Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To say that Kirk didn’t feel good would be an understatement.

He felt like his whole body was throbbing, aching, and stabbing all at once. It hurt to move and it hurt not to.

The longer he stayed stationary, the more difficult it was to ignore the incessant howling of pain billowing from every cut, bruise, fractured or broken bone. He could focus on the screen before him or the PADD in his hand, but eventually the pain would work past his defenses and demand his attention. He'd read a paragraph regarding the status of the ship’s hull damage over and over again, but would be unable to process a single word beyond the throbbing in his whole body. It hurt to stay still.

But every time he shifted, he could feel the sharp ache of his back and hips, and he could feel the ribs in his chest grate against each other, or maybe what he was feeling was his ribs scraping against an organ. The pain of disturbing his rib cage blurred his vision and he would have to stop breathing, lest he release a groan or a yelp. He couldn’t allow himself to emit either while he was still on the bridge.

He glanced up from his lap and eyed the crew around him. Everybody was intact, but he could see that they were all exhausted, if not also injured. The bruise on Sulu’s cheek was growing more prominent by the hour and it would probably stay for a few days longer. Chekhov’s eyes seemed a little less alert, the demand of the day having had a definite effect on the seventeen year old kid. Same was true for Uhura.

And Spock…

His performance was still at its peak. He never faltered in what he was doing. He remained attentive and there was hardly any sign that he had gone through a trying day at all, aside from the slope in his shoulders Kirk knew hadn’t been there only hours before.

Kirk tried to swallow, and his eyes watered when the muscles in his throat refused to cooperate. It burned. He tried again, making note of the sensation of his throat squeezing and aching. He grazed the skin across his adam's apple with light fingers, and tentatively applied pressure. His neck felt hot and the ache blossomed exceptionally when he pressed against it as gently as he could. A small cough tried to force its way out but he bit it back before it passed his lips.

He swallowed again, involuntarily, and glanced around the bridge once more. Everybody was still hard at work. The clock on his PADD told him that they had all been working non stop for almost twenty two hours, counting the moment they boarded the ship.

He released a shallow sigh and rubbed at his pulsing temple. It was time for them to get some rest. Starfleet had already made contact and it was confirmed that the U.S.S Enterprise wouldn’t arrive at Earth for two more weeks, at the earliest. They had debriefed Jim and he told them what they needed to know. And aside from Starfleet, Scotty had already told him that their ship was out of the worst of it.

So, there was no reason for the crew to remain on hand. They needed to rest.

He straightened up in the captain’s chair and cleared his throat. They all turned to him, ready for any command he was about to give. Kirk could feel his chest swell with pride at how reactive they were, how quick they were to give him their unyielding attention.

“Crew,” he started, and paused to lick his dry lips. He was relieved that the tightness of his throat hadn’t yet altered his voice. “It’s time you all got some rest. Let beta shift take over.”

Almost immediately, a small chorus of refusals and excuses to stay started up. But he could see how tired they all were, regardless of how they denied it.

He held a hand up to silence them. “No arguing, that’s an order. You’ve all done enough for today, let someone else take the reigns now.”

Hesitantly, they all conceded and began to make their way to their respective quarters.

Except for Spock. Instead of approaching the lift, he stood beside the captain’s chair. “Captain, you should also rest.”

Kirk blinked up at the science officer and waved his good hand dismissively. “Yeah, Spock. I will.” He gestured at the PADD in his lap. “I’m just going to finish up this report and then I’ll head out.”

Spock paused and Kirk could feel the Vulcan’s eyes analyzing him, before said Vulcan continued. “When you are finished, I advise you report to sickbay before returning to your own quarters.”

Kirk wanted to laugh. He didn’t have any quarters, being a stowaway. He didn’t even feel like heading to sickbay yet, either. Pike had been in really bad condition when they got him, and he was sure that it was more than likely that Bones was still in surgery with him. And if Bones wasn’t available, Kirk didn’t want to go to sickbay at all. The only medical professional he trusted to take care of him was Bones. But he held his tongue and only nodded at Spock. “Right.”

Spock seemed unsatisfied, but to Kirk’s surprise didn’t press further and instead retreated to the turbolift.

Kirk swallowed again on reflex and he winced. Rubbing a tentative hand against his neck, he returned his gaze to his PADD.

The reports never seemed to end. He felt like every time he got close to finishing reading through one or signing off another, his PADD would notify him of two more.

And almost all of them were casualty reports.

The number of missing was fluctuating constantly. So many had been sucked out into space, it wasn’t yet entirely clear who was lost or how. And every now and then, the body of one believed to have been lost to the stars would be found crushed or impaled or in the embers of an extinguished fire. So many were dead.

So many…

And not just on the Enterprise. Kirk tried not to grip the PADD too hard, but he was struggling to keep the images of Vulcan being destroyed out of his mind. To have seen it from the ship, and from older Spock’s eyes, and to have felt it.

He should have realized sooner what older Spock was doing when he outstretched his hand. Kirk had read all about mind melds and the emotional transference, and he should have expected Spock’s emotions to be extreme after witnessing the death of his planet. He should have seen it coming, should have put up his defenses against it. But he had been wide open and left himself susceptible to the deaths of everyone.

He had felt it. He had felt them all die. He felt his own body warping and contorting and crushing along with all of theirs, just as Spock had.

And he couldn’t stop feeling it.

Kirk’s hands shook the further down the report he scrolled. It was describing, in detail, what happened to those that caught the worst of the attack on Deck 6. Inner mechanisms had exploded and had sent shrapnel and fire propelling through every nearby crew member. Deck wide casualties.

Jim signed his acknowledgment of the report and continued to the next one. And the next one. Every report had to do with death and destruction and injury. His hands shook harder and he squeezed them into fists to stop them. Pain flared through his broken left hand.

He couldn’t breathe.

His lungs felt tight, like the weight of the past day was trying to suffocate him under its wake. He tried to take a steadying breath, but both his lungs and throat fought him and instead erupted with pain.

Instead of releasing the groan that he felt in his chest, Kirk forced a shaky exhale through his nostrils.

He could feel himself slipping with anxiety.

Realizing the need to focus on grounding himself, Kirk turned his PADD off and slowly forced air down and through his lungs. His skin was buzzing and itching with fear and guilt and horrified sorrow. He had to stop himself from thinking. He needed a distraction.

He decided to catalog his own damage.

His hand was for sure broken. As if being crushed beneath a Romulan boot wasn’t bad enough, his constant use of his left hand surely didn’t help its condition.

And his ribs, there was definitely something wrong there. Kirk took an experimental breath, trying to decide whether or not they were just bruised, fractured, or broken. Overall, it felt like they were fractured, but the pain on his right side was especially acute. Maybe a few broken ribs on the right.

His back and shoulders hurt, too. It hurt a little more than the pain of knotted and over-exerted muscles. The pain was shriller than the dull ache that came with overuse, though that was there too. Especially on his right shoulder, where Spock had pinched him. And, for some reason, his back felt a little sticky.

Then there was his throat. Kirk coughed the second he thought about it. It had become tighter and hotter with each report he read through, and Kirk realized that it had become increasingly harder to breathe. Getting strangled by three people in one day was a new record for him. Not a good one, for sure.

He could feel himself getting lightheaded in addition to the pounding of his temples. Which was to be expected, after getting punched a few times. More than a few times. It felt like his left eye socket might have been fractured. He wasn’t sure what it was about the left side of his face that Spock and Nero, even the drill guards, each felt like they had to punch.

He was so tired.

Kirk couldn’t remember pushing his physical and mental limits so hard before. Exhaustion pressed hard on his shoulders and he lifted his trembling good hand to support his head.

“Captain.”

He jolted in surprise and screeching pain shot through his chest with the sudden movement. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment in an attempt to combat the pain, and bit the inside of his cheek so no sound could escape.

Kirk blinked his eyes open as the pain began to ebb away.

Spock was standing by his chair, hands clasped behind his back and an unreadable expression on his face. “Captain,” he said again. “Based on your current state, I have surmised that you did not heed my advice and instead returned to your quarters without visiting sickbay.”

With another painful swallow, Kirk met Spock’s eyes through his haze. What was the Vulcan doing back so soon? He couldn’t have rested long enough. He just left the bridge a little while ago. Right?

That was when Kirk realized the entire alpha shift had already returned, or were just returning. How much time had passed? How long had he been sitting in the captain’s chair? A peek at the clock told him seven hours had already passed since he dismissed the crew for rest.

He’d been awake for thirty six hours straight.

His eyes fluttered shut in distress. Despite how tired he was, the thought of sleep seemed distant and unattainable. He could feel the anxiety that was still washing through his lungs. Even if he tried to lay down, he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He knew it. He’d felt this before.

After... Tarsus... he was unable to sleep for weeks unless he was sedated. Even years later, if he had had a bad day and couldn’t qualm the stress, he’d be unable to rest. McCoy always stayed close to him on those days, always gave him something to knock him out.

“You never returned to your quarters.”

Kirk refrained from jumping at the breaking of silence this time. He instead noted how Spock wasn’t asking a question. Kirk could hear it in the accusatory tone just beneath the statement.

When Kirk turned back to Spock, he noticed that the Vulcan’s mouth was parted in what seemed to be disbelief. Instead of replying and risking his throat closing entirely, Kirk shrugged.

“Captain, I must insist that you leave your post and visit medical.” Spock’s hands were no longer behind his back and were instead at his sides. Kirk eyed them dubiously, afraid that Spock was preparing to physically remove him from the seat.

“Don’t worry about it, Spock.” He was surprised by the sound of his own voice. It was hoarse and weak, and sounded like a rusty air vent filled with gravel. He coughed in an attempt to clear it, but as soon as he forced air up through his throat the coughing didn’t stop.

He hunched over, despite how badly it hurt his chest to move, and willed himself to stop choking around his own esophagus. His hand found its way around his neck and he tried to massage as gently as he could. When he opened his eyes, the PADD in his lap was blurred by a wall of unshed tears. “I’m fine,” he wheezed, and even he could hear how untrue it was.

But he couldn’t leave his post yet. There was still so much to do. He had let so many people die, it was his responsibility to address the reports concerning the death and destruction. It was his duty. He owed it to all of them.

His hands were shaking again. He stared at them as Spock spoke. “You are not ‘fine’. I believe it imperative that you visit sickbay immediately.”

Kirk sat back up and became very aware that everyone on the bridge was looking at him. The anxiety bubbling beneath his skin turned into clawing. He waved a hand at the science officer beside his chair and shook his head. “No, Spock. I can’t leave yet.”

“Your health is at serious risk if you continue to stay here.”

Kirk clenched his trembling hands around the arms of the chair in an attempt to get them to stop. “Thank you for your input, Mr. Spock, but I still have some work to do.”

“Captain, we have two weeks before we return to Earth. It is unlikely the state of the ship or her crew will change in your absence. If you do not go to medical on your own then I will call a stretcher.”

“Whoah, what?” Seriously? Why did this Vulcan have to make everything so difficult? He tried to gawk at Spock incredulously, to convey what his destroyed voice couldn’t. “Isn’t that a little extreme?”

“Your refusal to visit sickbay is, in its own way, ‘a little extreme’.” Spock’s eyebrow rose, and Kirk couldn’t keep from glaring at it.

“Spock, I told you,” Kirk gasped beyond his inflamed throat, “I’m fine.”

“Your statement is unreliable given that you have not yet been seen to by a medical professional.” Spock’s hands were behind his back again. He was trying to look intimidating and non-negotiable, Kirk guessed. He sure as hell looked stubborn.

“Spock, look. Just let me finish these last few reports, all right?”

Spock tilted his head to the side ever so slightly. “That is what you said seven point four hours ago, Captain.”

“Yeah, well,” Kirk’s blood pounded against his ears and he tried to refrain from swallowing again. Fire was licking at the insides of his chest and throat. “The reports kept coming in,” he finished quietly.

Spock stared down at him a moment longer, before the science officer pulled out his communicator. “Bridge to medical.”

“Hey, Spock! Wait! I don’t need a damn—!” Kirk had shot to his feet to take the comm out of the Vulcan’s hand, but his vision faded out as soon as he straightened up. Pure, agonizing pain surged through his body like lightning, and this time he couldn’t keep the pained cry inside. The air around him shifted and he felt like he was spinning and falling and slipping and still burning—

A strong arm caught him around his chest and another cry fell past his lips as his ribs shifted inside of him. His fingers clung to the sleeve against his front, and he could feel himself trembling.

He was gasping. He could hear it, he could feel it, but he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He was curled up on the floor and no longer in the captain’s chair. Someone was holding him, and being that Spock was the closest person when he fell, Kirk guessed that that was who was beside him.

“Captain!” Beyond the pounding of blood and his own gasping, Kirk identified the voice as Uhura. “Spock, his back!”

His back? What about his back?

“I am aware, Lieutenant. Call for medical.”

Medical. Bones. It had to be Bones. It had to be Bones that would come for him. He couldn't let any other doctor touch him. He couldn’t do it.

Kirk gripped Spock’s arm harder as more pain ricocheted through his muscles. “Bones,” he gasped. He hoped Spock heard it. He only trusted Leonard.

“Yes, Captain, they are sending a doctor.” Spock placed his hand over Kirk’s upper arm in what must have been meant as a comforting gesture. Jim could see it out of the corner of his eye.

It reminded him of older Spock’s hand.

The room suddenly felt so much tighter and colder and hotter and inescapable. Vulcan. Vulcan. It was gone, Vulcan was gone, he lost it, he lost it, it was gone forever and it was his fault for not acting soon enough, for not doing more, he should have done more, he could have done more. He tried to push himself away from Spock, the Vulcan serving as an uncomfortable reminder of how much Jim had failed. But it hurt too much, and the science officer’s hold was too sturdy.

His whole body was shivering and he could hear his own frantic wheezes, and he realized belatedly that he was panicking. Hyperventilating. Hurting.

Kirk heard the swishing of doors opening and listened as crisp shoes approached where he was curled against Spock.

“All right, Captain, don’t you worry. We’ll get you patched up.” That... was an unfamiliar voice.

It wasn’t Bones.

Kirk jolted against Spock and sat up as much as his ribs would allow. “No—No—!” His throat and his lungs wouldn’t let him talk. But he couldn’t let the doctor touch him, he had to make them understand. “No, I need—! I need—!”

A cough tore its way through his throat when his breaths got tangled together in his attempt to speak.

The nurse crouched in front of him, he could see their knees. “Easy, Captain.”

No! He needed Bones! Bones knew what he was allergic to, Bones knew how to help him. He was the only one.

“Bones!” Kirk wheezed. “I need—I need Bones!”

“Jim, it’s okay.” Sulu’s voice. “This is a nurse, they can help you. We know Bones is your friend, but let them help you.”

They weren’t going to help. They weren’t. The hiss of a hypo being prepared reached Kirk’s clogged, heated ears.

Fear exploded past his anxiety and hit him square in the gut, and without even processing the pain, Kirk sat up so he could look Spock in the face. “I'm allergic—!”

It was all he managed out before a hypo was stabbing into his neck and his throat was closing completely. He registered the widening of Spock’s eyes before his own rolled back.

Chapter Text

Spock watched, horrified, as James Kirk’s eyes rolled behind lax eyelids and his body tensed impossibly tight against him.

“What did you give him?” Spock’s words directed at the nurse were more aggressive than he had intended, but the man who had just saved all of them only hours before was convulsing in his arms.

The nurse balked at the captain’s trembling body and at Spock, mouth opening and reopening in silence before an unsteady reply tumbled out. “It—it was just common anesthetic. This shouldn’t—I don’t know why this is happening.”

Spock recalled the captain managing to say something about being allergic before he had been shot by the hypospray. Kirk’s insistence for Dr. McCoy made so much more sense. It was obvious the two were close, and so it was only logical that the doctor knew of Kirk’s allergies and how to treat him.

Though, Spock had never before heard of anyone being allergic to anesthetic.

The Vulcan situated his hands beneath Kirk’s body so as to maintain a better grip, before standing with the captain cradled in his arms. There wouldn’t be time to get a stretcher. He could no longer feel Kirk’s lungs working as they should and he was sure that the captain’s lips would start turning blue at any moment.

“Mr. Sulu, you have the conn.” His tone was as clipped and brisk as his stride to the turbolift.

The pilot gave a noticeably concerned, “Aye, sir,” before the lift took Spock, the captain, and the frantic nurse from sight.

Kirk’s blood was seeping onto Spock’s arms.

It was cold and sticky, and it would have disgusted the Vulcan if it didn’t scare him so much. When James had fallen to the floor, Spock’s breath had caught at the shiny, dark stains that were spread along the back of his black shirt. He wasn’t sure what had caused injury to the captain’s back, especially since his shirt wasn’t even ripped. Spock couldn’t think of when Kirk could have even gotten his back hurt, except for… Delta Vega.

Spock swallowed back a flare of guilt and realized that there was probably blood all over the captain’s chair.

The turbolift doors opened and Spock barely refrained from sprinting out. He turned to the nurse. “Bring us Dr. McCoy.”

The nurse nodded and ran ahead.

McCoy was trying to sleep.

They got Pike stabilized a few hours ago, but even when that was over there were so many other patients that had to be seen to. McCoy had been working nonstop, and he finally got some time to rest.

However, he was too wary of any possible emergencies to leave the sickbay entirely, and so he felt most comfortable in his office. Granted, his desk wasn’t in the least bit comfortable to sleep at, but the doctor would take any reprieve he could get.

He should’ve expected it not to last long.

A frazzled looking nurse flung themself into his office, and the complete lack of knocking or warning was enough to alert Bones that something was seriously wrong. He was on his feet before the nurse had even opened their mouth, but he was ready to all out run when the nurse said, “The captain—!”

His heart sank. Was Pike relapsing? He had been stable, but it was still possible for something to go wrong post-op. Damnit, and most of the nurses had already gone to rest. There was hardly any help to spare in the sickbay, and if Pike was in danger, Bones hoped that it wasn’t so bad that he wouldn’t be able to keep the captain alive on his own.

But as soon as McCoy left his office, Spock carried Jim into the sickbay. If his heart had sunk before, seeing Jim made it all but plummet through his gut.

Shit.

He had been so engrossed in saving Pike, Jim hadn’t even crossed his mind. What kind of primary care physician was he? What kind of friend was he?

Jim’s body was tense. His muscles were seizing. His skin looked red and clammy where there weren’t bruises and his eyelids were closed but slack. Allergic reaction.

Shit, shit.

He ushered Spock to the back of the sickbay, farthest from any prying eyes. It was what Jim always preferred.

Spock placed Jim on the biobed and its sirens began to blare almost immediately. McCoy took into account the small swatches of blood on Spock’s sleeves and the front of his shirt. Jim was bleeding somewhere, and while that was beyond worrying, the allergic reaction was more of a concern. His lips were already pale, which meant his throat had closed.

McCoy took out as many hyposprays as he could that would be non-lethal to Jim. “Why didn’t you check his file before you shot him?” McCoy barked at the nurse. He could tell by the way that they kept looking at Jim with panic that they were guilty.

“I’m sorry, I’ve never had him as a patient before—!”

“That’s no excuse! You should know better than to administer anything without being one hundred percent certain it wouldn’t kill your patient!” McCoy stabbed Kirk’s neck with a hypospray to combat the swelling, and he stabbed him with a different hypospray to fight off any reaction he would have from the medicine that was opening his throat. “If James Kirk dies because of your inadequacy, I doubt Starfleet would be so kind to you for killing the man who just saved Earth and countless lives.”

He knew Jim wasn’t going to die. He himself would never allow it, but McCoy couldn’t think of any reason why the nurse shouldn’t feel fear or shame for being so irresponsible. For fuck's sake, they'd been careless with Jim Kirk's life. Earth's—Starfleet's—savior.

To McCoy’s surprise, Spock wasn’t stopping him from yelling at the nurse. Maybe the vulcan was upset, too. He had been quiet ever since he delivered Jim and was staying off to the side.

The nurse was stammering out apologies and McCoy was preparing more hyposprays to help bring down the swelling of Kirk’s bruised neck—that damn Vulcan—when the biobed began to scream and flash red.

Jim’s heart was failing.

A cacophony of explosive fear rushed through Bones’s veins, and he wasted no time in preparing the defibrillator. They were going to need it at any second. He grabbed a pair of scissors and slid its blade along the front of Jim’s shirt.

The mottling of dark bruises across the skin of Jim's chest was so alarming that Bones faltered for a second, before he continued to clear the way for the defibrillator pads.

The biobed screamed with an alert that Jim’s heart was stuttering to a complete stop.

“Damn it, Jim, damn it!”

Bones activated the defibrillator with numb, swift movements. The sight of Jim’s body jolting off of the bed from the shock made him want to puke.

The heart stuttered close to its natural rhythm for a second, but it wasn’t enough. McCoy forced electricity through his friend’s chest again, stomach roiling at the sight of Jim’s limp body being struck so violently.

“C’mon, kid. Come on!”

Another application of the defibrillator, and finally Jim’s heart jump started back into a tentative beat. But still, he wasn’t breathing.

A litany of curses tumbled between Bones’s lips, and as he prepared another hypo to help Jim breathe he barked at the nurse, “Get the oxygen!” The nurse ran off to do as instructed and Bones stabbed a hypo with traces of muscle relaxants and adrenaline into Jim’s neck.

As soon as it entered Jim’s system, the captain’s eyes shot open and his chest heaved, and he clawed at the bed with shaking fingers.

Relief washed over Bones, but he had to calm Jim before he could cause more damage to himself. He covered Jim’s left hand with his own and placed the other over Jim’s forehead. “Easy, Jimmy, easy. It’s me kid, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Jim was sucking in sharp, shallow gasps, and his right hand had a death-grip on McCoy’s sleeve. His blue eyes were alight with panic and fear. The kid clearly didn’t know where he was and he was scared.

“Hey, hey, it’s all right, you’re all right,” McCoy soothed. “Shh, just calm down. You’re safe, Jim.”

Jim gasped around groaned breaths. His eyes shut tight as his head tipped back, like he was trying to dig his skull into the pillow. He wrung McCoy’s sleeve in his grasp, and he clenched his teeth together after a choked cry burst passed his throat. Sweat and the smallest of tears were starting to roll down his face.

McCoy couldn’t remember the last time he saw Jim in this amount of pain—or if he ever had before.

The nurse returned with the oxygen and its connecting mask, and McCoy turned it on as he placed it over Jim’s face. “Breathe, Jim, breathe.”  

Jim’s shaking fingers trembled over McCoy’s as he traced the doctor’s hand to hold the mask. His reddened eyes stared into McCoy’s, before they squeezed shut as more tears trickled down his cheeks.

McCoy broke away and slipped a sedative drug into the oxygen, unable to bear the thought of Jim enduring much more.

As the sedatives kicked in, Bones spoke soft assurances and ran his hand over Jim’s head, mindful of the bump he could feel on the side of the captain’s scalp. Soon, to McCoy’s relief, Jim fell into unconsciousness.

Bones took a deep breath. Jim was alive. Jim was safe.

Despite that, the biobed’s frantic beeping didn't relent, signifying that although he was no longer in immediate critical condition, Jim’s body was still broken.

Bones dragged a tired hand down his face and eyed the Vulcan in the corner. Spock was staring at Jim’s still form and looked paler than usual.

Bones could feel his scowl re-situating itself as he thought of the role Spock had played for Jim to be in this state. More than a few of the bruises on Jim’s face, and the ghastly ring of blues and purples around his neck, were definitely Spock’s doing. Not to mention, whatever injuries Jim had attained while on Delta Vega. With a bite in his tone, Bones told the science officer, “Most of this is your fault.”

Spock didn’t argue.

Chapter Text

Spock didn’t argue.

The doctor was right. So much of what the captain had endured was his fault.

Delta Vega, and whatever may have occurred there, was Spock’s doing. And the bruise Spock could see on the crook between Kirk’s neck and shoulder, that was undoubtedly from the Vulcan pinch. And they had separated on the Narada, which meant Kirk had been left to fend for himself. Granted, that had been the plan, but it was highly likely that the captain had encountered hostile Romulans while on his own. And, on the bridge…

Spock had tried to kill him.

He had let himself lose control, and he almost killed James Kirk. He felt nothing but shame as he reflected on that moment, the hatred and anger and hurt he felt raging inside himself as he strangled Kirk against the console. James had felt so minuscule in his hands, so powerless against Spock’s strength. He had reveled in the terrified uncertainty he saw in those blue eyes, regardless of how awash they were with acceptance and… compassion.

Spock’s stomach tightened with a breathtaking rush of guilt. His hands clenched together almost imperceptibly as he stared at the captain in the biobed.

James looked so small under the doctor’s hands. So broken, so fragile. His skin was covered with discoloration and sweat, and Spock couldn’t tear his eyes away from the necklace of bruises circling James’s neck.

He had hurt James Kirk terribly.

The doctor was running his tricorder over Kirk’s neck as he raised the top half of the bed into an upright position. McCoy cursed quietly before telling the nurse to get the endotracheal tube. Kirk’s trachea and larynx were damaged badly enough that he could no longer breathe on his own, Spock realized.

After the oxygen mask was removed, Spock forced himself to watch as they slid the endotracheal tube into Kirk’s mouth and throat. It made him feel sick, but Spock reminded himself that any physical ailments he was experiencing were incomparable to what the captain was going through. He had been impudent, and so he had to fully acknowledge the consequences of his actions and how they affected others.

Namely, how his actions affected James Kirk.

A day ago, when he had first become aware of Kirk, Spock had thought of the other man as brash and irresponsible. Uncaring. Someone who was unreliable and could never be seriously trusted as an officer on a starship.

Spock was realizing that not only were his early assumptions false, but rarely had he ever seen anyone behave so admirably in a time of duress. He had never imagined anybody to face a no-win scenario so fearlessly, while maintaining full control of themselves and their crew.

James Kirk was everything a captain needed to be.

And Spock had doubted him. Never before had the half-vulcan felt so foolish. If he could take back all that he had dealt to Kirk, both physically and verbally, he would.

McCoy focused on Jim’s respiratory system for a few seconds, to be sure that it was functioning accordingly. The various hyposprays he had administered, in addition to the artificial oxygen that was working Jim’s lungs, were definitely helping.

Now that Jim’s life was no longer in immediate danger, as far as the doctor could tell, McCoy decided it was safe to scan the rest of him. Knowing Jim, the kid had probably received an injury on every inch of his body. McCoy sighed in irritated concern.

He decided to start at the top and work his way down.

He scanned his tricorder around Jim’s head, noting the hematoma on the side of the scalp he was already aware of. But the tricorder also informed him of the fractured left eye socket and a hairline fracture in Jim's chin. Which, now that Bones really looked at the kid’s face, was definitely apparent with the bruising and cuts over the fractured areas.

He could only imagine how painful those injuries alone could be, but Bones acknowledged the fact that he hadn’t even scanned the rest of the body yet. As much as he wanted to use the osteogenic stimulator on Jim’s fractures as soon as possible, he also knew that Jim’s body only had so much energy to spare, and the stimulator always took a lot of energy.

And Bones knew that there was a very high chance for Jim to have sustained an injury worse than a fracture. If that was the case, McCoy wanted to make sure Jim’s body would be up to the task of healing the worse wounds.

He continued to scan the tricorder down, and took into account the damaged larynx and trachea, and the dark bruise on Jim’s right shoulder. McCoy scowled. He had heard plenty of stories of how painful Vulcan pinches could be.

He glared at Spock, who was still frozen in the corner. Jim’s neck and shoulder were going to be killing him for days to come.

With a huff, McCoy ran his tricorder over Jim’s chest and instantly balked. “Shit.” Almost all of his ribs were bruised or worse. Most of the ribs in the middle, regardless of which side of the ribcage they were on, were fractured or cracked.

Bones ran a hand through his hair, worry twisting in his stomach. It felt like the farther down Jim’s body he scanned, the worse the injuries got. He was starting to wonder if he should expect Jim’s legs to have been broken the entire time or something equally ridiculous.

Jim’s pain tolerance scared him.

He analyzed the ribs on his tricorder further, and realized that three ribs on the middle lower right of the rib cage had segments that were completely broken away. Jim had flail chest. “Jesus Christ, Jim!” he hissed.

That amount of pain should have been unbearable. Over the past day, there were so many different instances in which Kirk might have gotten hit bad enough that his ribs broke. What scared McCoy was that no matter when Kirk might have received the injury, his performance remained steady throughout each event he experienced. Meaning, regardless of how much his body must have been fighting him, Jim did not allow his injuries to alter his capabilities until they were all out of danger.

While his respect for Jim was through the roof, McCoy’s concern for his friend’s self-preservation was plaguing him with anxiety. If he didn’t take care of the kid, who would? Jim definitely wasn't taking good enough care of himself as it was.

He sighed. Flail chest was dangerous, or at the very least excruciating. Bones realized that no matter what other injuries Jim may have sustained, he would have to use the osteogenic stimulator on Jim’s chest. He couldn’t risk having one of the loose ribs stab Jim in the lungs, but even if that wasn’t a factor, it was very likely that his fragmented rib cage was the source for the most pain. Aside from Jim’s beaten neck.

He suddenly remembered the blood he had caught a brief glimpse of. Jim was still bleeding somewhere. Of course, it hadn’t looked like a lot of blood, but it was still blood regardless. Considering where the blood had been on Spock’s shirt and how Bones couldn’t see any open wounds, it was safe to assume Jim was bleeding on his back.

He ran the tricorder over Jim’s torso once more, setting on a deeper scan, until it told him that Jim’s back had a series of lacerations along the flesh, but nothing too deep.

McCoy decided to check Jim’s back for himself last. It would be harder to get to, and he wanted to do a scan of the rest of Jim’s body first. He had a feeling that regardless of the wound, it wouldn’t change the fact that the osteogenic stimulator would have to be used on Jim’s ribs. But the stimulator would have to wait either way. Forcing the healing process was always painful, and if Bones started to use it on James now it would surely wake the kid up. He deserved to rest while he could. A couple of broken ribs wouldn't kill him.

Still, he had to know what else was potentially hurting the kid. McCoy held the tricorder over Jim’s arms and scanned them over. His arms were mostly okay, aside from muscle fatigue. And there was, of course, Jim’s broken left hand. That he had treated earlier, dammit.

Based on its increased swelling and abrasions it was clear that Jim had not taken care of it, and may have broken it even more. The stupid self-sacrificing idiot.

However, the tricorder also informed him that Jim’s hands had minor burns and cuts along the palms.

What the hell?

Bones gingerly took hold of Jim’s right hand and held it between his own, examining the skin and fingers.

Ice burns and thin lacerations. Delta Vega. What the hell did Jim encounter there? Was he running his hands over knives carved out of ice or something? Rock climbing without gloves?

With a quick squeeze of Jim’s hand, Bones accepted that it wasn’t something he could focus on too much at the moment. Jim would have to explain himself when he woke up.

He continued to scan downwards, noting the deep bruises on Kirk’s hips. He couldn’t imagine how those had come to be. McCoy pictured somebody swinging a blunt weapon into Kirk’s pelvic area, or the reckless captain landing on something hip first. Either way, it all spelled pain.

After the hips, the only other notable injury was the fact that Kirk’s right ankle was twisted. A definitely manageable wound, even though it had light scratches. Jim would be the one to figure out how to twist and cut his ankle at the same time.

That left his back.

Bones would have to lift him up in order to fully remove the shirt and examine the flesh as needed. He chewed on his lip, noting that the nurse had left to attend to other patients. He eyed Spock who was still standing in the corner.

McCoy blew air through his nostrils in annoyance. He would have to accept help where he could get it

“Spock.”

Spock looked away from Kirk’s prone, battered form, and up into the doctor’s upset gaze.

“I need your help,” McCoy huffed.

Spock’s heart stuttered in his side, the prospect of touching James again making him nervous, especially after guilt had had its time to take root.

But, it would be reprehensible for him to allow further harm to come to Kirk. If he needed help, Spock would give it.

The Vulcan approached and stood on the other side of the bed. “What is it you require, Doctor?”

“I’ll need you to hold him up while I examine his back.”

The spots of blood on Spock’s shirt suddenly felt heavier. Illogical, as they were not large drops and had already dried.

McCoy began removing Kirk’s arms from what was left of the shirt until his chest was entirely bare.

Spock placed his hands, firmly but gently, over Kirk’s shoulders and carefully pulled him forward. His mental defenses were up, perhaps even higher than necessary, but he didn’t want to risk any chance for Kirk’s subconscious thoughts or feelings to transfer through where their skin touched. It was as much for James’s privacy as it was for his own benefit.

Spock did his best not to panic as Kirk’s head lolled forward to rest on his bicep. Swallowing back his agitation, Spock readjusted his grip on the captain so his arms were instead supporting Kirk around his middle. He made sure to keep his hands in balled fists on Kirk’s sides. Touching Kirk’s bare skin with his fingertips would be out of the question.

In an attempt to distract himself from the warm acting-captain in his arms, Spock watched McCoy work the black shirt from where it was plastered to Kirk’s sweaty sides and shoulders. The doctor stopped moving, however, when he began to peel the fabric off of Kirk’s shoulder blades where the blood stains were.

James released a sharp gasp around the tube in his throat as soon as the fabric was disturbed, and the sensors of the biobed increased in speed as Kirk’s own heart sped up.

McCoy eyed Kirk’s readings displayed on the screens above the bed. “He felt that,” McCoy grumbled, most likely to himself. “Of course his pain would transcend sedation.”

Spock’s breath felt tighter. He had played some part in all of the pain Kirk was experiencing. Enough pain that it, apparently, would not even subside with unconsciousness.

The doctor reached for a nearby hypospray and pressed it into Kirk’s system. “Anesthetic, one he's not allergic to,” McCoy said as explanation, though he didn't look up.

Spock decided to figure out exactly what kind of anesthetic it was later. Just in case Kirk should need it again in the near future.

McCoy continued to slowly remove the shirt, and both doctor and vulcan watched as the black cloth clung steadfastly to thin scrapes along Jim's back. The blood-soaked material was stuck to what layers of skin had not already disconnected from Kirk’s flesh entirely, and McCoy once again stopped.

“Damn it,” the doctor whispered.

Spock met his gaze when he glanced up from their wounded captain.

“Hold onto him for a sec,” McCoy said, before stepping away.

While McCoy headed towards the inventory, Spock focused his attention on the man whose full weight was leaning into him. Kirk was not heavy for Spock’s vulcan strength, but he was a solid mass pressed along the side where Spock’s heart hammered.

He had not been so physically close to anyone for a while, save for Uhura. And even then, he and Uhura had maintained a fair amount of distance between their bodies regardless of their budding relationship.

Kirk, meanwhile, was breathing steady, hot air onto Spock’s arm.

McCoy returned with numerous items in hand and Spock welcomed the distraction. He watched as the doctor set aside some gauze and other bandages, as well as various ointments. “If you're wondering why I'm using this stuff and not our better equipment, it's because most of our supplies got destroyed in Nero's attack." McCoy retrieved scissors and forceps, before handing Spock a large cotton swab and telling him,  "Dab up any blood that starts to run.”

If McCoy noticed Spock’s hold tighten around the captain, he didn’t say anything.

McCoy started to once again peel the shirt away from Kirk’s body. This time, he used the forceps to gently force the thicker slivers of skin away from the cloth and against Kirk’s back where they belonged, and used the scissors to cut when saving the skin was not an option. Spock wiped away fresh blood as needed, which usually seemed to occur when they accidentally pulled up new scabs. McCoy and Spock shared no words as they worked.

Soon, they removed the shirt entirely and Kirk was completely free from the encompassing black fabric.

With gloved hands, the doctor spread an antibacterial ointment over the scrapes along Kirk’s back, before placing pristine white gauze over the shallow wounds. A little pink started to seep through, but not at a worrying rate.

After Kirk’s back was clean and safe from potential infection, McCoy nodded at Spock. “You can put him back down.”

With a strange sense of reluctance, Spock loosened his hold around James and gently placed him back against the bed. The captain’s face remained slack, and Spock was relieved to see that the anesthetic was working.

Without another word to Spock, the doctor sat himself on the edge of Kirk’s bed and took the captain’s left hand in his.

Spock felt a blush creep along his cheeks as McCoy rubbed antibacterial burn ointment against Kirk’s hand. The doctor’s touch was tender as he rubbed his thumb into the pads of Kirk’s fingers and palm, working a gentle massage into what, for vulcans, would be an incredible act of intimacy.

Spock had to remind himself that human hands did not have all the same purposes and functions as vulcan hands as he turned away. Still, it was well known that McCoy and Kirk were close. Perhaps they were closer than Spock had originally thought.

With this in mind, Spock decided it would be best for him to return to the bridge and resolutely ignore the stammering of his heart.

Chapter Text

Danger. He was in danger. He was floating, weightless, but he knew he was in danger.

Something bad had been happening, someone had been trying to kill him, trying to kill his friends, trying to kill everyone.

He had to wake up, he had to fight. He had to get up.

He had to get up.

Kirk forced his eyes open and blinked against the harsh lights above him.

Tarsus, Tarsus. And the doctors. They wanted him to talk.

That’s right, he was in an infirmary, but that didn’t mean he was safe. He was still thin and the doctors were trying to get him to eat, but he couldn’t.

How could he eat when so many others had already died?

His heart was slamming into his ribs, hard and fast, and breathing was difficult. Painful. As he yanked the sheets off of himself, he realized his hands were shaking and cold. They hurt too. His whole body hurt.

The doctors were going to try asking him questions again. He couldn’t say anything to them, not yet. Not yet.

He was still in danger.

He could feel his skin thrumming with the need to run and fight.

Kirk threw himself out of the bed and almost immediately stumbled to his knees. Pain erupted through his chest, but he couldn’t stay.

They didn’t care about him here, he knew, he knew they only wanted him to talk about Kodos.

Kirk’s breaths grew heavy as soon as he thought of the man. The doctors didn’t care about Jim. He was an inconvenience, like all the other survivors, he was only good for information.

Information about the famine, the massacres, the raping and murdering.

The scent of dust and blood and burning, rotting bodies rushed Kirk’s nostrils and all he could see was the loose soil of Tarsus covered in the piles of tortured, mangled children—

Jim’s breaths turned into wheezes and he shot up from the floor and raced from the infirmary as fast as his sore legs could carry him.

He wasn’t sure where he was running to, or necessarily what he was running from. He was just… in danger. That was all he knew for sure. His body was sending him all of the signals to run and defend and survive.

It wasn’t until Jim flung himself into a clean, shiny turbolift that his mind started to catch up with his body.

He panted against the wall of the lift as it carried him up, or maybe it was carrying him down. He wasn’t sure. Soon, the doors opened to an empty hallway. He stumbled out, breaths still straining to make their way through his throat, and Jim leaned his left hand against the wall of the hallway and stared at it.

His hand was wrapped in bandages.

Wait.

It was broken.

Kirk brought his good hand to cover his eyes and took deeper breaths. His left hand was broken because a Romulan crushed it under their boot.

He wasn’t on Tarsus anymore.

He wasn’t on Tarsus anymore.

That had all been dealt with years ago, that was no longer a part of his life, he was no longer there, he was safe.

He was on the Enterprise, lightyears from famine and genocide.

He wasn’t on Tarsus.

Jim realized that he was overcome with full-body shivers. Walking would probably help. He started off down the hallway, one he wasn’t familiar with. He glanced around himself and rubbed his throat, all the while trying to figure out why he had woken up in such a panic.

Maybe it was the dust of Vulcan that triggered his memories of Tarsus. Maybe it was the death of Vulcan that triggered it.

That was probably it.

Jim hadn’t been exposed to such high amounts of death since… he was thirteen. All of the nonstop fighting from the day—days?—had probably also played a factor in his confusion and subconscious distress.

Jim sighed, and noted with surprise that breathing was much easier than it had been hours before. Bones must have gotten to him. A quick look at the rest of his body, and Jim decided that Bones had definitely gotten to him. He was wearing clean, light colored scrubs that fit him loosely. It felt nice to not have clothes pressing against his wounds anymore.

Hell, after that allergic reaction, he must have been seen to by Bones. Jim knew with certainty that no other doctor would have been able to keep him alive.

McCoy was the only doctor Jim trusted.

Jim rubbed the palms of his scratched hands together and took a steadying breath. Glancing around himself, he figured that he was in a part of the ship that he hadn’t been to yet, so probably one of the decks near the center of the ship. It was strangely devoid of any activity, a fact he had to be grateful for.

He wasn’t ready to be around people again. Not yet.

At least, not after the scare he’d had upon waking. He knew Tarsus was over, but… something about being thrown back into that mindset of danger and fear and survival had him on edge. He was afraid that if Bones found him anytime soon, the doctor would see something on Jim’s face that had been tamped down for as long as they’d known each other.

No, he needed some time to himself. Didn’t wanna scare the ol’ doc.

Jim came upon what seemed to be a lounge area with large floor-to-ceiling windows, giving a clear view of the vast expanse of space. He stared out at the endless sea of stars and planets, finding with it a growing sense of calm.

Here seemed safe.

Spock had struggled to meditate throughout beta shift.

Normally, forcing his thoughts and emotions to quiet was no difficult task. However, what he was trying to work through mentally was far from ‘normal’.

The destruction of his planet was… devastating. Absolutely catastrophic. An overwhelming sense of traumatized shock was lapping at the edges of his control and it was, put simply, distressing.

And his mother…

It was painful, but Spock successfully devoted 73.2% of his time meditating to sort through his thoughts and feelings regarding her. At least... as much as he dared.

He missed her. He loved her. He knew she loved him. Memories of her kept attempting to resurface to the forefront of his mind, but he was keeping them at bay as much as he could. He could not truly ruminate on his mother and... the loss of her... until he was back on Earth. As long as he was on duty, he was going to remain focused.

He could not risk losing control of his emotions again. But, despite it all, despite how much of his own grief he was keeping contained...

Her absence was like a physical ache. There was a shadow in his periphery where the warmth of unconditional love should have been, a promise that would never again be within arm's reach.

Spock could not imagine what his father was going through.

After dwelling on recent events for as long as he believed was reasonable, especially when taking the circumstances into account, Spock opened his eyes to find that he was due to return to alpha shift. Spock prepared for his coming duties, as mundane as they were, and continued on his way.

Though he was no longer meditating, Spock allowed his mind to wander to all that had happened over the past day. His mind wandered in particular to the direction of one James Kirk.

The man was an enigma.

He had a deceivingly arrogant and ignorant air about him. Yet, he was so very cunning and mindful. He was attentive, thoughtful, and Spock had noticed how his respect towards others was based on their character and not on their rank or status. He seemed… loyal.

And foolhardy.

Spock had never witnessed somebody amass so many injuries in such a short amount of time. Nor had he seen an injured officer continue to perform so seamlessly. It was as though Jim Kirk had grown long used to functioning while under strain, be it physical or otherwise. The thought on its own was worrying.

But Kirk’s blatant negligence to seek medical care was even more worrying.

He had seemed so agitated while being seen to, even before he was in Doctor McCoy’s care, that it made Spock wonder if there was any particular reason. Spock found himself wondering about Kirk’s entire upbringing in general.

After witnessing the real James Kirk in action, it was now obvious that the man made his way through life with a front. He was not as haughty as any one person upon meeting him might believe. It seemed almost… defensive.

Most people with decent upbringings did not face every encounter with a well-worn front.

Spock stepped onto the bridge, accepted and returned the acknowledgments from the crew, and sat himself in the captain’s chair.

He had been correct in his earlier assumption that Kirk’s blood had soaked into the seat. It had taken nearly an hour of deep-cleaning during beta shift to rid the chair of Kirk’s blood entirely. Most of it was long dried by the time they got to it.

Even though the chair was perfectly sanitary, Spock still couldn’t bring himself to lean into the cushions and instead sat a little bit straighter than he would have at his own station.

McCoy had been reluctant to return to his quarters. It was only after Jim seemed as stable as he could be with his various injuries that McCoy accepted the fact that he should rest too. He would be of no use to anyone if he was falling asleep while giving stitches or something else that needed steady hands.

Although, McCoy’s hands were never ones to shake, regardless of how tired he himself was. A fact Jim had exploited after plenty of late night bar brawls during goddamn exam season.

Still, Bones found it more difficult than usual to leave Jim in sickbay alone. He had given the kid enough sedatives to keep him out for more than a few hours, but… it being Jim Kirk, there was always the chance for something to go wrong.

It was like the kid was a magnet for trouble, he never got a break. Which, in turn, meant McCoy never got a break.

And, walking into sickbay after managing a few hours of sleep, McCoy’s suspicions that something had gone wrong were confirmed as he came upon Jim’s empty bed.

“Shit!”

He all but dropped his PADD as he ran to the nearest wall comm. “Computer! Locate Captain James Kirk!”

An all-too impassive voice replied, “Error; Captain James Kirk could not be found in the ship’s database.”

Oh hell, that’s right, he's a damn stowaway. He never got input as a serving crew member.

Face heating with frustration and worry for Jim—who was still injured, goddammit!—Bones slammed his finger against the button that would comm the bridge. “Medical to bridge,” he snapped.

Spock tried to rein in a surge of concern the moment Doctor McCoy’s voice sounded over the comm. “This is Commander Spock,” he replied.

“Kirk is missing. He's not in sickbay.”

Missing? That was… troubling. Kirk was still injured and was in no state to be away from sickbay. “Did you try using the ship's computer to locate his whereabouts?”

“Of course I tried that, you green-blooded—! Ugh. Look, the ship can't find him because he's not registered, he’s a stowaway.”

That meant Jim could be anywhere. Spock steadfastly ignored his own increasing heart rate. “We will have to find him ourselves. I will assign security to search the decks.”

“Okay, but I'm gonna be looking for him too. And you tell security that as soon as they find him, they have to call me immediately. I don't want anyone touching him. He's still hurt and if he's not in a good state of mind, I don't want him to get spooked.”

“What do you mean by ‘spooked’, doctor?” Spock couldn’t imagine Kirk being prone to fear. But, perhaps Kirk was in a bad enough physical state that his mental condition was altered. McCoy sounded very sure that Kirk would be ‘spooked’ upon discovery. Spock tried to calm his growing sense of protectiveness towards James.

“Ah, forget it. I'm gonna go find him.”

“I will assist in locating the captain,” Spock said, standing from the captain’s chair.

“Fine, but same goes for you. If you find him before I do, you have to call me immediately.”

“Understood. Sulu, you have the conn.”

Spock wasn’t sure where to start looking. The ride in the turbolift was tense as he considered every possible reason for Kirk’s disappearance. Perhaps he was threatened or led elsewhere by a fellow cadet who held foul feelings for him. Spock knew that while Kirk may have been well known at the academy, he wasn’t necessarily well liked in every circle. But, it was highly unlikely for anyone to continue to harbor ill will towards the man who saved them all.

Even Spock’s earlier opinions of James had changed into regards of higher esteem.

But, if Kirk’s disappearance could not be attributed to an outside party, then that could only mean he had left sickbay of his own accord.

But why? And where would he go?

Kirk was in very bad condition. Spock doubted that he would be able to get very far in the state that he was in, but then again… the man successfully traversed and fought through the Narada without faltering in the slightest, regardless of the injuries he had been sporting at the time.

And he could easily gain access to almost any part of the ship, which would make him even harder to find. A tight feeling gripped Spock’s chest and he decided to do everything in his power to find Kirk as soon as possible.

