a smile, soft, tired, the barest curve at the edges of Stark’s mouth.

Lux continued, quieter now, “But you’re not going to get fat.”

Stark snorted, not believing him, not even really listening. He was drifting again, words falling out like steam from a cracked pipe in the wall, “My dad got fat. One day he was flying through uncharted space with no shirt on, and the next he couldn’t stand up without my father and three ensigns.”

Lux winced at the mental image but kept his hands moving, stroking slow circles into Stark’s hip like it might anchor him to something solid, and he talks in a way that makes him feel out of turn, rude and a little awkward all at once, “Your parents have a kink, and they have retirement boredom that finally got him stuck in a wheelchair to accommodate his size. You…” He looked down at Stark’s half-lidded, blue-lidded eyes, the way he lazily curled into him like he belonged there, “You don’t have his appetite. You barely eat. You only like two foods. You snort three different types of drugs, and chase it with real alcohol, and think sleeping three hours a week in a shuttle pod counts as rest.”

Stark mumbled, “I like bagels.”

“You love bagels,” Lux corrected, “And replicator mac and cheese. Any real chef would be terrified of you.”

Stark gave a dreamy little chuckle, his fingers drifting down Lux’s chest,“It’s better with breadcrumbs.”

Lux smiled despite himself, burying his face in Stark’s hair. Vanilla and smoke. Wild jasmine and gardenia unfurling, ghosting around his edges like silk, while heliotrope petals and golden plumeria lend a narcotic floral that clings to his skin and lingers in the air. Every movement Stark makes is a brush with something sacred, delicate, but potent. Hypnotic. That ever-present cocktail.

“Breadcrumbs and Bellinis. Your legacy.”

There was silence for a while, heavy but soft. Stark nestled closer, breath slowing, and Lux felt it in his bones: how much he wanted to protect this. Not just the beauty or the chaos… But him. All of him. Even the parts Stark hated.

“If you ever get fat off the only two things you eat,” Lux whispered again, more seriously this time, “I’ll still love you.”

Stark blinked up at him, eyes glassy but ears big enough to catch that.

“And if you don’t,” Lux added, “I’ll still love you. Sound logical?”

Stark laughed quietly and buried his face into Lux’s neck, finally letting himself go limp, trusting him, and Lux held him like he never wanted to let go.

It was the same way he held him now. Drifting through that consciousness, in and out.

Stark lay across him like that fallen silk, cool and muscled in all the right ways, but still thin enough that Lux could feel the ridges of his ribs if he dared press hard enough.

Fat? Ridiculous…

He stayed there in Lux’s lap, still pale, still high on the drugs, Lux on the high on the relief of his boyfriend not being dead.

Those his eyes, those green, glowing, too-human eyes with blue-Vulcan lids blinked slowly up at him, dazed but focused.

He reached up, fingers dragging lazily along Lux’s stubbled chin, like he was trying to tether himself back into reality, for a moment at least.

“Hey,” Stark whispered, soft but steady, “I could hear you.”

Lux’s brow pinched, confusion tightening the scarred side of his face. He covered Stark’s hand with his own, real flesh and warmth, not faux, cold, semi-realistic rubber skin, “Could hear what, lieutenant?”

Stark groaned like it physically hurt him, “Don’t call me that. My parents still call each other Captain and First Officer like it’s part of their weird list of disgusting pet things or something. Makes me want to jump into warp without a ship.”

That made Lux huff out a short, startled laugh, but it didn’t break the seriousness under Stark’s tone. His fingers twitched against Lux’s chest, still resting there like it was the most natural place in the galaxy.

“What could you hear, Stark?” Lux asked again, quieter this time.

Stark’s eyes fluttered closed for a second before dragging back open, “You. Shaking me. Your voice was so loud in my head. I knew you were there,” he blinked, lips twitching into a lazy smile, “I wanted to tell you to shut up and let me die in peace.”

Lux stared down at him, a knot of guilt and emotion curling deep inside his chest. His throat tightened, “Oh…”

He remembered it now, frantic, panicked, his voice cracking as he begged for Stark to wake up, shaking him, checking his pulse, saying it like a lifeline: ‘Stay with me, stay.’ Over and over until it felt like his own mind might split in half.

Stark reached up again, knuckles brushing the ruined, scarred side of Lux’s face like it was so sacred and perfect, “You brought me back.”

Lux swallowed hard, voice quiet, “I didn’t know if I could.”

“But you did,” Stark smiled at him again… dopey, soft, fearless, “Felt you. I always do...”

Lux didn’t know what to say.

His chest was too tight, his heart a drumline against his ribs.

Stark could’ve died.

From something Lux had gotten for him.

For the want of a captain’s chair.

Yet here he was, curled into him like Lux was safety, warmth, everything he needed.

Lux touched his cheek, thumb dragging across that flawless skin.

He didn’t deserve this. This beautiful, broken creature who looked at him like he wasn’t a monster.

“You always save me,” Stark whispered again, “Even when I don’t want it.”

Lux, voice hoarse, breath catching, whispered, “I think you save me every day, and you don’t even know it.”

Stark’s laugh bubbles out, lazy and warm, like molasses slipping through a sieve. His head lolls just a little in Lux’s lap, eyes glazed but glowing, lips parted in a smile too soft for the kind of pain he’d just been in.