Spock searched the entirety of Decks 14 through 16, but there was no trace of Kirk anywhere. He was becoming increasingly unsettled the longer Kirk was missing.

The more time passed without Kirk being seen to, the higher the chances were for his condition to deteriorate.

It wasn’t until Spock reached the lounge near the back of Deck 17 that he finally spotted the young man, garbed in white bandages and light scrubs, who was sat on the floor. An overwhelming flood of relief washed through Spock’s body and he had to take a deep breath before he commed Doctor McCoy. “I have located Captain Kirk. He is on Deck 17 in Lounge AB.”

Spock registered McCoy’s gruff, “I'll be right there,” before he allowed himself to take in Kirk’s appearance from the other side of the glass wall separating the lounge from the hall.

Kirk seemed… relaxed. His legs were folded beneath him and his back was to the hall. Spock couldn’t see his face, but his muscles didn't look tight and he seemed focused on the view of space that was before him. He appeared very calm.

Based on Kirk’s display of body language, Spock decided that it was unlikely for him to be ‘spooked’ upon interaction and entered the lounge.

Kirk didn't turn from the window when the sound of the door opening echoed through the room. He stayed very still as Spock approached, even as the commander sat beside him on the floor. Spock folded his legs as Kirk had and appraised the stars before them.

It was so quiet, that Spock was starting to wonder if Kirk had even noticed his presence.

“I'm sorry, Spock.”

Kirk’s soft, hoarse voice was startling. Spock turned and studied his face, the lax muscles and the clear blue eyes that stared ahead at all of the galaxies and suns. His eyes looked sad.

His eyes looked human.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Spock told him, voice nearly in a whisper.

Kirk closed his eyes and his face tightened in what seemed to be pain. “Yes, I do.” He hung his head just slightly. “Those things I said to you… I'm so sorry. None of it was true.”

“You did what you felt was necessary to save your planet.” Kirk stared at the floor, mouth in a tight frown as Spock spoke. “I understand your motives and do not hold you accountable for what transpired. In fact…” Spock’s throat felt a little tighter, which was ironic. “I believe I am the one that should apologize.”

Kirk shook his head. “No, Spock…”

“Captain.”

Kirk finally looked up, his bruised and swollen face seeping with remorse.

“I behaved abhorrently to you,” Spock continued. “I allowed myself to be overcome with emotion and in result caused you great harm.”

Kirk took what appeared to be a painful swallow.

Spock couldn’t look away from the hideous, dark shades that covered James’s neck.

Spock's staring must have been obvious, because the sight was interrupted by Kirk's fingers covering and rubbing at the bruising skin. “I've had worse, Spock. It was part of the plan anyway.” Kirk turned to the window again and tightened a fist around the cloth of his pants. “I’m so sorry the plan involved exploiting your emotions and your loss.”

Staring at the battered acting-captain before him, Spock couldn’t fathom how he had ever felt any hate towards the man. “You did what was necessary,” Spock repeated. “I should apologize for trivializing your own loss during the hearing. It was out of line and… insensitive.”

Kirk blatantly stared at the vulcan commander. After a moment, he snorted softly and the very edge of his mouth upturned in a smile. “Whoever said vulcans don't feel has obviously never met one.”

Spock could feel heat rising up his cheeks and he desperately hoped he wasn’t blushing. But, based on the growth of Kirk’s smile, he was. Instead of responding, Spock decided to turn back to the stars and Kirk did the same. As he looked into space, he could feel his rushing emotions start to subside. It truly was calming.

Kirk broke the silence again with a cough of his throat. “Seriously, though, Spock… I really am sorry. I know what you're going through.”

Spock deduced that he was referring to his mother. “You know what it is like to lose a parent,” Spock clarified, accepting Kirk’s apology.

“No, that's not what I mean.”

If not the loss of a parent, then what exactly was Kirk referring to? Spock glanced at Jim, who was frowning again.

“I don't know what it's like to lose a parent, Spock, not like you. I didn't grow up with my dad. I didn't know what it was like to love him or be loved by him.” He looked back at Spock, expression very matter of fact. “My loss wasn't personal like yours.”

Kirk’s statement was disconcerting and inexplicably saddening. Of course the loss of a parent was personal, especially at the magnitude of Kirk’s loss. His father's death had undoubtedly affected Kirk’s entire childhood and others’ perception of him. Initially, Spock had assumed that because of his father's sacrifice, Kirk had been treated favorably and that it had played a large part in him gaining admission to Starfleet. Now, Spock was not so certain.

James hung his head again and his clear gaze suddenly seemed very distant. “I just… I know what you're feeling.” Based on Kirk’s expression, Spock realized that he really wasn't only referring to the death of his mother. “All this death, all these people, I know… what loss like this feels like.” How could he know? Spock saw no lie in Kirk’s eyes, what he was saying was the truth. “I was…” As Kirk trailed off, Spock’s heart began to pound against his side. What had Kirk experienced? Why was he familiar with death beyond that of his father's? James stared at the stars, eyes cold and damp. “I still feel the death. I felt them die.” Kirk’s voice quivered and if felt as though it shook Spock’s entire being.

Did he feel the death of Vulcan as Spock had? Did he sense the loss of certain individuals that had remained planetside? Spock had felt as vulcans he had been close to were lost to the black hole, but he was unaware that Kirk had known other vulcans well enough to feel them die. Let alone that Kirk had the psy-capacity to form a strong mental link with others.

It was… incredibly unlikely. But what else could Kirk mean?

Kirk turned from the stars and blinked hard at the floor. “Look, Spock, I…” He glanced up at Spock, eyes wide with vulnerable sorrow. He reached a hand forward and Spock tensed with the anticipation of contact, but Kirk pulled his hand back and his fingers instead curled into a fist. He cleared his throat and searched Spock’s face before speaking. “I grieve with thee.”

A choked gasp passed through Spock’s lips. The urge to cry was almost more overwhelming than when he had materialized on the transporter without his mother. For Kirk to have said those words from his culture, his now nearly vanished culture, with an obvious understanding of their significance…

Spock bowed his head and whispered, “Thank you, Jim.”

Jim wanted nothing more than to hug the science officer beside him. But he also knew that the contact would not be welcome. The fact that Spock was a touch-telepath was reason enough for Jim to keep his distance. He wouldn’t want to expose the commander to every emotion and thought he was experiencing, it would undoubtedly be overwhelming.

Jim wondered distractedly if trauma could be transferred from one mind to another.

Of course it could. Jim’s fist tightened and he pulled it closer to himself as he recalled the mind-meld with older Spock. Jim had felt so many emotions and experiences and lifetimes during that link, that he wasn’t entirely sure what thought or feeling was his own and what belonged to the older Vulcan.

The older Spock had experienced so much loss and sadness, having outlived so many of those dear to him, that Jim was sure his own emotional trauma was being interwoven with the foreign memories. With a painful swallow, it occurred to Jim that his nightmares would probably increase tenfold. Then he wondered if Spock had accidentally adopted some of Jim’s past trauma in the meld as well.

Before he could think much more on the matter, the doors to the lounge slid open and granted access to a red-faced McCoy, equipped with a medkit. “You! ” the doctor bellowed.

Jim grinned on reflex. “Bones!” he croaked. It was the first time Jim had really seen him since… Hell, since he and Spock had just returned from the Narada and they handed off Pike.

McCoy scowled at Jim’s grin, and Jim realized that the doctor’s appearance was a mess. His hair was all askew, like he’d never heard of a hairbrush, and dark, heavy circles had formed under his eyes. He looked so tired.

“Do you have any idea what you put me through?” Bones growled as he stalked closer to Jim and Spock, who was watching with apparent interest. “I have been searching up and down this goddamn boat for your scrawny ass, you suicidal runaway. Why the hell did you leave sickbay?”

Jim couldn’t tell him the truth. Nobody knew about Jim’s first years of teenagehood, save for his mother and a select few in Starfleet admiralty. There was no way Jim could explain to Bones that he thought he was back on Tarsus when he woke up and panicked thusly.

Instead Kirk just shrugged with his left shoulder, his right shoulder too tied up in knots from the Vulcan pinch to really move. “I just wanted a change of scenery.” Which wasn’t necessarily a lie. Bones knew Kirk could never stay in sickbays for long, this was no exception.

Though, Kirk did usually give Bones some kind of warning before he left. Maybe his unannounced disappearance was what made the fuming doctor look so haggard this time.

Bones’s scowl deepened. “Next time you get tired of looking at the infirmary— that you got yourself into — just tell me and I’ll knock you out so you don’t gotta look at anything anymore.” Bones reached down and grabbed Jim by the back of his shirt. “Now let’s get back to that sickbay so I can treat you, you idiot.”

Bones started to tug Jim’s body up, and pain that had remained dormant throughout Jim’s impromptu meditation suddenly erupted through his chest. “Ah, Bones—!” His hands flew up and gripped the arm that was tugging on him, and he wrung the sleeve between his fingers desperately. “Wait, wait a second,” Jim chuckled nervously once Bones stopped trying to move him.

Bones froze at the tone of Jim’s voice. The kid was wearing that stupid smirk still, but there was an obvious hint of strain in his words and his eyes seemed to have gotten clearer in that way they did when he was in a lot of pain. Bones had seen it plenty of times before. He set his medkit on the ground in an instant.

McCoy noted how Spock had gotten into a more action-ready position the moment Kirk spoke up, but he decided to ignore the vulcan completely as he put his entire focus on Jim. Bones lowered himself in front of his friend, slowly so as not to agitate Jim’s injuries more, and didn’t even try to get Jim to release his arm.

If wringing the living hell out of his sleeve helped with the pain, Bones was gonna let him do it. “What’s hurting, kid?” He wondered belatedly if there was any part of Jim that wasn’t hurting.

Jim released an airy laugh and held onto Bones’s arm tighter. “My ribs are killing me.”

Shit, they must have really been hurting him. Jim didn’t always admit to when he was in pain. “Yeah? I’ll bet they are. You know you have flail chest?”

Just as Jim’s smirk faltered, Spock turned to their bruised acting-captain, the barest hint of a frown visible. “Flail chest?”

Jim’s pink tongue darted out to wet his lips and he spared a brief glance towards Spock. “It’s when a part of your ribs gets separated from the rest of the rib cage.”

Spock’s head tilted in a way that reminded Bones of a cat. “You seem familiar with this condition. Has this happened to you before?” the commander asked.

Jim’s head turned towards Spock but his eyes remained fixed on the floor, and the muscles in his face relaxed. It occurred to Bones that Jim always got a distant look on his face when he was remembering something and was about to lie. “No, I’ve never had flail chest.”

Bones frowned. For as long as he’d known Jim, there was still so little that he knew about the other man. He had more than enough evidence to suggest that Jim had experienced multiple forms of abuse in his earlier years, but Bones wasn’t sure quite as to how early the abuse started and he wasn’t about to ask. Let alone what kind of abuse it was.

He wanted to know more about Jim so he could better help him, but he could never force him to talk. He just had to trust that Jim would be upfront with him some day. “Whether you’ve had it before or not,” Bones started, “you realize that I have to fix it as soon as possible? We don’t want you to puncture a lung or something.”

Spock looked sharply at Bones, and Bones returned the gaze steadily. Was the vulcan starting to worry about Jim? He had been trying to help a lot recently, it seemed, and was showing concern fairly consistently. At least, as much concern as a vulcan could show. Maybe he was trying to atone for everything he had already done to Jim. Bones barely refrained from scoffing.

Jim squeezed Bones’s arm briefly, immediately drawing the doctor’s attention back in. “I don’t know if I can get back to sickbay, Bones.”

The doctor huffed and patted his medkit. “Lucky you I considered that as a possibility. I can treat you here, I’ve got everything I need.”

Jim bit his lip before finally making eye contact with McCoy. “Okay. I don’t have to get up?”

“No.” Bones placed his hand on Jim’s shoulder and pressed gently. “In fact, what I need you to do is lie down. But it might hurt to change your position.”

Jim laughed softly and shook his head. “Bones, trust me when I say that doing anything is gonna hurt.”

Bones hated when Jim made light of his own pain. He suspected it was something Jim had been conditioned to do, in that if he had been told often enough that his health wasn’t a priority then he had been led to believe it.

Without responding, Bones helped Jim recline into a horizontal position and did his best to ignore the choked groans Kirk was obviously trying to hold back. Bones knew that if it was anyone else, they would be yelling and crying from the pain.

Once Jim was laid out on the floor (not the most sanitary place, but Bones wasn’t gonna move him somewhere else and cause him more pain than he was already going to have to), Bones got his osteogenic stimulator out and a hypo for Kirk’s very specific anesthetic needs.

He administered the hypo and watched Spock situate himself closer to Jim in his peripheral. “Is it possible for me to assist in some manner?” the vulcan asked softly.

Bones shook his head. “No. This one is up to the stimulator and Jim’s body.” He watched as Jim took a rough swallow. He was nervous. Bones could understand. Few things were as painful as forcing the healing process. He placed a hand on Jim’s shoulder and massaged at it gently. “You ready, kid?”

Jim took a deep, inaudible breath before giving a slight nod. “Hit it.”

McCoy did as instructed and the beam from the medical device highlighted the infrared silhouette of Jim’s ribs through his clothes. Slowly, Jim’s broken ribs could be seen morphing in the high-powered light, until they started to inch their way back to their correct slots in the rib cage.

Jim released a drawn out exhale through his nose, and Bones noticed that his clear blue eyes were fixed firmly to the ceiling. Bones continued to watch his face as the stimulator worked, watched as his eyes started to scrunch and his lips pulled together in a firm line. It was obvious Jim was feeling it.

Bones frowned. The anesthetic should be working.

“Actually, Spock, if you wanted to do something,” the commander looked up imploringly, almost seeming eager, and Bones continued. “Talk to him. We might be here a while.” If the anesthetic couldn’t help Jim with the pain, maybe a distraction would.

As soon as Jim realized Spock’s attention was honed in on him, Bones noticed that the kid’s face smoothed out as though he were relaxed on some plush couch rather than spread out on a floor getting his ribs shoved around. Jim diverted his gaze from the ceiling and instead focused on Spock’s face.

“Jim,” Spock said as acknowledgment. “What would you like to discuss?”

Jim blinked hard a few times and wet his plump lips with his tongue again. “Uh, I don’t know.” He swallowed and his fingers clenched together faintly. Working his throat must have still hurt. “Tell me about the ship.”

Spock inclined his head, apparently approving of Jim’s topic of choice. “Very well.”

As the two started discussing the Enterprise and its condition and many capabilities, Bones glanced back at Jim’s silhouetted ribs and noted that they still had a few more minutes before they were in the correct position.

It was a slow crawl for the bones to right themselves, and McCoy felt no envy for everything Jim had gone through in the past few days alone. Normally, McCoy would be a little rougher with Jim and remind him to take better care of his body, but with everything the kid had done, Bones couldn’t find it in himself to be anything but tender with him.

Despite what Jim often spouted, McCoy didn’t ever wish bodily harm on him. In fact, McCoy wanted nothing but the exact opposite.

Bones refocused on Jim's face when he blew a long stream of air through his mouth and his cheeks puffed. His brows were furrowed together and sweat was starting to bead on his forehead. “Oh, God,” Jim groaned.

“Just hang in there, you’ve got a few more minutes,” Bones told him.

“Right,” he gasped. He squinted up at Spock in between frantic blinks. “Sorry, keep talking about the warp cores. Or our lack thereof, I guess.”

Spock hesitated, apparently perturbed by Jim’s obvious pain, but continued anyway. The commander barely got more than a few words in before Jim’s eyes squeezed shut and he bared his teeth in pain. “Oh my God, oh God,” he panted, clawing at the lounge’s carpet beneath him.

“Hey, Jim, just a little more,” Bones said as he reached for Jim’s shoulder.

Kirk grabbed Bones’s hand and squeezed it with an alarming amount of force. Jim blinked his watery eyes open and his mouth gaped. “What the hell,” he gasped. “What the hell, why does this hurt so much?”

Bones didn’t know, but he wished Jim’s ribs would just heal already. Jim was obviously in a lot of pain, and Bones hated being witness to it.

Jim’s nostrils flared and his eyes clenched together again. “Oh my God, Jesus Christ !” Bones was starting to lose feeling in his hand, Jim’s grip fierce and frantic. “Shit, holy shit! Oh my God, it burns!”

Burns?

That wasn’t supposed to be happening. Something was seriously wrong.

“Doctor.” Bones glanced up at Spock, noting the vulcan’s stiff expression. “This is not normal.”

Bones hissed. “Shit, you think?”

Kirk’s hand clamped tighter around Bones’s as he gulped air through his worn out trachea. “Shit, fuck, fuck.” Sweat was seeping into his hairline and moisture was threatening to spill past his eyelids. He was starting to dig his heels along the carpet, as though he were trying to either run or kick the pain away. “Make it stop, Bones, please! Make it stop burning !”

Bones turned off the osteogenic stimulator and tossed it aside without a second thought. Seeing Jim writhing in so much pain that he was reduced to begging was making Bones feel physically ill. “All right, Jimmy, all right, it stopped. We stopped. We’re done with the stimulator, we won’t use it anymore.”

Jim wheezed around the breath in his chest and adjusted his hand in Bones’s so he had a firmer hold. “It burns,” he gasped. “God, it burns, Bones. Fuck.”

Bones had never heard of the pain from osteogenic stimulators burning before. He hiked the hem of Jim’s shirt up and froze once Jim's chest was bare.

On Jim’s side, right where his ribs were broken and were trying to heal, was an actual second-degree burn that spanned as much skin as the stimulator had. “What the hell,” Bones growled. “What the hell.”

He fished his tricorder out of the medkit and scanned Jim, and his device revealed something that had not been picked up on when he initially examined the acting-captain.

He was infected with Hengrauggi venom.

A substance that was notorious for remaining dormant inside a body until introduced to foreign chemicals that would spur various severe reactions. Chemicals that were often found in medicine.

Bones started to take everything out of his kit that could possibly help with the burns and began to devise a list of what he could use for an antidote that would both combat the venom and not kill Jim with a hefty dose of anaphylactic shock.

Jim was still gasping in pain on the floor, and heat rose to Bones’s face from absolute, unchecked fury the longer he thought of how cruel the cosmos was to this one single man. This stupid, selfless, brave man that was sure to be the death of him.

McCoy snapped the dermal coolant gel open and poured a dollop into his palm. He turned a scowl on Jim, shoulders threatening to shake from how angry he was at Jim for being so prone to danger and at everything else for being so dangerous to Jim. “You wanna tell me when you got attacked by a Hengrauggi?”

Bones didn't miss the way Spock's posture stiffened.

Chapter Text

Jim almost didn’t hear Bones’s question over the buzzing in his ears. Pain was emitting from his chest and it was permeating through his veins, grating and raucous. He panted hot air past his chapped lips, and tried to divert his attention from the burning in his side to the words he still hadn’t answered.

“What?” Jim grabbed blindly in the direction Bones was sitting, trying to find his friend’s hand again. Bones had said something about a Hengrauggi, but conversation seemed so unattainable at the moment. “The Hengrauggi?”

He blinked against the moisture that blurred his vision, until it cleared enough that he could see Bones’s face.

But Bones wasn’t looking at him.

Instead, Bones was glaring hard at Spock, who was staring at Kirk’s chest. Without even a glance at the doctor, Spock answered Bones’s question in Jim’s place. “Hengrauggi are indigenous to Delta Vega. The chances for the captain to have encountered one are… very high.”

Bones’s face turned red. “You bastard, you knew—!”

Jim finally found Bones’s hand and he squeezed it before the doctor could say something Spock didn’t need to hear. “Bones”, he gasped. “It’s okay.”

Bones tore his hand from Jim’s and stabbed a hypo into his neck. Jim didn't have the energy to do more than hiss as Bones started yelling. “Like hell it's okay! You're burning from the inside out, Jim!” Bones started to spread something cool and wet over his ribs, probably a burn ointment, to prove his point.

Kirk panted through his teeth and tried to blink a new wave of tears from his eyes. “I’m very aware of that, Bones, but don't take it out on Spock.”

The commander had already been through enough. He didn’t need more guilt added to his plate.

Bones’s scowl intensified and he steadied a glare on Spock. “Jim, you wouldn't have been infected if he hadn’t abandoned you on that damned ice rock.” Jim reached forward and Bones let him take his hand again.

A cascade of pain rushed through Jim’s body and he had to close his eyes against an unexpected swirl of nausea. He took a few moments to breathe through his nose while sweat dripped down his face and neck, and he rubbed his thumb along the fingers of Bones’s left hand. “Well, I'm here now, aren't I?” he croaked. “Besides, the Hengrauggi wasn’t so bad. It kind of saved me from a Drakoulias, at least.”

Even with his eyes closed, Jim could feel as both Bones and Spock turned their gazes on him. “A what?”

Kirk opened one eye at Bones’s incredulous tone. “You know,” he breathed, spent voice coming out as a whisper. “Drakoulias? It's like a…” He released Bones’s fingers and waved his hand in front of himself, wincing as it summoned various aches. “Polar bear gorilla.”

Bones’s mouth hung open for a moment, before he shook his head and started to rifle through his medkit again. “Jesus, Jim, is there anything that didn’t try to kill you yesterday?”

Jim took a moment to think around his pain-addled brain. “Chekov? I think he likes me. He already saved my life a few times.”

Bones stabbed him with another hypo and barked, "I’ve saved your life a few times!”

“God!” Jim’s face scrunched up from the sting of the hypo, and his muscles tightened as more fire burned through them. “Oh my God, Bones, can you just give me some anesthetic already?” He couldn’t even bring himself to care about how weak his voice sounded.

The hand that was spreading ointment over Jim’s ribs stilled. “...I have been.”

Jim blinked his eyes open and a few stray tears spilled down his cheeks as he made eye contact with Spock. He tried to focus on the concerned looking Vulcan instead of the burning embers that were searing through his chest. “You're shitting me,” he told Bones, not looking away from Spock.

No one responded to him at first, until finally Bones said, “Okay, that's it. We're going back to sickbay and you're going to tell me everything that’s happened to you when we get there.” Bones wormed his arms under Jim’s torso and started to push him upright.

Jim twisted his fingers around Bones’s shirt and couldn’t hold back his cry of pure agony from being shifted.

Bones’s hold tightened. “Spock, help me get him up.”

Panic flared through Jim’s lungs, replacing any pain that had seeped in. Spock couldn’t touch him. Spock couldn’t touch him. He was a touch telepath, if he touched Jim then he would be susceptible to everything Jim was experiencing. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, but after everything that had happened Jim’s mental defenses were completely knocked down. He couldn’t protect Spock, not right now, not as he was.

Jim clawed against Bones’s chest desperately. “No—! Don’t make him carry me! Bones, he’s a touch telepath, don’t make him touch me!”

Spock was startled by Kirk’s outburst. Not many were aware of Vulcans and their touch-telepathy, so Kirk was defying his expectations once again. But even if Kirk’s knowledge wasn’t startling enough, Spock was really taken aback by Kirk’s insistence not to expose his own experiences to someone who could potentially internalize them.

An overwhelming sense of endeared gratitude washed over him. But, it was nearly outmatched by a wave of genuine concern.

Was what Kirk experiencing really so bad that he didn’t think someone else could endure it?

Spock raised his hands and inclined his head towards James. “It is quite all right, Captain. I have mental defenses that effectively shield me from any unsolicited thoughts or emotions from those that I come in contact with. I can protect myself. In addition, Vulcans have superior strength to that of humans, so my assistance would make the trip back to sickbay faster and more efficient.”

Kirk’s shiny, moist eyes bored into Spock’s as sweat dripped down his red face. Finally, he nodded his head in permission for Spock to help. The Vulcan moved forward without further prompting. As he carefully wrapped his arm behind Kirk’s still injured back and moved the captain's arm around his own neck, a nearly inaudible, verging on petulant muttering of, “my walls are down”, passed through Kirk’s lips.

The doctor didn’t seem to hear it. Spock tried not to stare at the captain in his arms as they carried him from the lounge.

Did Jim Kirk have mental walls? Had he been trained in shielding himself from other psyches? If so, why? Why would it be necessary for him, a human, to be aware of and in control of mental defenses?

What had happened in Kirk’s past?

As they furthered down the hall and towards the turbolift, Spock found himself wondering if it would be uncouth for him to look further into Kirk’s life. Though, it was unlikely the captain trusted him enough to speak personally about himself with the commander.

And why should he trust him? After all, Spock had already harmed him in more ways than one.

Jim was grateful that they didn’t pass any crewmembers on their way to sickbay. It would be unbefitting for him to be seen in the state he was in, especially as acting-captain. He still had a reputation to uphold, damn it.

However, Jim recalled not seeing anyone else on his way to the lounge, either. The ship seemed strangely empty.

All of those casualty reports he had filled out earlier rushed their way to the forefront of his mind.

Was the ship so empty because… more people perished than he had realized?

Nausea clogged his throat again, but Jim wasn’t sure if it was from the Hengrauggi venom or from the unfiltered guilt and sorrow he felt for his fellow cadets. So many people he knew were dead…

Five of six starships were destroyed at Vulcan, each manned primarily by cadets. With that amount in mind, he also had to take into account those that had been killed on the Enterprise. Maybe a third had died under his and Spock’s captaincy of the ship. That meant…

Only 11% of senior cadets were alive.

A breathtaking wave of grief-fueled guilt threatened to compromise Jim’s mental hold, but he had to maintain what little control he still had over his body. He swallowed back his emotions, hyper-aware of the Vulcan holding him, and focused all of his efforts on guarding Spock from what he was feeling.

Spock had said his defenses were up, but Jim didn’t want to risk it. He knew how sensitive Vulcans really were.

A ghost of a memory filled Jim’s vision for a moment, of dust and death and softly pointed ears and blood. Green blood pooling onto soil that hadn’t seen green for months, green blood that never should have been there, green blood too young to be spilled. The color had never made Jim feel so hollow.

Spock suddenly jolted against him and Jim was pulled away from long forgotten phantoms. He forced his small defenses back up and glanced at Spock, who stared steadfastly ahead. There was a crease between the Vulcan’s brow that had not been there a few minutes prior.

They were in the turbolift already and Jim, despite his best efforts, was starting to sag in between the two officers. He tried to lean more of his weight towards Bones, if only for the fact that the doctor wasn’t vulnerable to Jim’s thoughts.

Bones shifted his hold. “Come on, Jimmy, stay up for a little longer. We’re almost there,” he grunted.

Jim tried to better situate his feet beneath him, but kept most of his weight off of his right foot. He twisted it at some point during the past few hours (days?) but he couldn’t remember when exactly.

A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Bones, what time is it?”

The doctor and Spock dragged Jim away from the turbolift once the doors opened. “A little past midnight. Most of the ship is asleep,” Bones said.

“Oh.” Then that meant that maybe the reason the ship seemed so empty was because everyone was sleeping. Jim released a tight breath. He was pretty sure that his calculations as to the number of dead was correct, but there was something comforting in knowing the ship was empty because of the night and not because of a lack of life. “Has the crew been resting?”

“Yeah.” Bones re-positioned his arm around Jim, relieving some of the pressure that was starting to settle around his ribs. “Everyone but you, you dumbass.”

They reached the sickbay and it took a few more arduous steps before they were able to deposit Jim onto a biobed, but before they did Jim eyed what people he could see as they made their way to the farthest corner. Most of the beds were in use. So many officers had been hurt.

Dulled by a pang of sour guilt, Jim allowed himself to be manhandled onto the biobed's mattress without fuss. Once he was situated, Bones was quick to rush to the inventory and Spock stepped back and to the side.

Jim stretched out and his chest unfolded slowly. The pain that radiated through his ribcage was excruciating. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a long inhale through his nose, until the fire dulled away to a distant throb.

A few small coughs bubbled up through his sore throat, and he opened his eyes again when Bones started prodding at his burning side. “Bones,” he groaned. “Now’s not the time to be tickling me.”

“Shut it.” Bones didn’t even look up from his tricorder. “You’re running a fever.”

Jim closed his eyes again as exhaustion mingled with pulsing aches. “What does that have to do with tickling?” He struggled to keep the volume of his voice audible. He could feel sweat collecting in the hollow of his collarbone and along his back. He was starting to feel sticky.

“Hey.” Fingers started to snap in front of his face and Jim blinked his eyes open to Bones’s calloused hand in front of his nose. “Don’t fall asleep. I don’t know exactly what this venom is doing to you, I need you to talk to me. What happened to you?”

Jim took a deep, wheezy breath. “When?”

Bones grumbled for a moment, stared down at his tricorder, then started rifling through various canisters of medicine that he must have brought over. “Let’s start with the drill. What happened down on…” Bones spared a brief glance towards Spock, who was standing near Jim’s feet. “What happened on Vulcan, Jim?”

Jim’s brows furrowed together as he tried to think. The drill felt so long ago.

He refrained from bringing a hand up to cover his eyes, simply because it would hurt too much to do so. “Uh, on the drill? Well, we shot down, and I landed first after Olsen died. And then this Romulan came out of this trap door. I fought him for a while.”

Bones nodded. “Can you tell me exactly what the Romulan did to you?”

Jim scoffed. “What the hell? No way, Bones. I’ve been in so many fights recently, they’ve sort of just blended into one.”

Bones scowled at his tricorder. “Well, try.”

“Um.” Jim closed his eyes and coughed again. It felt like his throat was full of melting needles. “I think… I think the Romulan must have fractured my eye. They’re pretty strong, you know. Oh—He was the one that broke my hand.”

“How did he do that?” Bones asked.

“Well, I was hanging off of the edge of the drill, and he stepped on my hand so I would fall to my death.” Jim tried not to jump when Bones dropped something, but a spike of anxiety forced his eyes open anyway.

“Wait, are you serious? You were just dangling hundreds of feet in the air using nothing but your hands ?” If the way Bones’s mouth hung open in disbelief wasn’t funny enough, Spock’s wide eyes were really a sight to see.

Jim twitched his left shoulder in lieu of a shrug. “I mean… I had my parachute. Which ended up being useless when Sulu and I fell anyway.”

Bones plastered a hand over half of his own face and stared at Jim with an upset grimace. “God, Jim.” The hand moved from his face and was instead brushed through his hair. “Okay. So, that explains your eye and your hand. You sure that was the worst they did?”

Jim inclined his head. “Pretty sure. Least as far as I can remember.”

“Okay.” Bones heaved out a long sigh and started to sort through his medical equipment again. “What happened after that?”

Jim dragged his dry tongue along the roof of his mouth. He couldn’t remember if he’d been drinking enough water recently. “Delta Vega.” Spock stiffened in the corner of his eye and when Jim looked, Spock was staring pointedly at the floor.

Dang. Jim didn’t want him to feel guilty. He nudged Spock’s nearest arm with his foot, and tried to give him a reassuring smile when he finally looked up.

“Tell me everything that happened on Delta Vega.” Bones’s voice sounded harder than usual. When Jim glanced at him, he realized that the doctor was sending a sidelong glare in Spock’s direction.

Jim cleared his throat to regain Bones’s attention, but it quickly devolved into a series of sharp, painful coughs. It pulled all of the breath out of his lungs.

Bones was immediately rubbing soothing circles over Jim’s chest and shoulders. “Easy, easy. Breathe, Jim. Just take it easy. It’s all right.” Gradually, the coughs turned into wheezes, until Bones’s tentative massages around his shoulders made the grating breaths bearable. He placed a limp hand over Bones’s warm, sturdy one and gave a weak nod at the doctor.

Bones took it as a cue and slid his hand from Jim’s chest to his bicep, but didn’t remove it completely. The doctor then cleared his throat and Jim felt a stab of envy. “Delta Vega,” Bones said, to prompt Jim’s telling of his time on the planet.

“Delta Vega,” Jim repeated, voice noticeably more raw. “Well, the… When I woke up, the pod I was in had shot through thirty feet of ice. So I… I mean, I knew I couldn’t stay there. So I climbed out.”

“With what tools?” Spock’s inquiry was unexpected. Both Jim and Bones stared at him, and Spock seemed to withdraw ever so slightly.

“Um.” Jim swallowed around his ravaged, dry throat and frowned at the pain. “I didn’t have any tools. I mean, the,” Jim cut himself off to wheeze through his burning lungs. “The—the pod was empty.”

Spock’s expression became distant. “How did you manage?” It was almost undetectable, but Jim noticed how Spock’s voice was just a little quieter. Oh, shit. The guilt was back.

Jim tried to wave dismissively. “Spock, don’t worry about it. I can literally handle anything. The wall of ice wasn’t so bad, I’ve done plenty of rock climbing before.” On Tarsus, but nobody had to know that.

Bones huffed loudly beside him. “Wait, what? Exactly what did you do to get out of the pod?”

“Well, I,” Jim stared at the ceiling, not quite willing to see the expression on either officer’s face. “I removed the bandage on my hand first, and then I got a good grip on the ice in front of me. It’s a lot easier to keep a steady hold on ice when there’s nothing obstructing your hands, so that’s why I didn’t keep the bandage and waited to put on gloves until after.”

Bones threw his hands up to cover his own face. “Holy shit.” He dragged his hands through his hair so he could better scowl at Jim. “You actually did go rock climbing without gloves? On ice?”

Jim closed his eyes. “It was the easiest way. I got out of there in, like… ten or fifteen minutes.”

He could hear Bones groaning beside him. “Jim, I swear to God. Did you not even take frostbite into account?”

“Of course I did. That’s why I got out of there as quickly as I could. The sooner I got out, the sooner I could put the gloves and jacket on.” Explaining himself was tiring. Jim just wanted to relax a little, to stop having to talk about everything that had happened. He shifted against the biobed and tried to find a more comfortable position. His head rolled into the pillow sluggishly.

“Hey, hey, Jim.” Bones’s warm, rough hands were cradling his face. “I’m serious, you can’t fall asleep. Keep talking. What happened next?”

It was a chore to force his eyelids open, but he did. He tried to focus on Bones’s eyes, on the crease of his brow, the slightly parted lips. If he made a conscious effort to study Bones’s face, maybe he could keep himself awake. “The nearest Starfleet base was 8 miles away, so I started walking. I was… I can’t remember what I was doing. I think I was recording a log, when I heard this roar and these… footsteps in the snow. Have you ever heard a Drakoulias roar?” Jim could feel his voice getting weaker.

Bones shook his head no. “Tell me what it sounds like, Jim.”

“It’s like a mix of a whale call and a lion’s roar. I heard it over the snowstorm. And I saw it, big gnashing teeth and claws. It was charging at me, so I started running. And right as it was getting close, the ice beneath my feet erupted and a Hengrauggi exploded out of the snow. I fell over and when I did, I watched as the Hengrauggi caught the Drakoulias in its jaws and shook it around and then tossed it into a mountain.”

Bones’s eyes scrunched in confusion. “A mountain?”

“I guess it was more like a really tall ice spire. Anyway, after the Drakoulias was gone, the Hengrauggi decided that it wanted to go after me. So it chased me, I don’t really know for how long. I couldn’t see. Everything looked the same in the snowstorm, I didn’t see the cliff.”

Bones’s hold around Jim’s face became a little more firm and Bones brushed his thumb along Jim’s temple. “Jesus, Jim. Did you fall down a cliff?”

Jim nodded and his eyesight started to blur. “It was kind of sloped though, like a hill. I was tumbling more so than falling. But it still hurt. The ice on Delta Vega is sharp, like glass. I could feel myself getting scratched up.”

Bones leaned up to throw a glance at Spock. “Jim, is that how you scraped up your back?”

His back was scraped up? That made sense. That was probably why it felt so sticky when he was sitting in the captain’s chair earlier. Must have been blood. “Probably.” Movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and Jim regarded Spock as he came into view.

“How did you escape the Hengrauggi?” Spock asked softly. His fingers were curled at his sides, as though they were about to form fists.

“The Hengrauggi fell off of the cliff, too. But I got my feet under me before it did, so I was able to get into a cave where it couldn’t reach me. It did try, though. At one point its tongue lashed out and wrapped around my ankle.” Jim blinked with realization. “Oh. That was probably how I twisted it.”

Bones’s eyes widened. “Its tongue—!” He cut himself off and released Jim’s face, before rolling Jim’s right pant leg up. “Shit, Jim!”

“What?” Jim tried to lean onto his elbows, so he could see what was apparently on his leg. It was much more difficult than it should have been, but Jim eventually managed to sit up enough to see his ankle.

It was swollen and purple, covered in small scratches that had become raised and red. It looked really painful, but Jim couldn’t feel anything. He frowned at his foot and then at Bones. “What the hell?”

Bones was already going through his medkit. “You idiot. You idiot! Their tongues are covered in small barbs, that’s how they poison their prey! Why didn’t you tell me its tongue got you?”

Jim shook his head and took into account how pale Spock had gotten. “I couldn’t remember. It didn’t seem that important.”

Bones's face was getting increasingly red. “Okay. Okay. Was this the only instance where you got injected with something? No other Romulans stabbed you with a laced weapon or anything?”

Jim shook his head again, not quite finding the energy to voice his answer. He plopped back onto his pillow, heart hammering from overexertion, as Bones started talking again.

“If there are no other foreign substances in your system, then I'm going to start working on that antidote.” He pointed an accusing finger at Jim. “You focus on staying still and resting. Don't leave the bed this time, dumbass.”

Jim threw up a hand that was meant to signal okay, but it was a little too limp and was more of a tired flicking of fingers.

“And you!”

Jim squinted his eyes open to watch Bones address Spock. Was Bones about to start yelling at him?

“We're a little understaffed right now, so you're gonna help out.”

That was… a little unexpected. It had to be a good sign that Bones was asking for Spock’s help instead of kicking him out.

Spock raised his chin just enough to seem like he was conveying his readiness to participate. “What can I do, doctor?”

Bones’s finger swung over at Jim. “Watch him. I'm going to give you a damp washcloth to help his fever, and you're going to tell me if anything changes.”

Spock’s head tilted. Yesterday Jim would have found it really obnoxious, but this time it seemed kind of cute.

What the hell?

Jim closed his eyes, not wanting the fever to skew his perception of anything else.

“Doctor, why not use an antipyretic to combat the fever?” Spock asked.

“No way. I'm not putting anything into his body until I get that venom out. I don't want to deal with anymore burns.” Bones’s voice got softer as he turned away. “He's been through enough as it is.” As Bones stalked off, he pointed one more finger at Jim. “Don't think you're off the hook! When I get that venom out, you're gonna tell me everything that happened on the Narada.”

Chapter Text

It had been two hours since Spock was left to tend to the captain’s fever. It was 0200, most of the ship was long asleep, and the lights throughout sickbay had been dimmed.

The washcloth in Spock’s hand was cool and moist, and he kept it firmly in place against Kirk’s forehead. Kirk’s eyes had been slack since the doctor had left to work on the antidote, but the longer Spock watched him, the more he suspected Kirk wasn’t asleep.

For one, his breathing never seemed to even out. Of course, that fact could easily be attributed to the various amounts of damage that had been dealt to his throat and ribs. But, even despite that, all of his muscles seemed to remain tense. As though Kirk’s body just couldn’t let go of consciousness.

A nurse nearby dropped something metallic on the floor. Spock noted how Kirk’s eyelids and brow twitched in response to the auditory stimuli.

Kirk was not sleeping.

There was no reason for him not to. It was obvious that his body had been worked far past exhaustion and yet he remained awake. Was it voluntary? Perhaps his body was in so much pain that he could not properly succumb to sleep? The doctor hadn’t given him anesthetic, after all.

Either way, sitting so closely with a barely conscious Jim Kirk for an extended period of time was making Spock… uncomfortable.

He did not dislike Kirk. In fact, the opposite was becoming increasingly true. But that did not mean Spock was comfortable with being physically close to the man.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what it felt like to have his hands wrapped around James’s neck. The soft, hot flesh giving under the pressure of his palms, the firm tendons and the popping of his trachea.

Hesitantly and as delicately as he could, Spock wiped away new beads of sweat that had formed over Kirk’s face. He decided he should have a word with the doctor about Kirk’s pain. Spock draped the moist towel over Kirk’s forehead, careful not to jostle the captain too much, before getting up to locate the doctor.

He found Doctor McCoy in the CMO office, as was to be expected.

McCoy was sitting at his desk, a vast array of vials and dishes surrounding him. Spock stood silently in the doorway, not wanting to disturb the doctor and the work he was obviously engaged in.

After three minutes and nineteen seconds, McCoy finally looked up, his brows raising in mild surprise. “Spock.” His eyes darkened suddenly and he shot to his feet. “Is Jim all right?”

Spock raised a hand to placate the doctor’s unanticipated panic. “The captain is as well as is to be expected. However, after observing him I have surmised that despite his apparent exhaustion, the captain is still conscious.” The doctor’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though his expression remained concerned. Spock continued. “I understand that it is beneficial for a damaged human body to sleep, as it optimizes regenerative abilities. I believed it to be prudent that his inability to rest be brought to your attention.”

McCoy dragged a hand through his hair and sighed. “Damn it.” He glanced up at Spock. “Thanks for telling me. But, try not to worry about it. He’s never been able to sleep in sickbay.” Voice dropping, the doctor added, “I had hoped he was tired enough that the sickbay wouldn’t be a problem. Stubborn kid.”

Spock tilted his head. “It is Kirk’s choice not to sleep?”

McCoy shook his head, frowning. “No, it’s not voluntary.”

McCoy seemed… familiar with Kirk’s predicament, as though he had long grown used to the captain’s inability to find rest in sickbay. Spock wondered if Kirk was always like this, or if it was something he developed. The latter was more likely. Perhaps it was in response to a past traumatic event. Spock’s chest flushed with an unidentifiable emotion.

It was not uncommon for individuals to be agitated in areas or situations that bore likeness to moments of trauma. For Kirk to be agitated in sickbays to the point where his broken body couldn’t even find rest, regardless of how painful fighting his natural responses must be…  

Sickbays were meant to be spaces for safety and care. Kirk must have experienced something in a sickbay that contrasted greatly to the area’s purpose. The thought made Spock’s stomach tighten.

McCoy leaned his hands against his desk and stared at the surrounding vials. “There’s nothing we can really do right now to help him. At least,” he sat back down, resuming the work he had briefly abandoned. “Not until I finish this antidote.”

Spock stepped forward carefully. “Might I ask what it is that you are doing? Specifically?”

McCoy raised an eyebrow at him, but scooted his chair to the side anyway. “I’m trying to make an antidote that Jim won’t be allergic to.” He huffed. “It’s taken longer than I’d like. Most Hengrauggi antidotes have some sort of element that could be lethal to Jim, and I’m trying to work around that.”

Spock placed himself beside the doctor’s chair and leaned over his shoulder. “What in particular is troubling you?”

Without looking away from the vials laid before him, McCoy replied, “A cure for the hemotoxins. I’ve got everything else squared away, but in every anti hemotoxin I’ve found there have been ingredients that I just can’t put in Jim’s body. So,” the doctor leaned back, raising a brow at Spock. “I’ve been trying to formulate my own.”

Spock returned the raised eyebrow. “Have you concocted your own formulas for medicinal substances before?”

Bones scoffed. “Are you kidding? Where do you think the very specific anesthetic I use on Jim came from?”

The doctor devised the recipe himself? Spock had to admit that he was impressed.

Bones shook his head as he pulled a few PADDs closer. “They once tried to give me some kind of commendation for it. Instead of doing something so unnecessary, they should just make it available to the public. Can you believe hardly any research has been done in alternative medicine for those who are allergic to standard treatment? It shouldn’t be praiseworthy to look into additional ways to keep people alive when the usual methods fail.”

Spock could remember briefly seeing McCoy’s credentials. The man had published a few research papers regarding nonstandard medicine. Spock now wondered if they had been inspired by the doctor’s time with Kirk. “I must admit, doctor, I admire your contribution to medicinal chemistry.”

McCoy didn’t seem to hear Spock’s compliment and instead continued talking. “Too many doctors are too scared to think outside the box nowadays. Too reliant on work that’s already been done for them.” He started moving the vials around, in what seemed to be specific categories.  “Let me tell you, it’s been no easy feat keeping Jim alive.” He typed down a few notes, eyeing a nearby petri dish. “As far as I’m aware, no other medical professionals in Jim’s life have made any effort to accommodate his abnormal health needs.”

The thought appalled Spock. For doctors to be so flippant or noncommittal to their patient's needs was absolutely abhorrent. Spock felt a flare of hope that the medical practitioners had been fired, though part of him suspected that they never had been. He was suddenly very grateful that McCoy was such a committed doctor, and nothing short of a professional.

McCoy bit his lip and his scowl intensified. “They had no right to call themselves doctors. Goddamn Iowa.”

Just as Spock was about to respond, the doctor’s eyes widened and his arm shot out to grab a vial closer to the other side of the desk. Spock barely kept himself from jumping. “Doctor?”

Rather than answering, McCoy frantically eyed between the vial and his PADD, and mumbled, “I think I’ve got it.” He ran out from behind his desk and instead to his nearby shelf, multiple vials in hand. He started trying to cradle them in his arms as he took empty hypos from the shelf.

Spock took the vials from the doctor before he could drop any.

The doctor was undeterred and started talking. “I think I’ve got it,” he repeated. He rushed back over to his desk and began searching through the various chemicals that were laid out. “RB05. I almost completely forgot about it, it hasn’t had to be used in decades.”

Spock better situated the vials in his hold. “Is that not the medicine designed to enhance the human body’s production of erythrocytes?”

The doctor waved a hand in his direction. “Exactly. It was used primarily for diseases which inhibited the body’s red blood cell count, but it was not unheard of for it to be used to combat hemotoxins. That is, until they designed better antidotes for venoms, and nullified the need for medicines that targeted specific toxins.” The doctor grabbed a vial filled with a vibrant red substance that was teetering near the corner of the desk. “Here it is! Okay.”

McCoy placed one of his hypos on the desk and armed it with the RB05, before motioning for some of the vials that were still in Spock’s care.

As Spock handed over the intended vials as the doctor asked for them, McCoy continued. “The only problem with injecting Jim with RB05 is that it’s guaranteed to enhance the production of dendrotoxins in the Hengrauggi venom, despite the fact that it’ll kill everything else. Which means the amount of acetylcholine in Jim’s body is going to increase, so I’m going to have to combat that with anticholinergic at a dangerous amount. And I’m going to have to combat those effects with physostigmine, but the physostigmine is gonna make him swell up like a balloon in a matter of seconds, so that’s why I’m going to have a couple of hypos of leukocytes on hand. It’ll be easier to administer all of these individually, I'll want to deal with any complications as they arise.” He finally looked up at Spock, sweat dripping down his temple and all of the necessary hypos armed and ready.

His spirited rant in regards to his science was… fascinating.

McCoy swallowed roughly. “Will you be able to hold him down? He might start convulsing.”

McCoy’s stomach felt as though it were weighed down by the large fishing weights his grandfather used to use. He wished Jim could just be treated medically like anyone else. Not for the sake of convenience, but for Jim’s own well being.

Broken ribs were painful. Being poisoned was painful. Allergic reactions were painful. Having to suffer through the treatment for everything wrong with his body was undoubtedly agonizing. Which was why McCoy brought over his tray of hyposprays with great reluctance.

Standing next to Jim’s prone body (which was obviously still awake, Spock was right), dread wrenched a slimy grip around McCoy’s gut. He wished Jim could just be healthy, that he could just live his life without having to suffer so terribly and so frequently.