“Why don’t…” he starts, breath hitching as he speaks through the haze, “you just go ahead… and kiss me?”

It’s slow. Stretched. Each word drawn out like honey, dripping with his high, his joy, his contentment. Maybe it’s the way his voice curls around it, but for a second, it’s him. It’s Jim Kirk.

That confident, teasing, too-clever voice that filled the bridge of a starship and rewrote history more than once.

Lux feels it in his bones.

He wonders if Stark even knows he sounds like him right now.

The room stills. The air thickens. Lux’s heart jolts.

Stark looks up at him like there’s no gravity left to hold him down, like he’s the gravity. His green eyes are lidded, but intent. Honest. Wanting.

Lux leans in, just slightly. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. The wreckage of guilt and fear in his chest shudders, and something else blooms in its place, a tender, aching love.

He cups the back of Stark’s neck gently, threads his fingers into that inky black hair. The strands are soft, still damp with sweat. Stark’s eyelids flutter when Lux gets close enough for his breath to warm his lips.

“Because,” Lux whispers, his voice rough and barely there, “once I do… I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

Stark’s smile crooks sideways, the way only a Kirk can smile, “That’s not a threat,” he murmurs, “that’s a promise.”

Lux closes the distance. He kisses him, slow and reverent and careful, like he’s afraid Stark might disappear under his touch.

Stark doesn’t.

He melts into it.

For the first time in a long time, so does Lux.

Stark kisses him, and in that moment, everything narrows, no bridge, no rank, no past, no fathers bearing down with a title heavier than gravity. Just the two of them and the quiet hum of the ship beneath their bodies.

He breathes in gently through his nose, a small pull of air through parted lips, and catches it; Lux’s cologne.

It’s warm. Celebratory. Like raising a glass at the end of victory; sunset burning low, skin still warm. It smells of light citrus, bright and fleeting, wrapped in the deep hush of oakwood and aged whiskey. Not too heavy. Confident, not arrogant. Comforting, but not soft.

He leans into it, nudges his nose against Lux’s cheek as their lips part just slightly. A low hum leaves him, almost a purr, like he can’t help but respond to how good it is. How good Everett Lux is.

He mumbles, “You smell… stupid good,” against Lux’s jaw, the words barely formed and silly.

Lux huffs a quiet laugh, brushing his thumb along Stark’s jawline, letting it trail just beneath his pointed ear, “Not exactly what’s in the bottle,” he grins.

“No, but… better than me,” Stark pulls back a breath, licks his lips, stares up at him through heavy lids, “Can’t even shower the cigarettes off anymore, Captain said.”

There’s a hint of white sandalwood on him. That creamy musk. That deep, rich vanilla, cool like the inside of an ice cream shop, cooled by the Vulcan body, made intimate. It’s the scent of someone you shouldn’t touch but already have.

“You smell like vanilla and a bad decision,” Lux mutters dryly, but it’s affectionate, lips grazing his temple, “But you’re mine, so I’ll take it.”

With all those desirable scents, the whole palette of it, none of it ever manages to scrub out the permanent stain of cigarette smoke. It weaves through him like a ghost: dry, burnt, bitter. Not fresh smoke, but lived-in. Like old leather jackets and aged bars. Like bad choices made with charm and twinkle of stars. It dulls the sweetness just enough to make it real.

Stark smells like desire; familiar and dangerous, like he’s the first person you ever loved and the last one you’ll ever survive.

He exhales a soft laugh, slack and lazy, but there’s something real in his green eyes, something steady behind the high, behind the teasing. He closes his eyes and nestles in closer, cheek against Lux’s chest now, hand still fisted in his uniform like he doesn’t want to let go.

“I am,” he says, “yours.”

“You love me?” Lux asks, quietly, too quietly for someone with a chest like his, a voice that usually rumbles like thunder.

“Yeah,” Stark says, just as soft, and smiles like it’s the easiest truth in the world. Like it wasn’t wrestled out between overdoses and dizzying highs, between whispered reassurances and silent promises buried in human and betazoid touch.

His smile isn’t perfect or heavenly, it’s just so faintly smug. Lux has seen him grin like that right before flipping off a superior officer, but it’s different right now. The intention. This is soft. Undeniable. Flirty.

Lux stares down at him, at those green eyes, the trace of blue misting his lids, that stupid vanilla and ash scent embedded into his skin, and all he can think is…. —-

‘God. I could marry him.’

The thought comes uninvited. It stuns him. Slams into his chest and sits there, firm and undeniable.

He could. He would. He’d spend the rest of his life waking Stark up from whatever edge he teeters on. He’d spend decades brushing hair back from that perfect face, pulling him in for lazy kisses, standing between him and every consequence the world tried to throw.

He could marry him tomorrow if it wasn’t too soon to ask. Or in twenty years. Or never, live just like this, quietly his. Quietly together. Retire on Risa with him.

Lux cups Stark’s face in his hand, thumb brushing his cheekbone, “You’re serious?” he asks. He’s asking himself and doesn’t really realize it.

Stark yawns dramatically and tucks his nose against Lux’s neck like a cat curling up in a sunbeam, “Vulcans don’t lie…” he murmurs, “Even the ones that are just, like, a quarter Vulcan. I love you.”

Lux closes his eyes.

Yeah.

He could do this.