Bones removed the washcloth over Jim’s forehead and replaced it with his palm. Jim’s fever was still high, but it wasn’t too far from manageable. Jim blinked bleary, blue eyes open, and focused them unsteadily on Bones.

“Hey, kid,” McCoy whispered, rubbing his thumb over Jim’s heated skin in a comforting gesture. “How’re you doing?”

Jim closed his eyes and released an airy grunt through parted lips.

McCoy pet his hand through Jim’s hair. “Well, we’re gonna get that venom out of you so we can give you something to put you under. That way you can rest a little. All right?”

Jim didn’t respond, but Bones didn’t really expect him to. The exhaustion really should have been enough to knock the kid out.

Spock came around to the other side of Jim’s bed, hands clasped behind his back. He was watching Kirk solemnly. At least, that’s how McCoy interpreted the furrow of his brows.

McCoy exhaled slowly before addressing the Vulcan. “You ready to hold him in place?” Spock gave a nod and McCoy rubbed his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “All right, Jimmy. This isn’t going to be fun.” He offered no other pomp and circumstance before pressing the first hypo to Jim’s shoulder.

The administering of the antidote was quick but terrifying. Kirk’s heart had hammered and seized, his muscles had contracted and swelled. It only took six minutes and twelve seconds, but it felt like hours.

But Kirk’s breathing was finally starting to even out. His body was hot against Spock’s hands through the sweat soaked shirt, the various injections having thrown Kirk’s system into overdrive in a matter of seconds.

Spock felt spent.

For the past few minutes, watching the captain seize in his grasp was just as dismaying for the commander as when it had happened on the bridge.

Spock could barely refrain from massaging his palms into the worn, unconscious man’s shoulders. He felt the need to do something—anything—to ease Kirk as he came down from the brutal reactions to the antidote. He was grateful that the first injection knocked Kirk out. It meant he hadn’t felt as his own body convulsed and overheated.

McCoy sighed and Spock glanced up at him. Crinkles of stress had formed around his eyes, but there was a relaxed slope to his shoulders. Spock suspected he knew what the doctor was feeling.

Kirk’s body was successfully fighting the venom. James would heal, he would live.

“Spock.” The doctor stared down at Kirk, watched him breathe in and out a few times, before looking up. “Come with me.”

The doctor led him away from their unconscious captain and back into the CMO office, where McCoy leaned against his desk and crossed his arms. “First of all, I should say that you have been… helpful. And while I gotta be appreciative of any and all help I get, I also gotta let you know that it doesn’t make anything better.”

Spock did not react outwardly, though he did feel speckles of nervousness trickle through his fingers. He had a feeling he knew what the doctor was going to say.

McCoy knew his face was pulling into a scowl, but he felt no need to stop it.

He was angry. He was so angry. The Vulcan was just standing there, emotionless and passive.

“I’m talking about Kirk. What you did to him. What you let happen to him.” What I let happen to him. McCoy’s fist tightened around his sleeve. “The main reason I’ve been letting you hang around him while he’s like this, aside from the fact that he too is permitting it, is because I want you to see exactly what he’s going through. I want you to see the extent of damage you have caused, be it indirectly or otherwise.”

Heart clenching, the image of Jim being choked out against the bridge’s console flashing into his mind, McCoy continued. “And plenty of it was otherwise.”

Spock diverted his gaze towards the floor, in what McCoy guessed was the Vulcan equivalent of hanging his head.

Jim’s words from before came to mind. Don’t take it out on Spock.

Damn it. God damn it.

McCoy’s palm felt tingly, his grip around his sleeve so tight that the blood inside his hand had been forced elsewhere. “I want to make something very clear.”

Spock kept his eyes on the floor.

“Jim hasn’t had it easy.” That was the understatement of the millennium. “So you have to understand why I’m more than a little wary about you being around him.”

“I assure you, Doctor,” the Vulcan’s voice was reserved, but it sent Bones’s hackles rising. “I have no ill intentions towards the captain.”

Bones scoffed. “I’m sure you can imagine my skepticism after watching you strangle him. You can’t have missed the dark necklace of bruises he’s sporting now, have you?” Bones felt cold every time he saw them.

He hadn’t stepped in when Spock had attacked Jim. He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t done anything to help his friend. He didn’t even check Jim’s injuries after Spock had left. He had been too shocked to do more than throw snide, sarcastic remarks that Jim definitely hadn’t needed at the time. So really, Jim’s struggle to breathe was as much Bones’s fault as it was Spock’s.

At least Jim was finally stable.

“Doctor, as you are his primary care physician, I will keep my distance from the captain if you believe it would be better for his health.” Spock remained frozen stiff as he spoke, voice quiet and subdued. “I do not wish to cause him more harm.”

Bones’s scowl tightened. The Vulcan sounded genuine, which was inexplicably even more maddening. “Don’t avoid him. That would be worse. For reasons beyond me, he doesn’t seem to hate you and I think he would take your absence as a sign that he did something wrong.”

Spock finally looked up.

“Don’t make an active effort to avoid him.” Bones leaned up from his desk and stalked closer to Spock, continuing. “But don’t be careless with him. As far as I’m aware, there have been less than a handful of people that have ever had his well-being in mind, that have ever cared about him. You have already mistreated him enough in my personal opinion, Commander, and don’t think that I’ll just sit idly by next time. I’ve worked too damn hard to keep him alive for you to just toss him around like he’s nothing.”

McCoy was up in Spock’s face, his voice having hushed down to a harsh whisper, and he knew it was probably a dangerous position to be in. It was almost identical to Kirk’s when he had first baited Spock. McCoy hoped his confrontation wouldn’t end as badly, but if it did, he would deserve it. He had let so many things hurt Jim.

Spock just blinked at him steadily, almost sadly. “You are correct, Doctor. I have not behaved as a commander should, nor as a Vulcan should. The grief and pain that Kirk has suffered is my responsibility. I am not so naive as to think that I can properly atone for all I have done while in a position of power, but…” He cast his eyes downward. “I will not make the same mistakes twice.”

A hot huff of air blew from McCoy’s nostrils. “You better not.” He stepped out of Spock’s face and weary exhaustion weighed down on his shoulders. “You can leave now. Go back to the bridge or your quarters, or… wherever it is you need to be.”

Spock gave a curt nod and no eye contact, before he spun on his heel and approached the door.

Without really thinking twice about it, McCoy added, “I’ll let you know if anything changes here, but he should be fine now. In pain, but fine.”

Spock kept his back to the doctor, and after a tense moment gave another nod before walking out of sickbay.

Chapter Text

There was so much screaming.

The screaming, the screaming, the howls of children and the ringing in his ears and the thumping, thumping, thumping of bodies falling.

Smoke was rising, surrounding, it was so hot and so bare and it was so loud, so loud, it was too loud.

Hands, blood, screaming and screaming and he was running but he couldn’t escape, he was being grabbed, he was being held down, restrained, gagged, taken, tortured and touched and no matter how hard he fought it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough.

He wasn’t enough.

So many were dead, so many were dying, and he couldn’t help and he couldn’t heal and he couldn’t save anyone, not even himself, he was being dragged through the dirt and the dust and the blood and he was there, he was there he was there he was there It was Kodos It was Kodos Kodos Kodos KODOS KODOS—!!

Jim was torn from unconsciousness, fear bursting through his skin like fireworks. He sat up and his chest heaved, and he could hear alarms blaring in the surrounding air. His skin was shivering and tingling and his chest felt like it was melting.

A man— no, a doctor— appeared from around the corner, hands raised. The doctor was talking, approaching, and Jim realized that they were going to touch him no no no no he couldn’t let them touch him the doctors have already been touching him hurting him so much—

Jim threw a fist at the doctor’s face, every nerve in his body yelling at him to fight fight fight.

Spock had actually slept.

He hadn’t necessarily intended to, but once he had returned to his quarters after spending time near Kirk and Doctor McCoy, the exhaustion in his body demanded deeper rest than meditation could have provided.

He had definitely needed it. His muscles were more relaxed and he was more aware of his general surroundings. Whatever the day had in store for him, Spock felt as though he could manage it.

He walked down the corridors of the Enterprise, towards the mess hall. He wasn’t particularly hungry but he knew it would be illogical not to eat. He had not allowed himself a decent meal in an unnecessarily long amount of time.

There were a few gatherings of three or four people scattered at the tables in the mess hall, each talking amongst themselves before their respective shifts started.

Spock had just placed himself at the replicator, contemplating what food interested him, when a nearby medical officer shot to their feet.

Over the clattering of their pushed aside chair, Spock overheard their comm saying, “ We need all medical personnel in here, now! ”

An unwarranted surge of concern gripped Spock’s lungs. Medical. Was Jim—?

Before he had time to second guess himself, Spock hurried to follow the various medical officers out of the mess hall and towards sickbay.

Even before the sickbay entrance came into view, the sounds of equipment clattering and individuals shouting could be heard from down the corridor. Spock rounded into the medbay and was met with a horrifyingly distressing sight.

Three male nurses were trying to restrain Kirk, whose eyes were alight with panic and his skin sweaty and red. Two other nurses and a doctor were unconscious on the floor, numerous bruises and abrasions on their body suggesting Kirk was the one who took them down.

Spock’s chest felt tight, and he stood in the doorway momentarily unsure of what to do. His mind was warring between concern for those Kirk had already felled, and the one person who he wanted to see resting more than anyone else.

He could not understand what would warrant Kirk to attack the medics on his own ship, least of all to resist them. Surely, fighting them as he was would not only be futile but extremely detrimental to Kirk’s health. His nose was already bleeding.

Kirk threw his head back and cracked his skull into the male nurse who had him by the shoulder. The nurse’s cry as they fell to the ground was what finally pulled Spock out of his stupor.

Just as he was about to step forward to assist in containing the captain, a tight, worried shout reached Spock’s ears from down the hall. “Let me through! Let me get to him!”

Spock stepped aside as McCoy slid into the sickbay, dressed only in his slacks and black undershirt. It must have been all he was able to put on in his haste, Spock knew that it was the doctor’s shift to be sleeping. He was even barefoot.

“Get away from him!” McCoy yelled. “Let go of him, get back!”

The nurses scrambled away from Kirk, looking between the captain and Doctor McCoy frantically, as they dragged their unconscious coworkers elsewhere. “Doctor, he—!”

McCoy held up a hand to silence them, eyes fixed on the shaking, scowling captain. Kirk was backed up against the wall, fists raised and ready for attack, blue eyes unnervingly clear in agitation. The fight-or-flight signals coursing through Kirk’s body were distinctly visible in his tightly coiled muscles.

The room held its collective breath as McCoy stepped forward, hands raised. “It’s all right, Jimmy. It’s all right.” The doctor’s voice was calm and firm. “You’re hurt bad, kiddo. You need to let me help you.”

Kirk bared his teeth and the blood from his nostrils trickled over his lips. “I don’t need your help,” he hissed. The tremble of his voice matched that of his muscles, and Spock wondered if he was shivering from fear or pain. He looked every bit like a frightened animal.

The doctor’s face tightened at Kirk’s words, and Spock saw a brief flash of hurt in his eyes. He wondered belatedly if McCoy had ever before seen Kirk display this sort of behavior. As that thought passed through, another one came to mind.

Jim, once he returned to himself, would be appalled to learn that others under his command had witnessed him in this situation. Spock recalled the doctor telling him the day before that it was only by Kirk’s permission that he had been observing the captain in his weakened state.

Spock stepped forward—Kirk shot him a heated glare, completely devoid of recognition—and grasped the privacy curtain. As he pulled it closed, allowing the doctor and Kirk the privacy they needed, McCoy spared him a grateful glance over his shoulder.

Spock placed himself on the other side of the curtain, instructed the other medical professionals to assist those who had been harmed or otherwise return to what they were doing, and stayed alert in case McCoy should require assistance in managing Kirk.

McCoy watched Jim pant warily. He had never seen Jim like this, not in the three years they had known each other. And he had thought that he'd seen almost every side of Jim.

But this… this level of fear and distress was something McCoy never would have attributed to James Kirk. His blue eyes were practically glowing with unchecked panic and the mix of defensive and offensive body language he was displaying was downright primal.

McCoy stepped forward slowly, mindful of any signs that Jim might strike. Jim had been the aid in the hand to hand combat class at the academy, McCoy had no doubt that the kid could get him on the ground in seconds. Especially with the amount of adrenaline that was surely rushing through his system. He'd rather not have Jim worsen his injuries more than he already had, his broken hand and nose swollen from the altercation he'd had with the other doctors.

A few more tentative steps closer and then Jim let out an actual growl.

McCoy froze. “Relax, Jim. I'm not going to hurt you.”

Jim shook harder. “That’s what you said before. ”

What?

McCoy took a harder look at Jim, and realized that his eyelids were brimming with unshed tears. The position he was in was really more defensive than anything. His breathing was labored and a little wheezy. And he was shaking so much. He looked so scared and childlike.

Post-traumatic stress. Jim was experiencing a PTSD induced episode. McCoy’s heart swelled in protective pain for his friend and he tried to soften his features.

For whatever reason, Jim’s mind had thrown him back into a traumatic moment in his life, most likely one that took place in a sickbay. Maybe this was why he never wanted to fall asleep in sickbays.

McCoy tried to approach Jim again. “It’s all right, Jim. It's all right. You're safe.”

Jim’s unseeing, panic fueled eyes bored into his. He didn’t recognize McCoy, he was seeing someone else, someone from the past.

It made McCoy’s heart ache. “It’s me. It’s Bones. Jim, darlin’, it's all right. It's just me.”

He reached forward, intending to grab hold of Jim’s wrist, but Jim reacted before he could. A hard fist slammed itself into Bones’s cheek, and he felt as the fingers broke more against his face.

Damn it.

Hot hands grabbed McCoy by the shoulders before he could recover from the punch and they pushed him back. His knees knocked into what had been Jim’s biobed and he fell onto it, Jim toppling on top of him.

Jim raised his fists to deliver more punches, but McCoy was able to grab them before they made contact, Jim’s damaged body much more sluggish than usual.

Now that he had Jim subdued above him, Bones tried to get his attention. “Jim! It's Bones! Calm down, it's just me. It’s just Bones. I'm not going to hurt you Jimmy, I'm not going to hurt you.”

Jim gasped for air atop him, their chests pressed against one another as their lungs struggled for decent breaths. Jim blinked frantically, his attention focused on Bones’s face, and finally some recognition bled into his beautiful baby blues. “Bones?” His voice was uncharacteristically subdued and shaky.

Bones had never wanted to hold him so bad. “I’m here, darlin’. I'm here. It's all right.”

Tears started to drip onto McCoy’s face from Jim’s eyes. Pure, fearful worry exploded through McCoy’s chest. He had only seen Kirk cry a few times, and it was never so up close and intimate.

Jim’s fingers tightened around Bones’s. “Bones,” he sobbed, sounding absolutely broken.

Bones didn’t hesitate to release Jim’s hands so he could better pull the man close. He cradled Jim against his chest, hand pressed against the back of his head protectively. Jim cried silently into his neck.

“Shhh, sweetheart.” He laid on his accent a little thicker than usual. In the past he had found that his southern drawl seemed to comfort his more distressed patients, and Jim definitely seemed like he could use some comfort. “It’s okay, darlin’. It's okay. I've got you.”

Jim’s fingers tangled into Bones’s black shirt as quiet sobs wracked his body.

Bones felt completely overcome with heated protectiveness he hadn’t experienced since Joanna was born. He wanted to squeeze Jim closer, to shield him from everything this world wanted to throw his way, but it would hurt the kid’s ribs to be held any tighter.

Jim felt as though he were being weighed down by water. His body felt heavy and foreign, and he highly doubted he would be able to lift his arms if he was asked.

He was just so exhausted. He was in so much pain.

Bones’s warm hand was spread across Jim’s back and it moved in slow, gentle circles. Jim, his eyes wet and gummy, blinked slowly against Bones’s neck. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been crying, or how long it had been since he’d stopped. All he knew was that he was still tucked against Bones’s chest and that Bones hadn’t said anything yet.

He was just holding him.

Jim didn’t know how to feel about it. On one hand, there was the fear that was licking at the back of Kirk’s skull, having been born from Jim being misused so much and so often. He was itching with uncertainty, anticipating Bones’s hands to start to wander or for it to be a dream or for just something to go wrong.

On the other hand…

Jim hadn’t been held in so long. Not when the other person didn’t have ulterior motives. It made him feel small and safe, and safe was something he rarely ever felt. Bones’s warm, steady hand was like an anchor. The more Jim focused on it, the easier it was to keep the dust of Tarsus in the darkest recesses of his memories.

Tarsus.

When he had woken up, Jim had thought he was… He had thought he was with Kodos’s medical team again. With the men that he had bribed so much of himself to in exchange for medical supplies. He had known he was pretty, and he had known that a pretty face had been hard to come by then. He had had to use all of his assets where he could, but…

As Bones’s hand moved carefully over Jim’s back, he couldn’t shake the feeling of colder, rougher, dirtier hands ghosting elsewhere.

He gripped Bones’s shirt tighter as a shudder tore through him and he only realized he had whimpered after Bones froze.

“Jim?” Bones’s voice was quiet and unsure.

Jim tried to bury himself in the heat of his friend’s neck. He didn’t know if he had the strength to talk. He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to be able to rest, for once in his life. He just didn’t want to even think.

“Make it go away.” The whimpering plea passed Jim's lips before he had even thought about it.

Bones’s other hand came up to pet his hair. “Make what go away, sweetheart? What do you need?”

Jim wanted to cry. Bones’s use of the term of endearment made his heart clench painfully. He dragged his nails against the back of Bones’s shirt. “Bones…”

Bones’s fingers massaged his scalp softly. “Jim, what can I do? Talk to me, darlin’.”

Oh, God, there it was. Darlin’. Jim could feel the tears building against his burning, aching eyelids.

His breath had caught the first time he had heard Bones use that term while tending to an injured child, back when Bones had shifts at the Starfleet Hospital. Jim had gone in to bring Bones his forgotten dinner, and found the doctor cooing over a crying little boy with a broken arm. The image was burned into his brain and Jim had longed to be treated with such gentle care, having hardly known a gentle touch in his life.

While he yearned to be cared for, he also knew that he didn’t deserve to be spoken so sweetly to. He had done too much, seen too much, hurt too much. Bones’s hand was still warm against his back. The urge to run started to build in his chest, the territory that he and Bones were treading in too unfamiliar and too close and too loving.

Jim couldn’t stomach it.

The situation he was in was just too much. Uncontrollable fear started to boil in the roots of his lungs, hindering any breaths Jim was trying to draw. The shivers were returning. Bones grabbed Jim by his upper arms and pulled him up, so they were face to face.

“Hey, hey, Jim,” the surly doctor soothed as he cradled Jim’s face. “Jimmy, it’s okay. Breathe, kid. Try to breathe.”

Beyond the muddling of tears in his vision and how light headed his trembling breaths made him, Jim observed the concerned hazel eyes that stared back into his. He placed his fingers helplessly around Bones’s wrists.

Bones's expression looked so torn. “Christ, your face is still covered in blood,” the doctor whispered.

Rough thumbs rubbed over Jim’s cheeks, and he felt as moisture was smeared over his skin. But he wasn’t sure if the wetness was blood or tears. His tired eyelids closed at Bones’s touch and he focused on the sensation. Bones was too good to him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Jim opened his eyes to Bones’s, and released an airy, “Fuck, no.”

Bones frowned solemnly, but didn’t press. Jim was dizzyingly grateful. This was a little more familiar. Bones asking questions, Jim dodging, and Bones giving him space. This he knew. This he could handle.

Jim swallowed roughly around his pained, torn throat. “I’m sorry for beating up your medics,” Jim croaked.

Bones gave him a hesitant, but not insincere smile. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t think they’ll hold it against you.” He gave Jim a familiar frown, one that wasn’t disappointed or judgmental. “Just don’t pull a stunt like that in my sickbay again.”

Jim closed his eyes and gave a tired, lopsided smile. “Don’t keep me in this sickbay again.”

Bones didn’t reply right away. He must have heard the underlying earnestness in Jim’s words. “C’mon, Jim,” he said instead. He released Jim’s face and sat up, and helped Jim into an upright position.

The movement pulsated pain through his ribs but Jim held back a groan. He had been weak in front of Bones enough for one day.

McCoy got off of the bed and went to a nearby sink, where he dampened a washcloth with warm water. He came back and raised his hand to wipe the towel against Jim’s face and Jim couldn’t help but flinch.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Bones told him quietly. Jim didn’t like the sound of his voice. He kept his eyes down as the doctor wiped the warm towel over his face. Bones held his chin and tilted it to better wipe at the blood and Jim let him.

It felt strange. He didn’t feel like himself. He felt like something a little more hollow, a little more pliant. Bones must have noticed because he soon stopped.

“Jim, are you sure you’re okay?” He sounded worried.

Jim wanted nothing more than to keep his mouth shut and his eyes unfocused, but if he were to start distancing himself now, it would make Bones even more concerned. More concern equaled more attention Jim didn’t want to deal with.

He looked up into Bones’s eyes and gave a small smile, and tried his hardest to make it seem genuine. “I’m okay. Just tired.”

Bones seemed unconvinced, but again he didn’t press. He removed the towel and ruffled Jim’s hair. “I’ll bet you are. You’re healing slower than usual.”

Jim shrugged his left shoulder, his right shoulder in too much pain to move. “The last few days have been kind of long.”

Bones snorted. “That’s an understatement.” He reached forward to touch Jim’s elbow and tugged gently. “Come on, let’s go to my office. We still need to talk about the Narada.”

Jim nodded numbly. The Narada. He could probably talk about that. It would be easier to talk about that than everything else that had happened. Jim slid off of the bed and onto his feet, but had to use the edge of the bed to keep himself upright when his knees gave out. He didn’t even fall, but Bones still noticed.

McCoy grunted. “Okay, let’s take the bed with us.”

Do what?

Bones released Jim’s arm and stalked around to the head of the bed, where he unplugged it from the wall so it was left floating and mobile. Bones started to push it towards the curtain. “Do you wanna get on or just hold on?”

Jim released the bed and willed himself not to crumple, though gravity and his body were trying to work against him. “Neither.”

Bones sighed. “Jim, you don’t have enough energy to walk to my office without help. I don’t want you passing out on the floor of my sickbay.”

“I’m not going to pass out,” Jim scoffed.

Bones gave him a skeptical glare. “Right, and I’m the Queen of Georgia.”

Jim exhaled slowly. “Bones, can you just…” He stared at the biobed and gestured at it limply. “I don’t want them to...” See how pathetic I am, but he couldn’t get the words out. He knew the nurses probably wouldn’t care, hell, as medical professionals they were bound to see everybody at their worst, but…

McCoy was really the only doctor he could trust. Especially with himself.

Bones didn’t respond, but he seemed to have gotten the message anyway when he sighed and came around to Jim’s front. “All right,” he said. “I’ll take the bed in there first and then I’ll come back for you. Fair?”

He didn’t like having to rely on Bones, but Jim could feel that he wasn’t going to have much more of a choice. He gave a tentative nod.

Without another word on the matter, Bones took the bed and pushed it past the privacy curtain.

As soon as the curtain was moved away, Spock’s stiff, attentive shoulders came into view. The Vulcan turned, apparently reacting to the movement of the doctor and the biobed, but his eyes locked onto Jim’s almost immediately.

Jim’s stomach flipped and his pulse pounded through his ears. “Spock,” he whispered.

Spock blinked at him and eyed the doctor as he passed, before stepping forward to assess Jim. “Captain. Are you all right?”

Hell, no. He was so far from all right. He knew that he had had an episode when he had woken up, but he couldn’t remember all of the details (aside from fighting the nurses) and he wasn’t willing to ask Bones everything. Had Spock…

Did Spock see him when he was like that?

He swallowed and his throat contracted painfully. He hoped Spock hadn’t seen him. Older Spock had promised that the two of them would become friends, and he didn’t want their chances of friendship to be ruined so soon because of Jim being so broken.

Instead of answering the science officer’s question, Jim asked, “How long have you been here?”

Spock hesitated. “Thirty two minutes and fourteen seconds.”

It was very probable for his episode to have lasted that long. A sour feeling was rolling against his ribs. “Did you see…?”

Spock stared at him for a few, dragging seconds, until he finally replied, “I have not seen anything in the past thirty two minutes and fifty seconds that would need to be discussed.”

He was lying. Spock had definitely seen Jim attack the others. Jim searched the Vulcan’s eyes desperately, trying to find some hint that Spock was appalled with him or was going to report him. But, he didn’t know the Vulcan well enough yet to be able to read him.

Jim’s hands were shaking slightly. The past half hour or so had thrown him so far out of his depth.

Spock’s lips parted and Jim’s eyes honed in on them, watched them move as Spock asked, “Captain, are you well?”

No, Jim wanted to yell. No, I’m really, really not.

But, it wouldn’t do to admit to his shortcomings. Jim really wanted to keep up the picture of enduring strength, to assure everyone around him that nothing could take him down and that he would always be all right.

He would always be all right.

Jim closed his eyes for a brief moment and breathed as deep as he could, and actively ignored the pain that it still elicited. He met Spock’s gaze and was determined not to look away. “I’m getting there,” he mumbled, before offering a small smile.

Spock’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, in what Jim was hesitant to interpret as relief.

“Do you require anything, Captain?” Spock’s voice was so soft.

Jim pressed his lips together in thought. He didn’t want to trouble anyone, least of all Spock, but he hadn’t missed how close the Vulcan had stayed to him in the past few days. He knew Spock felt guilty for everything that had happened and wanted to help.

It was just so difficult for Jim to accept help when it was offered. Especially when it came to his own well-being. Giving help was one thing, but receiving it…

Jim wasn’t used to such a thing.

Spock was watching him expectantly and Jim ran his tongue against his dry lips, and was interested to note how Spock’s eyes followed the movement. “Do you think you could help me to Bones’s office?”

Spock’s head tilted in what must have been major surprise.

Jim was quick to amend what he said. “I mean—You don’t have to touch me or anything. It’s just that, I’m a little dizzy and there’s a chance I might lose my footing when I walk over there. It would just be nice to have a spotter, is all I’m saying. You won’t have to touch me.”

“It would be of no inconvenience to assist you, Jim.”

Jim. He called him by his first name. Something warm and tingly blossomed through Jim’s chest, a stark contrast to the cold fear and uncertainty that had been growing stagnant inside of him. Jim gave Spock a tentative smirk. “Thanks.”

Chapter Text

McCoy watched, eyebrow raised, as Jim and Spock slowly made their way across sickbay. He was tempted to just go over and carry Jim the rest of the way to his office. But Jim would hate it if McCoy didn’t give him the chance to walk by himself—regardless of the fact that Jim shouldn’t have been walking by himself yet anyway.

But, even if Jim’s insistence for independence wasn’t a factor…

It seemed like Jim and the Vulcan needed this moment together.

Spock was keeping one arm close to Jim, but not quite touching. Just something for Jim to fall back on should the need arise. Which was good, because Jim was noticeably limping. McCoy remembered the deep bruises that were on the kid's hips. Just moving around had to be hurting him, so it was a good thing Spock was there and obviously at the ready to help. In addition to their physical closeness, they were talking softly to each other. Too softly for McCoy to hear, but they were talking.

Spock’s eyes were almost… gentle. The steps he was taking with Jim were carefully measured, and there was no sign of him growing impatient with the gradual pace at which they were moving.

Something confusingly tight twisted in McCoy’s chest. Maybe Spock had really taken McCoy’s words from before to heart. Maybe he did want to make amends with Jim.

McCoy couldn’t help but hope to God that everything Spock had been doing really was with Jim’s best interest in mind. It wouldn’t hurt for someone else to care about the kid, Lord only knew he needed it.

And Lord only knew he wanted it.

The looks Jim was giving Spock were borderline nervous. Not nervous like ‘I’m talking to the cutest girl in school right now and I’m afraid she might reject me’, but nervous like ‘if I say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing then everything will be ruined and everyone will leave’. The expression didn’t suit Jim at all. He really did want the Vulcan’s approval.

Hell, it looked like he wanted the Vulcan’s friendship.

McCoy ran a hand over his face, and winced at the ache that pulsated through his cheek from Jim’s earlier punch. He was hoping Spock and Jim would actually be able to find equal footing between them. They had had such a rocky start and a tumultuous middle, but Bones had heard the passing rumors of how well the two of them worked in action.

For Jim’s sake, McCoy hoped the two of them could actually get along. Jim needed more people he could be close with. And Spock had already been seeing Jim at his worst and weakest, and he still hadn’t quite left Jim’s side. Neither had Jim been asking him to.

McCoy didn’t know much about Vulcans, and he wasn’t sure if Spock’s presence was due solely to a fascination in the anomaly that was James Kirk, but McCoy was also confident that if any human could befriend a Vulcan, it would be Jim.

Regardless of the potential for friendship, McCoy frowned as he watched them interact. He watched Jim’s body language, guarded and stilted, and thought back on the episode Jim was just barely coming out of.

Jim was much more emotionally fragile than McCoy had ever seen at the academy. He was sure that a large part of it could be blamed on witnessing the destruction of an entire planet, confronting the men responsible for killing his father, probably could even be blamed on having to be responsible for the fate of Earth. Not to mention being thrown into the position of Captain while being nothing more than a cadet.

And that was just the stuff McCoy was aware of having happened to Jim.

He was sure that there were other things Jim was going through that he had no clue about. For God’s sake, he had had no idea how much of a nightmare Delta Vega had actually been.

And if all of that stuff wasn’t enough for the kid to be going through, the abuse from Jim’s past that McCoy had only seen brief glimpses of at the academy was rearing its ugly head full force. Why now? Jim had gone through literal hell keeping everyone alive, and the kid’s brain decided now would be a good time to remind him of whatever shit he had experienced before entering Starfleet.

What the fuck was up with that?

“Bones, are you okay? Your face is all red.” Jim and Spock were standing in the doorway and McCoy realized he was just glaring at the both of them.

He blinked frantically and addressed Jim. “Yeah, kid, I’m fine.” He licked his lips and motioned Jim over to the bed. “But you’re not. I graciously let you drag your barely functioning body over here, but now I’m taking the reins back. Lie down and just stop moving for a while, Jim.”

Jim shuffled over slowly, Spock right behind him, and the bruised, bloodied blond muttered, “I always thought you taking me to bed would be so much more sensual.”

Bones snorted, a little relieved to see that Jim was still able to joke. “Well, you haven’t bought me dinner yet, so sorry if my bedroom talk is a little rougher than it would be normally.” He helped Jim situate himself onto the bed, and the kid’s lack of protest told McCoy exactly how much pain and exhaustion Jim was really experiencing. “Just lay back.” He ran his hand over the kid’s forehead and Jim’s eyelids fluttered.

“So, you wanted to talk about the Narada?” Jim croaked around his abused throat. He glanced over at Spock. “Is that why you’re in here too? Gotta debrief me?”

Spock stood straighter. “While it was not my sole intention to gather information upon coming here, hearing what events transpired on the Narada will be useful for filing the briefing reports later.”

Jim blinked lazily and his tongue dabbed at his lips, before he nodded. “‘Kay.” He brought a hand up to cover his eyes, though his palm mostly just smacked against his already bruised face. Jim’s eyelids scrunched up in that way that they did when he was slightly bothered, and he let out a low grunt. “Mmph. Okay, Narada. Where d’you guys want me to start?”

Bones crossed his arms over his chest. “The moment you got on the ship. Unlike Spock here, I wasn’t with you and so I have no idea what went on down there. It’d be nice to know the specifics of how you saved all our asses.”

“Well…” Jim coughed. His breath sounded tight and wheezy.

Bones grabbed a hypo to bring down the inflammation of Jim’s throat before he started talking.

Jim winced when he stabbed him, but didn’t make a fuss otherwise. Damn kid was really tired. Jim rubbed limp fingers against his neck and started again. “The plan was for Scotty to beam us into the cargo bay. But unfortunately that's not what happened. I don't really know what part of the ship he beamed us into, but there were Romulans everywhere.”

What the hell? “You guys got thrown into combat immediately?”

Jim nodded. Bones sighed and ran a hand over his face. Why couldn't the kid catch a break? He was only two sentences into the story, and Bones already felt like he couldn’t handle this. Reluctantly, he said, “What next?”

“I stunned one of the Romulans and Spock was able to do a…” A strange look passed over Jim’s eyes before he continued. “A mind meld.”

Bones frowned and glanced at Spock. Something about the way Jim said ‘mind meld’ made Bones wonder… No. Spock wouldn't meld with Jim. As a doctor, Bones knew how dangerous mind melds could be, especially if the one initiating it was emotionally compromised.

He knew for a fact Spock wasn’t the most emotionally stable at the moment. But Spock seemed logical enough to know better than to initiate a meld with someone he was working with. Spock was also giving Jim a mildly concerned look. Or maybe it was confusion. Bones had such a hard time reading the stuck up species. Either way, it didn’t seem like Spock had done anything to Jim.

McCoy stared at Kirk, and decided that he would have to ask Jim for the specifics later. It was obvious he wasn’t telling them everything that had happened. “Then what?” he prompted.

Jim released a few short, rattling coughs. “Spock and I found this, uh… ship from the future. In the hangar.”

Wait, what?

“It recognized my voice,” Spock interjected. “I theorize that it came back in time with Nero. He must have retrieved it from… my future self. Though I am not entirely sure what became of my future self.” Spock got quiet at the end of his sentence.

“I’m sure you’re fine,” Jim mumbled suddenly. “Your future self, I mean.” He watched Spock from under the arm he had draped over his face. Only one eye was open, and even then just barely. “You’re a tough guy, Spock,” he whispered. “I’m sure that’s not likely to change, no matter how old you get. The you from the future is probably fine.”

Jim’s voice, though weak, was confident. Bones knew there was no way to be sure of anything from an alternate future, but this was a moment that Bones appreciated Jim’s unreasonable amount of self-assuredness. It seemed as though Spock could need it.

“An illogical assumption, as there is no way to determine—”

Jim shook his head to interrupt the Vulcan’s predictable rebuttal of logic. “Spock, Spock. It’s all right, I wouldn’t worry about it.” Spock opened his mouth to argue further, but Jim cut him off. “Trust me.”

When Jim used that tone, there really was no arguing with him. McCoy raised an amused eyebrow at Spock’s perturbed silence.

His silence didn’t last long, though. “Captain—”

McCoy sighed. “Spock.” The Vulcan glanced at him and McCoy shook his head in warning. “I wouldn’t argue with him. Just…” He motioned at the two of them. “Continue with your story.”

After a beat, Jim nodded. “Well, uh, Spock stayed on the ship and flew it out. To, um,” he coughed again. “To take out the drill?”

Spock inclined his head. “Affirmative.”

Jim nodded back. “Right. While he was doing that, I went to go look for Pike. But, uh, before I found him…” Jim closed his eyes and grinned. “You guys aren’t gonna like this part.”

Oh, no. Bones knew that grin. That was his ‘I got so hurt that it’s almost funny to me’ grin. McCoy could feel his muscles coiling into knots in preparation for whatever Jim was about to say.

“I ran into Nero first.”

A shiver ran down Spock’s skin.

Kirk’s smile was beyond unnerving. Nothing about it seemed happy, and the words that had just passed his lips brought nothing but a burning, terrifying vice around Spock’s lungs.

He had encountered Nero? James Kirk, the man whose father had been killed and turned into an icon of heroism, came face to face with his father’s murderer ?

“Jesus, Jim.” The doctor’s voice was breathless and laced with emotion. “Are you serious?”

Kirk coughed again, and the sound of it made Spock’s own breaths feel labored. “Yeah. Why would I joke about this?”

The doctor’s hands were running through his own hair. Spock was starting to suspect it was a nervous tic, one that manifested whenever Kirk’s health was being discussed. “Did he do anything to you?” McCoy asked, voice strained.

The grin formed on Kirk’s face again, and with it came a rasping chuckle. Was James delirious? “I had my phaser on him, because he was kinda far away and I thought I could... I dunno… I thought I was gonna be able to apprehend him or something. While I was distracted with keeping an eye on him, his first officer got me in the head with their staff.”

Spock’s fingers twitched. He wished he could twist his shirt in his hands, or run his hands through his hair or down his face. He couldn’t believe how prone to trouble Jim Kirk was.

Not only had he faced off Nero on his own, but apparently Nero’s first officer as well.

“Christ,” McCoy hissed. “Jesus Christ. Is that how you got that bump on your head?”

Kirk blinked in what seemed to be a replacement for a shrug. “Must have been.”

McCoy covered his face with his hands. “My God, man.” He sucked in a sharp breath, and his next words were so hesitant it was as though they were being forcibly drawn from the doctor’s mouth. “What did they do to you?”

Kirk closed his eyes and licked his lips, and a small curve still graced the edges of his mouth. “Nero came over and he… well, we started fighting.” Another hysterical laugh bubbled out of Kirk’s chest. “Actually, I don’t know if you could call it a fight. I like to think I got a few hits in, but my body just wasn’t working anymore. I was still… recovering.”

From when Spock had attacked him. Kirk didn’t have to say it. Spock knew.

Kirk’s breaths were scratchy. “I felt so sluggish and tired. Nero had no problem getting me on the ground.”

The doctor released a high-pitched sound of disbelief, and when Spock glanced at him, he noticed McCoy’s face had reddened and a vein was pulsing thinly on his neck.

Kirk continued. “Spock, I don’t wanna put you on the spot or anything, but… all I gotta say is, thanks for not using two hands to strangle me.”

Spock’s heart stuttered with a surge of panic. Kirk couldn’t possibly be insinuating—? “Captain, did Nero strangle you?” His own voice sounded strange, a little far away and fragile. “With two hands?”

“Yeah, he said—” Kirk cut himself off to cough, the rasp in his breaths suddenly so much more acute to Spock’s ears. “He said that, where he was from, I was a great man. But… but that that was another life, one he was gonna deprive me of. Those were his exact words.”

“Fuck, Jim. You mean to tell me,” the doctor’s voice shook and he took a deep breath. “You got strangled by not one, but two humanoid aliens with super strength?”

Kirk grinned again and shook his head, before holding up three fingers.

Spock forgot how to breathe. Kirk had been strangled thrice?

“Holy shit. You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me, Jim—!” The doctor’s eyes were wide as he stared at James, expression twisted into distraught concern. He leaned both hands on his desk and stared at the floor, away from their captain. “I’m gonna have a fuckin’ aneurysm,” he hissed.

Spock’s muscles were tingling with wound up emotion. He was… angry—no, furious, that this illogical human had had to face off against two dangerous Romulans, the most dangerous Romulans in Starfleet history, by himself. And they had tried to kill him with their bare hands, after implying that he was a good—a great man. Spock couldn’t understand why the thought was so distressing, why he felt so strong an urge to protect Jim, to ensure nothing like this could ever happen to him again.

The doctor suddenly pointed a finger at Spock, though his eyes were trained on Kirk. “I thought that he—I thought that the bruises on your body and neck were all Spock’s fault!”

Spock couldn’t even be offended. He had thought the same.

Kirk blinked at them and the smile finally slipped away. “What?” he asked, voice tight and tinny. “You thought Spock did all this?”

“We did not know you had encountered Nero,” Spock said, the words inexplicably difficult to get out. “As far as we were aware, I was the only one that had laid his hands on you.”

“God—no!” Kirk’s eyes tightened with agitation. “No, of course you didn’t do this! I mean, you’re definitely strong, but… God, no, Spock. This isn’t your fault.” Kirk tried to sit up, but he winced and his hand fell to cradle the ribs on his right side. “Spock,” he gasped, “this really isn’t your fault.”

Spock had difficulty believing that. Based on the doctor’s ragged breaths, so did he.

Kirk’s eyelids shut in pain, and he hung his head. “Honestly, Spock… If it wasn’t for you, Nero would have killed me.”

What? How? “I do not understand how you came to this conclusion.”

“Because—” Kirk was interrupted by more coughs and he hunched over himself. His ribs were obviously bothering him.

The doctor seemed to have thought the same, because he took James by the arm and slowly coaxed him into an upright position. Spock heard McCoy whisper, “try not to curl up, keep your rib cage straight.”

Kirk nodded feebly before glancing back up at Spock. “Nero was choking me,” Kirk repeated, and Spock’s heart clenched as tight as it had the first time he learned of this fact. “He was trying to kill me. He would have killed me. But you took out the drill, and he just… I guess he felt that was more important.” Kirk cracked a lopsided, grateful smile. “So, thanks for that.”

An unidentifiable feeling washed over Spock. It was akin to relief and… something else. It was abhorrent that Kirk had been held under hostile hands twice in a short amount of time— no, Kirk had said he had been strangled three times. Spock didn’t want to believe it. But, even so, Spock could feel nothing but relief at having inadvertently saved Kirk from Nero’s wrath.

Nero had already taken everything from Spock. At least he was able to keep him from taking James Kirk, too.

Kirk hacked weakly into his hand before rubbing at his discolored neck. “Nero released me and ran off to deal with you. You saved me from a…” Kirk trailed off and a mischievous grin graced his lips. “A ‘Nero death experience’.”

The doctor released a long sigh, long enough to make up for the exhale of air Spock did not release, though he wished he could. This was not the time for such a joke.

Kirk eyed their lack of reaction, and seemed to realize that neither of his officers were in the mood. He cleared his throat again. “So, Nero left. But, like… his first officer stuck around. To finish what Nero had started, I guess.”

McCoy was running a hand over Kirk’s back, presumably to help with the captain’s breathing. However, Spock suspected it was as much for the doctor’s benefit as it was for Kirk’s. McCoy was looking at the battered blond as though he were simultaneously apoplectic with Jim’s tendency to get hurt and awestruck and grateful that he was still there and alive.

“I tried to get away. And the ship—it was designed really strangely. Gigantic, open hangar bays everywhere, with precarious platforms as basically the only footholds. There weren’t even any railings. It’s like you were constantly one step away from falling over a hundred or so feet.” Kirk glanced at the doctor with reddened eyes and raised his brows tiredly. “You would have hated it.”

McCoy snorted in an almost reassuring manner. “I’m sure.” He rubbed his palm across Kirk’s shoulders and Spock watched as the captain swayed pliantly with the movement.

He wished James could rest. But, he knew it would be easier for him to rest if they could finish discussing the Narada. As soon as Kirk had nothing that required his attention or presence, he would be able to truly relax.

But that wouldn’t be an option until they finished debriefing. Spock decided he could handle all of the remaining paperwork, he just needed to know the details from Kirk firsthand. “What did Nero’s first officer do?” Spock asked, anxious to end the discussion soon so James could leave sickbay and sleep properly.

Kirk picked at the coverings of the biobed with his good hand. “I tried to get away from them so I could find Pike. And so I—I jumped off of the platform Nero had left me on and tried to land on another platform that was lower and… I was so tired, my calculations were a little off and my body was barely working, and I almost missed the platform completely.”

McCoy sucked in a sharp breath through his nostrils and closed his eyes, evidently straining to retain his control. Spock was starting to understand the stress lines around the doctor’s face. Kirk’s knack for injury and danger was disconcerting and definitely worrying.

Kirk licked at his plump, pink lips and cracked another smile. He released a short laugh. “I hit the platform hip first and slammed my chest on the concrete—or whatever it was the platform was made out of.”

McCoy cast his eyes towards the ceiling. “So that’s how you got those bruises on your hips.” Kirk gave an aborted half shrug and the doctor sighed. “God help me.”

Kirk raised a hand to apparently pat the doctor, except his hand only managed to brush against McCoy’s chest half heartedly. “Hang in there, Bones. I’m not done yet.” Without waiting for the doctor’s reply, Kirk continued. “Anyway, I smacked into the platform and it knocked all the air outta me. It’s a miracle I managed to hold on at all, I was mostly dangling in open air.”

The image was horrific. “How did you manage to pull yourself up?” Spock asked.

Kirk’s definitely-not-happy smile fit itself back into place on his face. “I didn’t. Nero’s first officer jumped to the same platform, but he was stronger than me and landed steadily, on both feet. He leaned over me and—heh, here’s where strangulation number three comes in.” Spock’s stomach curled with heated emotion. “He leaned down and wrapped one hand around my neck and—with no problem at all—was able to lift me up so we were face to face.” Kirk’s smile faltered and his eyes grew distant. “I couldn’t breathe. He was taunting me, and I was sure he was going to drop me into the hangar at any second. But, luckily for me… He was so wrapped up in playing the part of the villain, he didn’t notice when I grabbed his gun.”

A bizarre sense of pride and relief rippled down Spock’s chest. He was learning, steadily, that if there was one being in the universe that was not to be underestimated it was James Kirk.

Kirk licked his lips again. “I shot him.”

To Spock’s surprise, there was no satisfied arrogance that sounded through Kirk’s voice. It was rather very matter-of-fact and detached. As though it were just a part of life.

With another tight cough, Kirk added, “He dropped me as he fell into the hangar. My ribs smacked into the platform and I banged my chin right on the concrete. Nearly bit my tongue off.”

“That’s how you fractured your chin,” McCoy grunted.

Kirk raised his brows in acknowledgment. “Guess so. I pulled myself up afterwards, damn near tore every muscle in my arms. I didn’t encounter any other Romulans after that, except for the ones that Pike shot while I was rescuing him.”

Spock tilted his head. “Pike was able to use a phaser in his condition?”

Kirk gave him a genuine smile— at last —and cocked his head appraisingly. “Pike is one hell of a captain.”

As are you.

“Well, you’re one hell of a troublemaker,” McCoy grumbled. “I’m going to have a heart attack before forty because of you, mark my words.”

Kirk chuckled weakly and it quickly turned into a series of sharp coughs. “Sorry, Bones,” he wheezed.

The bite in the doctor’s tone disappeared almost immediately. “Don’t sweat it, kid. It’ll just be a major inconvenience.”

Kirk smiled again, but apparently fought against allowing a laugh to build this time. His breath intake seemed to be waning gradually.

“Captain, you should rest,” Spock said.

Kirk looked up at him and swallowed. “I know. I’d love to.”

McCoy sighed again and looked at Spock. “He can’t sleep in sickbays.”

Spock nodded. “I believe I recall you saying that. Would it be out of the question for him to recover in his own quarters?”

The captain and doctor shared a sheepish look.

“I’m a stowaway, remember? I don’t have any quarters,” Kirk mumbled.

Oh. Of course. “I do not believe it would be a problem for you to sleep in Captain Pike’s assigned quarters.”

Kirk shook his head vehemently then instantly stopped and closed his eyes, swaying minutely. “No,” he croaked. “I don’t want to sleep in his quarters. It would feel… weird. Like I’m cheating, or something.”

“I did not believe you to be averse to cheating.” Spock regretted the words as soon as they passed his lips, appalled that he had said something without properly thinking it through.

It did not seem to bother Jim, though. He gave Spock a warm smile and the Vulcan suddenly felt very lightheaded. “Are you teasing me, Spock?”

He hesitated. “I was merely making an educated assumption.”

Kirk huffed in amusement and Spock found that he quite liked the sound of it. “Whatever you say, Commander.” He swallowed again and didn’t make an effort to hide his grimace. “I still have nowhere to sleep, though.”

“Jim,” McCoy said softly. “Just stay in my quarters. It won’t be a problem.”

Kirk’s brows furrowed. “Are you sure, Bones?”

The doctor nodded his head. “It’s fine. Besides, it’s not like you don’t spend every waking moment in my dorm, anyway. I won’t have trouble maneuvering myself around you.” He nudged Kirk gently. “Just stay in my room. You know you can’t stay in here anymore.”

Spock eyed them cautiously. Officer quarters only had one bed. “Is this not your shift to sleep, doctor?” Were they going to share the bed? Spock still had reason to suspect the two of them were an item. If they shared a bed, would that not be grounds for two humans to be in a romantic relationship?

The doctor adamantly didn’t look at Kirk and sighed. “Nah, I’m not feeling very sleepy. I have a bunch of work I need to do here.” He wrapped an arm around Kirk’s waist and slowly eased him off the bed. “So, let’s just head over there and we’ll get you hunkered down. You can have the whole room to sleep soundly. No monitors, no nurses, no sickbays.”

Kirk’s eyes glistened faintly and he swallowed again. “Are you really sure?”

Bones nodded reassuringly. “Positive. You need to get some sleep, and we all know for a fact that won’t be possible if you stay here.” He situated Kirk’s arm around his shoulder and studied Spock. “Do you want to help take him to my quarters?"

Spock realized that the doctor’s inquiry was a tentative form of a peace treaty between the two of them. There was no way he could refuse. “Of course.”

Chapter Text

McCoy tried not to be surprised when Jim passed out in the turbolift. The kid had been worked beyond what any human should be able to withstand and he hadn’t actually slept in days. So when Jim sagged in a dead weight between he and Spock, McCoy had the fleeting thought that it was about time.

Spock, however, released a breathy little huff of surprise. “Doctor?” he asked, apparently wondering if they should be worried.

McCoy shook his head, and dragged them out of the turbolift once the doors opened. “It’s all right, Spock. He’s just tired. This is a natural reaction.” Under his breath, he grumbled, “if not a long overdue one.”

They reached the CMO quarters soon enough, which were thankfully much more spacious than what McCoy had originally been assigned.

With a soft shove, McCoy passed Jim’s weight over to Spock. “Lift him up. Carefully,” he added, as he moved the bed sheets back.

Once Jim was cradled in Spock’s arms, the Vulcan was able to deposit Jim onto the mattress with gentle ease. Jim’s head rolled onto the pillow and McCoy was suddenly struck by how young he looked, lax against the bed spread, the dim lighting of the room highlighting the smooth curves of Jim’s face in sleep.

The moment was uncannily similar to the quiet nights McCoy remembered from before the divorce. The nights when Joanna fell asleep at the table or on the couch, and he and Jocelyn would carry her into her room and quietly put her to bed. No words passed, just parents ghosting tender touches over their daughter’s face and arms as they situated her under the blankets.

McCoy blinked hard at Jim. He was so young. He looked small as Spock leaned over him and tucked the blankets around his still frame. The moment was hushedly intimate, which McCoy couldn’t quite wrap his brain around.

He and Spock, putting Jim to bed with the subdued care one would reserve for the handling of something infinitely precious.

But… Jim was precious.

Somehow, the kid had managed to take up a place in McCoy’s heart that should have been occupied only by Joanna. It was as though Jim instigated unconditional love from him when, by all rights, he should have had none available. Jim was so loyal and good, and the past days had proven to McCoy that Kirk was destined for greatness, that he was the most trustworthy and capable man McCoy had ever met—a fact he had already been sure of thanks to their time at the academy.

Bones had never met anyone more deserving of affection and love than Kirk. Neither had he ever met anybody who had received so little of it.

With cautious steps, McCoy placed himself at the side of Jim’s bed and carefully carded his fingers through the sleeping captain’s hair. Jim’s lips were slightly parted, and his cheeks were flushed with exhaustion. Dark blue and purple discoloration circled his closed eyes. McCoy brushed a light fingertip along the cheekbone of his fractured eye socket and lamented how much abuse Jim had been dealt in the past few days alone.

McCoy wanted Jim to be safe and happy in the same way he wanted the absolute best for his daughter. It was a confusing feeling, especially with the fact that Jim was not a child. Jim’s childhood and adolescence had already come and gone and failed him completely.

As Bones sat himself on the mattress, hand petting over Jim’s head, he had the thought that maybe that was why he felt so strongly towards Jim’s wellbeing. Maybe he felt a duty to make up for everything that Jim had missed out on, everything a child was supposed to experience. It was probably Bones’s parental instincts kicking in, or maybe his doctor’s call to help those in need.

And Jim was definitely in need of some honest to goodness love and affection. Just basic human kindness. With a quick glance at Spock, who was staring down at Jim’s face with a mix of what he was hesitant to interpret as concern and care, Bones amended the thought. Just basic kindness, from any species, would do.

“Doctor,” Spock whispered. “If my assistance is no longer required, I believe I should return to the bridge.”

McCoy gave a hasty nod. “Oh—yeah. Sure, go do what you gotta do.”

After sweeping his gaze over Kirk once more, Spock gave a polite nod and turned to leave.

In a rush, McCoy said, “Spock, wait.”

Spock’s eyebrows were raised, probably shocked that McCoy called out to him.

McCoy was a little shocked himself. “Spock,” he repeated, and paused to lick his lips. “I just wanted to say… Thank you. Really. I mean, for helping Jim out and everything. You didn’t have to go out of your way for him, but you did, and you probably would have even if I hadn’t said anything, so… Thank you.” Bones glared at the floor, not quite finding it in himself to look the commander in the eyes. “It means a lot,” he added, quieter.

Just as quietly, Spock responded, “Of course, Doctor McCoy.”

The soft shush of the door closing told Bones that Spock had left. He turned back to study Jim’s sleeping face.

His dusty golden eyelashes were fanned over his cheeks. His plump, pink lips were slightly pursed as small breaths of air trickled over them. His nose and eyelids were smooth, no crinkles of pain or stress scrunching the skin of his face. For the first time in days, he looked relaxed.

McCoy wanted to savor the image of a peaceful Jim Kirk forever.

But, he had a shift to get to. He promised Jim he would have the room to himself. With a tired sigh, Bones hoisted himself to his feet and gathered the rest of his uniform.

He pulled his blue shirt over his head and shuffled his feet into his boots. He cast one final glance at a sleeping Jim, the kid’s youthful appearance practically glowing with a beauty akin to sunlight in his sleep, and McCoy hastily swallowed back a rush of heated, tingling emotion.

It was definitely time he got back to medbay.

Spock’s shift was nearly over. He had not been hailed by the doctor throughout the duration of his shift, which meant Kirk’s health had not declined in their time away. It was a comforting thought, yet Spock still couldn’t quite shake the inkling of concern.

Kirk was so… hurt. Physically and emotionally.

Human bodies were weaker than Vulcan bodies, and yet the amount of injuries Kirk had collected would be harrowing even for a Vulcan. And still Kirk had continued functioning at the best of his ability—which was truly the best any of them had to offer.

Spock couldn’t stop thinking about how well Kirk had done throughout the past few days, how much he was growing to admire the rash, reckless human.

It was jarring. He only felt admiration for a very small handful of humans, and never would he have expected to admire someone as illogical and impulsive as Kirk.

And he could feel that his admiration was turning into something more, something billowing and hot, likely spurred by seeing Kirk in all the pain he was experiencing. Someone like Kirk simply didn’t deserve to experience as much pain as he apparently had.

Spock still knew next to nothing about the cadet, but watching him fight through what was purportedly a trauma-induced episode was in dual parts saddening and intriguing. Whatever Kirk had experienced in his past must have been awful, of that Spock was sure.

A man as great as Kirk would not be reduced to such a state of distress if the trauma he had experienced was anything less than inconceivably nightmarish.

If Kirk could handle impossibly high amounts of physical trauma without being outwardly affected, who could say how much emotional trauma he would have had to have endured before it manifested itself?

A sheet of ice slid through Spock’s lungs as he thought about the numerous possible events that could traumatize anybody so strongly. He took a grounding breath and stood from the captain’s chair. His shift was over.

He contemplated heading down to the medbay to discuss Kirk’s health with Doctor McCoy, but decided against it. The doctor did not like him and made that fact clear. Spock’s presence would not necessarily be appreciated. The doctor likely had his hands full, as it was.

Meditation and a window of time for food was Spock’s plan before his next shift.

As he headed for the turbolift, he watched as Nyota vacated her station and sidled up beside him. Her shift had ended a few minutes earlier, but it was likely she waited for his to end so they could depart together. Warmth blossomed through Spock’s side. “Nyota,” he acknowledged.

She smiled and followed him into the turbolift. “Spock,” she returned. “How are you doing?”

“I am well.” She stood near enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off of her, and he stepped closer until their arms were touching. “How are you?”

She gave him an affectionate smile, though it was noticeably strained with exhaustion. Understandable, as they were all still drained from the past few days. “I’m fine, Spock.” She hesitated. “How is Kirk?”

Spock blinked. He had believed, based on what he had observed before, that Nyota and Kirk did not get along particularly well. “He is…” Spock paused, unsure of how much was acceptable to reveal. “He is healing.”

Her brows upturned in concern. “How bad was he hurt? All that blood on the chair… I know that you told us his life’s not in danger, but I’d like to know if he’s—if he’s really going to be okay.”

Spock could feel his features soften as he looked into her eyes. Her concern for Kirk was somewhat unexpected, but nonetheless endearing. “I do not believe he will suffer any long lasting physical damage.”

She bit her lip for a moment before glancing at her hands. “What about emotional damage?” She reached forward and brushed her fingers against Spock’s, in a tentative Vulcan kiss. Spock felt her love and worry through the contact. “I know this is a hard time for everybody. But he… he just seems like the type to suffer silently. How is he doing emotionally, at least as far as you could gather?”

Spock hesitantly wrapped his fingers around hers, watched her face as she felt his own waves of concern. “Unclear.”

He was surrounded by dust.

Clouds of dirt and ash were swelling towards him, steadily growing in size until the sun was just a fiery haze, casting long, dark shadows across the horizon.

There was so much dirt, there was so much dust, there was so much death.

A foul, rotting stench was carried on the plumes of upturned soil, encompassing him, leaving him with no choice but to cover his hands over his nose and mouth in order to keep the smell out and the bile in.

His eyes stung and his stomach recoiled, and slowly beyond the howling of the wind could distant moans and sobs be heard. They were muted at first, but gradually they increased in volume and intensity, until the air was drenched in wails and cries and screaming, loud and pained screaming.

Shapes were moving in the dust, dark and menacing figures, accompanied by the worst of the cries. Women, children, sobbing and sobbing, and shuffling scraping clawing —

Hands were reaching for him out of the clouds of dirt, skin pale and nails gray, some hands charred and some withered and some so so small, but many of them were coated in red blood, green blood, just blood and blood and blood and they were grabbing him, pulling him, wrapping around his neck and choking and twisting and mangling—!

Kirk blinked his eyes open with a panicked gasp.

He heaved deep for a few seconds, chest burning from his cracked ribs, until the fear and anxiety dwindled out of his lungs and settled in his gut. He squeezed his eyes shut. God.

Jim opened his eyes to the dark room around him and weakly squeezed the sheets in his trembling fingers. God. He had hoped that the nightmares would stop after he left sickbay. That one was bad.

Jim sighed unsteadily, and figured that he should just be grateful that he was in his right mind as soon as he woke up.

He stared up at the ceiling and wondered whether or not he would be able to fall into a dreamless sleep if he focused hard enough. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he had returned from the sickbay, and lying in the dark he once again let his mind wander until time was no longer a conceivable concept.

At least until the doors to the room slid open. Immediately adrenaline kicked his heart into overdrive, though he remained as still as he possibly could.

He watched the figure shuffle towards the right side of the room. It was obvious they were trying to be quiet. A muffled thump sounded and the figure hunched slightly, and hissed a disgruntled, “ow—God damn it.”

Jim released a relieved breath, laced with amusement. Bones. “Lights, fifty percent,” Jim mumbled.

As soon as the room brightened, Bones’s wide eyes honed in on Jim. “Did I wake you up?” the doctor asked, subdued.

Jim snorted softly. “No. I was awake.”

Bones’s brows furrowed and he stepped closer, before seating himself on the edge of the bed. “Nightmare?” he asked quietly.

What the hell, how did he always know? Jim grimaced. “It’s fine.”

With a long exhale, Bones reached to pat Jim’s arm that was under the blanket. “Did you manage to get any sleep?”

He gave a nod and was surprised by how tiring the small gesture was. “Some. I don’t know how much. How long have I been in here?”

“About eight hours.” Bones got to his feet and removed his blue overshirt, before walking towards the laundry receptacle. “How are you feeling?”

Jim watched Bones remove his shoes and socks. “Okay, I think.” He wasn’t really sure. He hadn’t tried moving at all and had been in the same position for who knew how long. He took as deep a breath as his ribs would allow and tried sitting up.

It was almost impossible. He could barely move his arms, the muscles along his shoulders and back overcome with a heady ache. He tried to situate his forearms beneath himself regardless, and as he pushed himself up he was startled by how much his body shook with the effort. He grunted with the exertion, which caught McCoy’s attention.

The doctor rushed over. “Hey, what are you trying to do? Pass out again?”

Jim huffed. “I’m just trying to sit up,” he ground out.

“Why?” Bones asked incredulously, despite wrapping an arm behind Jim’s back and helping him up the rest of the way.

Jim leaned heavily into the headboard and closed his eyes, aches radiating down his entire body. Particularly around his right shoulder, his biceps, and his abdominal muscles. “Fuck.” He was so fucking sore. “Just wanted to see if I could,” he groaned. He blinked his eyes open tiredly and tried to lift his hands to get a better look at them.

His hands hovered a few inches above his lap but were unable to go any further. They shook violently and his arms burned with the effort. “God, I can barely move,” Jim muttered, letting his hands fall back onto the blanket. Pain was washing over his whole body in steady waves.

“I’m not surprised,” Bones said as he stepped away, grabbing a nearby pillow. “You worked yourself too hard this time.”

“Why am I only feeling it now?” Jim grumbled. “How many days has it been since the Narada?”

“Four.” McCoy approached the closet in the far wall and took out a thin blanket. “Now that you’re out of sickbay, your body can’t find any more reason to pump itself with adrenaline. That was probably the only thing that’s been keeping you going.” He turned back to face Jim, pillow and blankets under his arm and one brow raised. “I’m actually surprised you’re awake right now. You should be dead asleep.”

“I’ve always been a light sleeper,” Jim whispered. He frowned in confusion at the items in McCoy’s arms. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere, just…” He glowered at the floor and motioned halfheartedly to the living area of the CMO quarters. “I’m gonna go sleep on the couch.”

Jim’s fingers twitched in his lap. “Why?”

Bones raised the other brow, staring at Jim like it was obvious. “Because you’re in my bed.”

Oh. Right. They only did the ‘sharing a bed’ thing when they were drunk or sick. Jim knew McCoy was never comfortable with sharing bedspace. It undoubtedly had to do with the divorce and how constipated it made the doctor when it came to anything that slightly resembled a romantic act.

He had always tried to respect the doctor’s aversion to getting close with others, and had never asked him to be more than a wingman and never gave girls McCoy’s number when they asked.

But, this was a little different. They were both exhausted— beyond exhausted. Jim needed the bed. McCoy needed the bed. There was no way Jim was gonna maroon the doctor to a couch. He deserved to get decent rest.

“Bones,” Jim sighed. “Just come over here.”

McCoy blinked at him, wide eyed. But he complied, albeit stiffly. He stood next to the bed and Jim lifted a trembling hand to grab the doctor’s wrist. His fingers shook against McCoy’s skin and it was more difficult than it should have been to maintain a grip. “Bones,” he whispered. “Just get in. Don’t sleep on a couch, that won’t be good for your back.”

Bones inhaled slowly and rested his hand over Jim’s fingers, gently pulling them off of his wrist. “Don’t worry about it, kid. I can handle a couch, I’ve slept on them plenty of times,” he said bitterly.

“Bones,” Jim pleaded, voice wavering with his weak breaths. “I don’t want you to sleep on the couch, all right? You’ve been working hard enough, don’t make yourself more tired by denying yourself the chance to sleep on a bed.”

Bones frowned stubbornly at Jim’s hand in his.

Jim sighed. His best option for making sure his doctor got decent rest would be to show some vulnerability. He knew the doctor felt vulnerable with the situation as it was, the least he could do would be to offer solidarity. “Bones, if you’re here,” his voice trailed off, quiet and unsure. “I might be able to sleep better if you’re here. I have… more nightmares when I’m alone.”

At that, the doctor looked up, shock plain on his face. They both knew how rarely Jim admitted to having nightmares, let alone how rarely he would imply needing someone else. True to Bones’s nature, though, he didn't give a comment and instead placed his pillow next to Jim’s in a tentative toss.

“Fine, I'll stay,” he muttered with a frown. “But only because it's my job to make sure you get enough sleep.”

Jim smirked at him in what was meant to be a playful way, but with the way McCoy's eyes softened Jim guessed the look came across as grateful.

“All right, scoot over kid,” Bones sighed.

Jim tried to do as the doctor said, but he was still leaning against the headboard in a dead weight. And so when he tried to shift over, the only thing he managed to do was slump over in an aching, trembling heap. “Damn it,” he groaned.

He could hear Bones release a drawn out sigh, before large hands worked their way under his shoulders and gently pushed him to the other side of the bed.

Jim was settled on his right side, which was fine for a few seconds, until his newly fixed flail chest started to flare up with an agonizing stab. A low whine drew itself from his throat and he tried to shakily change his position.

“Hold on, I've got you, I got you,” Bones whispered as he grabbed Jim and started to lay him flat on his back.

Jim’s position straightened out slowly and he shut his eyes against aches that were washing everything. He trembled against the sheets for a while, heart pounding and head swimming. Bones's warm hand on his shoulder was the only thing tethering him to coherent thoughts.

After a few more moments passed and Jim’s breaths evened out, Bones asked, “Okay?”

Jim licked at his chapped lips, eyes still closed. “Okay,” he whispered. He was tired again. He could feel the call of sleep lapping at his consciousness.

The bed dipped and shifted a little beside him, until Bones apparently settled.

“Comfy?” Jim croaked lightly.

Bones grunted. “Go to sleep.”

A small smile played at Jim’s lips. He and Bones weren't touching, but he could feel the warmth of the doctor beside him. It was comforting. More so than he was expecting.

Body languid and worn, finding sleep again wouldn't be difficult. Especially with a safe, familiar presence so close.

“Lights, five percent,” were the gruff words that sent him to sleep.

Chapter Text

It took McCoy longer than usual to wake up.

When he did, it took him even longer to realize that he was staring at Jim’s sleeping face. Right next to his own. In his bed.

His brain was still fuzzy with sleep, and so he was having difficulty remembering why he was lying beside Jim, their legs tangled together and his arm numb beneath Jim’s too hot back. Did they get drunk again? Had another night out on the town and struggled in late, half alive? Maybe that was why he felt like he hadn’t been off of his feet in days. Had they gotten lost before they got back to his dorm and stumbled through the streets for hours? Like that one awful weekend during their first summer at the academy together?

McCoy stared harder at his friend in the dark room, and once his eyes adjusted he was able to really see the bruises and scratches all over Jim’s face.

Oh, shit. Right.

The Narada. Vulcan.

They weren’t at their dorm anymore. Well… McCoy’s dorm. Jim never stayed in his own quarters at the academy.

Bones rubbed his free hand across his face, winced at the stubble he could feel growing. He hadn’t been taking enough care of himself, at least not since getting inadvertently promoted to CMO. A shower would be a good idea.

He eyed Jim a bit more, the rise and fall of his chest, the dark circles beneath his eyes. He wanted to run a soothing hand over the kid’s cheek or his brow, or hold him close until he was tucked under McCoy’s chin, safe and warm.

Sour shock flushed through McCoy’s chest at the thought. What the hell.

He was overcome with an urge to put distance between himself and Jim. His body was growing too comfortable with the kid’s presence. It wouldn’t end well. It couldn’t end well.

Things with Jocelyn didn’t. She made it very clear that he didn’t belong with others.

Anxiety was starting to fizzle in his lungs and McCoy wasted no further time in sliding his arm out from under Jim’s body.

But as soon as his movements jostled the sleeping captain, a pained whine squeezed itself out of Jim’s throat. His face scrunched and he released a nearly inaudible mumble of, “Bones.”

“Shit,” McCoy hissed, immediately sitting up and leaning over Jim. “Sorry, shit, I’m sorry. What hurts? Where did I hurt you?”

Jim limply reached towards Bones and emitted numerous soft whimpers. “Hurts,” he whined, voice pitched and weak.

McCoy shuffled off of the bed and hurried to the corner where he left his medkit. “Where, Jim? Tell me what’s hurting,” he called as he gathered it, Jim’s whimpers from the bed filling up the space in the room.

McCoy opened the kit and placed himself beside the bed, noted Jim’s still shut eyes and the way his lips had parted to suck in moaned, shallow breaths. “Everything,” Jim managed to gasp.

“Okay,” McCoy ran the tricorder over Jim’s body, while his other hand worked to prepare a hypo. “Okay, it's all right. Take deep breaths. The pain from the past few days is starting to catch up to you, that's all. I'll make it go away in a second, darlin’.” McCoy paused, surprised by the endearment he let slip.

But he was pulled back into the moment by Jim’s hand grabbing feebly at his shirt. “Bones,” Jim begged. “Bones.”

“Shh, it's all right.” McCoy took Jim’s hand in his as he pressed the hypospray of anesthetic to his neck. “That'll help. You just need to sleep, okay, Jim?” He rubbed his thumb against Jim’s knuckles and watched the kid struggle to swallow as the drugs settled in his veins.

Jim hadn’t opened his eyes throughout the brief ordeal but his lids still twitched with exhaustion. “Bones,” he mumbled again, as though the nickname was the only word the young captain knew. “Bones...”

“I’m here,” McCoy whispered. “Go to sleep. It’s all right. It’ll be all right.”

Jim’s grasp on McCoy’s hand was growing weaker and his head lolled into the pillow, as though all of his muscles had relaxed with the lack of pain. McCoy watched him breathe for a while longer, listened intently for any wheezing or signs of distress, and let the tension bleed out of his own muscles when he felt assured Jim would find rest.

He released Jim’s fingers and sat back up. He would have to start getting ready for his next shift. He had about a half hour, enough time for a shower and maybe some food.

Just as he was about to stand, Jim’s frail voice reached his ears. “Stay with me?”

McCoy’s heart squeezed in his chest. “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll be here when you wake up.” He patted the blanket over Jim’s thigh. “I’ll be with you.”

McCoy’s answer seemed to have satisfied what little bit of consciousness Jim had clung to, and the kid fell asleep immediately after. The doctor scrubbed his hand over his cheeks.

No one, in McCoy’s entire life, had garnered his complete and full attention quite like Jim did. He still wasn’t sure how the kid had managed to get so far deep under his skin. They had only known each other for three years. And yet… McCoy already felt more attached to him than any other person before.

He hastily got to his feet and approached the bathroom. The lights flipped on, illuminating the wash area, and McCoy looked back out as the light bled across the bedroom. Jim’s sleeping face was much more visible than it had been in the dark. He really was so goddamn young.

McCoy removed his shirt but made no other move to prepare for his shower. He instead leaned against the doorway and stared at his injured friend. Jim had been through so much. And so few people had ever cared. McCoy couldn’t fathom it. How could somebody like Jim not be frequently fussed over and adored? How could anybody resist the gravitational pull that seemed to flow from Jim’s very soul?

Why in the hell was McCoy his best and only real friend?

As McCoy ran his eyes over Jim’s beaten face, he mused over what he had told Jim.

I’ll be with you.

McCoy was suddenly terrified by how true it felt, down to his bones.

Spock was unprepared to find McCoy in the mess hall. Which was illogical, as he knew the doctor’s shift was to begin in eleven minutes and it was not unusual for officers to eat before going to their stations.

However, Spock had grown so used to only seeing McCoy while around Kirk that coming upon him was unexpected. He had been staring at the doctor for longer than was probably acceptable, based on the unnerved raised brow McCoy sent his way from beside the replicator.

Spock blinked himself out of his stupor and nodded at McCoy, before standing beside the doctor at the replicator. He had gone in there to get food as well, after all. “Doctor,” he acknowledged.

“Spock,” McCoy returned. He said nothing else and instead turned back to the replicator as it prepared whatever dish he had ordered.

The Vulcan refrained from shifting his weight in discomfort as he made his own order. He had been wanting to converse with McCoy for some time, but since his chosen topic didn’t hold any major import he had not yet taken the time to seek the doctor out.

Especially because he was still unsure where he and McCoy stood. Spock had reason to believe McCoy would be averse to any conversation that was not work related. He did not hide the fact that he was barely tolerating Spock as it was.

But, Spock had a question that had been weighing heavy on his mind for the past few days. And, unfortunately, he knew McCoy would be the best source for an answer. This was the most opportune moment to talk to the doctor that Spock had yet been presented.

He turned to McCoy. “May I ask a personal query?”

McCoy frowned heartily, gruff with hesitant confusion. “Depends on the question.”

“It is about Kirk,” Spock said.

The doctor’s expression smoothed with shock, but he did not say anything.

Spock took his lack of response as a prompting to continue. “You and the captain are well acquainted and have known each other for some time.”

The doctor averted his gaze and frowned at the floor, though he did not seem particularly upset. “I guess.” He was unsure? Perhaps they were not as close as Spock had originally assumed.

But, if anything, McCoy was Kirk’s primary care physician. He should be able to answer Spock’s question, though perhaps less familiarly than Spock would have wanted. “Is Kirk always so prone to—?”

“Getting pummeled?” The doctor finished.

Spock blinked in surprise. “If we are going to be blunt, yes. Does he get injured often?”

McCoy scoffed. “He gets hurt so often that I have to regularly double check his charts to make sure he wasn’t born with paper skin and glass bones.” The doctor shook his head, eyes averted to the tray of chicken and rice that had just materialized at the replicator. “And the thing is, more than half the time he’s not even looking for trouble. You’d think he broke a hall of mirrors in a past life or something.”

Spock tilted his head. Human expressions were so abstract. “I do not understand.”

McCoy sighed and elaborated. “It just means he has really bad luck.”

There was no such thing as luck. And yet... fact seemed to defy reason when it came to James Kirk.

“I mean,” the doctor sighed again. “The likelihood of just one person getting hurt in all the ways that he has is…”

“Exceptionally improbable.”

McCoy raised a brow at Spock’s interjection, but snorted softly regardless. “You’re going to find out pretty quick, Commander, that everything about Jim is just ‘exceptionally improbable’.” With that, the doctor picked up his tray of food and sauntered elsewhere.

Spock’s own food materialized and he stared down at the traditional Vulcan dish. James Kirk was becoming increasingly difficult to comprehend.

Spock couldn’t stop thinking about him throughout the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

Bones left his shift a few minutes before it actually ended. It had been a slow day and Chapel had just come on her shift, so he felt there would be no harm for him to leave before he was technically supposed to.

Besides, he had promised Jim he would be there when the kid woke up.

Coming into the room, he was a little surprised to find that the lights were still off and that Jim was still asleep in bed. Jim had such a bad track record for actually staying where he was supposed to, Bones was half expecting to find that Jim had escaped in his absence again.

But no, Jim was still under the blankets, curled up on the center of the mattress, and…

Oh. He was curled up.

Something akin to worried sorrow sloshed inside of McCoy’s heart as he moved to take his boots off.

After spending three years together, McCoy became intimately familiar with Jim’s sleeping habits. And the kid didn’t really have any significant or unusual habits, except for curling up a few times a year.

Their first year together, McCoy had never made the connection as to which nights Jim spent curled up and which he didn’t. It wasn’t until Jim’s second birthday at the academy that McCoy realized that the nights Jim spent curled up correlated with significant dates from his life.

McCoy used Jim’s behavior during his birthday as a reference point for the other important anniversaries, though McCoy never knew what they were anniversaries of. But like clockwork, every year, Jim would act quiet and small throughout the first week of January, the first week of March, the last week of June, the second week of August, and the second week of October. And of course, the holidays at the end of every year.

Jim’s behavior would be more subdued in the days leading up to whatever date was weighing heavy on his life, and he would get more withdrawn and less reactive. And, if Bones ever got the chance to see him asleep during these weeks, Jim would be asleep in a ball.

These were the only times in the year Jim’s sleeping position would change from his usual spread eagle.

And now, even though it was the middle of May and it shouldn’t be happening, Jim was sleeping curled, completely still and taking up as little space on the bed as possible.

Bones sighed heavily and sat beside Jim’s curled form.

He should have expected that this week would be another event added to Jim’s slew of traumatic anniversaries. God, he should have known.

He ran a hand over Jim’s forehead. The Narada Incident was a nightmare. Everything about it, all of the mental and emotional and physical abuse that Jim had been forced through. Throat tight, Bones chewed on his lip as his fingers parted through Jim’s sweaty strands of hair.

If this was the kind of week it took for Jim to curl up into a ball, what were the other anniversaries in his life like? What in the hell had happened  in Jim's past?

Cold, warped, distorted hands were grabbing him, pulling him, clawing him and smearing green blood everywhere—

Jim awoke as a panicked cough tore itself from his chest and the lingering, haunting taste of dust clung to his tongue. His hand swung up to cover his mouth, in a feeble attempt to keep the hacking at bay.

His chest hurt. His chest hurt. He felt like he was burning from the inside out, he could feel sweat rolling down his neck, his throat was pulsating tight around his airway. Saliva was pooling in his mouth.

He was going to throw up.

He pushed himself out from under the blankets and threw his legs over the edge of the bed, but his body still wasn’t used to moving and he crumpled into a heap on the floor. He continued to cough, his lungs and esophagus clenching in sharp bursts, and he pressed his hands against his mouth and dug his forehead into the carpet.

He couldn’t let himself throw up. He hadn’t eaten solid food in days, he knew his body wouldn’t be able to take the drain of expelling something it couldn’t afford to expel.

He was too hot. He was just too hot. He felt as though someone had enveloped him in a heavy blanket and shoved him in a closed box and left him on Vulcan in a boiling pot of water. His clothes were growing damp with sweat, but it wasn’t enough and he wasn’t cooling down.

He tried to get to his feet and make his way to the bathroom, but his muscles were all still too weak and he instead only managed a stumbling crawl to the adjacent doorway.

As soon as his hands came in contact with the cool tiles of the bathroom, he dragged his body onto the floor the rest of the way and pressed as much of his skin as he could against the cold ground. He panted scratchy breaths against the floor and he was sure he could see puffs of his own steaming breaths. He was still too hot. His stomach was churning, roiling, swishing and pushing and trying to force bile out of his beaten throat.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the nausea and focused hard on the refreshing temperature of the floor beneath him. He was sticky. Damp. His hands were slipping against the tiles, too sweaty to maintain a firm grasp. Waves of shivers were rippling from his head to his calves.

If he could get in the shower, he could turn on the cold water and fight off whatever was ailing him. He just had to cool down.

“Jim?” A groggy voice called from the bed. Shit, he must have woken Bones up. He hadn’t even realized the doctor was there, too preoccupied with his own mutinous body to take stock of his surroundings. “Jim?”

Jim could hear Bones getting out of the blankets. He wanted to call to him, but he couldn’t quite find the energy and he was afraid if he opened his mouth nothing but puke would come out.

Bones was approaching, but slowly. “Hey, Jim, are you all right? Lights, sixty percent.”

Even with his eyes closed, Jim flinched against the flash of the lights turning on.

“Shit. What's wrong?”

Jim could hear the shuffle of Bones crouching next to him, before a large, rough hand was pressing itself against his cheek. “Fuck, kid!” Bones hissed. “You’re burning up!”

A fact Jim was already very aware of. He'd had plenty of bad fevers throughout his childhood, he knew how to recognize them and what to do.

When you have no parents or guardians making sure you're safe and healthy, you learn how to take care of yourself pretty fast.

And Jim learned that the quickest way to bring down a fever was to submerge himself in cold water. He just had to get to the shower.

Bones worked his hands under Jim’s prone form and started to lift, but immediately it instigated a strong uprising of fierce nausea. Jim grabbed Bones’s hands desperately and choked out, “Shower.”

“Shower?” Bones repeated, flabbergasted.

Jim nodded as much as his gripping stomach would allow.

“Okay,” Bones told him, regardless of the hint of confusion still evident in his voice. “Okay, shower.”

He dragged Jim to the corner where the shower was, and as soon as he felt the difference between the tiles under his hands Jim told the computer to start the water.

It did as instructed and the spray of cool water against his heated skin was one of the most relieving sensations Jim had ever felt. He didn’t even care that he was still fully clothed.

“Shit!” Bones squawked, and Jim realized that he didn’t give the doctor a chance to escape the shower’s spray before it was turned on.

Jim forced his bleary eyes open and gave his friend an apologetic stare. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Bones huffed and sat on the tiles with Jim, apparently accepting that he was already soaked and there was no harm in getting more wet. “It’s fine,” he grumbled. “Are you all right? How are you feeling?”

Jim closed his eyes, his body’s dropping temperature causing his muscles to relax and ache. “Better now,” he whispered, voice weak and practically unrecognizable. “I thought I was gonna puke.”

Bones didn’t say anything and Jim heard him get to his feet and rush out of the shower.

A few seconds later, Bones returned and Jim listened to the sound of a medkit being dug through.

Jim forced his eyes open to watch Bones scan a tricorder over him and wipe away droplets of water that were rolling down his face. He was sitting closer than Jim had realized.

“Well,” Bones huffed after a few moments. “You’re not sick, necessarily.”

Jim’s eyelids slid in slow blinks. “Then why do I feel like this?” he asked as another bubble of nausea burst in his chest.

Bones put his tricorder away and leveled an almost pitying stare at Jim, but it being Bones, it was more worried than anything. “It’s stress induced. Your mental state has been pushed so far and so hard that it’s affecting the rest of your body.” The doctor scowled, but Jim could tell it wasn’t really directed at him. More so the situation. “Everything is catching up to you, is all. A lot later than it would have for most people.”

He hesitated and, after what seemed to be a long moment of deliberation, shuffled closer and sat pressed against Jim’s side. The water forced their shirts to stick together, a strange mix of damp warmth along Jim’s already hot flank. Quietly, Bones muttered, “You’re still having nightmares, aren’t you?”

Fuck. Jim didn’t think he could handle talking about them at the moment. Especially because they never talked about Jim’s obvious difficulty with night and the terror that so often came with it. He held his hands together and realized with a dull sense of acknowledgment that they were shaking. How long had they been doing that? “They’re not as bad,” he mumbled, the anymore left unspoken.

“But they’re still happening,” Bones clarified.

Jim didn’t respond. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say in this situation. Inexplicably, he felt like he should be apologizing. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to be apologizing for.

Actually, shit, what shouldn’t he be apologizing for?

In the past few days, he had hurt so many and saved so little. There was so much more he could have done. There was so much more he probably shouldn’t have done.

So many people were dead, so many were dead, and an entire fucking planet was gone because he didn’t destroy the drill fast enough, he didn’t figure out Nero’s plot soon enough, he didn’t make the connections, he hurt crewmen and he hurt Spock, and he manipulated and gambled and risked so many people’s lives and lost so many lives and if he had been faster, stronger, maybe he could have stopped Nero sooner, maybe he could have prevented all of this from happening, he could have saved Vulcan and saved the starships full of cadets and his friends and if he had never let the supernova destroy Romulus then none of this would have happened—!

Fuck, fuck, fuck, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t there when Romulus was destroyed, that was old Spock’s memory. Fuck.

“Jim?” Bones's voice sounded far away, like it was at the end of a distant tunnel, and Jim could barely sense that there was a heavy hand gripping his shoulder and an arm wrapped behind his back.

He was gonna be sick. His head felt muddy and wrong, he knew logically that some of these feelings he was experiencing weren’t his, his guilt was double of it what it should be, but fuck, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe this was all his fault. It felt like it was.

But that wasn’t right, that wasn’t right, some of these feelings and memories didn’t feel like they belonged. Damn it. Damn it. The nausea was kicking hard against his gut and he could feel that he was shaking.

His thoughts didn’t feel like they belonged to him. His brain felt foreign and wrong, so wrong, and he was starting to realize that Spock had been in his head, he had been in his head, he had rooted around in his brain and he left traces of himself there and it was just like when Jim was a kid, when so many other men had left remnants of themselves inside of him and no matter how much he scrubbed and scratched he could never rid himself of the wrong wrong wrong feeling completely, and this felt just like that except it was in his brain instead of his body.

“Jim, hey, hey. Jim, look at me.”

He felt violated. He felt sick. What right did he have to feel violated? People were dead because of him, so many had lost their loved ones and their futures and it was his fault. Shit. Fucking shit.

If he hadn’t let his mind open up, he probably never would have saved Earth. He had no right to feel like he had been wronged somehow. God, God, his chest was hurting so fucking bad.

“ Jim. Jim. Look at me, kid, you need to breathe.”

He was gonna be sick. He wanted to puke. He felt like he had no control left, no control over anything that was happening to him or in him. It felt like his mind and body were both fighting him and it was terrifying, alienating, unfamiliar and so wrong wrong wrong wrong.

“Talk to me. Jim, please, talk to me.”

Strong hands were cradling his face and Jim knew he was supposed to find it comforting, but all he could think about was the tethering press of Spock’s fingers against his face and damn it he was shivering so bad. He grabbed the hands frantically, in a desperate attempt to remove them, but all he managed to do was grip them helplessly, shakily.

“So many people are dead,” he heard himself say. His throat was tight and hot and painful but he was talking, like his tongue and mouth were working of their own volition. “I let so many people die. So many people are dead because of me.”

A blurry face reminiscent of Bones was in front of him, but he couldn’t focus on any of its details. He felt like he was being held under water.

“I've killed so many people,” Jim sobbed, and it felt like the statement was rippling down every muscle in his body.

“No, Jim, no you didn't. It's not your fault.” It sounded like Bones was talking through a pillow, and it made Jim feel so separated and alone and he realized he was sobbing harder.

The water that had been coating his body abruptly stopped, and warm hands started pulling him out of the shower. He was so disoriented. He felt like everything was slipping away from him. His body wasn’t his own. His thoughts weren't his own. “I don’t feel right.” His voice trembled as he spoke. “I don’t feel right.”

“You're having a panic attack, Jim.”

He couldn’t comprehend what Bones was saying, he couldn’t get a grasp on anything, and he couldn’t seem to stop talking. “I feel wrong. I feel so wrong. I can't control anything, I can't move my body and I can't feel anything and half of my thoughts aren't even my own.”

“What do you mean?”

His fingers and shoulders felt like they were buzzing, his muscles filling with the sensation of pins and needles, and nausea was still licking up his chest. He was babbling, he knew, but he couldn’t stop. “I don’t know what happened. I don't know what he did, he probably didn't even mean to, but my walls have been destroyed and I can't control my thoughts or memories and I think some of them might be his. I feel sick. I feel wrong, I don't feel like myself, I feel so wrong.”

Something soft was around his shoulders and was being rubbed against his skin, he had a fleeting thought that it might be a towel. His limbs were vibrating and tingling and he kept taking shallow breaths, too short and too fast. “I can't tell which emotions are mine and which aren't and I'm not even sure if this body is still mine. I feel sick. He was in my head. He was in my head.”

“Who was, Jim?” Even in his foggy, warping state, Jim could hear a dark coldness in Bones’s voice.

Fuck. Was McCoy mad at Jim? Oh, fuck, fuck. Jim was being a burden again, it was the middle of the night and he woke Bones up, fuck, and now he was overreacting over something that didn’t even matter. He could handle himself, damn it, he was supposed to handle himself and he was making Bones sit in the bathroom with him and the doctor probably had a shift to get to soon and needed to sleep.

Making Bones upset was even more distressing to Jim than his loss of self. He could lose himself, but he just couldn’t… he couldn’t lose Bones. Hiccuping sobs were overtaking his entire body. “I’m sorry,” he forced, breaths hitching and voice wavering. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” His heart was thudding mercilessly against his cracked ribs. “God, I'm so sorry.”

He let so many people die. So many people were gone because of him, because he couldn't save Romulus, and now Vulcan was gone too and six starships full of cadets and he hurt Spock, he hurt Spock, and now he was causing problems for Bones too and he just…

He was so sorry.

Solid, grounding hands were rubbing over his back. “Jim, sweetheart, it's all right. It's all right. Just breathe, darlin’. Breathe, it's okay. You have nothin' to apologize for.”

“F-fuck.” His voice cracked and he felt weak, spent, held together by fraying strands that were just becoming thinner and thinner. “I—I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. God, if I had just—... If I had…”

It occurred to him that these feelings had been festering for days, and they were only now starting to come out. It was as though every day had chipped more and more at his resolve until there was nothing left but spindles of unwanted, unwelcome, unfamiliar emotions that weren't even completely his. Fuck, he couldn’t breathe.

“I can't breathe,” he wheezed, voice high pitched and fragile and fucking pathetic. “Bones,” he begged, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was asking for.

Bones must have understood, though, because he said, “I've got you, Jim. It's okay, darlin’,” before wrapping his arms around Jim and holding him close.

The contact just made Jim sob harder. He shuddered and sobbed against Bones’s warm, hard chest, and could feel himself falling apart as Bones ran a soothing hand up and down his back.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck,” he cried, stuttering over the curses.

Jim could hear Bones shifting through something with his free hand, before a dull stab hissed against his neck. He gasped and choked in surprise, and Bones ran both hands over Jim’s arms and shoulders.

“Shh, Jim, it's okay,” he murmured. “It’s just to help you breathe. It's okay, love. It's okay. I've got you.”

Jim felt like he was a small child again. He felt scared and guilty, like he wasn’t wearing his skin right. Distantly, he had the thought that if Bones wasn’t holding him then he would be trembling much harder.

“I'm sorry,” he cried into McCoy’s chest, his shoulders shaking with every wracking sob. “I’m sorry. I'm sorry.”

It took two hours for Jim to stop crying.

They had moved to the bed, where McCoy sat against the headboard and Jim lay curled against the doctor’s leg, his face resting against his hip.

Bones was running his fingers through the kid’s hair, the strands barely damp from the unexpected shower.

Jim was blinking sluggishly and he looked so… withdrawn. He was pale and vacant and he didn't even seem like he had the strength to stay awake. And yet, there he was, gripping weakly to Bones’s fresh pajama pants, red eyes open and glassy.

They both had had to change their clothes since what they had been wearing before was thoroughly soaked. Jim looked especially small in McCoy’s dry, clean shirt. McCoy was broader than the kid as it was, but Jim’s physical and mental state seemed to have practically shrunk him.

McCoy wanted to wrap him up in his arms and protect him from everything, especially from whatever had already happened. Burst capillaries dotted Jim's cheeks and eyelids from all of the intense crying.

God. He hadn’t seen such a bad panic attack in years, from anyone. Jim was doing so much worse than he had thought.

Fuck, it just wasn't fair.

Jim had saved them, saved so many people, and yet he was still struggling so much.

McCoy was sure he had felt his heart breaking when Jim started to apologize. He had nothing to apologize for. He had nothing to apologize for.

The kid was perfect, so good and so strong, and yet Jim was so sure that he hadn’t done enough. McCoy's hand hesitated on Jim's head. God, had anyone even thanked him yet? He saved all of their lives. He saved everyone on the ship and everyone on Earth, and he could only imagine how many other federation planets.

Damn it.

He was going to have to make an active effort to let Jim know how much he appreciated him. How good he was. How worthy he was. He deserved that much.

He would start when Jim was back in his right mind.

Fuck, and that was another thing. Jim hadn't said it out right, but Bones had had his suspicions, and Jim’s frantic ramblings during his attack practically confirmed it.

Someone had melded with Jim.

Someone had fucked with Jim's head.

McCoy’s blood was boiling again at just the thought. As if the physical abuse Jim had undergone wasn’t bad enough, he had also undergone literal mental abuse. Someone had invaded Jim’s mind, the one place in Jim’s life that should stay private and his alone.

Damn it all to hell.

He needed to get a second opinion on this.

“Jim,” he whispered, taking special care to keep his voice soothing and low. “Jim, I have to leave for a bit.”

Jim’s drained expression didn’t change, but his fingers tightened around the cloth of Bones’s pants. “Okay,” he breathed. It obviously wasn’t okay.

Bones leaned down, his nose brushed against Jim’s forehead. “I'm going to give you a sedative. You need to sleep. I promise I'll be here when you wake up. Is that all right? If you don't want me to leave, I'll stay right here. I promise, darlin’.”

Truthfully, he didn’t want to leave Jim. But this was for him, this was important.

Jim closed his eyes for the first time in too long. “It’s okay, Bones,” he whispered. “If you need to leave, it's okay. You don't have to worry about me.”

Discomfort swirled in McCoy’s gut at Jim’s statement. “I'll be back soon,” he promised as he sat up, the warmth of Jim’s hand against his leg a noticeable absence once he moved off the bed.

He changed out of his pajamas and into his black slacks and undershirt, and decided to forego socks and just slip his boots on. He quickly prepped a hypo as he went. After he was all ready, Bones hesitated in the middle of the room for a moment and eyed the door, before briskly walking back over to Jim.

Jim was watching him reservedly and flinched when Bones leaned down to press a tentative kiss to the top of his head, and Bones felt when the kid relaxed. It was only after the tension had bled out of the young captain that McCoy felt comfortable enough to press a hypo to his neck.

Kissing his head was purely for Jim’s benefit, Bones told himself. Displays of affection put one at ease and offered comfort.

“I'll be back soon," he promised again, before stepping out.

The walk to Spock’s quarters was faster than Bones had expected it to be. He couldn’t really remember the walk over, too preoccupied with thoughts of Jim and whoever the fuck had melded with him, so there was a decent chance that he had actually run to Spock’s.

His heart was hammering in his chest as he stood outside of Spock's door, as though he had physically exerted himself. But that could also just be attributed to how riled up the situation was making him, and how uncomfortable he still was with talking to Spock.

He hesitated for only a moment, before taking a grounding swallow and knocking on Spock’s door.

Nobody answered.

Cursing under his breath, McCoy realized he didn’t even know what time it was. Was Spock sleeping? Or maybe he was on a shift? Damn it, McCoy really should have made sure Spock was available before leaving Jim.

Just as he was preparing to turn back around, the door slid open and Spock was staring at him with a raised brow. He, too, was only wearing his black slacks and undershirt. “Doctor McCoy,” he greeted.

Okay. Shit. Okay. McCoy took a deep breath. He was ready to have this conversation. “I need to talk to you,” he said, straight to the point.

Spock raised both brows, but inclined his head. “Very well.”

McCoy glanced around himself at the winding hallway, and frowned at Spock. “Somewhere private.” He wasn’t sure if Spock would be okay with them talking in his room or not, so McCoy was trying to give him the option to head somewhere else if that was preferable.

Spock’s brows furrowed just slightly, before he stepped to the side. “You may enter.”

With a cautious nod, McCoy went into Spock’s room. “Thanks.” Not surprisingly, Spock’s quarters were large, bare, and particularly warm. Bones could see a mat in the middle of the floor. He must have interrupted Spock’s meditation.

“What is it that you wish to discuss?” Spock asked him, coming around to his front.

Bones frowned at the ground, trying to figure out how to spring the question. He finally settled with, “You didn’t mind meld with Jim, did you?”

Spock blinked in definite surprise. “Absolutely not. The captain and I are not… particularly familiar, and so initiating such an act would be out of the question.” Spock paused, before the furrow of brows was back. “Might I ask why you suspect that such a connection was made?”

He refrained from biting on his nail, but just barely. If Jim didn't meld with Spock, then… Fuck, then with who? Anger and worry was crashing in his stomach, the confusion and helplessness frustrating him to no end. “Someone melded with Jim,” he said quietly.

Spock’s eyes widened, and McCoy almost found the lapse in control of emotion amusing. Only nothing about the situation was amusing. “Are you certain?” Spock asked, voice just as quiet.

McCoy frowned hard at the floor, and finally couldn’t resist chewing on his nails. “Ninety percent,” he said. “I don’t really know what happened, but..." He hesitated. Jim was always so reserved and secretive, always tried to make sure nobody saw him when he was weak or compromised. But, this was Spock. Jim seemed to trust the Vulcan. “He had a panic attack,” he admitted. “A really bad one. He was hyperventilating and shaking and… fuck, he was crying. I’ve never seen him so… emotionally vulnerable. And I…” He paused again. God, he hoped Jim trusted Spock as much as he seemed to. Nobody, save for himself, ever had the privilege to get close to Jim and know of his weaknesses.

He really hoped Spock was someone loyal. He really hoped he wouldn’t use any of this information against Jim.

“I don’t think the stuff that’s happened this week is the worst thing to have happened to him. I don’t know much about him, he’s hardly told me anything, but I’ve seen the signs that hint that he’s gone through some traumatic stuff in his life. I suspect… I don’t know how it would be possible, but I suspect some of it is somehow worse than witnessing mass genocide.” Guilt immediately punched McCoy in the chest at bringing up the destruction of Vulcan, but when he glanced at Spock, the commander wasn’t looking at him.

Spock was frowning—honest to God frowning—at the wall next to him.

McCoy swallowed and continued. “I mention that fact because if he’s been through worse than what he’s experienced this week, I don’t think he would break down to this extent because of what's happened. He has more control over himself and his body than that. He’s strong, really strong. Emotionally and mentally. And I think that he… Fuck. He mentioned that his walls had been destroyed. My guess is that he meant mental walls. I don’t know how he has them, but if he says he does, then he does. I think someone was in his head and brought them down.” His voice grew colder as he spoke and he could feel the anger flowing through his veins. “He said that someone had been in his head.”

“The captain said that himself?” Spock was still staring at the wall and McCoy wasn’t sure he’d ever heard anyone’s voice so devoid of emotion.

“He did.” McCoy clenched his hand into a fist. “He implied that they left their thoughts and emotions inside of him.” McCoy could swear that he saw Spock’s eyes darken. “Vulcans, as far as I’m aware, are the only species that can mind meld. I don’t know when he might have had the chance to be alone with a Vulcan long enough for them to meld. I especially can’t figure out why they would meld with him, if not to commit a mental attack. As they seemingly did.”

Spock’s nostrils flaring was a fascinating sight to see.

With a start, McCoy realized that Spock’s hands were clenched into fists just as his were.

“The act of invading another’s mind without express permission is abhorrent. To leave emotions inside of another is especially grievous.” Spock was practically growling. “The only time he was left alone for an extended period of time was on Delta Vega.” Spock made eye contact, finally, and though the Vulcan’s face was blank, McCoy struggled not to look away from the definitely emotionally charged stare. “It is obvious the captain is a secretive man and it would not be improbable for him to have kept information from us.”

McCoy swallowed, conceding that Spock was right. “He would especially keep something to himself if he thought it was shameful or if he was still feeling its affects. He’s the type to suffer silently and alone and I hate it. You can’t imagine how difficult he makes it to help him.”

Spock’s expression was still hard. “I believe I am beginning to understand.” McCoy watched as the Vulcan took a deep breath. “His tendency to guard his thoughts and life is what makes this act committed against him extremely abominable. He has been violated, in a way I do not think you fully understand.” Spock’s jaw visibly tightened. “To have one’s mind encroached upon unwillingly is an act of rape.”

All of McCoy’s blood was replaced by dry ice. Fuck. Fuck. A shaky breath of disbelief escaped his lips. God, what the fuck, why Jim? He swallowed back the taste of bile and thought back on Jim’s behavior in the bathroom.

He had been shaking violently, had struggled for breath and had apologized incessantly. McCoy thought back on rape victims that he had observed or treated, and recalled how they all had the tendency to adopt feelings of shame. They, too, had had the tendency to apologize continuously and often.

“Fuck,” McCoy hissed, bringing a cold hand up to cover his mouth. “Fuck.” He scowled at the floor. What could they do? How could they help him? Jim needed support, he needed help, but they couldn’t force him to talk or do something if he didn’t want to. God, he’d been forced into so much already. The best treatment for disturbed mental health was therapy, but Jim was so guarded about himself and his thoughts and emotions and everything that McCoy doubted therapy would be an option. And, shit, there was a good chance that Jim would refuse any sort of treatment. He was stubborn and reckless and made it clear that he had difficulty interacting with doctors, and McCoy was positive that included therapists and counselors. He just… he couldn’t submit Jim to psychiatric help if the kid didn’t want it.

But what could they do? Jim was hurt. It was killing McCoy that he couldn’t help Jim, that he didn’t have the tools or means to treat Jim in the same way he’d be able to if he were physically hurt.

“I don’t know how to help him,” McCoy admitted. “He hates doctors. He hates hospitals. But this is… Jesus, damage like this has the potential to be debilitating. And I know he’s strong, but one man can only go through so much.” He swallowed, voice small. “He’s been through so much.”

The room was silent for a moment, until it was broken by the sound of Spock taking a deep breath. “Doctor,” Spock said, catching McCoy’s full attention. “I am not medically trained. However, I have still had training in the care and health of the mind, and how to ensure my own mental stability. Mental capabilities and limitations are not a foreign subject to me. If I… I do not know if the captain would be open to the prospect or not, but, should he desire… I may be able to help rebuild his mental faculties.”

McCoy blinked. He knew that what Spock was offering was not to be taken lightly. “What would you do, exactly?”

“I would not meld with him, if that is what you believe. It would be extremely detrimental for anybody else to enter his mind in the future if he did not feel in control and safe. I imagine, after what he has experienced, the possibility of anyone entering his mind would make him feel very far from safe.” Spock looked down briefly, before continuing. “It would be ideal for him to be at ease. Which is why I believe it might be advisable for him to practice meditating, until he once again feels mentally protected and in control. Since you are his primary care physician,” he hesitated,” I would like your opinion on whether or not he would be amenable to the prospect of meditating with me. I have found in the past that meditating with others is beneficial and convenient, as well as relaxing.”

McCoy was shocked, Spock’s proposition throwing him off guard. He had a feeling that it wasn’t particularly common for Vulcans to meditate with those of other species, as meditation was a private matter. Spock’s offer was incredibly generous. And Jim seemed so interested in the Vulcan already, that he was pretty sure Jim would be pleased, at the very least, to be invited to meditate with Spock. It might be good for Jim. Hell, maybe it would be good for Spock too. McCoy was certain the two of them had a lot to meditate through.

“To be honest,” McCoy started, and noticed how Spock stiffened, “that’s not such a bad idea. You’re not a doctor, and I think he trusts you more than he does most already so… Shoot. Spock, it might be good. I suggest you ask him when he’s a little better.”

Spock nodded slowly, as though he did not expect McCoy to give his blessing.

Bones released a heavy sigh and ran his hand through his hair. “Okay.” He blinked at the floor, suddenly feeling very tired. He suspected he was running on fewer hours of sleep than he’d thought. “Okay, so you’re gonna ask him about meditating. In the meantime, or if he rejects it, I think the most we’ll be able to do is observe his behavior and make sure he’s doing okay. Take him out of situations that seem to make him agitated. Just… not force him to do anything, but give him support if he needs it. If he ends up not wanting help, the only thing we can do is be there for him.”

Spock didn’t say anything and instead only nodded.

The whole interaction was so strange. McCoy refrained from laughing to himself. He didn’t particularly like Spock, but it would figure that their concern for Jim would be common ground between them. He had to admit that he was glad Jim was making another close friend, though he was a little sour about the Vulcan as a whole.

With a huff, he said, “Thanks, Spock. For being concerned and for your offer.” He shuffled his feet a little and glanced at the door. “I should go. I promised him I wouldn’t be gone long.” He approached the door without Spock’s prompting, but when he reached it he turned back to Spock and frowned. “Try to see if you can find out more about Delta Vega and if he met anyone there. I’ll keep an ear open, but I doubt I’ll get much from him.” He paused. “I’d like to find out who did this to him.”

Spock’s eyes darkened again, to McCoy’s interest, and the Vulcan said, “As would I.”

Chapter Text

Jim felt hollow.

Aftershocks of his attack were still coursing through his body. His chest felt tight and it ached incessantly. Small coughs tumbled from his lips, instigated by the stabbing between his ribs that had situated in his heart.

He was so weak.

He couldn’t believe he let Bones see him in such a state. Never, never, had he ever allowed anyone to see him cry like that. Rarely did he ever even let himself break like that.

He felt so… off.

He swallowed nervously around his burning throat and squeezed the sheets in his fingers, regardless of how it shot pain through his still healing left hand. Would Bones treat him differently after this?

This wasn’t the first time Bones had seen him cry, after all they had had plenty of drunken nights together, but never before had Jim cried so bad in front of him. This was different. He knew it was. Did that mean… would Bones react differently this time?

He couldn’t stomach the idea of Bones treating him different, didn't want to imagine Bones seeing him in the same way all those people from his childhood did. With feigned care and cautiously gentle hands and pity, with eyes that regarded him as though he were about to either shatter or bite.

Just thinking about it was making him sick again.

Amidst all of his distressed musing, he lost track of how long it had been since Bones left. At least, until he heard the door slide open and panicked, anxiety induced pain shot through his pectorals and sternum.

He held his breath, his lungs quivered behind his ribs, and he listened to Bones’s approaching footsteps.

The doctor would probably want to talk. He couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t.

The mattress dipped behind him as Bones sat on the bed and Jim tensed with anticipation. Bones took in a breath. “Jim.”

“I don’t want to talk,” Jim blurted out, surprised by his own voice. It sounded empty and he hadn’t actually intended to open his mouth.

He could feel Bones hesitate, before the older man whispered, “okay.”

A few more seconds of silence passed. It put Jim on edge, every muscle coiled tight and pulsing in sharp aches, accentuated by his own wrenching emotions.

The mattress shifted again, but slowly and not in such a way that suggested Bones was getting up. Rather, the weight was leaning more towards Jim and the young captain realized with a rejuvenated surge of panic that Bones was reaching out to touch him.

“Don't,” Jim forced out, his voice cracking and his eyes clenched shut. He couldn’t let Bones touch him. He was off, wrong, guilty and pathetic and weak and there was no way he could allow the doctor to come in contact with his wrong wrong wrong tainted skin.

A conflicted sickness was sloshing in his gut. He wanted to keep Bones away, wanted to maintain distance between them because people just don't get close to Jim.

However… a small, lonely part of him desperately wanted the comfort, wanted to be held and loved and safe, and at that moment really wanted nothing more than to be shown physical affection.

But he already told Bones no. He couldn’t take it back. There was no way he could ask for Bones to wrap him up and keep him close and reassure him that it was okay, everything was okay, he would be okay.

Bones was shifting away.

Don’t leave don’t leave don’t leave please don’t leave me

Bones picked up the pillow next to Jim’s. “I’ll be in the living area if you need me, kid.”

Jim felt like he had been dunked in ice water. He bit down on his tongue, so as to combat any whimpers that tried to manifest and to have something to focus on. He knew Bones wouldn’t stay with him. He should have known. Nobody, not even his mother, had been able to handle him when he came back from Tarsus, no one wanted to touch him or get close to him and he was stupid to think that things were different just because he was older. He was still weak and too broken and it was stupid of him to think Bones would even want to deal with him and his issues.

He kept his eyes shut tight and his hands wrapped in the blankets, until he could hear Bones settling on the couch in the living area. Only then did he allow the tears to slip down his cheeks and over his nose. He made sure to keep very quiet as he cried, he couldn’t let Bones know how emotionally unstable he was.

He had lost everything when he was younger for not being strong enough mentally. It would be so easy to lose everything again. It would be so easy to lose Bones for being weak.

God. God. He was so fucking weak.

Spock had been on the bridge for a few hours already. He had gone over reports and reviewed what needed to be reviewed, and he found himself without further work to occupy his thoughts.

With nothing to distract him, he couldn’t help but focus on the conversation he had had with the doctor the night before.

Just thinking about it sent a new wave of fury through Spock’s body.

Kirk had been violated. By a Vulcan. Somebody had entered James Kirk’s mind, and if the doctor’s account of Kirk’s behavior thereafter was accurate, then they must have entered his mind without consent.

The very idea for such a thing to happen to Kirk made Spock feel sick. And… angry. The more familiar Spock became with the acting-captain, the more abuse and grief he realized the human had undergone.

Kirk’s tolerance for pain of every manner was incredible. The front that Kirk so often displayed gave no hint as to his endurance and capabilities, and it was an effective way to ensure others underestimated him to his advantage. Spock could feel respect for Kirk growing tentatively day by day.

It was due in part to this respect that he was furious Kirk had been wronged so severely. Kirk deserved much better treatment than he had consistently received.

Spock didn’t often think so highly of humans, and so the fact that a Vulcan had violated Kirk was more infuriating than if he had been harmed by another human. Though, of course, any source of harm to Kirk was beyond reprehensible.

Spock had no further work to attend to on the bridge. He had time to spare until his shift ended.

It seemed to be an opportune moment to visit engineering.

Spock stood from the captain’s chair and headed towards the turbolift. “I am going to ascertain the status of the engineering department. Mr. Sulu, you have the conn.”

His posture was tense throughout his ride in the turbolift, as he carefully considered what questions to ask Montgomery Scott. Fury was still boiling quietly within him. He would have to be careful not to show how thinly veiled his emotions were, regardless of what information Lieutenant Scott would provide.

The sounds and heat of the engineering decks rushed Spock once the doors opened. It was not an area of the ship he was likely to visit often, and so he was unaccustomed to the sensory overload that differentiated so vastly from the atmosphere of the bridge.

He shut out the majority of the distracting noises that emanated from the various machinery, and hurried to locate the chief engineer. It wasn’t long before indignant yelling in a Scottish accent led him to the man.

“You’d think this ship’s never seen an engineer that actually knew what they were doin’! How you lot’ve stayed afloat this long’s a mystery to me— No, no, no! You keep that barbaric bit of equipment away from this engine!”

The Scotsman was directing cadets that seemed in dual parts impressed and frightened. They all did as they were told, and Spock waited for a few moments longer until the chief engineer was mostly alone. “Montgomery Scott,” Spock said as he approached.

Scott turned to him and his surprise was apparent when he realized who had called to him. “Commander Spock!” He gave a decently sized grin, likely meant to give an air of ready accommodation. “What can I do for you?”

Spock inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I wish to debrief you on the events regarding Delta Vega.”

“Oh!” The Scotsman's eyes widened. “Ye do? How far back’re we talkin’?”

Spock stepped closer and began to steer Scott to a more private area. “When you found James Kirk.”

He nodded beside Spock. “Aye, all right. I can do that. But y’know, it was more him that found me.”

Spock raised a brow. “I was under the assumption that you had been alerted to a Starfleet pod landing nearby.”

“No, no,” he chuckled softly. “I’d no idea anyone else was on the planet. In fact, when he walked into my station, I thought he was there for me. Y'know, to get me offa that ice rock. I’d been there long enough, I don’ think it really registered that anyone asides me and Keenser was there.”

“Kirk located your location on his own?”

“Aye, that he did. Least as far as I can surmise.”

Spock frowned to himself, as he prepared to gather what information really interested him. “Was he alone?”

Scott immediately shook his head. “Oh, no. There was an older fellow with him. Vulcan, I believe.”

Vulcan.

So Spock was right. Kirk had come upon another Vulcan while on Delta Vega, one that must have initiated a mind meld while they were there. Spock’s stomach once again swirled at the thought of somebody forcing a meld on Kirk. The fact that it was an older Vulcan that committed the act was even more revolting. As an elder, they had no excuse for not knowing better.

Spock forced a subtle swallow. “Did the Vulcan offer a name?”

The Scotsman's mouth twisted to the side in thought, and after a few seconds he shook his head. “Nah… I don’t think he did. He did say he was from the future, though, which I thought was a little funny. Dunno if that fact is important or not.”

From the future?

Something hard and cold was settling in Spock’s stomach. The future. Somebody that… must have come to their timeline with Nero. A Vulcan. Spock could feel his face pulling into a frown, but he couldn’t stop it.

A Vulcan that came to their time with Nero. Spock was well aware of one Vulcan that did just that.

Him.

Spock ground his teeth together to combat a sudden rush of nausea in his chest. He didn’t want to believe it. How could he…

How could he?

How could he ever do such a thing to Kirk? He couldn’t imagine committing such an atrocious act. He knew better. He knew he knew better, his older self had to have known, regardless of which timeline he came from. There was nothing that could excuse forcing himself upon another.

Spock made eye contact with the concerned looking Scotsman. “That is an important fact. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me. I must return to the bridge.”

Scott nodded at him. “Aye, all right. Give Jim my best, yeah? I haven’t gotten around to see him yet.”

The idea of seeing Kirk made Spock’s muscles clench with unease. He gave no verbal response and instead only nodded, before making his way back to the turbolift.

Spock felt ill. His thoughts wouldn’t settle.

Kirk was forced upon by him. And he had kept that fact to himself. Perhaps that was why he had been so secretive, why he had tried to make it seem as though he was unaware another Spock had come back in time.

Spock had initially thought his withholding of the information was foolish. However, upon learning that Kirk had come in such intimate contact with his other self… Kirk’s reluctance to recount the events was understandable.

Standing alone in the turbolift, Spock allowed himself to close his eyes in anguish.

He could not understand how Kirk could even stand to look at him.

Chapter Text

James Kirk was more self aware than most, and he had been for as long as he could remember.

He was very familiar with his own body and its limitations, and had grown especially well acquainted with his body’s capabilities when he was on Tarsus. He knew when a bone was broken or fractured, he knew when he had twenty or five minutes left of stamina, he knew how hard to hit if he wanted to stun or knock out, and he was especially knowledgeable in how much pain he could take before screaming, crying, or passing out.

But even aside from physical awareness, he was hyper aware of his own consciousness. At times he could view himself objectively and would dissect his own thoughts and feelings until he could anticipate what sort of events would affect him, and why, and how.

He was adept at controlling his emotions, at least usually, and he was especially good at nipping negative notions in the bud before they could manifest into something debilitating.

Which was why he had been spending the past three hours staring at the ceiling in the dark, working diligently to rein in his shattered psyche. He was in a bad state. He knew that for a fact.

He had a panic attack, his worst in years. Most likely caused by the events on the Narada, the destruction of Vulcan, a mind meld he was sorely unprepared for, and the resultant digging up of carefully buried memories of Tarsus.

It had all led to an overwhelming amount of emotional turmoil and it was taking its toll. Fear was still sitting snugly in his chest, accompanied by bouts of anxiety, guilt, shame and sadness. He was aware that it was happening, and though he kept telling himself most of what he was feeling wasn’t logical, he just couldn’t stop it.

It was frustrating, and frustration was not a good emotion to add to the mix. It was making it hard to breathe.

Jim was trying to regulate the airflow through his nostrils, keep a steady pace, but he was faltering because of the occasional flashes of dust and death and blood and mangled bodies mangled Vulcans mangled children—

Stop. Stop. Stop.

Jim closed his eyes and forced another deep breath.

He had to stop thinking about it, about them, about anything. He wasn’t going to get better if he let himself dwell. He had to shut it out. He had to shut it all out.

But… he couldn’t do that without his walls. He was sure Old Spock hadn't meant to do it, but the magnitude of Spock’s mind was more than Jim could handle. It was so foreign and so familiar, and Jim's feeble mental defenses had crumbled in its wake.

Jim didn’t blame Spock. He had accomplished what he needed to, he had given Jim the blueprints for the best options, and his knowledge had been an incredible help in resolving the situation without further casualties. Jim didn’t blame Spock.

But that didn’t mean the experience wasn’t horrifying to Jim. His mind was the only thing that had ever been truly his, the only thing that he had always had one hundred percent control over.

Having it be invaded, however benevolent the intentions were, had shaken him until his mental hold had shattered.

It was terrifying to have no control. Everything that he had so carefully banished to the deepest recesses of his mind had resurfaced. And he was struggling to put it back.

If he didn't, if he couldn’t…. He would lose everything. He would lose Bones. He would lose any possible friendship with Spock.

If he couldn’t regain his mental hold, he would lose Starfleet.

Jim took another deep breath against the slew of emotions that tried to explode through.

Feel nothing. Feel nothing.

The only way to build his walls back up would be to start at their foundation. He was going to have to go back completely. He was going to have to identify and catalog what was his and what was Spock’s in order to bury it all down again.

Fuck, fuck.

The only way to survive such a task would be to distance himself from it all as he went. He was going to have to turn all of his emotions off.

Disassociate.

It was his strongest defense mechanism, but he was going to need to disassociate to a degree that never felt right. He was going to depersonalize everything, until he no longer felt human and he was far enough away from every memory that they couldn't hurt him.

He wasn’t even going to dissociate on purpose, as he'd never really been able to control when it happened and when it didn’t, but he just knew… He just knew his brain wasn’t going to let him experience anything that was about to occur. His instinctual self-preservation was too high.

Jim took another deep breath, ignored how his throat burned and his ribs ached, and blinked against the dark of the room.

In order for this endeavor to work, he would have to take it a little bit at a time. Baby steps. Confronting everything immediately probably wouldn’t end well. In order to resituate his mentality with minimal risk of damage to himself, this job would have to span the course of a few days.

God, he hated drawing things out.

Jim drew a heavy, limp hand up his side before settling it above his pulsing ribs. The best place to start rebuilding his hold would be… Remembering how, why, and when he learned to build mental walls.

He learned on Vulcan, when he was three, because his father was afraid his human half was vulnerable—

Wait a second, wait. That wasn’t his memory. That definitely wasn’t his. No, when he learned how to shield himself...

He was on Tarsus.

Most of the colony had been human, but he remembered there was one Vulcan family. They had a daughter. He and the Vulcan girl never got along, she thought he was irrational and he thought she was too uptight and prejudiced.

They only became better acquainted out of necessity.

Murderous guards and the threat of starvation or bludgeoning was a pretty strong motivator for finding allies where you could.

She had made her disdain for Jim clear when they were at school—when they still had school—before things went bad. She had escaped the first wave of executions, just like Jim had, and her dislike of him grew into mild tolerance when they found they worked well together. When they found they needed each other to survive.

They and a few other kids and teenagers had formed a small group. She and Jim did most of the scouting, because he was fast and she was strong. He had spent so much time with her. They spent more time together than with anyone else. But she had always seemed more tired than the rest of them, and he had never been able to figure out why.

Until one day, when she had stumbled and he reached out to grab her, she hissed at him not to touch. “Your emotions,” she had said. “Your emotions are too much.”

He had been offended at first, had made an effort to defend himself and say he wasn’t too emotional.

She had glared at him in the way she always did when she thought he was being stupid, and explained to him that his emotions were understandable but still too much.

“But, Vulcans are touch telepaths, aren’t you?” he had asked her. “I haven’t touched you before. How do you know what I’m feeling?”

She had been quiet for a few long moments and simply regarded him with dark eyes. “You feel more than most. Your emotions are… stronger, more intense than most humans. I am constantly trying to shield myself from you and it is tiring.”

Jim had felt exposed and guilty, initially, before he decided it would be in both of their best interest to do something about it instead of wallow. “Is there any way I can shield myself too? So you don’t have to work so hard?”

She had clearly been surprised when he had asked, but she had told him she could teach him what few techniques she knew, though they weren’t likely to be as effective for him as they were for her.

But they had started meditating together regardless, and she had taught him how to focus inside himself, how to locate his emotions and feelings and strengthen what mental control he had already had.

Jim, now sore and hot, tangled in the sheets of Bones’s bed, tried to remember where the foundations of his control were located. Where he hid them. He was sure that remembering why he had learned to shield himself in the first place was the first step, but he also felt like something was still missing.

Some info that was still lost to the rest of the bad bad bad thoughts and memories that were floating everywhere. Something he should remember. Something he had to think about and directly confront, in order to lock the foundations back in place.

The one thing he wasn’t allowing himself to recall was… was…

Her name was—!

He shot up and coughs tore their way up his chest and throat as tears sprung to his stinging eyes.

McCoy groaned against hard cushions. He was still mostly asleep, but he immediately recognized the feeling of a couch against his body. He and Jocelyn must have had another fight. God damn it.

He rolled and smushed his face against the cushions. He could hear somebody coughing. Maybe it was Joanna. Was she getting sick again?

Eyes still closed, McCoy shoved himself up until he was sitting, so he could better push himself to his feet. He staggered towards where the coughing was coming from and rubbed at his sluggish eyelids.

“Jo?” he called, though his voice was more of a croak.

The coughing abruptly stopped.

McCoy paused and blinked hard in an attempt to clear his vision, and could feel himself swaying in the doorway as his body reoriented itself. “Jo?” he said again, more tentative than before.

The coughing started up again, though it was quieter and sounded muffled.

McCoy continued to blink until the darkness cleared some and he was able to identify a dark shape hunched on the edge of the bed. His bed.

His bed where Jim was sleeping.

Or at least had been sleeping, shit. “Jim,” McCoy called, concern clear in his own voice. He rushed over to Jim’s hunched form and situated himself at Jim’s knees, right where his legs were swung over the edge. “Jim, are you all right?” He almost reached out to touch, but stopped himself. He still wasn’t sure if the kid would welcome any contact.

He instead flicked the bedside lamp on and Jim pulled his head up from under his arm, his eyes red and glassy and rimmed with tears.

“Jim,” McCoy reached his hands out again, but diverted their reach to either side of Jim’s hips where he made no contact and instead clutched the sheets of the bed. Don’t touch him, you idiot, he needs space. Don’t touch him without permission.

“Bones,” Jim groaned. He blinked and a tear slipped down his cheek.

Before the doctor could reply, another fit of coughs shook Jim’s body and he curled against his knees and thighs. When he finally lifted his head again, a slim drip of blood was sliding from his nose.

“Shit,” Bones whispered. He held his hands up where Jim could see them. “Is it all right if I touch you?”

Jim stared at Bones’s hands for a moment, seeming dazed and uncomprehending, until his face pulled into a glare and his eyes bored heatedly into Bones’s. “The hell?” Another cough tore from his lips. “Why the hell are you fucking asking? ” he spat.

McCoy balked. Jim was… angry? Reflexively, McCoy glared back. “Jim, I’m just checking. Your mental state—”

“Fuck you!” Jim hissed, his eyes wide. “Fuck, Bones—I’m not gonna f-fuckin’ break! ”

“I didn’t say you were,” Bones growled back, anger rising in his chest. Why was Jim always so difficult? Why now? “I only asked because you’re not doing good. I know your mental state is stretched thin, and after your panic attack I want to make sure you’re—”

“Don’t you do that,” Jim interrupted, voice quivering and glare hard. He pulled his legs away from the floor so he was instead curled atop the bed, his knees against his chest. “Don’t you fucking dare treat me different because of that.”

“I’m not treating you different, I just—”

Oh.

McCoy’s anger abated immediately as he took in Jim’s protective posture. Jim wasn’t angry. He was afraid. Afraid of Bones treating him differently.

McCoy wasn’t sure what to say, or what to do. “Jim…” He placed his hands on the sides of Jim’s thighs and refrained from removing them when it caused the kid to jump, because Jim relaxed under his hands only seconds after.

So that was what was going on. Bones had put distance between them because he had thought Jim was too fragile to be close to. And Jim knew he thought that.

Stupid, he should have known that was the wrong thing to do. Distance wasn’t what Jim needed.

As Jim stared down at him hopefully, tiredly, McCoy wondered if there had been other times in the kid’s life when he was avoided by people important to him because they thought he was too fragile.

“Jim…” he sighed. “I’m not going to treat you different and I don’t think you’re about to break. But, as your primary care physician, I do want to be careful with you.”

Jim’s legs slid off of the bed until they were resting on either side of Bones. The blood was still dripping over his lip and Bones wanted to wipe it away, but that would be too much.

“Don’t treat me like… like I’m glass,” Jim whispered. He sounded so vulnerable and hurt.

Bones shook his head up at him. “You kidding? You’re too hardy for your own good. Most people would’ve either passed out or cried from that beating from Spock.”

A small smile cracked over Jim’s lips and Bones grinned in return.

“I don’t think you’re glass, kid.” He moved his hands from Jim’s thighs and instead situated them on his arms. “But I do think you’re an idiot for keeping so much to yourself. Let me help, all right?”

Jim’s face went slack, and Bones began to worry that that was the wrong thing to say, that Jim was dissociating again. He had noticed that Jim often dissociated at the Academy when he got too stressed. It wouldn't be unreasonable for him to start dissociating now. After a distressing bout of silence, Jim finally looked into Bones’s eyes. “All right,” he breathed.

Relief put feeling back in Bones’s hands and he gently tugged the both of them to their feet. “Okay, then let’s go clean you up.” He steered them towards the bathroom and kept the light bright enough to see but not to blind.

He sat Jim down on the toilet seat and warmed a damp washcloth to wipe the blood away from the young captain’s face. Jim sat very still as Bones worked, kept his eyes glued to the doctor’s face until Bones felt hot under the scrutiny.

Finally, once the blood was cleaned, Bones couldn’t take it anymore. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Jim didn’t move and his gaze stayed steady. “Yeah.”

McCoy blinked. What? What was on his face?

A small cough bubbled up Jim’s chest and the kid grimaced. “I punched you,” he said.

Oh, shit. Bones moved a hand up to his cheek instinctively. He pressed against his cheekbone and yup, there was a definite ache. “Shit.” Had that bruise been forming ever since Jim had punched him in the medbay? How bad was it?

Jim took a rough swallow and grimaced again. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Bones wanted to wipe that guilty look off of Jim’s face. “No worse than any of the times you punched me in your sleep.”

Jim’s frown didn’t budge.

“Hey.” McCoy wrapped a hand around the back of the kid’s neck and gave a gentle squeeze. “Seriously, don’t sweat it. Heaven knows you’ve wanted to punch me before. Well, consider that a free pass. Enjoy this bruise while it lasts.”

Jim’s frown didn’t disappear completely, but it did lighten some. “If I ever punched you like I wanted, you’d look a lot worse,” Jim whispered, and Bones recognized it as the feeble attempt for tentative normalcy that it was.

Bones huffed a quiet laugh and quirked his lips up when Jim’s shoulders relaxed. “I don’t doubt that. Now, c’mon. You still need to sleep.”

Jim nodded and let Bones guide him back to the bed. He carefully laid himself down on the cushions and curled up into a ball, and Bones barely refrained from commenting. He doubted Jim even realized he curled up when he wasn’t doing good.

He helped Jim get the blanket tucked around his body, and made a note of every motion that made him hiss. He wondered for a moment if Jim was even acknowledging that he was in pain, or if his body was just reacting to it. Either way, McCoy administered a quick hypo to bring down any inflammation or aches.

Once that was over with, Jim was just about ready for sleep. This was the time that Bones was supposed to go back to the couch. He hesitated.

Jim’s muscles were coiled tight and he pointedly wasn’t looking away from the sheet trapped in his fist. He didn’t want Bones to go.

His body language was near identical to earlier, when Bones had assumed he wanted space to feel safe. Damn it. How could he be so stupid? Jim hadn’t wanted him to leave then, he didn’t want him to leave now.

Without another thought, Bones stalked to the living room to retrieve his pillow and blanket and promptly made his way back to Jim.

Jim was staring at him with wide, surprised eyes once he came around to the other side of the bed. Bones looked down at him, fierce protectiveness surging in his chest, and he grunted, “Scoot over.”

Chapter Text

Bones had woken up with Jim in his arms that morning. Again.

It had been three days since Jim's panic attack in the bathroom, and Bones had spent every morning since waking up with Jim wrapped against him. After the first night, he had figured out how to hastily scramble away from the bed without hurting the kid too much.

McCoy couldn’t help but wonder which of them was wrapping around the other in their sleep.

If it was him that was pulling Jim close and holding him through the night, then that was abhorrent and pathetic.

But if the one initiating the night time cuddling was Jim…

Well. That was a little different.

“Doctor.” Chapel knocked on the doorway of his office and he glanced up at her. “Your lunch break has started.”

He grunted in reply and nodded in thanks. She luckily didn’t wait for a verbal response and left to tend to what few patients they still had.

McCoy sighed and rolled his pen between his fingers for a few moments, before he finally stood up.

He wasn’t very hungry, but he had to eat. It would probably be a good time for him to bring some sort of sustenance to Jim, anyway. Jim was still too weak to handle solid foods so Bones had been giving him nutritional smoothies for the past week or so.

Like during the few times Jim had been hospitalized at the academy.

Bones was unfocused during his walk to the mess hall and as he retrieved food for himself and Jim. He just couldn’t keep himself present with the moment and was moving on autopilot.

He was just too distracted with thoughts of the past few days, the Narada, Vulcan, Jim.

He blinked at the door before him and it took him a few seconds to realize he had reached his room. He knocked before entering, as a brief warning for Jim. He still wasn’t sure how Jim’s mental state was holding.

“Jim,” he called, though he realized immediately upon entering that it was unnecessary.

Jim was stretched out on the couch, his feet dangling off of one of the armrests and his hands limp on his stomach. He was staring intently at the ceiling.

“You been awake long?” McCoy asked as he approached.

Jim didn’t answer. He didn’t even look up in acknowledgment.

McCoy frowned down at him. Jim’s smoothie was perspiring cold moisture against his palm. “Kid. You feeling all right?”

Still, he didn’t answer.

“Hey.” Nervousness trickled through McCoy’s lungs. “Jim.” When no response came, he set his food and the smoothie down on a nearby table before reaching for Jim’s shoulder. He shook it lightly. “Jim. Jim!”

In a rush, Jim blinked with wide eyes at McCoy and scrambled into a more upright position, and McCoy didn't miss when his face flashed into a pained grimace. “Jesus, Bones,” he gasped. “When did you get here?”

Bones snorted at him, relieved that he was finally responsive. “Christ, kid. Don't tell me you've started sleeping with your eyes open,” he teased, regardless of the fact that Jim’s initial lack of awareness had sent unease down his spine.

Jim smeared his good hand across his bruised face as he sat up straighter, and winced. “No, no. Sorry, I was just… I was thinking.”

Bones quirked a brow. “What on earth were you thinking about? The meaning of life? How to cure Andorian shingles? Your next plan to scare me half to death?”

Jim’s lips curled in a smile as he shook his head. “No, nothing like that. Just,” he stared down at his hands and gave a slight pout. “Things.”

He should have expected not to receive a straight answer. McCoy wondered for a moment if he would ever know what went on in Jim’s mind. Hell, Kirk was more closed off than he was, always had been. That was really saying something.

“Well,” Bones began as he moved to collect their meager lunches, “you can stop thinking about things for right now. I brought you a smoothie.”

Jim mumbled a quiet thanks as Bones handed the drink off but the pout stayed on his face. “Liquids again? When can I start having real food?”

Bones raised a brow at him. “Since when have you been picky about eating?” For as long as McCoy had known Jim, the kid had never shown a preference for food or eating in general. He always seemed to eat simply because it was what he was supposed to do to keep himself going. And even then, he had a terrible habit of not eating unless he was reminded.

McCoy wasn’t sure how Jim had stayed alive the twenty two years before they had met.

Jim frowned and took a sip of his smoothie before replying. “It’s just, I feel really weak right now. I don’t like it. And being unable to eat solid foods is starting to get really annoying.”

With a soft snort, Bones dropped into the seat beside Jim and didn’t move away when it brought him close enough for their thighs to touch. To his relief, Jim didn’t move away either. “Then you should’ve thought about that before you got yourself beat nearly half to death playing hero. If you ever actually attempted to take care of yourself, I wouldn’t have to regulate your food intake so much.”

Jim only pouted harder and stared at the smoothie in his hand.

A light sigh drew itself from McCoy and the doctor decided to take pity on his friend. “Okay. Tell you what. Take it easy today and get plenty of sleep and fluids, and if you’re feeling up to it tomorrow, you can head to the mess and get whatever you want. How’s that?”

Jim visibly perked up and he flashed a toothy grin at Bones, who couldn’t help but wince in sympathy at what damage the small gesture might have done to the kid’s split lip.

“You serious? You’ll actually let me leave tomorrow?”

Bones scoffed. “The hell? I’m not keeping you hostage or anything, you can leave at any time.”

“Oh, uh-huh, sure,” Jim mocked. “As if you wouldn’t flip out if you came back and I wasn’t here.”

He did have a point.

Bones waved a forked broccoli at the young captain next to him. “Just drink your smoothie,” he said instead of giving a proper reply.

Jim rubbed his thumbs against the smoothie’s now empty cup idly. Its surface was slightly textured and he focused on the sensation of it rubbing against his fingertips.

His mind was drifting and floating, like it had been for the past few days, and he allowed it to reach for memories he had steadfastly ignored for years. The sooner he could confront everything and put it back in its place, the sooner he would be back in working order.

He realized, after he had situated the foundations of his walls, that one of the easiest ways for him to reclaim and store everything was by allowing fragmented thoughts and memories to come and go as they were wont to. If he didn’t fight and allowed his brain to claim his full attention, he could deal with the memories as they were presented.

He just had to let them pass through.

It was what he had been spending the past few days doing, when he wasn’t interacting with McCoy. Luckily, the doctor’s shifts gave Jim a lot of time alone. And even when McCoy would return for the night, Jim would still lie awake for hours, thinking and remembering, even long after the doctor had drifted off.

Jim hadn’t been getting a lot of sleep lately.

It was for the best. He had a feeling the nightmares would continue until he could lock everything back up. Too many memories were still running rampant.

He was so preoccupied in his thoughts, too focused on the sensation of the cup beneath his fingers, that the unexpected press of a large hand wrapping around the back of his head was a jarring shock. He was so unprepared for the contact that it immediately spurred a slew of ghosting impressions of all the hands that had wrapped around his head, had held him underwater or in the dirt or pressed against a groin or in the perfect place for an immeasurable amount of punches to hit his cheeks and jaw and brow just so —

“Whoah, whoah, whoah!” McCoy’s hands moved to grab Jim by the arms and kept him from falling off the couch. “Whoah, Jim, whoah. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Jim heaved a few deep breaths as his pounding blood slammed his heart against his ribs. He blinked at Bones frantically, trying to reorient and assure himself that he was safe, he was only recalling a memory.

It was just a memory. Just a memory. He was with McCoy and those other hands were long gone.

He was safe.

“It’s all right,” Jim breathed. “It’s fine. Sorry. I was just…”

“Thinking,” Bones finished for him, eyes clearly displaying his worry.

Jim swallowed against the lump lodged within his ravaged throat and gave a tentative nod.

Bones didn’t reply, but his eyes drifted down to Jim’s nose and he quietly muttered, “Fuck.”

Jim swallowed again and ignored the pain. “What?”

The doctor reached forward and brushed his thumb against Jim’s lips. Jim jolted in surprise, shocked and confused with the gesture, until Bones pulled his hand away and the blood on his thumb was visible.

“Oh.” Jim touched his fingers to just above his lip. When he pulled them away, his fingertips were smeared with blood. “Shit.” Having his head touched unexpectedly had startled him more than he thought. Enough to cause a nosebleed. He pressed the back of his hand against his nostrils as McCoy carefully helped him to his feet.

Neither of them said anything while McCoy steered them into the bathroom. Jim sat on the toilet seat and sniffled a few times, before pulling his hand away to estimate the amount of blood lost. He frowned at the considerable smattering of red. Sniffling again, he glanced up at McCoy as the doctor gathered some tissues.

Jim took them with a soft thanks and started attempting to stem the blood flow. Once he had his nostrils plugged, he slumped in his seat and stared at the blood on his hands.

The sight awoke a distant memory of his much smaller, much more dirty and calloused hands covered in red red red, so much red, the guard had bled so much more than he thought humans were capable of, he had never killed before, but now he had, now he had, and the rock he had used had left bruises and scratches on his palm from how much force he had used before he was finally covered in blood blood so much blood—

“Here.” McCoy’s warm, grounding fingers grabbed Jim’s wrist and he kneeled before the young captain. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Jim blinked at the doctor for a few moments before the fire in his chest began to settle. He was still safe.

Bones had grabbed a damp washcloth and was gingerly wiping Jim’s hands with it. It was… soothing. Calming. Jim could feel knots in his back begin to unwind as his shoulders relaxed. He watched Bones’s face as the man worked, studied the furrow of his brow and the tight lipped frown, the way he subtly chewed on his lip in concentration. He was so gentle with Jim’s hands.

Jim trusted him so much, felt so safe with him.

“Bones,” he crooned quietly.

Bones immediately raised a hesitant eyebrow at him. “What?”

Jim balked. He wasn’t entirely sure why he spoke up, why he wanted Bones’s attention, what he was even going to say. He licked his lips and swallowed, though his throat retaliated with a surge of burning pain.

The doctor’s expression softened, though his brow lowered into a deeper furrow. “You all right, kid?”

Jim wanted to nod in affirmation, he really did, but… He was so rarely honest with others. Especially Bones. They had known each other for three years, and time and time again the doctor had proven to Jim how caring and trustworthy he was. Jim couldn’t ever remember feeling so safe and comfortable with someone.

And yet, Jim was consistently deceptive and dishonest with him. He had never opened up to anyone in his life, because nobody had ever deserved to know his thoughts or feelings. Not when his trust in others had betrayed him every time.

Jim slid his hands from McCoy’s and instead wrung them in his lap. He frowned down at them, began to weigh the pros and cons of finally being open with Bones. He had never… never opened up to anyone before. Not after he learned how little he mattered in others’ eyes, before he had even started primary school.

But Bones was different. Bones handled him with care, was always mindful of their boundaries. He never pushed or punished or made Jim feel worthless. He always did his best to make Jim comfortable. And Jim was so comfortable with him. They had already been through so much at the academy, Bones had had plenty of windows of opportunity to leave and never look back.

Still... he stayed. With Jim.

Glancing up at the concerned looking doctor, Jim wondered if talking would help him in his mental healing process. But… what could he even share with Bones?

He couldn’t tell him about… Tarsus. He just couldn’t. That was something the doctor could never know about.

“Jim?” Bones scooted a little closer, but not close enough to touch. He looked so concerned.

Maybe… it would help to talk about recent events. Something that was weighing heavy on him, but also something he doubted Bones was even aware of.

Maybe it would help to talk about what led to the shattering of his mental hold in the first place.

“Bones,” Jim whispered, before stopping himself and chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Bones leaned his head to the side slightly. “What is it, kid?”

Would talking about this disrupt anything in the space time continuum? Bones wasn’t Spock, so maybe… it would be fine. He wanted to talk about this. Maybe Bones would be able to help him deal with the after effects of a mind meld. He was sure traumatic mind melds had a negative effect on the body. He hoped Bones could help.

He took a deep breath. “Bones, I…” He stopped again, his words cut off by the lump in his esophagus. Opening up to Bones was a new step. One he could take. One he had to take.

He coughed lightly and started again. “When I was on Delta Vega… When I was talking to you and Spock a few days ago, I left something out.”

McCoy’s face smoothed in shock, before immediately fitting back into a frown. He didn’t say anything and was instead giving Jim the time to choose his next words.

“I was…” He reached a shaky finger up to scratch at his scabbing cheek. “I met someone on the planet. Not Scotty, it was someone I ran into before I got to the Starfleet base.” He licked his lips. “They saved me from the Hengrauggi.”

Bones’s expression didn’t change much, he was just giving off the continuous air of patience. “Who, Jim?” His voice didn’t sound angry or anything, but it was… strained.

Jim studied his eyes carefully and again licked at his raw lip. “I don’t really know how to say this. But… Nero wasn’t the only one that came back in time.” He looked back down at his hands, unwilling to see if Bones could come to the correct conclusion before he confirmed anything vocally. “An old Spock came back in time, too.”

“The one whose ship you found?” When Jim looked at him, Bones still looked concerned, but he also seemed confused or disbelieving. “He melded with you? He did?”

Jim paused. “How’d you know he melded with me?”

Bones chewed on his lip and looked away. “It was just a guess. But… Spock did?”

“An older Spock,” Jim repeated. “But… yeah.”

Bones’s frown hardened. “Why?” The coldness in his voice shocked Jim.

“He was helping,” Jim hastened to say. “He had to. It was the fastest way to let me know what was going on. He had to… It was the easiest way for me to believe him. To show what had happened, and what I could do.”

Bones was still frowning. “And what had happened?”

“He…” Jim grimaced, not entirely sure if it was okay for him to share Old Spock’s experience. But, Old Spock had trusted his Bones. Jim’s Bones and Old Spock’s Bones didn’t seem very different. It would probably be all right. “There was a supernova that had erupted in his time. He went to go stop it, but he was too late and it destroyed the Romulus in his timeline. Nero’s timeline. Nero confronted him, but the black hole Spock had used to stop the supernova sucked both of their ships in. But… Nero went in first, so he got to our timeline first.”

Jim stopped again and rubbed his thumb into his palm distractedly. “Old Spock got here just a few days ago. Everything was still fresh for him, so when we melded…” Jim swallowed again, frowned at how his throat began to close up. He blinked moisture out of his eyes. “You wouldn’t believe what he was feeling, Bones. So much guilt, so much sadness.” His voice cracked and shame trickled down his skin.

Bones’s warm hands covered Jim’s and stopped their ministrations. Jim realized belatedly that he had been squeezing his broken hand. The pain hadn’t even been registering.

Bones cleared his throat. “And his emotions came through in the meld?”

Jim nodded and bit his lip to keep the ghost of Spock’s pain at bay. “And his memories, too. In his timeline, he was my first officer. I was…” He blinked tears away and scowled at his lap. “I was the captain of the Enterprise. He was really close with his Jim. And seeing me again, even though he and I had never really met, it brought back a lot of old feelings for him.” A tear slipped down his cheek and Jim’s brow twitched in saddened frustration. “The you and I of his time are dead. I could feel his heartbreak when he saw me, when he melded with me.”

Bones was running his thumbs over Jim’s hands in a soothing manner. Jim took a few grounding breaths and wiped at his eyes. He hadn’t thought he was going to cry.

He kept his good hand pressed against his eyes and the broken one in Bones’s grasp. “I still feel his emotions, and I have his memories and thoughts and I don’t think he meant to leave them. I think he only meant to show me Romulus and Nero, I don’t think he meant for anything else to slip through.”

Bones didn’t reply. He could probably feel that this was a rare moment of Jim’s floodgates opening. He knew Jim better than to interrupt him and possibly disrupt what was happening. Jim’s endearment for his friend blossomed momentarily, before it was flushed under a new wave of Spock’s lingering emotions.

"You have to understand that this isn't his fault," Jim forced out, pressing his fingers harder against his closed eyes. "I know he didn't mean to hurt me, for me to feel like this. Spock would never hurt me."

Old Spock had felt so much love for Jim. Remembering the overwhelming blanket of warmth and home during the meld brought with it a suffocating wave of pain. Jim had never had a home. Would probably never have one. Not like the Jim from Old Spock's timeline. 

They were two completely different men. The life that that Jim had had, the love and sense of belonging...

That just... wasn't realistic.

"I know I'm not supposed to feel like this. He never meant for this," Jim reiterated. "But..." Jim started wiping at his eyes more, to get rid of what small tears were still trying to break through. “The mix of memories and thoughts and emotions is confusing. It doesn’t feel right.” He took in a shuddering breath and rubbed at his neck, before glancing up at Bones carefully. “I don’t know what you can do to help me,” Jim admitted softly. “But my chest is hurting all the time. And I don’t think it’s just because of my ribs.”

Bones shuffled on his knees for a moment and squeezed Jim’s hands gently in thought. “Definitely stress,” Bones finally told him, making eye contact. “You’re under a lot of stress. That is always bound to have a heavy impact on your body, so that’s why your chest’s been hurting.”

Bones got to his feet and disposed of the rag in the laundry receptacle.

Jim rubbed his hands together self consciously. His skin was buzzing, the excitement of opening up to Bones forcing his heart to pound harder than was probably necessary. He swallowed and focused on the way the flesh of his throat swelled and burned.

Bones coughed lightly and was staring at the sink. “I can give you something to bring down your anxiety, if you’d like.”

“Like medication?” Jim held his hands together and stared up at the doctor nervously. Medication would probably help his anxiety pain, albeit only briefly. It wouldn’t be a permanent fix. And it would mess with his thinking. He needed his thinking to be clear while he worked through his memories, needed his head to be unclouded and lucid.

He couldn’t take anything that would change his brain function. At least, not yet. Maybe when his walls were back up and everything was cleaned away, compartmentalized, stored, gone. But until then, he was still going to have to let his brain work, unmarred.

“Yeah, medication.” Bones nodded and leaned on the sink. “It’ll help.”

“No,” Jim managed around a heavy swallow. “No. I’d rather not.”

Bones let out a low sigh. Probably because Jim’s refusal to be treated was as annoying as ever. A twinge of guilt aggravated the suffocating pain in Jim’s chest. He didn’t like being difficult for Bones.

“Any reason why you don’t want to treat it?” Bones asked.

“I just…” Jim rubbed at his nose and accidentally disturbed the tissues plugging his nostrils. “Mmph. I just don’t want anything to mess with my head right now.” He waved in a nondescript fashion at his face. “I’m trying to… work things out that the meld messed up. I’m afraid medication would ruin what I’m trying to fix. I would just… rather be clear right now.”

Bones sighed again, but it didn’t sound as annoyed as before. Simply resigned. “All right. If that’s what you want. I have to head back to the medbay in a sec, but I wanna check you over with my tricorder first. Is that all right?”

Jim gave a slight nod and the move pulled on the tight muscles in his back and neck. “That’s fine.”

Chapter Text

McCoy couldn’t believe it.

Spock. Spock had been the one that melded with Jim. Spock was the one that hurt Jim.

Granted, the kid was insistent that it wasn’t intentional, which was a relief in its own way, but… Still. If they really did have an older, alternate Spock in their timeline, McCoy couldn’t see any reason why the Vulcan wouldn’t know better than to initiate a meld. Especially with a loved one that was supposed to be dead. That was just a recipe for emotional disaster.

McCoy checked his medkit over and sent a glance in Jim’s direction.

The kid was still sitting on the toilet, just staring at his hands. His eyes were pink and watery and his cheeks rosy, which brought out the dark contrast of his purple eyelids. He looked so tired. So vulnerable.

Again, McCoy felt a pang of relief knowing that Jim hadn’t been the victim of an intentionally malicious meld. Just a desperate and overwhelming one. Spock would be relieved to know—

Shit. Spock.

Would he be able to tell their Spock about an alternate, old Spock? Would that mess up their timeline? Would it alter the space time continuum?

Fuck. How was he going to assure their Spock that Jim hadn’t been attacked and had only melded with Spock ?

He got to his feet and brought his kit back over to Jim, a frown tugging at his features. “Jim,” he said, setting his kit on the counter. “Have you told anyone else about the meld?”

Jim stared at him a little wide-eyed, which really pronounced how bloodshot his sclera was around his crystal blue irises. Jim haltingly shook his head in a negative.

Bones grunted and pulled his tricorder out. “Were you planning to?”

“No,” Jim mumbled. “I… wasn’t even really planning to tell you.”

Bones knew better than to take it personally. He instead was warmed by the realization that Jim trusted him enough to share what he had previously intended to keep to himself. “Well, I’m glad you did.” He held the tricorder around Jim’s head and let the contraption do its work. “You can’t keep shouldering stuff on your own. It’ll do you good to open up once in a while.” He looked up from the scanner and met Jim’s gaze. “It’s a lot harder to work through trauma by yourself than to let others help you out.”

Jim sighed and cast his gaze at his feet. “Right.”

He didn’t sound convinced. Oh, well. Bones couldn’t force him to do anything. Only assure him that he was there if needed.

Bones knew from experience that even the smallest gestures of support made the biggest difference. He was sure Jim knew he’d always be there for the young captain. And, if he didn’t, he’d eventually figure it out.

“I asked if you’ve talked to anyone about it yet,” Bones began, “because I was wondering if you thought about telling Spock. Our Spock.”

“No,” Jim said, almost immediately. “I don’t want to risk it. Old Spock insinuated that… if the younger him knew, it could screw things up. He didn’t get explicit, but I’m pretty sure it would be the end of the world if our Spock found out about the Old Spock.”

Jesus. “Really?”

Jim nodded. “Uh-huh. So you can’t tell him. Understand? You can’t tell him.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “I won’t. But he was… I think he suspected you were melded with. What do I tell him?”

Jim shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. But he can’t know who it was. You can make up some other Vulcan if you have to, but don’t let him know about Old Spock.”

“All right, all right.” Bones shook his head. What was he going to tell Spock?

He glanced back down at the tricorder's readings, went over the data it offered, and carefully brought his eyes back up to Jim.

The tricorder told him that Jim was suffering from anxiety, as was to be expected. And with that came sleep deprivation. Tightness of chest and throat, which probably wasn’t helped by his healing ribs and esophagus. Muscle tension, also aggravated by his injuries. Fatigue. Heart palpitations. Fluctuation of body temperature.

And even though his tricorder didn’t show it, McCoy had a feeling Jim was also experiencing frequent dizziness and nausea.

Looking at Jim, Bones could see the signs of all of it. He looked so goddamn tired.

“Jim.” He gently wrapped his hand around the back of Jim’s head, made sure the kid could see it coming this time. “I want to give you something that’ll put you to sleep for a bit, is that all right?”

Jim immediately grimaced and let out a disgruntled sigh. “No, c’mon, Bones. I told you, I gotta be clear to work through this stuff.”

“Hey, hey, I know,” Bones assured. He could feel Jim deflating with reluctance, but Bones really did just want to make sure Jim’s health wasn’t worsened. “I know, but you need to sleep.”

Jim shook his head. “Bones, I—I don’t want to. I’d rather be clear, I don’t want any medication.”

“It’s not medication, kid, it’s just something to knock you out for a bit. It won’t mess with your head at all, all right?” He stroked his fingers through the short hairs on the back of Jim’s neck. “All right?”

Jim hung his head in defeat and sighed. “All right,” he conceded. “Fine. You fuckin’ hard-ass.” There was no heat in his words.

Bones smiled at him softly. “Thanks.”

He was so grateful that Jim trusted him.

Spock was not avoiding Doctor McCoy or James Kirk.

To do so would be illogical and immature. He was not avoiding either of them.

But... neither was he actively seeking them out.

It had been three days since Spock learned who had melded with Kirk. Three days for him to grow accustomed to the knowledge that he had been the one that had violated the captain.

He knew, logically, that it wasn’t really him that had committed the act against Kirk, but it was a version of himself nonetheless.

McCoy had said that Kirk was distressed, due to the mental and physical strain he had thus far undergone. Spock had reason to believe his presence would worsen Kirk’s condition.

If he had gone through what Kirk had, he would find the face of his own attacker to be particularly upsetting.

Spock shut down his PADD and stood from the captain’s chair. His shift was over, and like all of his other shifts since the Narada Incident ended, it was almost entirely uneventful. He strode into the turbolift and as it carried him lower into the ship, he contemplated the likelihood of managing the rest of the journey back to Earth without seeing Kirk. Or McCoy.

Spock wasn’t even sure what he would tell the doctor. Surely, the doctor was still trying to figure out who had violated Kirk so. Spock was not... comfortable with lying. But McCoy already had so much dislike for him. If Spock told McCoy that Kirk had been melded with an alternate Spock, it would not be inconceivable for the the doctor to subconsciously associate him with the Old Spock.

Spock was not yet prepared to confront the ordeal of the meld with either officer. It was true that he had had ample time to conceive a passable solution for the present issue, but Spock felt as though he was… not at his best.

Everything that had happened over the past week had taken its toll. He would manage and heal in due time, but as it was, the death of his planet and mother was still raw inside of him. It was his first time experiencing grief of this magnitude.

And he couldn’t help but continuously return to the idea that this would all be so much easier to overcome if his mother were there to help him. As a human, she seemed to have a strong grasp on the handling of emotions. He suspected it had to do with allowing so many emotions to constantly flow through her, no matter how detrimental.

At a time like this, it seemed likely the familiarity of emotion would prove useful. Unfortunately, he was not familiar with these emotions, and his mother was no longer there to guide him through it.

The very idea of her no longer being accessible was still settling.

And as though all of that was not enough of a test on his mental hold, there was still Jim Kirk. Everything about Jim Kirk, everything Jim Kirk had brought out of him, everything that had happened to Kirk. So much had happened to him.

Spock had done so much to him. It would seem, Kirk was not safe from any version of Spock.

No. It would not be good for Spock to interact with either the captain or the doctor.

There was a 13.34% possibility of seeing either of them before reaching Earth, in the event that Jim did not return to the bridge. Considerably lower than him encountering any of the other chief officers.

Spock took a deep breath as the lift doors opened. It would be better for both Kirk and McCoy if they did not have to come into contact with him in the coming week.

But, it would appear that Kirk’s ability to beat the odds extended to his doctor. Because, on the other side of the lift doors, stood none other than Doctor McCoy.

“Doctor,” Spock greeted on reflex.

McCoy raised a brow at him. “Spock.”

They shared a brief nod and passed each other by, Spock into the hall and the doctor into the lift.

Was McCoy not going to bring Kirk up? Or the meld? Perhaps, his day had been so busy that everything that was not work-related was not at the forefront of his mind.

And then from the lift, McCoy shouted, “Oh, wait! Spock!”

Spock turned to watch McCoy step out of the lift, just as its doors closed to take it elsewhere.

“Have you learned anything about Delta Vega? Anything about who melded with Jim?”

Spock bit back the urge to groan. It would appear they were going to have this conversation, despite Spock’s personal desire to return to his quarters to meditate. It only took him a moment to decide whether or not to lie. “No, Doctor.” 

“I, uh…” McCoy stepped forward and stopped to frown at the floor. “Well… I talked to Jim.”

Spock lifted a brow and inclined his head in interest. Did… Did Kirk tell McCoy what had happened?

McCoy paused for a moment longer before meeting Spock’s eyes. “He told me who melded with him.”

Spock felt as though the floor beneath his feet fell through. So he knew.

He knew it was him.

Spock had to let his mouth re-salivate before he dared respond. “Did he?” He forced himself to sound more shocked, more unaware. “Who was it?”

McCoy blinked more than was necessary at the wall beside them. “Uhm.” He coughed to clear his throat. “It was an older Vulcan. A refugee from the planet who wound up on Delta Vega.”

McCoy was lying.

Spock could see it in his excessive blinks, in the way he couldn’t keep his eyes on Spock, in the incessant clenching and unclenching of his hands. “Jim said he got on the planet and ran into an elderly man on his way to the Starfleet base. He didn’t offer a name, though.”

A lie. He knew it was Spock.

“Is that so,” Spock forced past his lips.

“You gotta understand, Spock,” McCoy continued. “Jim was real insistent that he wasn’t upset with the one who melded with him, that it wasn’t an attack.”

That caught Spock’s attention. He looked back up into McCoy’s eyes, which were now steady with adamance.

“It wasn’t an attack,” the doctor repeated. “Jim said the old Vulcan had something important to tell him, but they didn’t have a lot of time and the best way to pass the message across was through a meld. Do you understand? It wasn’t supposed to hurt Jim. The one who melded with him never meant to hurt Jim.”

Spock’s throat felt tight. “That is what Kirk said?” His voice had grown quiet with uncertainty and he worked it to a normal volume. “Kirk did not believe the meld to be an attack?”

McCoy nodded reassuringly. “Yeah, that’s what he said. Jim didn’t blame the guy a bit. Wasn’t even upset about the emotional transference, just shaken is all.”

Spock swallowed back what felt to be pure emotion lodged in his throat. Kirk did not blame him? Not even the older him?

Kirk was too forgiving. Much too forgiving. Spock was still not entirely convinced there wasn’t some trepidation the young captain felt in regards to Spock. Why else would he insist the doctor keep the older Vulcan’s true identity hidden?

“Spock. Do you understand?”

Spock looked back up at the doctor’s imploring gaze.

“It wasn’t an attack," Bones repeated. "Jim’s not upset with the old Vulcan who did it. It wasn’t an intentional or malicious attack on his psyche. It was just an accident.”

Spock nodded, unsure of what else to do.

“There was never a desire to cause Jim harm. So,” McCoy took a deep breath and briefly raised his arms in a human gesture of acceptance. “We can breathe a little easier on that front.”

Spock clasped his hands behind his back in order to keep them steady. “I have not been experiencing issues with my respiratory system. Perhaps you should have a nurse in the medbay check you.”

McCoy shook his head. “Spock. It was just an expression.” He rolled his eyes and turned back to the lift. “It just means we don’t gotta worry so much.” He pressed a button to recall the lift, and as he waited, he glanced back at Spock. “Try not to avoid Jim. He could use friends right now.”

Chapter Text

Jim rolled his neck tiredly under the water’s spray. He was so sore.

He was still healing from the entire Narada Incident, and it was a slow and steady process. Emphasis on slow.

He flexed his hands in front of himself, though his left hand ached and refused to cooperate completely. Sharp twinges through the tendons on the back—from his knuckles to the wrist—reminded him that breaks always recovered sluggishly.

He glanced down at his ribs. His whole front was decorated in interesting shades of purples and yellows, with prominent blues dominating the better part of his right side. His chest wasn’t in as much pain as before, but the rainbow of beaten flesh betrayed the true amount of damage he had really undergone.

Jim chewed on his lips thoughtfully. He’d had worse.

Jim rubbed the towel over his head, scrubbing lightly, before letting it fall around his shoulders. He blinked at himself in the mirror and leaned forward, to get a better look at his own face.

His left eye was swollen.

It looked red and ugly, stark little abrasions decorating the edges. He watched his blinks carefully, winked at himself a few times, before it finally dawned on him that his vision was partially obscured from the swelling of his brow, cheekbone, and the eyelid that was caught between them.

It had probably been swollen this bad—or worse—for the past few days.

How had he not noticed?

He touched the damaged area gingerly, before pressing against his chin and turning his head to examine the black eye better. Traces of it would probably still be there well after they reached Earth. He tapped his fingers against his equally bruised chin and wondered how Bones had managed not to choke on scoldings over the past few days.

Bones probably felt a surge of disappointment and frustration every time he looked at Jim.

He sighed. He’d been such a huge weight on Bones lately. Jim knew his friend was doing his best to keep him happy and healthy, and all of the unconditional care made Jim want to keel over or barf. Or both. He just didn’t know what to do with himself.

He’d never had a friend like Bones before.

Jim ran his fingers through his damp hair while he took a shallow inhale. It was nearing afternoon, which meant it was just about lunch time. Bones said he could go to the mess today.

He hurried out of the bathroom to instead finish getting dressed, the promise of a change of scenery giving him a slight sense of urgency.

He spent a few moments despairing over what shirt to wear, torn between his right to wear gold and his absolute doubt that he even had any right. Eventually, he settled on wearing just a black undershirt. He’d worn nothing more during the Narada Incident, and since nobody had any objections then, it was his best choice for now.

Besides, black did look good on him.

However, being that he still didn’t have a room of his own, the only black shirts at his disposal were Bones’s. They were a little too big, and they hung off of his shoulders and made him look five years younger. Not that it was a bad thing to look twenty.

Like everything else, Jim knew he could make it work. He tucked the edges of the shirt into his slacks, and—there. That seemed a little more respectable, a little more refined. He rolled the sleeves up enough to free his hands and went about getting his shoes on.

While getting his socks and shoes situated, though, he had to be careful around the marks on his right foot that showed where the Hengrauggi’s tongue had latched. He bunched the sock around it protectively and kept the laces on his right boot fairly loose. It was the least he could do without running off barefoot, and even though old sparks of pain flared up around his ankle...

It felt good to be getting ready.

Granted, the only thing he was getting ready for was lunch— lunch by himself— but it still felt good. It felt normal.

He hadn’t fixed everything done to his mental hold yet, but he was getting better. He had even slept for a little bit the night before. Being able to prepare himself for the day felt like he was regaining that much more control.

Spock had recently spent more time within his mind than not. Even when he was not meditating, there was a significant number of lulls throughout his work day, which allowed ample time for introspection.

As of late, he had been spending an inordinate amount of his brain processes focusing on what had occurred between Kirk and his older self.

He especially focused on the implications that his older self had made the most logical choice at the time. That his older self had never had any desire to hurt Kirk. That Kirk would not be upset with Spock.

Either Spock.

It was a lot to consider.

Spock stepped into the mess hall and promptly approached the food station. His break was long enough to allow him the time to partake in a meal comfortably, without being pressured by the heavy hand of punctuality.

He gathered his food and took a moment to process who else was in the mess hall, before his eyes locked onto Nyota. She smiled at him and warmth spread through his gut.

She motioned for him to join and he wasted no time in doing so.

“Spock,” she greeted.

He nodded at her in kind. “Nyota.”

“How are you doing?” She twirled her spoon through her stew as he sat opposite her.

“I am well. How are you?”

“I'm well.” She smiled at him, eyes gentle though noticeably tired. “My shift doesn't start for a bit. Is there anything of interest happening today?”

He inclined his head towards her before starting in on his own meal. “Nothing of note.”

She hummed in thought and watched him, but he was not bothered by it. He liked Nyota. He liked having her attention.

“Have you seen Kirk at all?”

Except for when she asked things like that. He shook his head in a negative. “I believe he is resting.” At least, he hoped so. He had been trying not to spend too much time thinking about Kirk. It was proving detrimental to his emotional control.

She averted her gaze back to her stew. “No one’s seen him. Not for a few days at least. And no one's really… wanted to approach McCoy about it. He looks more strung out than usual.”

Spock nodded at her words, but didn't offer any insight. It was likely Kirk was still staying in the doctor’s room. That was where he had last seen Kirk, after all.

She chuckled softly, before glancing back up at Spock. “You know, McCoy was always so protective of Kirk back at the academy. You would rarely ever find one without the other.” She frowned in thought for a moment. “Except for this one period during our second year. I think they were fighting.” She shook her head. “They avoided each other for a few weeks.”

Spock couldn’t imagine them having a legitimate row. They had what at times seemed to be an antagonistic relationship, but even Spock could tell that they cared for each other. For them to avoid each other for an extended length of time, and then to ultimately settle their differences...  Humans were so confusing.

Nyota continued. “I don't know what Kirk did to fix things—and it was definitely Kirk that had done something wrong, because it's Kirk— but he must have really made it up to McCoy. Because now they're even more inseparable than before.”

Spock tilted his head. “Are they involved romantically?”

Nyota quickly shook her head. “Oh no, I don't think so. With as many one night stands as Kirk has? I don't think so. McCoy seems like the kind of guy to put a lot of value on monogamy. That just… wouldn't be a good mix.” Her gaze drifted to the food station and her posture immediately straightened. “Speak of the devil!”

Spock could not understand what a religious human construct had to do with their conversation. He turned to follow Nyota’s line of sight.

Kirk was at the food station, collecting a small bowl of food. When he turned, Spock’s chest inexplicably tightened.

The bruises on Kirk's face had developed into ugly, painful looking marring. His chin and cheekbone were swollen, washed in shades of red and purple.

It somehow made his eyes seem even more blue.

Spock could hear Nyota suck in a sharp breath at the sight.

Kirk quickly caught Spock’s gaze and he gave a hesitant smile.

“Kirk,” Nyota called. “Come sit with us.”

Spock’s heart spiked with nervous tension. He wasn’t sure he could interact with Kirk yet. He had not had enough time to prepare himself to be in contact with the captain again. He wasn’t even positive the captain had worked past his own trepidation of being near Spock, because surely there still was some.

And yet, Kirk did as she suggested and nestled himself beside Nyota, across from Spock. Kirk’s tray had nothing but a bowl of white rice. A surprisingly flavorless choice. Kirk always struck Spock as someone who would choose the greasiest, most intense food. It seemed Kirk defied expectation once again, with something as trivial as food choice.

Kirk gave them each a warm grin. “How are you guys doing?” His voice sounded thin and raw. Weak.

“We’re fine,” Nyota replied, brows furrowed. “But you look like shit.”

Kirk laughed, a light and airy sound. “Thanks, Uhura.” He turned his smile to Spock. “You sure know where to find the sweet talkers, Commander.”

Spock inclined his head in acknowledgment, unwilling to grace such a comment with a reply.

Nyota took a small bite, before tugging gently on Kirk’s shirt. The familiarity in the act startled Spock, and he had to remind himself that they were classmates. Of course they would be close. “Where did you get this?” Nyota asked, referring to the shirt. “It looks good on you, but it's a little big. Didn’t Starfleet issue you your own shirts?”

“Oh,” Kirk looked down at himself. “I'm not supposed to be on the ship, so I don’t have my own shirts.” His expression turned sheepish. “This is Bones’s.”

Of course it would be.

Jim couldn’t help but blink in confusion at Spock’s expression. He looked like he was fuming. Quietly. His already dark eyes seemed so cloudy.

He glanced back at Uhura, to see if she had any insight to Spock’s stiff demeanor.

But she was focused on Jim, was practically completely ignoring her boyfriend. “Have you been staying with McCoy?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Again, I’m not supposed to be on this ship. So I don’t have a room.”

She hummed in thought and turned back to her meaty stew. “Well, it’s good you can stay with him. I’ll bet it feels like you’re back at the academy.”

He snorted at her comment despite himself. She used to always tease him about staying in Bones’s dorm. “Yep. Just like home.”

She smiled at him and finally put her attention back on Spock. “Kirk practically lives in McCoy’s dorm at the academy,” she told Spock.

That immaculate Vulcan eyebrow rose up, but Spock didn’t say anything. Just looked brooding.

Uhura chuckled softly to herself. “There was this one night during our first summer, where I found the two of them stumbling through the streets, drunk off of their asses. And they—”

“Oh God, not this story,” Jim mumbled. He’d rather Spock didn’t hear this. To avoid whatever disapproving glare Spock was bound to momentarily send his way, Jim turned instead to his rice.

And slowly, everything around him chugged to a stop.

Rice. Rice. They hadn’t had access to rice in weeks. The crops had long failed and their stores were running low. And he was so hungry. They were all hungry, their food was dwindling away, but his aunt kept telling him Kodos was working on it, they had contacted Starfleet and relief was on its way.

But he was so hungry. He was so hungry.

If he could have just one spoonful of rice, of oats, even just an apple— Hell, even a moldy piece of bread would be better than nothing.

A soft hand touched his and he jumped, blinked at the white table in front of him before glancing at Uhura warily.

She was frowning. “Kirk, are you all right?”

He forced a reassuring smile on his face, but he got the feeling his eyes were a little too wide for it to be comforting. “Yeah, I'm fine! I just…” He glanced back down at the rice, and a ghost-like sensation of hunger pain thrummed through his stomach. “I realized I haven't eaten in awhile, is all.”

She gave a slight nod, and she waited a few more moments before she removed her hand. Once she did, Jim took a deep breath. He wasn’t on Tarsus.

He wasn’t on Tarsus.

The ship had plenty of food, no one was going to starve, there wasn’t a famine. He was all right. He was safe. He wasn’t on Tarsus. He wasn’t going to starve.

He picked up his spoon with a slightly trembling hand.

He took a tentative bite and savored the way it felt to have food in his mouth. Who knew for sure when he would have a chance to eat again? The ship was well stocked, but for how long? Tragedy could strike at any time. He knew for a fact how quickly things could go wrong, how quickly they could run out of food.

With a renewed sense of vigor and self preservation, the next bite Jim took was bigger than the last. After that, he was driven by a need to keep himself well fed and with a full stomach.

He had not eaten in awhile. It could be weeks before he ate again. Food was scarce. Food was scarce.

Before he realized it, he had eaten almost the entire bowl. The ghost pain in his gut manifested into legitimate pain, and it occurred to him that he ate too much too fast. Stupid. He knew better. He knew he had to limit himself. If he had gone without food for too long, he had to limit how much he ate.

But… what if he wasn’t going to have another chance to eat fresh food? What if everything after this was spoiled or rotten or just too meager to satisfy anything?

He couldn’t look away from the remaining rice in his bowl. His stomach hurt, he was eating too much, but he couldn’t risk not eating.

Spock was responding to Uhura when the conversation required it, gave her small smiles and other assurances that he was listening.

But aside from that, the majority of his attention was on Kirk. The captain had gone pale, his complexion having faded further than when he had first arrived at their table. And the manner in which he was eating… seemed almost robotic.

As though he were sleeping, his body moving on its own.

Kirk’s eyes were dull and unfocused, and though he seemed lax at a glance, Spock could see how tightly coiled he was. And he was eating a little too fast, faster than what should be comfortable for a human. As though he were being timed.

It was obvious he was not all right.

Nyota had paused to eat, and Spock found the lull in conversation to be an ideal time to inquire after Kirk’s health. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, Kirk’s eyes widened and he clambered to his feet.

Spock was startled into silence and he watched as Kirk’s mouth shut into a tight line. His eyes, wide and pink, were still unfocused and sweat was perspiring across his brow. Kirk’s neck tensed in a swallow and Spock realized the young captain’s hands were shaking.

Without a second thought, Spock carefully rose to his own feet as Nyota asked, “Jim? Are you okay?”

Kirk didn’t respond and wasn’t taking his eyes from his empty bowl.

Spock, stiff in hesitation, whispered, “Jim?”

Kirk’s piercing blue eyes shot to his, clear in distress, and Kirk scrambled away from the table and knocked his chair over in the process. The clang drew the attention of everyone else in the room, which Kirk obviously realized with a sweep of his gaze, and it was apparently the last bit of prompting he needed before rushing out of the mess hall.

Spock shared one quick look with Nyota before the two of them hurried after him.

It didn’t take long for them to get close enough to see Kirk down the curving hall, but they were not near enough to catch Kirk when he collapsed to his knees against the side of the corridor. Kirk held one hand against the wall and used his other to brace himself against the floor. He was panting, and there were tight, breathy keening sounds leaking from his bruised throat.

Before they could quite reach him, Kirk’s whimpering moans transformed into strangled gagging, and he was soon puking chunked, stringy bile on the floor. Nyota was immediately beside him, and was running a comforting hand along his back. Spock could hear her whispering gentle words of comfort.

When Kirk had finished upchucking what little food he had eaten, he clenched in on himself. Both of his arms shifted to cradle his middle and he was leaning all of his weight against the wall, regardless of the fact that he was already curled tight on the floor. His skin was a patchy mix of pale and red, a blush of overexertion coloring what Spock could see of his cheeks and neck. He was noticeably sweating.

Nyota’s touch remained gentle as she continued to run her hands in soothing circles along his back. “Jim? Are you okay?”

A choked off whine caught in Kirk’s throat, and it was then that Spock realized the young captain was trembling.

Nyota turned her focused gaze to Spock’s. “Call McCoy.”

It was all Spock needed to push him out of his stupor, and he strode to the nearest wall comm and paged for the medbay. Specifically for Doctor McCoy. 

No one else could be trusted with Jim.

Chapter Text

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

He knew better. He knew better.

What was he thinking? Why did he think it would be a good idea to eat something? He should have known. He should have known.

Jim coughed wetly against the crook of his arm, tried not to cringe at the feeling of Uhura’s hand running across his back. Fuck, if she was here, Spock was probably with her.

God damn it.

His whole body was shaking. You’re not starving, he tried to remind himself. You’re not starving. You’re not! You didn’t just throw up the only food you’re gonna get. There’s food on the ship. You’re not dying. You’re not going to die. That wasn’t all of your food.

“Jesus, Jim!”

Jim lifted his head at the sound of Bones’s voice, in time to watch the doctor approach from down the hall. He was almost at a jog, but was obviously trying to refrain from running.

Jim swallowed back bile infused saliva and tried to blink away the moisture in his eyes. Fuck. He couldn’t stop shaking. He tried to take a grounding breath, but all he managed to do was fill his nostrils with the scent of what he had just expelled.

That smell, that fucking smell, it was exactly like when he had eaten that bloated, rotten dog carcass and he had coated the Tarsus soil in bile, and he had been so weak that all he could do was lay beside it and shake and shake and shake.

He gagged again, involuntarily, as the haunting smell of baking bodies swirled through his nose as though they were still right in front of him. He tried to curl in on himself, away from the smells, away from the hall, away from the fucking memories.

Uhura’s hand on his back was replaced by a larger, warmer one. “What did he eat?” Bones asked, probably directed at Uhura, as he rubbed his palm between Jim’s shoulder blades.

Jim was startled to find the doctor’s gentle movements to be grounding. Bones was safety. The ship was—he was safe. Because Bones was there. He would be okay.

“Just rice,” Uhura said. “It was just plain rice.”

“Rice?”

Jim could hear the confusion in Bones’s voice. As long as they’d known each other, rice was always the safest food for Jim to eat. It was the go-to, the last resort, the only thing Jim was guaranteed to be able to keep down.

The steady beeping of a tricorder sounded around Jim’s head and he flinched. It sounded so much like… like alarms, and like the beeping of the medical equipment in Kodos’s medbay, like the tricorders they would use on him to make sure he was still alive enough to handle more torture until he could tell them what they wanted to know—

“Whoah, whoah, calm down, Jim.” Bones’s hand paused on Jim’s back as the tricorder turned off. “Hey. Hey, breathe. You need to breathe, kid.”

Jim choked down gulps of air and his throat burned with the strain.

Stupid fucking food and his stupid fucking stomach and his stupid, fucking, goddamn childhood!

He huffed harshly through his nostrils and swiped a trembling hand over his eyes. He had to breathe. Just breathe. Get the thoughts under control. He would be fine.

He would be fine.

“Jim, are you all right? You with me?”

Jim wanted to answer Bones, he did, but if he opened his mouth he was afraid that more bile or a choking gag or a fucking scream would be the only thing that would come out. His next best option was to nod, which was what he did. Albeit unsteadily.

Bones hesitated for a moment—Jim could feel it in the way his hand twitched on his back—until he finally muttered, “All right. Then let's get you up.”

Jim let himself be manhandled to his feet by the doctor and Uhura, but he couldn’t help but release a low groan as his center of gravity shifted. They leaned him against the wall for a long moment, and as they did Bones said, “Spock, see if you can get someone to clean this up. It wouldn’t do to have someone slip and break something.”

A few feet to his left, Jim heard the steady Vulcan reply of, “Understood, Doctor. Will you need assistance to the medbay?”

“No, no.” Bones re-situated his grasp to support Jim from under his arms, and he tugged until Jim was leaning more on him than on the wall. “Don't worry about it. I've got him.”

Jim’s forehead was pressed against the side of Bones’s neck, and he blinked bleary, gummy eyes open to stare at the blue medical shirt beneath his cheek.

“Jim,” Uhura gently touched his arm and he glanced up at her through sticky eyelashes. “Feel better soon, all right?”

He gave her a slight nod, and before he could stop himself, his eyes wandered to search for Spock.

Who was watching him from a few feet away, posture straight and face impassive, but somehow… Jim could tell that he was concerned. Concerned for him.

Jim swallowed nervously and something light and sparkly fluttered through his chest as he and Spock maintained eye contact.

It wasn't until Bones spoke up that Spock looked away from Jim.

“I can take it from here, so why don't you guys go back to your shifts or lunch or… whatever you were doing,” Bones said.

Uhura nodded and Spock only inclined his head, before Bones started dragging Jim away.

Jim tried to take back as much of his own weight as he could as they made their way down the hall, but by the time they reached the turbolift, he was still leaning against Bones more so than he wasn’t.

The ride in the turbolift was quiet. Jim didn’t like it. He tried to subtly glance at his friend, but Bones was just staring resolutely at the button panel. Was he mad? Was he upset with Jim for getting sick everywhere? For not taking better care of himself?

Shit. Jim hated disappointing Bones.

Once they got onto the same level as the medbay, they continued to make a slow, silent shuffle until they got inside the relative calm of the doctor’s domain. Jim chanced another peek at Bones’s face as they made their way to the farthest biobed.

A slight furrow between the brows was really the only thing the doctor was outwardly displaying, as far as emotions went. Jim bit his lip—and immediately released it. He still couldn’t stand the feeling of something between his teeth.

Jim hoisted himself onto the side of the biobed and forced down a wave of nausea that tried to swell up. Jesus, he was only trying to sit. What the hell was wrong with his body?

Fuck it, fuck his body, fuck him.

Bones positioned himself in front of Jim’s left knee and gave him cleansing liquid and a bin to wash his mouth out, before he held up a tricorder. Jim watched him warily while he swished his mouth clean, waited anxiously for the doctor to actually say something. Even after spitting, his saliva was still sour with puke and he swallowed it back while Bones scowled at his tricorder.

“Jim,” Bones finally spoke up and it made Jim flinch. Obviously noticing the reaction, Bones glanced up with a concerned raised brow but he didn't comment.

Jim cleared his throat nervously. “What’s up?” he croaked, trying for nonchalance. As though he didn’t just barf all over the hall despite the fact that he was supposed to be getting better.

Bones frowned harder at Jim and mimicked, “What’s up? Oh, I don't know. Not much, you just puked your guts out all over the ship is all. Not to mention your temperature is rising back up and your heart’s beating a mile a minute. Damn it, man, I shouldn't have let you eat solid foods, it's obvious you weren't ready for it.”

Weariness fell over Jim like a blanket and he released a breathy sigh. He knew he had disappointed Bones. “No, that's not it. I just ate something bad—”

“Ate something bad?” A thin vein was starting to protrude on the doctor’s temple. “All you had was rice. Rice. Your body should not be reacting the way it is!”

I know that, Jim bemoaned within himself. “Maybe I’ve developed a new allergy.”

Bones cast his glare back down at the tricorder. “Maybe, but I don’t think so.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his frown tight and firm. “I shouldn’t have let you eat. It’s obvious your body is still too weak to handle solids.”

“That’s not what this is,” Jim mumbled, thoughts hazy and eyes sticky.

Bones paused for longer than usual, and when Jim glanced up at him, he realized the doctor was analyzing him with open concern. Slowly, Bones’s lips parted and he asked, “Then what is it?”

A cold stone of anxiety slid down Jim’s chest and he tried to wrack his brain for an answer. What could he say? What he could he tell Bones to deflect that fucking inquisitive worry? Bones was going to want to dig into Jim’s well being, and deep, but there was nothing good deep inside Jim.

He couldn’t let Bones into that part of himself, he couldn’t tell Bones what was happening.

Jim licked his lips and tried to think of a response, as Bones’s brow furrowed lower in expectant anticipation.

He had no good answers for the doctor. "It doesn't matter," Jim mumbled lamely. 

"It does matter," McCoy insisted, setting aside his tricorder. "I wish you'd just tell me what's going on, so that I can better protect you from--"

"Protect me from what? Myself?" Something bitter twisted between Jim's lungs, and his lips curled up in disbelief. "I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. Nobody can protect me." His words were mean and vitriolic, he knew that, but Bones needed to learn that he was never really going to be able to help Jim. Maybe ever.

Nobody else ever had.

Bones's expression pinched with a flash of hurt, before his distinct flavor of determination flushed through his hard gaze. "But damn it, I can try."

A heat terribly similar to the hope he'd once experienced as a child replaced the bitter ice that had been settling in Jim's blood.

God, he wanted to believe in Bones. He wanted to trust him. He did trust him.

But Jim had trusted in so many others in the past. Bones really didn't know what he was signing up for. "It might be impossible and you know it." His own voice was quiet. Raw. His episode in the mess snaked through his mind, before it was suddenly drowning under a distant memory of when he'd vomited after being revived on Tarsus. One of the countless instances his heart had stopped. Jim swallowed back unfettered agony and sorrow, his heart shredding itself with the want to confide in Bones, and a need to keep him away. Spare him from Jim's inevitable tragic end. Bones had no idea what sort of horrible things had happened to Jim, and what was still bound to happen. Jim's luck was so much worse than anything the doctor could imagine. "What would you do if I died? Bring me back?"

McCoy's gaze never broke from Jim's. "If I had the means then I would do it in a heartbeat."

Jim's throat closed with a rush of overwhelming disbelief.

Bones hadn't even hesitated. He sounded so sure, so resolute that if anything were to happen to Jim, he'd do anything to bring him back.

A horribly confusing tangle of memories of McCoy's warm, gentle hands mixed with those of Kodos's doctors, the same men who stopped and started Jim's heart as they pleased, too many times to count. Jim swallowed, the action painful and hot, and he wanted to ask McCoy if he really meant such a thing. Did he really think he could keep Jim alive? Did he really... want to?

Before Jim could utter a sound, a nurse came rushing up to the two of them. “Doctor McCoy! Captain Pike is awake!”

Chapter Text

What?

Pike was awake?

The cold stone in Jim’s chest suddenly manifested into something much warmer and less stifling, as the prospect that Pike was awake—that he was all right—fought its way to his understanding.

Without another word or even a second glance, Bones took off and followed the nurse to the post-op room at the back of the medbay.

Jim watched the space they vacated, stunned, and continued to sit by himself for a few seconds more before he heaved himself off of the bed. His legs shook slightly beneath him, but he pushed himself forward.

Pike was awake.

So much time had passed where Jim hadn’t even heard anything about the other man, he almost forgot he was there, alive. That he had saved Pike.

He carefully made his way over to the post-op room, made sure to keep out of the way of the nurses who were bustling in and out, and stood quietly in the doorway.

Pike was pale. He looked weak, and tired, but there was still that thunderous cloud of defiance in his blue eyes.

It occurred to Jim in a strangely out-of-body, self-reflective moment that he probably looked near identical to Pike when he’d first woken up in the medbay after the Narada Incident had all been dealt with.

The ship’s previous captain was watching Bones as the doctor held a tricorder over him and asked a series of questions.

How does your body feel? Any lightheadedness? Any pain? How many fingers am I holding up?

Pike answered at the right times and it went on for a few moments, the older officer cooperative in a way Jim could never see himself being. It was probably a great relief for Bones to have such a drastic change in patient.

Eventually Bones must have deemed Pike to be as healthy as expected and on his way to recovery, because the doctor’s shoulders sloped in that way they always did after a great weight had been lifted.

“It’s good to see you doing all right,” Bones finally sighed.

Pike smiled at him, though it was a little tight. “Glad to see the ship is still intact.”

Bones raised a brow at him and said, “As far as you know.”

They each chuckled, a tone of fondness shared between them. The sound made something unwind in Jim’s lungs.

Pike tilted his head up in a mimic of a nod and asked McCoy, “So, where is he? How’s Jim doing?”

“You could just ask me yourself,” Jim said, voice much steadier than he himself had anticipated.

Two gazes shot to his location in the doorway, and Jim’s fraying instincts almost convinced him to bolt from the sudden attention. But he crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway, in a conscious effort to disobey his body’s commands.

He was the one in charge, damn it.

“Jim!” Bones all but choked. “What the hell do you think you’re doing walking around?”

Jim could feel his own face contorting in offended disbelief. “What are you talking about? I’m perfectly fine, my legs aren’t broken or anything!”

“Don’t give me that ‘perfectly fine’ crap!” Bones growled as he stalked to where Jim stood.

Just as the doctor was reaching for Jim’s bicep, Jim quickly threw his hands up in defense. “Hey, stop, I’m fine! I’m peachy!”

“‘Fine’, my ass! I’m not done looking you over, I need you back in there—”

“Bones, Bones!” Jim hastily placed his hands over Bones’s chest and shoulder as the doctor grabbed at him, and it must have been the physical contact that made Bones hesitate. They eyed each other and Jim forced his own muscles to relax, as a way to show his ability to behave. He licked his lips and whispered, “Can I talk to him?”

He wasn’t trying to be pleading, he was just wondering.

But Bones practically deflated at Jim’s question, and his face softened in such a way that made Jim feel like he was fifteen years younger, vulnerable and timid.

Bones scrunched his nose up and replied, “I’m giving the two of you five minutes, and then he’s gotta rest. And you’ve gotta rest, too!”

Jim mustered up his best winning smile and clapped Bones on the shoulder. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Bones hesitated, clearly still bothered by the conversation they'd just had. But, as Jim had hoped, it seemed he would let it lie for the time being. "Five minutes," he reiterated. As Bones stepped out of the room, grumbling quietly to himself, Jim barely gave him time to pass the threshold into the rest of the medbay before he shut the door. Bones whirled around in his spot to glare at Jim through the door’s window, and the young acting-captain gave the surly doctor a smirk and a shrug to convey, “what can I say?”

Bones pointed a finger at him in warning, but didn’t make an attempt to yell at him through the door. Jim watched him walk off as his heart beat unsteadily behind his ribs, its near frantic rhythm an unwelcome reminder that he still wasn’t as well as he was acting.

“All right, you,” a groggy voice muttered from behind him. “He said we have five minutes.”

He turned and seeing Pike, alive and breathing and just—alive …

Warmth soothed the aching muscles in Jim’s chest, and he smiled at the older Starfleet officer as he pulled up a chair next to Pike’s bedside.

They wore mirroring smiles of weariness and contentment, and for a long while neither said anything. “Hey, old man,” Jim finally mumbled.

“Hey yourself.” Pike blinked at him tiredly, but there was so much warmth behind his eyes that Jim could feel the walls within himself crumbling softly. “Jim.” He inhaled slowly and said, “You saved my life. Thank you.”

A lump lodged itself where his air belonged and Jim ducked his head, unable to meet Pike’s eyes any longer. “I’m just following orders, sir.”

A shallow snort reached Jim’s ears, along with Pike’s reply of, “You little shit head, you never do what I say. You only saved me because someone else said you couldn’t, right?”

To Jim’s surprise, an endeared laugh bubbled out of his own lungs and he leaned over to hide his face in the mattress beside Pike’s arm. “Ahh, you know me so well.”

They giggled quietly and Jim felt like he was getting whiplash from everything he had gone through in the past few hours. He had been so distraught, so panicked just a while ago. But that seemed so far away now, as though Pike being awake, Pike being there, meant that he was safe from all of that again.

Safe from Tarsus again.

But just the thought of the planet’s name immediately sobered Jim’s mood. His giggling tapered off abruptly and he blinked against the sheets, even though he couldn’t see anything and it only made his eyelashes scrape against the bed.

He focused on his breathing while his eyelids moved, focused on the sensation of air passing in and out of his body… In and out… In and out…

In…

“How are you doing?”

Jim held his breath before he replied. “I’m all right.”

“No, you’re not.” Pike’s voice was so stern Jim could almost forget the man was lying immobile in a biobed. It had that tone to it, the one that was all ‘no bullshit’ and could detect and dissect the faintest lie.

And… there really wouldn’t be any point in lying to Pike, anyway. He knew.

Pike knew all about Tarsus. He had been there in the recovery team. Had been there when they found Jim’s broken shell of a body and had been there when he had tried to fight anyone who came near. Had been there when Jim bit the first Starfleet doctor that tried to touch him and had been there when Jim threw up everything they tried to feed him. Pike had been there when they found the last of his friends.

Pike had been there. Pike had seen. Pike knew.

“Jim,” Pike started again. “No one should ever witness two genocides in their life, let alone one. I know you’re not doing all right.”

And wasn’t that just the understatement of the century?

Jim buried his face further against the sheets and let his shoulders sag against the side of the bed. He hadn’t talked about Tarsus in such a long time. It had been a few years since he and Pike discussed it. They hadn’t really had to since that incident back in his first semester at the academy, when he had had to endure his first Tarsus unit. Fucking massacre had to be covered in three different classes, wasn’t that just the fucking way?

But Pike could always sort him out during those times, because Jim could actually talk to him about it. Pike was the only person besides his mom and a few other admirals that even knew Jim had been there.

Pike had certainly always been the only person that even seemed to care he had been there.

And… as things were, Jim was aware that a part of him, some part of him, felt like he was back on Tarsus. He knew it because of the memories, and the nightmares, and the lashing out, and the inability to hold anything down.

It was almost like he’d never left that God forsaken planet.

So maybe… maybe talking to Pike could help. In the aftermath of those awful months on that hell hole in space, Pike had become the lone pillar whose behavior Jim could predict. He was safe and careful and he could always tell when Jim needed something to stop.

Of course, Pike had not been a senior officer at that time. They lost contact after they switched onto different ships and Jim lost all hope of ever contacting him again when he reached Earth. His home, everything he had been and everything he had had, had been uprooted in his absence and with his return. His mom couldn’t look at him and his brother was dead and Frank was still there.

He got lost in the system so fast, they stopped sending in officers to check on him before even a full month had passed.

A lot of people cared about the Kelvin Baby and a lot of people cared about the Tarsus Nine, but nobody cared about Jim Kirk.

So when Jim saw Pike again in that sleazy bar in Riverside, so many years later, he had been sour and angry and hurt that Pike had never reached out to him before. It wasn’t until they had a real sit down to talk at the academy that he learned why Pike never contacted him.

Pike had been too low in the ranks to initially request a search for Jim, and by the time he was authorized, Jim’s location had been lost.

Can never stay in one place, Jim had told him. I don’t want to be stranded. I don’t want to feel stranded.

Pike had promised him then that Starfleet would never strand him again. So far he’d been true to his word.

“Hey, Jim,” Pike grumbled, snapping Jim out of his musings. “Talk to me.”

Jim heaved a deep sigh. Okay. Pike was the one person he could talk to.

“I’m having flashbacks again,” he mumbled into the sheet.

For a moment he was afraid he spoke too quietly for Pike to hear, but after a few seconds of silence, Pike spoke back up. “Have you been eating?”

Jim gave a half-assed shrug. “I tried. I threw it up.” He paused, before adding, “Did you know that rice and maggots have a similar texture? In the mouth. Rice in the mouth feels the same as maggots in the mouth.”

Pike released a choked sound. “Jesus.” Jim waited, let the older man chew on what he’d said. “I’m sorry, Jim.” And he sounded genuine. Jim’s eyes began to sting and he squeezed them shut as Pike asked, “Have you been meditating?”

Jim rubbed his face against the sheet in an attempt to shake his head no. “Can’t. My head got messed with.”

A slow exhale preceded the older officer’s muttering of, “Shit.”

“Hmm,” Jim offered in agreement. “This is the worst I’ve had it since you first found me.”

“Shit,” Pike repeated. “I’m sure this is affecting you physically.”

Jim snorted into the sheets. “You have no idea. I think I’m sending Bones into an early grave.”

Neither of them said anything for a few moments, just let the air hang heavy with the solemn and silent acknowledgment of how shitty everything was. Jim picked at his pants and tensed up as Pike sucked in a breath to talk.

“Have you tried talking to McCoy—?”

“No,” Jim interrupted. Every sinew and tendon through his body tensed back up as he thought over what was ailing him. His childhood was something so bad he couldn’t even tell his best friend about it. Tarsus was so fucked up. He just couldn’t subject McCoy to the knowledge that Jim had been there. It would destroy him. “Never. He can never know.”

“You’re going to have to tell him some day.”

Jim scowled against the bed. “Why him?”

“He’s the only person besides me you like.”

Jim released a breathy, “hnn.” He squeezed his hands together as he answered. “That’s not true. I like plenty of people.”

Pike huffed. “Let me rephrase that. He’s the only person besides me that you trust.”

Fuck. Wasn’t that the truth. How pathetic was that? Billions of people in the galaxy, and Jim only trusted two.

Jim rubbed his thumb over the knuckles of his healing hand and ignored how it hurt. “Just because I trust him, that doesn’t make it any of his business.”

“It affects you, though, doesn’t it?” Pike countered.

Jim furrowed his brows. “What, Tarsus? Of course it fucking does.” What was Pike getting at? “Do you really have to ask that?”

Pike didn’t answer for a moment and Jim instead listened to the sound of his captain breathing. When Pike did speak, what he said was, “If it affects you, it’s going to affect him.”

“What the fuck?” Jim sat up to glare in confusion at Pike, but before he could respond further the doors slid open as the subject of their conversation entered.

“Your five minutes are up,” Bones said. “You guys can gossip another time, but for now you’ve both got to rest. Jim, up.” He took Jim by the arm and helped him to his feet.

As Bones was gently shoving him to the door, Jim spun around and said, “Wait, is it all right if I visit him? Regularly?”

Pike answered for the doctor. “Sure, but I’ll probably be sleeping half the time.”

Jim forced himself to grin, to seem normal, to behave like he was getting better and not needing to talk to his mentor about his childhood trauma. “Is the old age getting to you, Chris?”

Pike only raised his eyebrows at him tiredly and said, “Can it.”

“Enough disturbing my patient,” Bones told Jim before managing him the rest of the way past the threshold. “Now go back to your biobed, I’m gonna see to you in a minute.”

Jim huffed and gave a mock salute, as Bones turned back to Pike. “Okay, see you in a bit.” He gave Pike a brief wink before turning around.

After Jim left his line of sight, Bones checked over Pike’s charts and analyzed his heart rate from the past few minutes. At one point it spiked up during his and Jim’s time alone, and Bones couldn’t help but wonder what Jim had said to agitate the older officer so much.

He raised a cautious brow at Pike and asked, “Did Jim talk to you about what happened while you were away? About what happened with Nero, and Vulcan?”

“No, no.” Pike shook his head weakly. “I don’t want to hear about it yet. If he was at the forefront of everything, as I’m sure he was, then I want to wait until I’m well enough to handle the details.”

Bones cocked his head in concession. “That’s probably a better idea than you realize. There’s one thing you should know, though. It’ll give you an idea as to how out-of-hand everything got.”

Pike closed his eyes, presumably as a means to brace himself. “What happened?”

“Jim is acting-captain.”

Pike’s eyes immediately shot back open. “What? What happened to Spock?”

McCoy sighed. “Spock’s fine, but… well. I don’t want to agitate you too much, you can hear the details later.”

“Jesus,” Pike’s hand lifted up for a brief moment, probably with the intention to cover his eyes with, but it just flopped weakly back into the older man’s lap. “You two are going to be the death of me.”

“Hey, wait a second. Why are you lumping me in with him?” McCoy scowled down at Pike’s readings. “I’m nowhere near as bad as he is. In fact, if you wanna accuse someone of being as reckless as him, accuse Spock.”

There was silence for a few seconds. “What? ”

McCoy blinked back at Pike, at the utter disbelief and confusion that contorted his pale face.

“Spock?” Pike gaped. “What the hell happened to Spock? I thought he hated Jim?”

McCoy could only shrug. He still wasn’t sure himself where Jim and Spock stood with each other. “Your guess is as good as mine, sir.”

Pike scowled at the ceiling for a bit, mouth open, before whispering, “You sure I’m not dead?”

Bones couldn’t help but chuckle quietly. “I’m pretty sure. I’m not the Chief Medical Officer for nothing.”

Pike paused, before replying quietly, “I thought it was weird you were attending to me. So Puri is dead.”

That sobered McCoy’s mood up quickly. He didn’t know the other doctor personally, but he could appreciate the loss of life when it happened. All life was precious. “He got killed during Nero’s initial attack.”

Pike’s eyes wandered downward. “How did Jim take it?”

McCoy blinked owlishly in confusion. “Fine, I think. I didn’t realize he and Puri were acquainted.”

Pike locked eyes with him again. He didn’t say anything and instead just searched McCoy’s eyes. McCoy wasn’t sure what he was looking for, and he wasn’t entirely sure the older officer found it because when he finally spoke, what Pike said was, “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

So. Pike was also keeping stuff about Jim’s past to himself. A pang of jealousy briefly shot through Bones’s chest, but he willed it away. There was no reason for him to be jealous that Pike knew more about Jim than he did.

It was good that someone out there knew Jim’s secrets. Someone had to look out for him and know what to look for.

Bones set his equipment and PADD down and he chewed on his lip in thought. “How did he seem to you?”

“You mean Jim?”

Bones nodded and swallowed. “Yeah. He’s going through something, but he won’t tell me what.”

Pike’s brows furrowed. “How do you know he’s going through something?”

Bones snorted despite himself. “It’s pretty obvious. I can tell he’s working through some trauma, probably from his childhood, but he won’t talk to me.” He looked down at his hands, squeezed them together, and imagined Jim squeezing his own broken hand. “I’ve been trying to help him, but he’s as closed off as he’s ever been. His health is being affected.”

Pike coughed quietly. “How do you mean?”

“He’s had a couple of bad panic attacks, a few episodes where he doesn’t know where he is, trouble sleeping, trouble eating, and he’s healing a lot slower than what is normal for him.” Bones met Pike’s gaze and tried to convey how concerned he was for his friend. “I know that at least eighty percent of this has to do with something from his past, but I can’t get a clue as to what. I want to help him, but I don’t know if I can.”

Pike held eye contact with him and took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you knew this, but back at the academy he would meditate to help with stress. I’d say he’s probably dealing with a lot of stress right now, too, more than he ever did at the academy. Do you know if he’s been meditating?”

Bones cocked his head in thought. “I think he’s been trying, but I don’t know how successful he’s been.” He raised a brow. “Funny you should mention that, actually.”

Pike frowned. “Why’s that?”

“Well, I’m not the only one that’s noticed Jim’s current state. He’s gotten Spock to start worrying about him.”

Pike’s eyes widened in shocked confusion. “Honestly, are we talking about the same Spock? Those two were at each other’s throats.”

“More so than you know,” Bones admitted. “But they figured out they can make a good team. And they’ve been dancing around each other now that everything’s been dealt with. It’s kind of funny to watch, but also just… weird. But the really weird part is that Spock proposed something to me.”

Pike cleared his throat again. “What did he propose?”

Bones’s lips quirked up, aware of how unusual Spock’s proposition had been, and secretly looking forward to Pike’s reaction. “He suggested that he could meditate with Jim. He said that having multiple people nearby can sometimes help with focus and healing.”

Pike’s eyes shut closed. He opened his mouth a few times, but no sound came out for a few seconds. “Spock suggested this,” he clarified. He opened his eyes to see Bones nod at him. “Spock? ”

“You heard me.”

“What the hell…” Pike let out a huge sigh and seemed to fall deeper into his bedding. “Well. All things considered, it’s not that bad of a suggestion. As… unexpected as it is.”

Bones picked his stuff back up, noticing that Pike was starting to grow more tired. “Those were my thoughts exactly. Well,” he glanced at the door. “I should get going. You need your rest. And we still have an idiot that’s likely managed to get into even more trouble while we weren’t looking.”

“All right,” Pike nodded. “Go see to him. Oh, and McCoy.”

Bones turned to look at him from his position by the door.

“About his eating… Give him apples and ration bars. He’ll eat something else when he's ready.”

Bones took Pike’s suggestion with a silent nod. Pike really did know what was wrong with Jim. Bones decided he couldn’t dig deeper for the moment and could only take the man’s advice. He probably knew better than anyone what was best for Jim, especially at a time like this.

He opened the door after saying a final farewell to Pike, and had every intention to double check Jim. He seemed relatively fine before, but Bones had to be sure.

And of course, Jim was nowhere to be seen in the medbay. Again.

Chapter Text

Spock did not speak as he and Uhura made their way back to the bridge.

Thankfully, neither did she try to initiate any conversation. Most likely because she was toiling over her own thoughts regarding Kirk.

Spock was once again floored by how much worse Kirk was faring than he had assumed. It had been a week since the Narada incident, and still the young captain was struggling to recover.

As they stepped out onto the bridge and after Uhura touched his arm as they parted, Spock wondered if Kirk’s inability to recuperate could be attributed to what appeared to be a high level of empathetic tendencies.

Emotions, when high in intensity and amount, could be detrimental to one’s health and ability to heal. And it seemed that Kirk was healing slower than many others on the ship. Of course, Kirk had experienced the brunt of every aspect of the Narada Incident, and so it was not inconceivable for him to have more to recover from than anyone else.

And yet, Kirk’s inability to even hold down food surprised Spock to an absurd degree.

He had been there when the majority of Kirk’s bodily injuries had been cataloged and addressed, and was even kept aware of Kirk’s basic mental condition. And when Spock went over all of the data he had in regards to the damage Kirk had gathered, the level of suffering Kirk was experiencing did not add up.

There had to be an underlying amount of physical or mental stress Kirk was undergoing.

Spock leaned into the back of the captain’s chair, though his posture remained rigid. Kirk was definitely managing through damage that was deeper than what Spock was aware of. He had to be. And based on what he had observed, it was deeper than what Doctor McCoy was aware of as well.

That thought raised a multitude of questions.

Doctor McCoy was closer to Kirk than anyone else, and it seemed even he was not privy to everything Kirk was working through. If what was ailing Kirk was something he had garnered before the Narada Incident, or worse—before he met Doctor McCoy—and if it was something that was affecting him to such a severe extent, then to continue to shoulder it on his own was doubtlessly going to affect him more seriously than it already was.

Especially if he continued to leave himself open to the emotional ailments of those around him. Kirk had enough emotional issues to deal with on his own, and for it to even be possible for the emotions of others to affect him was going to beat the young officer into the ground.

He had seemed distraught over what Spock was going through, back when they had briefly spoken in the lounge a few days prior. They did not even know each other. In fact, Spock had been sure that ill regards would remain between them for some time longer than it apparently had.

And if Kirk could be so heavily affected by Spock’s situation, it was not illogical to assume that he was being just as badly affected by the predicaments of those around him. Regardless of how well he knew them.

It seemed, at least to Spock, that Kirk was an unnaturally empathetic creature.

Spock steepled his fingers together and analyzed the main viewscreen.

Kirk was allowing himself to be much too susceptible to emotions. Spock still had some trepidation with inviting Kirk to meditate with him, or to even speak to him, but there was the undeniable benefit that came with meditation. As in, the emotional control.

As a Vulcan, Spock felt as though he was managing his own emotional turmoil at a reasonable amount. He was not… confronting everything that was ailing him, exactly, but he was addressing all of his issues in increments, at a pace that was neither overwhelming nor damaging. To a human, his rate of acknowledgment would undoubtedly seem unreasonable, but it was what worked for him.

It definitely helped ensure he didn’t lose control again.

It… was one of the reasons why he had been avoiding his father. Rather, he hadn’t necessarily been avoiding him, but had not actively been seeking him out. After their initial confrontation in the transporter room, Spock had not felt any desire to seek emotional comfort from his father.

If he were to do that… there was a very high chance of losing his control over his emotions once again. He was not eager to experience that quite yet.

“You look like you’re thinking hard.”

Spock did not jump at Kirk’s voice, but it was a near thing. He blinked hard at the acting-captain that was leaning on the captain’s chair and hastily separated his hands. “Kirk,” he said, unwilling to reply to Kirk’s comment. “I was not expecting to see you on the bridge.” His brows furrowed slightly.

Kirk had obviously been unwell in the hallway. He had been shaking, he had thrown up, and he definitely appeared to have been panicking. Was he really cleared by the medbay as healthy so soon?

“The doctor allowed you to return to your duties?” Spock asked, disbelieving.

Kirk gave a quiet snort and shook his head. “Nah, I’m not back on duty yet. I’m just hanging out.”

Spock focused his attention on Kirk’s physical appearance at the admission.

The amount of bruising and abrasions on Kirk’s face was just as disconcerting as it had been in the mess hall. It hadn’t lessened any, and neither had the rosy hue along his cheeks and neck. There was even a small amount of perspiration that still clung to his hairline. If he had been seen to in the medbay, it had not been at a length that was necessary.

Just as Spock was opening his mouth to ask if Kirk had left the doctor’s care before he was supposed to, the comm on the captain’s chair beeped.

“Spock, are you there?”

Spock turned his attention to Doctor McCoy’s voice that carried over the intercom. He spared a brief glance at Kirk—who was smirking impishly at the comm—before replying to the doctor’s inquiry. “I am here, Doctor.”

“Is Jim with you? He escaped from the medbay again, the slippery bastard.”

He did not understand how Kirk’s unnecessary evasion equated to him being slimy, but instead of voicing his opinions on that matter he moved to give McCoy the affirmative as to Kirk’s presence.

Or he would have, if Kirk didn’t lean across the chair and grab his wrist to keep him from pushing the button on the comm.

Spock stared at Kirk, stunned by being voluntarily touched by the young captain, and distractedly noted that Kirk was keeping his grip concentrated on his sleeve and was nowhere near his skin.

Kirk was giving him a devilish grin that somehow seemed intensified when paired with the wounds on his face. “Don’t tell him I’m here,” he whispered, voice low with conspiratorial excitement.

Spock slowly raised a brow at him. It seemed avoiding medical care was a game to the younger officer. Spock refrained from sighing, but only barely, as he reached towards the button once more. Kirk’s hold remained firm, but it was pointless when compared to Spock’s superior strength. “He is on the bridge with me, Doctor McCoy.”

Kirk released an affronted gasp and stared at Spock in shocked betrayal.

It occurred to Spock that Kirk’s behavior seemed more in line with his perceived character, and that it was less cautious and vulnerable than it had been in recent days. Was that a sign that he was getting better? If his front was coming back, perhaps his emotional control was as well.

An annoyed sigh sounded over the comm. “All right, as long as he’s with you, he doesn’t have to come back. I couldn’t find anything wrong with him earlier, so there’s no reason for him to return right away. Just keep an eye on him, all right? And let me know if anything changes, like if he passes out or pukes again.”

Spock sat in silence for a moment. McCoy trusted him to keep Kirk safe? Before he could dwell on the thought, he responded to the doctor’s command. “Understood.”

“And Jim.”

Kirk leaned over Spock from the other side of the chair, and his shoulder brushed against Spock’s chest and sent the unprepared Vulcan’s heart into overdrive in his side. He was not prepared for such close proximity. He could feel his ears start to burn, and he hoped their green shade wasn’t visible to anyone who may be watching them.

“Yeah, Bones?” Kirk responded, voice much too cheery.

“Don’t stress Spock out too much, all right? We need someone to manage the ship while you’re out of commission. So as much as it pains me to say, don’t put him under too much strain.”

With the way Kirk was draped across Spock’s lap and how it was sending his green blood to run frantically through his veins, it was already too late for such a request.

But Kirk gave the delighted response of, “You got it,” before ending the call. He turned that vibrant grin over to Spock, who tensed under the unnecessarily dazzling attention of the acting-captain. “Mom said we can hang out today,” Kirk said.

Spock’s beating pulse slowed to a confused stop. What? What did Jim’s mother have to do with anything? They had spoken to McCoy, not Winona Kirk.

He tilted his head and frowned in immense confusion. “Captain…” Spock said slowly, unsure if Kirk’s condition was worse than he had previously believed and was skewing the captain’s perception of what occurred. “We have not spoken to your mother.”

Kirk released a barking laugh and leaned out of Spock’s space—finally—and shook his head with mirth. “When does your shift end, Spock?” he asked instead of acknowledging the fact that his comment about his mother made no sense.

However, Spock felt he had no choice but to follow Kirk’s lead for the time being. “In three hours,” he replied.

“Hmm.” Kirk pouted his lips in thought and Spock had to look away. “Well,” Kirk said, “since babysitting duties have transferred over to you, I guess I'll have to hang out here until you get off.”

Spock kept his eyes trained on the main viewscreen. “It would appear so.” He was… not at all prepared to spend an extended amount of time with Kirk so soon. He had not meditated enough, and he was still mildly perturbed by Kirk’s episode in the food court and hallway.

And it seemed Kirk was well on his way to behaving as he did before. Which, while that meant his condition was improving… Kirk’s relaxed behavior was much too spontaneous for Spock’s liking. Every bit of his control was going to be tested.

“So?” Kirk stepped in front of Spock and the Vulcan had no choice but to look at him. “Do you have anything for me to do?”

Spock opened his mouth reflexively before closing it again in hesitation. He and Kirk maintained eye contact for an uncomfortable few seconds before Spock told him, “You are not yet back on duty. There is nothing for you to do.”

Kirk released a long, over-exaggerated sigh. “C’mon, I’m not asking to do work right now. But don’t you have anything I can be looking at? Reports, or something?”

Spock tilted his head in concession. “I suppose there are some reports you can look over.” He lifted his personal PADD out of his lap and handed it to Kirk. “If you require assistance accessing—”

“I got it,” Kirk interrupted, lifting up the PADD and showing that he had already gained access to the material that was only granted to the captain. “There’s nothing I can’t get into,” Kirk revealed with a grin.

Well. At least he was an acting-captain, so his gaining access to the captain’s material was not entirely against what was allowed. Spock raised a brow at Kirk. “Should I be concerned as to the security of Starfleet’s database?”

Kirk released a light chuckle and kept his eyes trained on whatever he was viewing on the PADD. “No, Starfleet’s definitely got the best security I’ve encountered.” He flicked his gaze back up to Spock’s. “You’re just lucky I’m an actual officer. And a good guy, to boot.”

Spock quietly acquiesced to himself that they were  fortunate Kirk was a "good guy". He was capable, and brilliant, and strong, and if any opposition to Starfleet had those same qualities… Spock shuddered to think how they were to fare if Kirk were not on their side.

Spock nodded, mostly to himself. “You are definitely a beneficial asset.”

Kirk placed his hand over his heart and gave an unnecessarily warm smile. “Aw, Spock! You like my ass-ets?”

There was something about the way Kirk enunciated ‘assets’ that Spock did not appreciate. Babysitting Kirk, as it were, was very likely going to deplete Spock of all of his remaining energy.

He could only hope that he would not be entirely run into the ground by Kirk’s illogical impulsive behavior by the day’s end.

Chapter Text

Spock’s shift was to end in five minutes, and to his utter surprise, the duration of it had been uneventful.

Even with Jim on the bridge.

He had no basis as to how a regular workday in Jim’s presence was to fare, but he had partially been expecting a hectic or exciting event of some kind—any kind—to occur.

And yet, during the full three hours that Jim spent on the bridge, he did nothing more than sit on the floor beside the captain’s chair and peruse his tablet. Occasionally he would turn to Spock to inquire as to a particular report or situation, but beyond that, he did not distract those that were engaged with work.

It was respectful and professional, and Spock was pleasantly surprised by Jim’s demeanor while on duty. Especially when keeping in mind that the young captain wasn’t on duty.

Spock stood from the captain’s chair and noted how Jim immediately looked up at him.

“My shift has ended,” he told the blond cadet.

“Oh!” Jim got his feet under himself with a speed that Spock had not expected with his condition, and stood before Spock while holding the PADD in front of himself. “Thanks for lending this to me, I was able to catch up on everything.”

Spock tilted his head. He ‘caught up’ on everything? What exactly did that include? “You read through all of the reports?” he asked while he took the PADD.

While carefully rubbing his right shoulder, Jim nodded. “Yeah, and I addressed some of the security in the system and double-checked the inventory. Oh, and I got started on a new program that should help Scotty with keeping the ship’s energy output as efficient and well-managed as possible, at least until we get back to Earth. And I made sure the replicators will keep producing food correctly.”

He managed all of that in only three hours? “You are more proficient with your time and technology than I expected.”

Jim flashed him a grin and said, “Thanks, Spock, I’ll let that underhanded undermining of my abilities slide.” Before Spock could respond to that, Jim clapped him on the shoulder and headed towards the turbolift.

Spock hesitated in the captain’s wake, before he blinked himself from his mild stupor and followed Jim into the lift. Once the doors closed, Spock analyzed the face of the blond beside him.

Jim’s bruises—the marring across his features—were a hideous sight to take in. The cadet’s left eye was horribly swollen, and purple decorated his complexion where a healthy pink should have been. And he was much more pale than he had been days prior.

Spock’s lips almost tugged into a frown.

Jim’s physical appearance didn’t coincide with his current demeanor. Jim was keeping his shoulders relaxed and his breathing even, despite the fact that he had been sick in the hall only a few hours before. He was most definitely unwell, it was obvious by the discoloration across his skin, and yet the way he was holding himself and the way he was acting… It was almost as though he wasn’t feeling a single ounce of discomfort.

Jim’s blue eyes flicked to his and Spock blinked in surprise, unprepared for being caught in the act of staring. He opened his mouth to address any unease his staring might have caused, but Jim spoke first.

“Do you have something you want to say to me, Spock?”

Jim’s voice was hoarse with the hints of weary weakness, despite the fact that Jim’s tone and deliverance was firm and steady. Spock couldn’t help but focus on it, even as he floundered for a reply to Jim’s question. Was Jim looking for an apology?

“I apologize for staring,” Spock said, and noted how Jim’s eyes crinkled with mirth at the apology, before continuing. “I was merely trying to ascertain as to your well-being.”

Jim gave an acknowledging hum and rocked on the balls of his feet, while keeping eye contact with Spock. He didn’t say anything for a time, which sent a trickling of nervousness down Spock’s skin. There was a mischievous glee in Jim’s blue eyes that was making the commander wary.

When Jim finally spoke, what he said was the last thing Spock expected to hear. “Bones said that you thought we should meditate together.”

Shock exploded through Spock’s chest. The doctor told Jim of their discussion? Something like betrayal snaked down the Vulcan’s veins. He had thought that the doctor trusted him enough to bring the subject to Jim himself, but it seemed he was wrong. An inkling of shame slid into Spock’s gut, both at having believed the doctor trusted him, and for Jim to learn of such an uncomfortably intimate proposition he had had.

Spock dabbed his tongue against his lips, and could feel a furrow forming between his brows. “The doctor told you of this?” he asked, and wasn’t entirely able to keep the shocked hurt from his tone.

Fortunately, it seemed Jim didn’t pick up on it. The young captain pouted his lips in either thought or amusement, before responding. “Nah, Bones didn’t tell me directly. I was eavesdropping on him and Pike.”

A soft sound of surprise caught in Spock’s throat. So, Pike was awake? But more importantly… the doctor hadn’t meant for Jim to know Spock had suggested they meditate.

As the relief that he had not been betrayed by the doctor settled, a flush of disbelief at Jim’s gall swept over. He felt as though he shouldn’t have been surprised that Jim would actively dismiss the privacy of others and was not above eavesdropping, and yet… the surprise was still there.

He couldn’t help the small amount of disturbed indignation Jim’s act brought on.

An urge to berate, or question, or scold Jim began to bubble up, but he tamped it down before he could speak so disrespectfully and familiarly with Jim. “Captain Pike is awake?” he asked instead. It was infinitely safer than addressing the matter of meditating together.

Jim nodded emphatically. “Oh, yeah. I mean, he’s probably sleeping now, but he’s good. Everything’s good.” Jim bit his lip and eyed the control panel of the lift, and added, “At least, mentally. I don’t know about his body, but his brain—everything that makes him him, is in tact.”

Spock placed his hands behind his back and squeezed them gently. Of all of the humans on Earth, Pike was one of the few he preferred. To know that he was alive, and by all rights well, was a previously unidentified weight off of Spock’s shoulders. “Is he expected to make a full recovery?”

Jim didn’t look up and continued to stare at the control panel, almost vacantly. “Don’t know. But Bones is there to take care of him, so he’ll be fine.” He took a deep breath through his nostrils, before nodding and blinking softly. “Yeah, he’ll be fine.”

The lift doors opened and Spock glanced at the indicator to see which deck Jim brought them to.

Deck 17.

Spock eyed Jim as the acting-captain stepped into the hall. It was the same deck where Spock had found Jim eight days prior, after his initial escape from the medbay. Why was Jim taking them back there?

“You know,” Jim started as they stepped into the hall, “I’ve actually known Pike for a while. A long while.”

Spock noted that they were on route to lounge AB. He watched Jim out of the corner of his eye, and wondered why the acting-captain was bringing them back to that place. “That is what I had surmised, based on how you and he interacted.”

Jim huffed lightly. “We’re that obvious, huh?” Jim audibly swallowed, and was quiet for a few moments while they walked.

Spock wanted to look at him, to analyze what expression he may have been making, but his own reservations kept his eyes ahead. He was still trying to decipher what reason Jim had for taking them where he was.

“You know,” Jim muttered, his voice weak and subdued. “I’m glad you trusted me, Spock. Really.”

This time Spock couldn’t help but look over at Jim, at how the younger officer was kneading at his injured left hand. Spock had to bite back an urge to reach out and stop him from potentially harming himself further. He instead focused on Jim’s downcast eyes and hard-set lips.

“I don’t want to even think about what might’ve happened if we didn’t make it back to Earth, or if I had gone on the Narada alone,” Jim finished quietly. “I’m glad you trusted me enough to go with my plan.”

Jim’s words struck something deep in Spock’s gut. He had not… He had not yet even considered what may have happened had Jim been alone. The very idea was distressing, that Jim would have faced all of the Romulans by himself. He wouldn’t have been able to maneuver Future Spock’s ship, and he likely… would not have survived his encounter with Nero. He would have died, and so would have everybody on their ship and on Earth.

A hot tightness squeezed Spock’s throat, and he swallowed against it. “I almost did not come back,” Spock admitted. “After I…” The words were sticking to the heat in his throat, but he forced passed it. “After I attacked you, I had nearly decided that I would not again return to the bridge.”

For the first time since he’d let himself think back on his momentary weakness, he was immensely grateful that he had returned to the bridge. That he had not left Jim to carry all of the weight alone.

Jim turned his wide blue eyes to Spock’s, and they glinted faintly in the hallway’s light. “What changed your mind?”

Spock averted his gaze and placed his hands behind his back as they walked. Would Jim think him weak for having to rely on his parent to make his decisions for him, especially at such dire times? Jim did not seem like the type of person to rely on others, least of all his parents.

Spock wondered what kind of person Winona Kirk was, and if she would be likely to offer help if Jim needed or asked for it.

“Oh!” Jim’s exclamation drew Spock out of his thoughts, and his breath caught at what sight awaited him. “Ambassador Sarek!” Jim greeted.

Spock’s heart pounded in his side. Sarek was at the end of the hall, looking at the two of them with a raised brow that Spock could only interpret as startled. For once, Spock could relate.

He had not seen or spoken to his father since that day in the transporter. It had been the most emotional conversation Spock could remember ever having with his father, and he was not yet sure if the dynamic between them had changed since.

Spock hesitated in his step, unsure as to what to say or what to do. Some part of him, low in his side, felt a dull pain at seeing his father again, the loss of his mother still so fresh that Sarek’s face was inevitably linked with Amanda’s in his mind.

“What brings you to this part of the ship?” Jim asked, apparently not noticing Spock’s internal uncertainty.

Sarek looked between Jim and Spock, his hands behind his back, and finally settled his gaze on Spock’s. “I am acquainting myself with the layout of this ship. Much of it I have not seen.”

Spock deduced his father’s words as meaning that Sarek was on a walk and trying to clear his mind. He was likely walking through the halls due to a restlessness that Spock had often heard of occurring after the death of a bondmate.

“Oh, yeah?” Jim looked around at their surroundings, as though it were a new thing he had never seen. “I guess there is a lot to see on this ship.”

Spock turned his gaze on Jim, as he was still unprepared to make direct eye contact with Sarek. He could feel that his father was analyzing both he and Jim.

After a beat of silence, Sarek asked, “You are healing, Captain Kirk?”

Spock held his breath. He was not sure if Jim could detect it, but Spock could hear that Sarek was referring directly to the moment when Jim had been attacked by Spock on the bridge. He knew that his father was not still upset with him, but it would also be unreasonable to assume that some disappointment did not linger.

And it was very likely that Sarek was not expecting to see Jim in Spock’s company again. Most humans—or rather, most beings—would not willingly spend time in the proximity of one who had tried to kill them.

“What, me? Oh, yeah.” Jim waved his hand dismissively, and closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m fine, I’m doing fine. I heal fast.”

Spock wondered if that statement were usually true for the blond, but in Spock’s opinion, Jim’s body did not seem to be doing much better in the ten days since the Narada Incident. Certainly not as far as his appearance went.

Spock spared a glance at his father, to see how the other Vulcan would react to Jim’s words.

Sarek was staring at Jim, one eyebrow raised. It seemed he didn’t fully believe Jim’s claim either. Sarek tilted his head in apparent interest. “And what of the damage done to your neck? Has your breathing improved?”

Jim blinked his eyes open wider, their crystal blue color stark in the hall’s fluorescent lights. The acting-captain flicked his gaze between Sarek and Spock, and his pink tongue dabbed at his lips. He must have finally caught on that Sarek was more than curious as to how Jim was faring after Spock’s attack.

Jim and Spock locked eyes, and the younger officer’s brows ticked up just barely. He was probably trying to figure out what Sarek felt about Spock attacking another.

Finally, Jim turned back to Sarek. “My neck is doing much better. Thank you for your concern.” He smiled amiably at the Vulcan Ambassador, and gave a slight nod.

“Of course.” Sarek nodded his head in return, and turned his gaze back to Spock.

Spock’s pulse stuttered. It was very unlikely that his father would ask as to his well-being, as that would tell uninvolved parties—namely, Jim—that he and his father were not communicating as a family. If Jim were aware, it would lead him to make uneducated assumptions as to their family’s functioning. It would be illogical to give outsiders a glimpse as to how their family was faring emotionally. It was not the business of others.

Spock knew this, and so was not surprised when Sarek merely nodded at the two of them one last time and said, “I will not keep you longer. I imagine we may encounter each other once more before we reach Earth.”

“Yes, of course.” Jim nodded earnestly. “We’ll see you around, Ambassador. Have a good walk. Oh, and if you need help with anything, just let me or any other crewmember know.”

“I will keep that in mind.” Sarek offered the two of them the Ta’al, which Spock returned. Not surprisingly, Jim did not reciprocate it, but for a human that was to be expected. Jim instead smiled and nodded in farewell.

Spock did not watch his father as he continued to pass them down the hall, though an unreasonable part of him was tempted to. He and Jim continued their trek to the lounge in silence.

With a peek at the blond beside him, Spock couldn’t decipher what Jim was thinking based on his expression. His face was lax and his eyes downcast, as though he were deep in thought.

Was he… Was he perhaps still bothered by Spock attacking him on the bridge? Spock would not blame him, but Jim had previously told him that it were no longer an issue. However, for Spock to be forgiven so quickly… It was unlikely.

Even for someone like Jim.

They reached Lounge AB, which was once again empty, and Jim led them to the large window that he had been sat at before. This time however, he merely leaned against the glass, rather than sitting on the floor in front of it.

Spock stood still beside Jim, and kept his hands clasped behind his back while he waited for the acting-captain to say something. But Jim continued to just stare out the window.

The light from the stars was speckled across Jim’s bruised cheeks, casting him in a dim and soft glow. The intense blue of his eyes seemed muted, as his gaze remained fixed on the space beyond the glass, and still he did not say anything.

Spock allowed the silence to continue for a few seconds more, but eventually found he needed his curiosity sated. “Why are we here, Jim?”

Almost as though he had forgotten Spock was there, Jim startled into a straighter stance and turned to Spock. “Huh?” He blinked back out at the stars, and licked his lips. “Sorry, I was just…”

Spock waited patiently, and let the other gather his thoughts.

“I don’t really know why I brought us here, actually. I mean,” he glanced back at Spock. “I wasn’t thinking where I was going while we walked. I think I just…” He grazed his fingertips against the window’s glass, before gently knocking his knuckles against it. “I think I was subconsciously just headed towards somewhere that I thought was calming.” He swallowed and turned his eyes back to the stars. “Space is calming.”

Spock could acquiesce that there was some truth to Jim’s claim. After all, Jim had said as much the first time they had been in that lounge. Still, Spock couldn’t help but be a little hesitant to outright accept Jim’s statement.

Yes, the stars and galaxies were beautiful to behold, but they were also terrifying. There was so much unknown hidden within them, so much hostility and danger. As was seen with Nero and his crew, and his weapons.

Jim had to be aware of that, as he had encountered more danger in space than most.

And if he really did find calm in the view of the stars, why did he not go to an area where the sight would be more optimal? “Why view space here, and not on the observation deck?” Spock asked quietly.

Jim didn’t answer right away, and instead rubbed his fingertips against the glass idly. “I don’t know. I think my body was just going somewhere familiar. I stumbled upon this place by accident the first time, so it just… I guess it just felt right.”

Jim seemed to be a very instinctual creature. From what Spock had been gathering over the past few weeks, it seemed Jim was one of those humans who often relied on a ‘gut feeling’. Spock could not confidently put faith in such a concept, but it… seemed to have steered Jim right thus far. Regardless of what odds were against him.

“Hey, Spock?” Jim mumbled, pulling the Vulcan back into the conversation. Jim was still staring out the window, though his brows had furrowed somewhat. “Is your dad mad at you?”

Spock’s thoughts staggered at the inquiry. Why did Jim believe Spock was on bad terms with his father? Moreover, why would he ask? “No,” Spock said.

Jim frowned at the glass, and wrung some of his fingers together. “Are you sure? You guys didn’t talk to each other at all in the hall.” Jim looked up at Spock, his blue eyes alight with… worry? “Does he still blame you for… for what happened on the bridge?” Jim asked softly.

Oh.

Jim was concerned with the repercussions Spock was facing for attacking him. Spock was once again struck by how unexpectedly thoughtful Jim could be, and momentarily floundered for a response.

“My father understood what transpired and why,” Spock said, as his only explanation. He felt no need to elaborate further.

“Oh,” Jim replied, with a hint of surprise. “So you guys have been talking?”

Not recently. They had only had that conversation in the transporter room, and nothing else. Spock did not want to admit to it, but neither could he lie. “We had a discussion after the initial incident,” was all he offered instead.

Jim tilted his head, apparently catching onto the information that Spock had omitted. “But you’ve talked since, right?”

Spock hesitated. He did not necessarily wish to have the conversation that they were steadily heading towards. “As of late, no.”

Jim stared hard at him, and he chewed on his lip while he eyed Spock. “When was the last time you two talked?” Jim asked.

Spock could detect a hint of a commanding tone under the words. It seemed Jim had latched onto the topic at hand, and was determined to dig deeper. Spock could not imagine anything worse at the moment. He released a shallow sigh, one he hoped Jim would not notice. “We last spoke a few minutes after I had initially attacked you.”

“What?” Jim squinted at him in either frustration or confusion. Perhaps both. “But you guys have talked about your…” He waved his hand up in a nondescript fashion. He must have been referring to Spock’s mother, but was unsure as to how acceptable it would be to bring her up. “You had to have talked about more than just that, right? I mean, you… You can’t leave this stuff unspoken,” Jim finished quietly.

An unreasonable twinge of annoyance shot through Spock’s chest. Jim was a human. He did not understand Vulcan societal customs, least of all the protocol for loss or grief. Indeed he had told Spock ‘I grieve with thee ’, but that was more than likely the extent of Jim’s knowledge on the matter.

He did not understand that most Vulcans had a need to sort through their grief on their own, that not everything had to be discussed.

“There is nothing that has any immediate need to be discussed.” Spock hoped that Jim would take his statement as the fact that it was, and not try to continue. However… it was Jim that he was speaking to.

Jim scoffed. “No need to be discussed—Spock! You have to talk about this, at least with someone! Loss of this magnitude can’t be left alone. I don’t care how ‘emotionless’ you Vulcans claim to be, it’s unhealthy to keep stuff like this in!”

Spock remembered why he had ever been annoyed with Jim in the first place. Jim had a tendency to behave and speak as though he knew everything, to the point that he could be more disrespectful than he perhaps realized. It was possible that the holier-than-thou attitude Jim had previously displayed had been tamped down due to his healing, but was coming back along with his improved health.

“And what of you?” Spock asked, and tried to keep the hardness from his voice.

He had a feeling that Jim kept much inside. In fact, Doctor McCoy had even said that Jim did. The doctor had explained how little of Jim was known, despite there apparently being an insurmountable amount of trauma that the human had gathered in his life. Spock knew that humans were expected or required to confide in others, so as to alleviate the effects of trauma.

And since Doctor McCoy was Jim’s primary care physician, it was safe to assume that if he knew nothing of Jim’s past, then no one did.

Jim was being hypocritical. He did not speak of his troubles. How could he insist that someone do what he did not?

The blond was frowning at Spock, apparently unsure as to the meaning of Spock’s question. The Vulcan elaborated. “Do you speak with others when you are troubled? When you are grieving?”

Jim’s expression smoothed out in disbelief. “This isn’t about me, Spock.”

“How can you give demands if you do not, as your kind say, ‘practice what you preach’?” Spock asked.

Jim huffed softly, before replying. “Listen Spock, don’t talk about what you don’t know—”

“You are being hypocritical,” Spock interrupted. He was frustrated, and Jim was starting to grate on his patience. The human was being incredibly illogical, and Spock found he could not stand for much more. “You do not know what is natural for Vulcans when it comes to grief.”

“And I’m telling you, you don’t know how detrimental it is to keep this stuff inside! Spock, I’m serious,” Jim said, his hoarse voice more firm than Spock had thought him capable. “If we want to talk about me, fine. I have a lot of emotional wounds, all right? I’ve got a lot in me.”

Spock blinked in shock. He did not expect Jim to admit to his emotional trauma.

Jim continued, the gaze of his blue eyes clear and unyielding. “But we’re not talking about me right now. My wounds are old, Spock. Yours aren’t. And I don’t know your life, but you haven’t experienced much grief before, have you?”

Spock hesitated. He had not. Other than the sehlat he had lost as a child, there was very little loss he had ever experienced.

Jim waited for an answer, but when none came, the bruised captain continued. “You’re half-human, Spock. Surely, some part of you is struggling. If you would just talk with others, I’m sure you’d have an easier time of it. What about Uhura? Don’t you talk to her about stuff?”

Spock took a deep breath. He did not want to be having this conversation. “She and I have not yet developed the confidence to confide in each other.”

Jim’s shoulders sagged, though Spock could not understand why. “Not even at a time like this?” Jim asked. “Is there no one you can talk to?”

Again, Spock could not tamp down the bit of annoyance that sparked within him. Jim apparently still did not realize how hypocritical he was being. “Why do you not confide in Doctor McCoy?” Spock asked in turn.

Jim’s face paled slightly, or it may have been an adjustment of the starlight from beyond the window. Regardless, Jim’s lips thinned into a tight line, as though he had decided he would no longer respond.

Spock huffed in irritation. “I would rather you mind your own business, Captain, and not come to me for—”

He was cut off as the ship suddenly lurched and sent them both to the ground. Spock was able to land on his hands, but he watched as Jim fell hard into the floor, and did not miss the choked yelp that Jim released as he hit.

Any irritation Spock had been experiencing in the past few minutes was immediately swept under a rush of concern for Jim’s well-being. Part of his mind was focused on why the ship may have possibly pitched them to the ground, but the majority of his attention was on the fact that Jim was hurt again, despite the fact that he had not yet healed nearly enough to be put through any sort of physical stress.

"Captain!" Spock gasped, before hurrying to Jim's tensed and curled form.

Chapter Text

God, what the hell? What now?!

Jim rolled himself onto his stomach, to better cradle his ribs. Shit, he had no idea what just happened to the ship, but he was not prepared to be tossed to the floor like that. He had felt something in his chest crack when he hit, and he feared that it had something to do with his healing ribs.

That just figured. He would re-break his ribs while trying to have a serious conversation with Spock.

He situated his hands underneath himself, and pushed up until the ache in his ribs screamed at him to stop.

“Jim?” Spock said from—Jesus, right next to him. 

Jim couldn’t show weakness, not after that whole argument he and Spock were having. He couldn’t be weak. He was tired of it. 

He bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to get to his knees the rest of the way. He wasn’t hurt. He was fine.

Jim glanced over at Spock, and waved him away. “I’m all right, it’s all right.”

“I have difficulty trusting your statement, as you have consistently shown that you withhold information regarding your own physical health.” Spock continued to reach for him, but wasn’t making any contact.

Huh. Maybe Jim had made him more upset in the past few minutes than he realized. Too upset to even touch.

“Spock, don’t worry about it,” Jim said, though his voice came out as more of a harsh whisper. He shoved himself up to his feet, and his heart pounded from the amount of effort it took, which in turn caused his vision to briefly swim. He blinked hard against it a few times and swallowed back the whine that was building up, as the pain in his ribs multiplied tenfold once he’d changed his position.

He bit down hard on his tongue, to distract himself from the pain in his side as he stomped over to the wall comm. “Scotty,” he barked as he pressed the button. “What the hell just happened to the ship?”

“Sorry, cap’n,” Scotty responded. “I was just trying to see if I could adjust the output of the warp core’s energy, maybe get us goin’ a little faster—”

“What—Don’t do that!” Jim frowned in disbelief at the Scotsman, even though Scotty couldn’t see all the way from engineering. “Don’t be messing with the ship, Scotty. The core is fine as it is. We’ll be back home in a few days, anyway, so there’s no point in trying to get us there sooner.”

“I know, Captain, I was just thinking—”

“Well, stop worrying about it,” Jim huffed, and tried to subtly massage away the stabbing pain in his side. “Focus your attention elsewhere for now, all right? Just so long as we’re moving, I don’t care how fast we’re going. I don’t want to risk the ship at all, not after all this.”

There was a pause on the other line, until finally Scotty sighed. “Aye, all right.”

“All right,” Jim replied and clenched his fist as a particularly painful wave radiated from his ribs. He swallowed roughly. “No messing with the core. Seriously… There’s only so much that we and the ship can take.”

“I know, I know. I get it, laddie. But you really shouldn’t worry so much! There’s nothin’ I would do to jeopardize the Lady Enterprise, she’s more safe with me than the other hooligans that had been ‘running the ship’ before I got here. Did you know that they had the nacelles—”

“I’ll talk to you later, Scotty.” It was all the warning Jim gave before he ended the call. He liked Scotty, really he did. You couldn’t help but like someone when they snuck onto the fleet’s flagship with you, no questions asked and without a second’s hesitation.

But Jim’s ribs were starting to kill him.

It was like every few seconds, there’d be a brief lull of peace. Just long enough for him to catch his breath, and then an explosion of gut-wrenching pain would cascade from his side through the rest of his body.

It hurt so bad, bad enough that every wave would make his skin break out in goosebumps. He was keeping his eyes shut and was using the wall as a support, and did everything he could to clear his mind as he slowly breathed his way through the worst of it. He’d given up on being subtle and rested his forehead against the arm that was keeping him against the wall.

“Captain,” Spock said, and it sounded like he had walked up to stand nearer to the acting-captain.

Jim forced one eye open and glanced to the side where, sure enough, Spock was standing.

Spock stared at him for a few seconds, unmoving, until he said, “You are sweating.”

Shit. His body was betraying him. His body was making it perfectly obvious that he was very, very far from being in tip-top shape, and nothing he could say would convince anyone otherwise.

Jim closed his eye again, as even the energy he was using to do that was too much. At least, it was while he was trying to divert every bit of his power to handle the fucking pain that was overtaking him. It was probably hurting so bad because there was no adrenaline in his body.

Getting hurt when not in a dangerous or stressful situation always ended up being so much more painful.

“I…” Jim licked his lips and quickly cleared his throat. Fuck, even that hurt. “I might have cracked something again.”

“Then we must take you to the infirmary immediately.”

Jim sighed shallowly. “I can’t move right now, Spock.”

Silence. “You are in enough pain that you cannot walk?”

Jim didn’t have the energy to do more than nod once into his arm. 

Spock was quiet for a few seconds more, until he finally spoke up. “I will call the medbay. Perhaps you should seat yourself until help arrives.”

Did Spock’s pointy ears not work or something? “I just said,” Jim started, before another wave of pain forced him to pause. “I just said I can’t move.”

“...Understood.” Jim could sense Spock step even closer to him, which sent the acting-captain’s already strained heart into overdrive. His eyes shot open and he stared at the Vulcan's closer proximity.

 Was Spock going to make him sit down? Pick him up? Jim’s hackles continued to rise, until Spock merely activated the wall comm. “Spock to medbay. I require Doctor McCoy’s assistance.”

Whoah, wait a second. Jim almost reached for Spock to stop him, but just flexing his muscles in preparation to move hurt bad enough that he remained still. “Wait, Spock,” Jim panted. “Don’t call Bones, he has work to do.” 

McCoy had already devoted enough time specifically for Jim. Surely he wasn’t the only patient that had to be seen to. Hell, there was still Pike that needed Bones’s care.

“You believe treating you is not a part of his work?” Spock countered. “Are you not an individual in need of medical assistance?”

Jim sighed. When he put it like that… “I’m just—I’m not very high priority. There are other people he should see to.”

“You are the acting-captain of this ship,” Spock declared, as though that were reason enough for Jim to receive more attention than he deserved. 

“No, no, not right now,” Jim mumbled. He lowered his eyes and frowned, before bringing them back up to Spock’s gaze. “I’m still not clear for duty, so technically you’re the acting-captain right now.”

Before Spock could reply, Bones’s voice carried over the comm. “Sorry that took me so long to respond, I had to finish patching someone up.”

Jim whispered, “I told you he has other people that need his help,” as matter-of-factly as he could manage.

Spock tore his eyes from Jim’s, and addressed the wall comm. “I understand, Doctor.”

“I got here as soon as I could, though. The ship just knocked half my medbay to the floor, I can only assume you and Jim received the same sort of treatment. He is still with you, right?”

“He is,” Spock confirmed, “and your assumption is correct. Both he and I lost our footing, and he believes he may have aggravated his previous injuries by hitting the ground.”

“Shit. Is he all right? Does he need to come back to the medbay?”

Jim could feel a drop of sweat sliding down his face, and he watched as Spock’s eyes followed it before the Vulcan answered. “He is in need of your medical assistance, however he has claimed that he is in no condition to move from his current position.”

“Is he nearby?”

Uh oh. Was Bones gonna want to talk to him?

“He is standing beside me,” Spock said.

“Jim.”

Damn it. Jim just knew he was gonna get an earful. “Yeah, Bones?” he panted.

“I let you back onto the rest of the ship because you promised to take of yourself, didn’t I?”

“Bones, the agreement was that if I took it easy yesterday, then today I could—”

“What, toss yourself around like you’re some kind of ragdoll? Damn it, Jim, I agreed because I thought you were smart enough to understand that taking care of yourself applied to today, too! But so far you’ve had an episode in the mess, you puked your guts out in the hall, and then you ran off before you would even let me see to you! And as far as I’m aware, the ship jolting itself wasn’t your fault, but if you’d have just let me treat you before then you’d probably be in better shape than you are now! I’m your doctor, Jim, you can’t keep being so careless and ruining all of my hard work!”

Jim was keeping his face pressed against his arm. He really hated upsetting Bones.

He knew they shouldn’t have called him. Bones always felt like it was his responsibility to keep Jim safe, and that just wasn’t fair. That was way too heavy a load for anyone to handle, even the great Doctor McCoy. 

To expect him to always be all right with having to cater to Jim’s many needs… Jim was sure the doctor’s abilities or willingness would be depleted eventually.

Especially when it came to someone who got scraped up as often as Jim did.

The pain in his ribs suddenly smoothed itself over his torso again, and Jim could do nothing but hold his breath and focus on the feeling of his hairs standing on end until the wave passed.

He squeezed his shirt between sweaty fingers, and mumbled, “My bad.”

“It is your bad!” Bones shouted through the comm. “Now tell me where the hell you are so I can help you!”

Spock replied for him. “We are in Lounge AB on Deck 17.”

“Again—? Fine, I’ll be right there. Don’t let him hurt himself further, Spock, or else I'll have your hide next!” The comm cut off, which meant it would only be a matter of minutes before Bones arrived.

God. What a long day.

Jim swallowed around a lump in his throat, one he could only assume formed because of all of the pain. Definitely not because he’d disappointed Bones again.

“Is the doctor always this emotionally charged?” Spock asked.

Jim huffed despite himself, and took a second to re-catch his breath before he responded. “Yup.”

Spock’s eyebrow ticked, but he didn't comment further. 

It seemed neither of them felt very inclined to continue talking. Damn. Jim hadn’t had very many chances to talk one on one with Spock, and it seemed the time for their conversation had already come and gone.

Granted, the direction their discussion had been going in hadn’t exactly been in Jim’s favor, but… at least they were talking.

True to Vulcan nature, Spock was closed off and didn't make himself available for discussing personal topics. Which Jim could definitely understand, he himself just… couldn’t talk to others about himself.

But Jim had no other choice. Talking about his past wouldn't do anyone any good, nobody would be able to handle the information and it would only make people treat him different. And even if that weren't a factor, the information was classified anyway. Jim was strictly forbidden from revealing to anyone that he was ever on Tarsus, let alone that he was one of the Tarsus Nine. 

And plus, nobody would want to listen to him talk about his childhood, or stepdad, or dead brother. 

So Jim had plenty good reason not to talk about himself.

Spock, on the other hand, seriously needed to open up. Sure, Vulcans didn't normally talk about their feelings, Jim got that. He did. 

But most Vulcans didn't have to deal with such large scale grief. Spock most definitely had no idea how to handle such an overwhelming amount of emotions. Jim knew that for a fact.

Spock never would have attacked him on the bridge if it weren't true. 

But Spock was a stubborn son of a bitch, so Jim had to accept that their conversation was done for the day. Figured. Getting through to Spock was going to take a miracle and a whole lot of luck.

Chapter Text

Bones chewed on his thumbnail anxiously while the turbolift carried him lower into the ship.

He hadn’t meant to yell at Jim over the comm. He had just been so frustrated.

Frustrated that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he cared, he still couldn’t seem to keep Jim safe.

He shouldn’t have let the kid go to the mess. He should have checked Jim over more. He should have insisted that Jim return to the medbay.

He should have…

Bones sighed and pressed his hand to his eyes.

He shouldn’t have snapped at Jim.

There really wasn’t a good reason for him to be upset with the kid for wanting to go out into the rest of the ship. Jim never could stay in one place for long. Staying in Bones’s room for the past few days must have been suffocating.

And it wasn’t his fault that he got hurt. Fuck, when it came to Jim, it hardly ever was. He was just always getting hurt by someone, or something, and more often than not it wasn’t even his fault.

That applied to now, too. Jim definitely hadn’t been asking to get sick in the mess, it was probably brought on by some kind of traumatic trigger.

And getting triggered wasn’t Jim’s fault. It probably wasn’t anyone’s.

Bones didn’t have any right to start swinging accusatory fists, least of all at Jim. McCoy tightened his grip around the handle of his medkit and ran his other hand through his hair. He hoped Jim wasn’t going to be too abrasive with him when he reached him.

But then again, Jim would have every right to be if he was.

The lift doors opened and Bones shook his head. He felt like his thoughts were going in circles. It was probably because he wasn’t getting enough sleep lately.

His brisk pace brought him to the lounge in hardly any time at all.

Spock was standing beside Jim, who was leaning against the wall and—God, he really didn't look good.

He somehow seemed more pale than before, but now he also had sweat trickling down his face. The circles around his eyes were dark and puffy. And as Bones got closer, he realized that Jim was even shaking.

“Jim,” Bones grunted as way of greeting, and tried to keep the worry out of his voice. “Sit down before you pass out, damn it.”

Jim turned his swollen and hazy eyes to Bones, and frowned before he spoke. “Hurts too much,” he croaked.

At Jim’s words, Bones decided he really hated everything about the past two weeks. If not for all of the stuff with the Narada and Vulcan—and God, their classmates—then he hated everything Jim had been put through. He hated that Jim’s limits had been stretched as far as they had.

Because never—never—in the three years that they had known each other, had Bones heard Jim openly admit to the pain he was experiencing as often as he had been in the past few days.

Fucking hell, Jim had been put through way too fucking much.

Bones placed his hand over Jim’s cheek and couldn’t bring himself to care that Spock was right there, watching. “All right, just hang tight. Let me figure out what’s wrong,” Bones told his exhausted looking friend. He pulled out his tricorder and ran a scan over the side that Jim was cradling protectively. At the device’s readings, he couldn’t help but release a shallow exhale of relief. “It’s just bruising,” McCoy said. “Not a fracture or a break, just some deep bruising.”

“You sure?” Jim squinted his eyes in apparent disbelief. “This feels pretty bad for just bruising.”

McCoy sighed while he double checked that bruising was all it was. “Yeah. I’m sure.” Frown still in place, he brought his gaze up to Jim’s pointedly. “I wasn’t kidding when I said you worked yourself too hard this time. Your pain tolerance is shot, and it’s not going to get any better if you don’t let yourself actually heal.”

Jim averted his gaze, and he looked so… defeated. Beaten to high hell. “You’re right,” Jim whispered quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Oh, fuck. Bones really shouldn’t have snapped at Jim over the comm. Damn it, he knew Jim was quick to internalize things, especially when he was going through a rough time. Of course Jim would readily take any blame thrown at him.

“Hey,” Bones hushed as soothingly as he could manage, as one hand hurriedly started rifling through his medkit while the other carded over Jim’s hair. “Hey, you don’t have to apologize. Look, Jim, this isn’t your fault.”

Jim closed his eyes and a disbelieving snort blew from his nose.

Bones continued before the blond could say anything. “I’m serious. This isn’t your fault.” Quieter, he added, “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m sorry.”

Jim shook his head slightly, eyes still closed. “No, I get it. I get why you’re frustrated.”

Did he really? Bones suspected Jim thought he got it. But… Jim was a self-sacrificing son of a bitch. He probably believed that Bones blamed him for getting hurt, and was justified in doing so. Idiot.

Biting down on his tongue, Bones got out a hypo and quickly prepped it with an anesthetic. Once it was ready, he started to gently pet the side of Jim’s head. “Jim, look at me.”

Jim blinked his eyes open sluggishly.

Bones tried to tamp down on his frown. “I’m not mad at you,” he whispered. He stared into Jim’s eyes imploringly, willing him to believe him. “I don’t blame you.”

Jim inhaled slowly through his nose, but it still sounded strained. His blue eyes were incredibly sharp and clear, their vivid sheen betraying how much pain Jim was trying to swallow down. Bones suspected Jim wasn’t going to reply, so he carefully pressed the hypo to Jim’s neck. As it hissed, Jim’s eyelids fluttered shut and a small groan escaped his throat.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Bones told him quietly, practically on reflex.

“You humans send many mixed messages,” Spock suddenly stated.

Bones had completely forgotten he was there. He turned to face the Vulcan who was watching them from a few feet away, and rolled his eyes. “Hate to break it to you, Spock,” Bones grumbled, “but you are half human.”

Almost unnoticeably, Spock frowned. “A fact you and the captain constantly insist on reminding me of. I assure you, Doctor, I am well aware of my heritage.”

It occurred to Bones that Jim and Spock had likely been talking in here before the ship tipped them over. At Spock’s tone... Bones wondered if they had been arguing. “All right, no need to get snippy,” he mumbled in response.

Spock’s posture straightened, but only barely. “I am not being ‘snippy’, I am merely making an observation.”

Bones sighed, but before he could reply, an over heated hand gripped his arm. His heart stuttered in surprise and he turned back to Jim, while placing his own hand over Jim’s. He watched Jim’s eyelids struggle to stay open, and a spike of worry shot through his lungs. “What’s wrong?”

Jim’s nearly closed eyes squinted up at Bones, while the captain’s body tilted into Bones’s chest. “How much sedative was in that hypo?” Jim slurred out.

It was all the young captain managed to say before he slumped in a dead weight against Bones, who quickly hooked his arms under Jim’s to hold him upright. “Jesus,” Bones hissed.

He hadn’t thought that dosage would knock Jim out. It was supposed to just be enough to help him relax, not enough to make him faint. Jim’s tolerance at the moment was worse than he thought.

As he worked to get Jim more or less upright against himself, he realized that another set of hands was helping him keep Jim up. He glanced at Spock, whose mostly impassive face had a slight furrow between the brows.

“You sedated him?” Spock asked.

McCoy didn’t like that accusatory tone. “No,” Bones huffed. “I was just trying to help him relax. He wasn’t supposed to pass out.” Bones blinked down at Jim’s pale face, at the bruising and the blushing on his cheeks. He carefully ran his hand down the side of Jim’s too hot face, wiping away what sweat had gathered.

Passing out was probably good for him, all things considered. God knew he needed the rest.

Spock began to remove his hands from Jim’s person and McCoy cleared his throat. “Spock, do you think you could help me get him to my room? Can you carry him?”

A raised brow was Spock’s response, but he moved to take the majority of Jim’s weight from Bones regardless. After they carefully situated Jim’s limp body in Spock’s arms, McCoy got his tricorder back out.

“I’m gonna look him over while we walk,” Bones explained.

As Spock carried Jim through the blessedly empty halls (Bones knew Jim would hate it if anyone saw him in such a state), Bones checked over the readings the tricorder gave him.

Like he’d learned before, Jim’s chest injuries were no worse than some aggravated bruised ribs. And the rest of him was more or less better, too. His ankle showed some signs of irritation, but not enough to be a problem for Jim. His neck was mostly healed, though it was undoubtedly still sore. And the fractures on his face weren’t great, but they were improving, too. Barely. They would probably hurt Jim for a while longer, just like all of the other injuries he had amassed.

And even though by all means Jim was healing, he knew Jim was still hurting terribly. Seeing him so pale, and in so much obvious pain, made McCoy’s gut clench.

Jim’s face was tight in underlying discomfort, as far as McCoy could see from where it was cushioned on Spock’s bicep. He was healing. But not fast enough.

As they stepped into the turbolift, McCoy frowned down at his tricorder. “You guys need to stop going into that lounge,” he mumbled. He could feel Spock staring at him, so he elaborated. “Every time I find you two in there, Jim’s pain seems to get worse.”

After a long beat of silence filled by nothing but the humming of the turbolift, Spock finally responded. “I do not believe it to be the fault of the room.”

McCoy huffed. “No, I guess you’re right. It’s just Jim’s rotten luck.”

Jim choked on a gulping breath, Spock’s name hissing through his mouth as his eyes flew open. His lungs heaved for a few seconds, each exhale pulling with it a scraping of pain across his ribs. He blinked unevenly at the ceiling of Bones’s room, until Bones was suddenly right in front of him, hand on Jim’s head.

“You all right, kid?” Bones asked.

Jim stared at him, and focused on the flame of unease that was burning in his chest. “Where’s Spock?”

“Back in his room, I imagine,” Bones said, face colored with concern. “Do you want me to get him?”

“I…” Jim trailed off, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

He had a nightmare. Something that involved Spock, but… he couldn’t remember what. He pressed his hand to his forehead, and tried to figure out what could have distressed him so.

Did he dream about Spock choking him? Melding with him? Did he dream about something older Spock had gone through? Maybe he had dreamed about his and Spock’s time on the Narada?

He clenched his eyes shut. Did he dream about old Spock, or their Spock? They almost felt like the same thing in his subconscious, and Jim wondered if their existences had gotten tangled in his already addled mind.

“No, you don’t have to get him,” Jim finally said. He rubbed at his forehead while he forced his other hand to release its death grip on the sheets. “God, my head is killing me.”

“Headache?” Bones asked, as he removed his hand from Jim’s hair. Jim almost wanted him to put it back. Bones’s warm fingers over his scalp had been helping. “Let me get something for that.”

As Bones wandered elsewhere in the room, Jim gingerly rolled onto his side, and gripped the sheets closer about himself. Fuck, his head hurt. It hadn’t really registered when he had first woken up.

As he rubbed at his forehead tentatively, he wondered if his headache was an aftereffect of old Spock’s meld (if that was the case then in his opinion it was a little late), or if it was because he hadn’t been sleeping the past few days. There was also the excitement that had happened earlier in the day that could be responsible. His panic attack, the throwing up, the ship tossing him around… God. He hadn’t been having an easy time of it lately.

Bones’s warm hand ran over his hair again, and it relaxed Jim enough that he didn’t give more than a groan when Bones pressed a hypo to his neck.

“All right, that should kick in in just a second,” Bones promised. The doctor paused for a moment, and Jim blinked his eyes open slowly to look up at him.

Bones’s brows were scrunched together, and Jim was filled with a want to smooth them out. The doctor had dark, deep bags under his eyes. A rush of guilt filled Jim’s chest. “Bones, you look tired.”

Bones raised a brow at him. “I feel dandy.”

Jim couldn’t help but snort at him. “You’re as convincing as I am.”

The frown Bones gave him was more somber than Jim expected, and he swallowed nervously until Bones replied. “I think we're both pretty tired right now.”

He was probably right. Jim’s sore throat contracted again and he couldn’t find the words to form a reply.

Luckily Bones didn’t seem to be looking for one, and the doctor sat himself on the bed before he spoke again. “So, were you dreaming about Spock?”

Jim’s thoughts stuttered. “Huh?”

“You were saying his name as you woke up," Bones added while he idly smoothed the blanket out over Jim’s frame.

“Oh,” Jim rubbed at his neck thoughtlessly. “I don’t know. I can't remember.”

He probably had been dreaming about Spock. But he still for the life of him couldn’t remember why, or what the dream involved.

Bones paused. “What were you two talking about in the lounge?”

A huff of annoyance escaped from Jim before he realized it. “Nothing.”

Bones raised both brows at him, full of disbelief. “That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“No, I mean,” Jim grimaced, and made a weak, nondescript gesture with his injured hand. “That’s the problem. He wouldn’t talk. We didn't talk about anything.”

“Well…” Bones bent over and started to remove his boots while he spoke. “What were you trying to get him to talk about?”

“Things,” Jim said quietly. He waited for Bones to look at him again before he added, “Vulcan. What happened.” He licked his lips in thought. “He hasn’t talked to anyone about what happened.”

Bones exhaled slowly, and carefully changed his position so he was sitting against the headboard beside Jim, his legs lined up with Jim’s on the bed. “Have you considered that maybe he doesn’t need to? He is a Vulcan, after all. They’re different.” Bones cocked an eyebrow. “I would say ‘how do you even know he feels enough to talk about’, but after what he did to you on the bridge…” He shook his head slightly. “I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to Vulcan emotions.”

“That’s what I mean,” Jim said, shifting on his side to face Bones better. “It’s obvious he feels a lot. Especially in regards to everything that’s happened. If he doesn’t open up about it, then it’s just going to build up.”

Bones stared down at Jim with a raised brow of incredulity. “And what about you? Does talking to others about your problems work for you? ”

Fuck. Jim swallowed back an angry sigh. Bones using the same argument as Spock was the last thing he expected. It would probably infuriate Bones to know he was practically quoting Spock. “My case is different,” Jim said weakly.

“His is too,” Bones frowned. “If talking won’t work for him, then it won’t work. Leave it to his dad or Uhura to help him figure it out.”

“He’s not talking to either of them,” Jim sighed.

“Well,” Bones removed his blue overshirt and shuffled his way lower onto the bed, until he was lying beside Jim. “Then it looks like he’s chosen to go it alone.” He rolled onto his side, his back facing Jim. “Why don’t you leave him to it? I don’t want to patch you up if he happens to lose it again. It’s like you’re poking a sleeping boar with a barbed stick.”

Jim frowned at Bones’s back, and mumbled, “He’s not that bad.”

Instead of a proper response, Bones said, “Lights, ten percent.”

Chapter Text

Jim was bathed in darkness.

A deep, vast, longing darkness that made him feel small and sad. He could hear distant crying, voices indistinct, like a surrounding storm that served as the only tether to the space he was in.

Within the darkness was an overwhelming sense of hurt and confusion, but it was of too large a magnitude to belong only to him. It was all contained inside of him, that much he could tell, but it wasn’t all his.

He thought of pressing his hand over his heart, while the ghost of another hand pressed to his face and gave him all of the memories and feelings and pain of more lifetimes than he could bear.

It hurt.

The emotions were contributing to a physical ache that permeated every inch of his body, and no matter how much he slept on it or dealt with it, he knew it would always be there. It was always going to be a part of him.

Vulcan was now a part of his soul, just as Tarsus was.

The thought of crying rode through the darkness, until it reached him and wrapped around his whole being like a blanket. He pulled himself in tighter into his own mind, away from the loss and pain and agony. He was so tired. He just wanted to rest.

But there was a screaming beneath everything that he hadn’t been able to lock away yet. The cries of lost loved ones were still rushing through his veins. Some of the dead were his, but most of them weren’t.

It didn’t matter. They were his now.

And they weren’t letting him rest. He wanted to, desperately, he could never heal if he couldn’t even sleep, but the screams were reminding him that he would have plenty of time to rest when he was dead.

A hissing voice slithered in the background, pulling his attention back from trying to fade as far away as he could. His gut clenched in fear and fury, even though he couldn’t make out words yet. He knew that voice, and it was growing louder. Closer.

“I know your face. From Earth’s history.”

The crying in the dark was drowned out as the presence grew ever nearer, until the sensation of  hands wrapping around his throat was undeniable. He clawed at his own neck, to alleviate the pressure and the pain, but his fingers found nothing but his own flesh.

“James T. Kirk was considered to be a great man,” the voice hissed, until two dark, glistening orbs shone in the darkness. Nero’s eyes, staring at him, surrounded by sparks and fire and an emptiness that was swelling in his soul.

Nero sneered, so much more powerful, his calloused hands firm and rough and immovable, tightening their grip with every word. “He went on to captain the USS Enterprise.”

He couldn’t breathe. It was as though the shadows, the fear, the hate and the death were pouring into his lungs, replacing every inch where air should have been. He tried to fight back, he tried, but his body was so tired. So weak.

“But that was another life.”

The words were deafening and sharp, louder than anything that had been floating in the darkness before Nero’s hands found their way around his throat.

Nero’s face was suddenly all he could see. There was grime and sweat across Nero’s skin, and it somehow accentuated the horrid glee that was evident in every line of the Romulan’s face. Cruelty was bleeding out of his dark eyes, vile evil dripped from his mouth as he spoke.

“A life I will deprive you of, just like I did your father!”

Nero’s hissing voice washed over him, just as a tide of violent and terrified screams slammed into Jim and begged him to move, move, move, for God’s sake! He killed us all! He’ll kill you too!

Jim surged forward, his body moving on instinct and always ten steps ahead of his conscious thinking.

It was only after he had swung his leg up around Bones’s neck and slammed down so Bones was on the mattress and Jim was straddled above the doctor—their positions suddenly and effectively switched—that Jim realized he had only been dreaming before.

And now this was real.

“Jesus!” Bones yelled, eyes clenched shut. “Jim, calm it! I was only trying to wake you!”

Jim panted unsteadily, and had to blink multiple times before he got a solid grasp on the situation. He had both of Bones’s arms pinned beneath his left arm, his right fist cocked to punch, and he was sat atop Bones’s pelvis and had both of his ankles hooked around the doctor’s.

Jim continued to gasp and hastily eased up, giving Bones back control of his limbs. God. Self-defense training had its perks, but subduing his own best friend before he was even awake was… embarrassing. “I’m sorry,” Jim croaked. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” McCoy grumbled. “Your control was just fine.” He sat up and rolled his neck, while rubbing at the muscles of his shoulder. “Fuck. I forgot how fast you are.”

Jim sat back on his haunches, while shame fizzled in his gut. His control was way less than fine. He hadn’t attacked his way out of sleep in a long time. “Did I give you whiplash?”

Bones rolled his neck again, his eyes closed and frown prominent. “Nah. I think I’m all right.” He paused and leveled his gaze with Jim’s. The frown was holding strong. “What’s got you coiled so tight? You were damn-right spring loaded.” A quiet sigh blew from his nostrils. “All I did was touch your shoulders to wake you.”

“Too close to my neck,” Jim responded, before a single thought had even settled in his own head.

Silence dragged on and Jim looked up to catch Bones’s absolutely confused stare.

“Shoulders,” Jim added, in a feeble attempt to elaborate. Words weren’t coming easy at the moment. It was fucking frustrating. He took a deep breath and tried to explain again. “Touching my shoulders brought your hands too close to my neck.”

Bones didn’t reply. He merely ticked one eyebrow up in blatant concern.

God damn it. He didn’t get it. Jim didn't really feel like explaining himself, but if he didn't then Bones would concoct all sorts of theories as to what Jim’s words were alluding to, and would likely come up with some make believe aspect of Jim’s history.

One major problem with never telling Bones anything about himself, was that Jim just knew the doctor had been spending the past few years making up his own ideas as to what Jim’s life entailed. Most of it was probably wrong.

In all likelihood, the truth was ten times worse than anything the doctor could conceive.

But at least in this instance, Jim could concretely explain why hands near his throat had made him react instead of think.

“Nero,” Jim whimpered, the single word achingly weak and pathetic where it hung in the air. Frustration building to a boiling point, Jim cleared his throat and said, voice more steady than before, “I dreamed about Nero.”

“Oh,” rushed from Bones’s mouth quietly, and his features immediately softened. “I see.”

Jim tore his gaze from Bones’s, his friend’s expression painfully sympathetic. God, he didn’t even want to imagine what Bones was thinking about him. He couldn’t help but feel that his reputation, whatever image he had made of himself in the past three years, was steadily shattering with each passing day since the Narada Incident. At least in Bones’s eyes it probably was.

Jim felt disgusted with himself. Fuck, why couldn’t he pull it together yet? It had been eleven days since the Narada Incident. Eleven days to get himself under control.

And instead all that was happening was nightmares, panic attacks, and more crying than he would like to admit to. And Bones had been witness to almost all of it. Bones and Spock.

Jim wasn’t sure what was worse. 

Bones having to learn that the person he thought Jim was was just a farce, or for Spock to learn right off the bat that Jim was the worst of the worst.

He’d built a certain character about himself for the past three years, a character of confidence and strength and more authenticity than he had dared show since childhood, and he’d trusted Bones to accept everything he had presented. Three years the doctor had built a friendship with that person, somebody who never gave into their past traumas and was unyielding in the face of danger or a no-win scenario.

And now, in just the past two weeks, he had been more vulnerable and weak than he could have ever imagined himself being, and Bones had been having to pick up the pieces all along the way. That in its own way was devastating to Jim, to know that Bones was learning that the person he knew at the academy was weaker— so much more susceptible— than he could have possibly imagined.

And with Spock…

Jim truly believed there was potential for something great there. Hell, Old Spock had shown him as much. But now he just… God, now he just wasn’t sure.

All Spock had seen of him was recklessness, and insensitivity, pure bullheadedness, cheating and violence…

...And the after effects of trauma.

Spock had been left to pick up as many of Jim’s pieces as Bones had. Spock didn’t even know him. Surely, by this point, Spock’s first impression could only be that Jim was beyond high maintenance.

Impossible to control, and impossible to help.

It was the worst possible combo. And it was no way to keep a friend. Jim’s throat started to close up, his eyes were burning and he realized he hadn’t blinked in at least a minute.

He had to get it together.

A warmer, larger hand was suddenly on top of both of his, and he realized with a start that he had been squeezing his injured hand again. Fuck. If he kept doing that, it was never going to heal. He looked up at Bones, an inquiry as to the doctor’s touch burning on his tongue.

“You wanna talk about it?” Bones asked, voice tender and horribly gentle.

Jim scoffed through a sloppy smirk, his own reaction so fast he hadn’t even had time to consider talking about his dream. “Nah,” he huffed. “It’s all right. I’m fine.” He released his injured hand and ignored the ache that remained. He slid his hands away from Bones’s touch and carefully held onto his middle. He was fine.

Bones glowered at him, that same mother-hen look that Jim had come to know and loathe. “Jim, if you need to talk about it, then you need to talk about it.” Bones shifted where he sat on the bed, and crossed his arms over his chest. “You faced off with Nero by yourself. If that had a lasting effect on you, nobody would blame you. Hell, he…” he paused, apparently fighting with himself over how appropriate it would be for him to continue. “He killed your father.”

Jim’s left hand clenched and part of him savored the way it hurt. “Don’t know how I would have missed that part,” he said easily.

Apparently too easily, because Bones’s glower darkened. “A confrontation like that isn’t just something you can walk off. Your current state is living proof of that. Jim, I know that your physical injuries are practically mirroring the emotional damage you're shouldering.”

Jim hated the matter-of-fact tone in his doctor’s voice. God damn it, why did he ever befriend a doctor? And not just any doctor, but the smartest fucking doctor he’d ever met, who was adept in psychology and psychoanalysis and everything that just made Jim squirm.

Jim huffed. “Have more faith in me than that, Bones. I’m of perfectly sound mind.” He stood up in an attempt to walk a little farther into the room, to put some distance between him and Bones, but as soon as he straightened out, a lightning bolt of pain shot from his ribs. “Oh,” he choked, while his hand moved to cradle his side.

The moment he made a sound of mild distress, McCoy had shot off the bed and was immediately in front of Jim, hands reaching to steady the young captain by his arms. “I know you’re perfectly sane. That doesn’t change the fact that you’re hurt in more ways than one.” He squeezed Jim’s arms gently, before carefully sliding his grip lower towards Jim’s elbows. “You strained yourself when you flipped me on the bed,” he finally explained. “You’re not done healing.”

Jim grimaced bitterly, and rubbed at his side. He kneaded his thumb over the ridges of his ribs, silently willing them to stop hurting. “When will I be?” he grumbled. “It’s been almost two weeks. I’m sick of this.” Quieter, he added, “I just want to be better.”

“You and me both, kid,” Bones replied softly, his breath ghosting over Jim’s face from the rush of quiet speech. “I’m telling you, your mental health is linked with your physical health. One can’t prosper while the other suffers. Even if your body heals, you’re not going to feel any better if you’re still hurting on the inside.”

There was a long pause between them. Bones’s breaths gentle and warm between them, Jim’s eyes downcast and body tense in pain.

“You know you can always talk to me, right?” Bones whispered.

Jim kept the airflow in his lungs even and steady. He didn’t blink. He swallowed around a sore throat, and brought his gaze up to Bones’s to smile at the doctor. “I know, doc.”

Bones sighed in what Jim could only interpret as defeat. “But you won’t,” McCoy finished. “You’re as stubborn as Spock.”

Jim’s face scrunched in confusion and mock betrayal. “Spock? He and I are nothing alike.”

Bones snorted and stepped out of Jim’s space, instead turning to the nearby closet. With his departure of closeness, the moment between them had officially ended. The conversation was over. Jim could live another day without having to answer any questions about himself.

“You and him are like two peas in a pod,” McCoy grumbled. “Or rather… like two sides of a coin.” He glanced at Jim over his shoulder. “Have you noticed that the two of you sometimes move in sync?”

Did they? Something warm sparked through Jim’s chest for a moment, and he stomped it down.

“That’s weird,” Jim replied. “Why are you even watching us so much?”

“Because you two constantly insist on being in my hair,” McCoy groused. “I can’t get away from you.”

Jim snorted. “Well, when we get back to Earth, I’ll be the only one you’ll still have to worry about.”

McCoy started rifling through the closet, and pulled out a fresh uniform. “And how do you figure that?”

“Spock’ll be gone.” As soon as the words passed from Jim’s mouth, an unidentifiable ache blossomed in his chest. He hadn’t… really thought about what would happen after they returned to Earth. Hadn’t thought about what would happen with Spock. But apparently part of his mind had already been working on that problem and had solved it.

Had determined that after returning to Earth, the likelihood of Spock keeping in contact was more than abysmal when taking into account the circumstances.

Bones had paused halfway into his clean shirt at Jim’s words. “What do you mean he’ll be gone?”

Jim’s fingers brushed against his own bottom lip in thought. “Think about it, Bones. With everything that’s happened, he’s not gonna be able to just stick around. I’m sure he’s going to be needing to deal with Vulcan matters.” Jim paused, ran his eyes over the patterned texture of the floor. “He might not even be able to stay in Starfleet after this.”

There was silence for a moment, then the shuffling sound of fabric as Bones finished putting on his shirt. “I hadn’t thought about that,” Bones muttered. His back was to Jim, but the doctor had stopped moving as though he were deep in thought. “After the loss of so many cadets and officers... losing even Spock is gonna be a hard hit for Starfleet.”

Jim’s heart squeezed at the reminder. So many people were dead. So many of their friends were dead. People they knew, people they saw every day.

Countless classmates, countless teachers.

The campus was going to be quiet when they got back.

Bones turned to him, having finished donning the entirety of his uniform. His brows were drawn and grim. “How do you feel about Spock leaving?”

The question threw Jim off guard. He looked away and shuffled his feet, one hand hovering over his ribs thoughtlessly. “I’ll be all right. We’re not really friends, anyway. Besides,” his mouth ticked up of its own accord, “what’s one more loss, right?”

Heartbreak overtook Bones’s expression and for a moment Jim wondered if he would start tearing up. Without a word, the doctor took careful steps towards him, and though Jim’s heart rate spiked itself into a panic, he didn’t move from the doctor’s oncoming approach.

Instead, he waited to see how close McCoy would get, and kept himself very still as Bones wrapped one arm around Jim’s shoulders while his other hand cradled the back of Jim’s head.

Jim had not received very many hugs in his life. But the amount of times that he had been held in the past two weeks was nigh inconceivable for him. For that reason, it took him almost too long to react to Bones’s touch, and it was only after the doctor’s fingertips combed gently through his hair that Jim dared bring one hand to Bones’s back.

“It’s been hard, hasn’t it?” McCoy commented, his voice sending vibrations through Jim’s chest from the proximity, his breath brushing against Jim’s ear in such a way that almost made him shiver. McCoy pressed his cheek against the side of Jim’s head, and his grip tightened gently. “We’ll get through it.”

Jim’s eyes started to burn, though he couldn’t explain why. He squeezed Bones’s shirt between his fingers, and hesitantly lowered his face onto Bones’s clothed shoulder. 

Bones’s arms were heavy and warm, his chest sturdy yet comforting. Jim could feel the muscles of McCoy’s back under his shirt, and he wanted to hold on for as long as the doctor would allow him. “Of course we will,” Jim replied, his voice fragile in a way he couldn’t control. “We always do.”

Bones brushed his thumb across Jim’s shoulder in a repetitive up and down motion, the action incredibly soothing. “I know,” he replied, and again Jim focused on the way his chest vibrated from the doctor’s voice.

Bones took a couple of deep breaths, and Jim could recognize their patterning as hesitant—as the doctor trying to find the words, or strength, for what he wanted to say next.

Finally, Jim squeezed his eyes shut as Bones’s lips grazed the shell of his ear. “I wish you would talk to me,” Bones whispered.

An explosion of guilt and sorrow spread through Jim’s chest like an unforgiving firework.

He wanted to talk. He wanted to talk. He wanted to let Bones in, he wanted to let the doctor know he trusted him— more than anyone— but he couldn’t…

Couldn’t subject Bones to what was inside of him.

But he could tell that it was eating the doctor up not knowing what Jim was dealing with. And unfortunately for him—hell, maybe both of them—he never would know.

The comm panel in the room whistled, just before Chapel’s voice rang out. “Doctor.”

“Fuck,” McCoy whispered, as he gave Jim a brief squeeze and released him to answer the call.

The loss of the doctor’s warmth was immediately noticeable throughout Jim’s whole body.

“McCoy here,” he replied, voice steady and strong.

“One of the crewmen doing repairs on Deck 6 got caught next to a console that blew as they were working on it. Heavy burns, got hit with some shrapnel. Surgery will be necessary.”

“I’ll be right there,” Bones promised, and Jim saw how his shoulders squared as though he were readying for combat. Perhaps, for the doctor, surgery and combat were more or less the same thing.

Jim took a second to admire his doctor’s readiness to help others, and something suffocating nestled in his chest and filled him with the inexplicable urge to either smile or cry.

God, he had to get his emotions under control.

“I have to go, as you heard,” Bones said as he hurriedly gathered some PADDs and his medkit. “Listen, after yesterday I’d really like you to take it easy, but I know that you’re you and whatever’s gonna happen is gonna happen.” He rushed to the door, and paused in the open doorway to turn and keep eye contact with Jim. “I’m not locking you in here, because I know you. I get that you get antsy. So if you do leave, if you think you’re up to wandering around… Well. Just... please be careful.”

At his last statement, Bones’s eyes were so pleading that Jim’s gut reaction was to promise himself to stay safe. At least for Bones, give him one less thing to worry about. “I will,” Jim assured.

Bones gave him a quick nod, and then he was rushing down the hall. From the still open door, Jim could hear him yell, “And don’t forget to feed yourself!”

Jim smiled to himself. Where did he even find McCoy? He heaved a deep sigh, ignored how his chest burned, and quickly located the nearest PADD.

The clock told him that it was evening. He had almost slept the entire day away. Irritation itched at the back of his head, but he ignored it to check the shifts of those on duty. Specifically one particular Vulcan’s shift.

If Spock was going to disappear after they reached Earth—and God damn it, Jim was not going to observe how tight his throat got at the thought—then it was only logical(ha) for him to spend as much time with the Vulcan as he could before he was gone.

Maybe see if they could establish some sort of pen-pal situation. Just something to ensure Jim wouldn’t lose him forever. After what Old Spock had shown him, he could hardly bear the thought of missing out on such an… important friendship.

He just hoped Spock would be amenable to keeping contact.

He finally located Spock’s schedule, and noted that he would be getting off of his shift in about twenty minutes.

Jim set the PADD down and quickly—too quickly, if his ribs had anything to say about it—shuffled out of his shirt, before toeing off his socks. He tore a clean black undershirt out of Bones’s wardrobe and pulled it on. His ribs and other injuries protested at his careless movements, but he elected to ignore them.

He tucked the shirt in the same way he had the day before, and pulled on clean socks and noted satisfactorily that his ankle had healed considerably. He could wear boots normally.

After situating his footwear, Jim went to the mirror in the bathroom and scowled at his own pale complexion. He looked sick and beaten up. The bruises and lacerations across his skin did nothing but make him look half-dead. He washed his face quickly, the cold water brightening his eyes by the time he looked at himself again. He tried to comb down a lock of hair that was sticking up from the side of his head, and had no choice but to accept the air-defiant curl it produced.

He could do this. He was fine. Spock didn’t care how he looked, anyway. Probably.

He pushed aside the guilt that had been building up during his and Bones's interaction, and with a quick straightening of his posture, he brushed himself down and nodded at his own reflection in the mirror.

It was time to find a Vulcan whose shift would soon be ending. Maybe he could even see what Spock had to say about meditation.

Chapter Text

Jim had left Bones’s room with a chest full of confidence, but the farther he traveled through the ship, the more nervous he became.

He and Spock had had a fight yesterday. It wasn’t a big fight, no one got hurt, but… Jim knew he was abrasive. Knew he was hard to deal with. Knew he was hard for Spock to deal with. Hell, he got Spock to start frowning during the argument they had had in the lobby.

Jim scratched at his hair while the turbolift carried him up towards the bridge.

He really did want to have a good friendship with Spock. After obtaining Old Spock’s memories, and seeing how important his Jim had been, the want for such a relationship couldn’t help but fester in his gut.

But Old Spock’s Jim was so different from him.

That Jim was charming, and cool, and responsible and calm. He didn’t seem to be nearly as impulsive or stubborn. That Jim would be easy to form a friendship with.

Jim scrubbed his hand down his face, stomach tingling in nervous distress. Would Spock even want to see him? Would Spock want to be friends with him?

Spock seemed like he didn’t mind Jim’s company most of the time, but then again, Jim had been more meek and pliant than was natural for him in the past few days. Maybe Spock had only been behaving so amicably towards him because Jim’s usual annoying bravado had been so subdued.

The turbolift pinged, signaling that it had reached its arrival, and Jim rushed to press the door’s manual button, keeping it closed. He didn’t want it to open out to the bridge, not yet. He swallowed roughly as he stood in solitary silence.

Was coming to the bridge a good idea? Sure, talking to a Vulcan for meditation advice was probably exactly what he needed, and it was why he had even left his room in the first place… but would Spock still be all right with Jim asking this of him? Especially in regards to something as personal as meditation?

Jim’s hand was still hovering over the control panel, and he stared at his own bruised and swollen fingers while he tried to weigh his options.

Should he just go back?

Or should he press forward and back Spock into a corner?

Because surely, if Jim asked for his help outright, the Vulcan would do as Jim wanted regardless of his own feelings. It was that guilt Spock had developed from beating Jim on the bridge. There was no way the young captain could have missed how careful Spock had been with him in the past few days. It was like Spock was trying to atone for the sins he had decided he’d committed, regardless of the fact that Jim already forgave him and wasn’t expecting any form of compensation.

And now Jim suspected that if he were to ask anything of Spock, the Vulcan would oblige. Again, Spock would do it regardless of his own feelings. And after that argument they had had in the lounge… Jim wouldn’t blame Spock if he didn’t want to see him anymore.

So... if Spock didn’t want to be around him, was Jim really so heartless that he would ignore that and pressure Spock into this?

Vulcan meditation was personal. And Vulcan meditation with others was intimate.

But… Jim could also feel that he really, really needed to do more intensive meditating than he had been in the past few days. He was almost done with locking everything back up. He could feel it. He had to do maybe one more serious session of meditation, and then he would be in the clear. The last few memories were almost put away, the only ones left were… were those of his last days in Kodos’s captivity. If he could just get through those memories and lock them up, then everything regarding Tarsus would be buried away and his walls would be back in place, and he would have no problem dealing with everything else.

But to confront his memories of Kodos, he really needed to be as efficient as he could with his meditation. And he knew no better method for effective meditation than that of the Vulcans. Only… he wasn’t entirely confident that he could effectively meditate by himself.

So, he… he needed Spock for this. Of course at this point any Vulcan would do, but Jim wanted it to be Spock.

And that was just fucking confusing. The two of them still weren’t comfortable around each other. Some part of him trusted the science officer unerringly, and yet he still couldn’t trust Spock. It wasn’t the Vulcan’s fault, either, Jim just couldn’t trust people.

However, because of that mind meld with Old Spock, a different part of Jim’s being had already adjusted and accommodated itself to welcome Spock unconditionally. Which, seriously, what the fuck.

Jim rubbed his good hand against his forehead and sighed through his nose.

Just because he was already set and ready to go as far as becoming Spock’s friend went, that didn’t mean the Vulcan felt the same way. And, again, why would he? Jim had not yet done anything that would convince Spock he’d be a good friend to have. And the two of them had already butt heads more than Jim had with most people. Bones not counting.

Hell, even if he wasn’t taking into account that stupid stunt he pulled yelling about Spock not loving his mom, then the argument they had had only the day before was proof enough that they had egg shells scattered at their feet.

Did he have any right to talk to Spock about meditating when both of them were still so freshly emotional, regarding current events and their feelings towards each other?

Plus… maybe Spock was too emotionally raw to even want to consider meditating with others. Let alone some human. If Spock was going to meditate with anyone, it would be with his father.

Not James Tiberius Kirk. Not the idiot cadet that couldn’t even save Vulcan. Couldn’t save Spock’s home.

No, he couldn’t seek Spock out. It would be better for him to head back to Bones’s room while he still had the chance.

Jim slowly pulled his hand away from the control panel as he decided leaving would be a better idea, and the turbolift door opened, revealing Spock on the other side.

Both blinked at each other, as shock and surprise and panic pulsed into Jim’s system as his brain hurried to process the fact that Spock was right there and there would be no escaping now.

“Hey,” Jim somehow managed out, while Spock stared at him. “Uh, what’s up?”

After too many seconds of silence, Spock finally responded with a simple, “Captain.”

God. This was awkward.

Jim stepped to the side, as a way to let Spock know he could enter the turbolift. After a long beat, Spock took his place beside Jim, his motions borderline jerky from being so stiff. The door slid shut once he did, leaving them alone in close proximity and absolute silence.

Oh, God. This was so fucking awkward.

Jim swallowed around his still sore throat and sent a couple of glances at Spock out of the corner of his eye. Was Spock going to say anything? Should he say something? Were neither of them going to speak at all?

Well… Okay, Jim could speak. It was fine. One of them would have to, if they stayed silent any longer then they would probably both turn to stone from how tense they were. Jim licked his lips and contemplated what to say. He still couldn’t find it in himself to outright ask Spock to help him with meditation, but… Hell, maybe asking for some tips couldn’t hurt. Just some refreshers.

Jim tried to clear his throat and somehow completely forgot about the fact that he was still healing, and ended up coughing his lungs out for a couple of harrowing seconds. By the time he could breathe again, he was bent over with his hands on his knees and he could see Spock hovering close by in his peripheral.

“Captain, are you—?” Spock’s voice caught, and Jim glanced up at him through watering eyes. Spock blinked back, and Jim couldn’t read the expression on his face. “Captain, are you all right?”

Jim drew in a few wheezy and scratchy breaths, before nodding and frowning reassuringly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Peachy. Don’t worry about it, Spock.” He cleared his throat again, this time to rid himself of the choking sensation. A vision of the Nero from his dream slithered down his back, and he cracked his neck as a subtle way to shake off the feeling of hands grappling for his throat. “I’m good,” Jim said again. “You?”

Spock stared at him for so long that Jim began to wonder if the Vulcan had actually short-circuited. Shit. Why did he even ask Spock how he was doing? It’s not like Spock was the one that just tried to cough up a lung.

But after enough seconds of silence, Spock’s eyes flicked away before he wet his lips and mumbled, “I am… acceptable. Faring better than you, I believe.”

He raised his brows at Spock. “What, is this a contest? Do we need to start talking about our feelings, see who’s doing worse?”

“No.”

Jim couldn’t help but crack a smirk at the haste with which Spock rejected the very idea of talking about feelings. “You sure?”

Spock turned to stare at the doors. “Absolutely.”

Jim snorted. Spock was so stiff. “All right, relax. I was only joking."

Spock clasped his hands behind his back, and Jim wondered if it was a tic Spock had developed to comfort or soothe himself when stressed. “The humor of humans is needlessly nonsensical,” Spock stated.

“Nice alliteration,” Jim muttered, eyeing Spock’s tense shoulders.

Spock peeked at him, though didn’t turn nor respond. They held eye contact, however, and after a few seconds of neither saying anything, Jim began to wonder what the Vulcan was looking for. Or waiting for.

It felt like the two of them were sharing a moment, but Jim couldn’t for the life of him figure out what kind.

Spock was the first to open his mouth. “Captain, did you have business on the bridge?”

Oh, shit. Right. It was probably weird as all hell to approach the lift and see Jim just standing silently inside. Did Spock think Jim had just been in there all day? Jim not actually leaving the lift to go onto the bridge probably only added to the confusion. Probably made him seem like a major creep. Or like he’d been sleepwalking.

Jim tongued his still sore lip. Should he just bite the bullet and tell Spock why he had come all the way up?

“Uh, I, um,” Jim started, eloquent as ever, “I actually came up here for you.”

Spock turned to him fully, eyes wide.

Jim continued quickly, not wanting to draw this out for too long. “Sorry, I came up here to talk to you. Ask you. Um, about meditation.”

Spock paused, his eyes almost seeming to soften. “Are you inquiring as to the proposition that I had?”

Jim blinked at him, an inexplicable nervousness trickling through his veins like electricity. “More… more or less,” he said quietly. He didn’t want to back Spock into a corner. He didn’t want Spock to feel obligated. But… if Spock were to once again offer to meditate with him... “If that's all right?”

“Of course it is,” Spock replied, voice hushed and unexpectedly soothing. “I was the one who suggested it, after all.”

“Right.” A breathless sort of relief spread through Jim’s chest. “‘Course.”

Spock was okay with it. Spock was okay with it.

The thought repeated itself a few times through Jim's head, and his lungs were allowing more air flow than they had in a while. Jim hadn't realized how nervous he was about the answer to his question. Hadn't really dared to hope that Spock would actually still be okay with meditating with him. What's more, Jim didn't even have to ask the Vulcan himself. Spock had, once again, offered.

Jim clung to that fact, realizing that it meant Spock wasn't still mad at him. Frustrated, maybe, but not enough so to limit their contact. 

Maybe... There was still hope for their possible friendship.

Jim swallowed back a lump of disbelief that tried to lodge itself in his throat and he hastily blinked at his feet.

"Captain?"

But at Spock's gentle voice, there was no way he could resist keeping his attention on the Vulcan.

Spock's dark eyes were trained on Jim, and the young captain ignored how his heart stumbled once he realized that fact. “Do you have prior engagements at this hour?” Spock asked.

Holy shit. Spock was really okay with this. So okay with it that it seemed he didn't want to waste any time.

Jim's heart started to pound as hard as it had when he'd jumped on the drill, and he hurriedly shook his head in a negative. “No, I’m free.”

“Then, if you are… amenable …” Spock trailed off and wasn’t keeping eye contact, every tense muscle revealing his immense hesitancy. Spock’s lips had thinned together gently, and his posture was visibly tightened.

Oh. He was as nervous about this as Jim was.

Jim waited patiently for the Vulcan to continue, just in case Spock decided to change his mind mid-sentence. This was a big thing to ask. Jim wasn’t about to push him at all, in any direction, and wanted Spock to feel like he had complete and total control of the situation.

Jim tried to subtly relax his own muscles and posture, in hopes that Spock—subconsciously, at the very least—would pick up on Jim’s body language and know that nothing about the situation was dangerous. Regardless of how Spock chose to continue, it would have no ill-effect between he and Jim.

Spock looked up again finally, and the moment his eyes landed on the young captain, Jim could see some of the tension slide right off of him. “If you are amenable,” Spock said again, and though his voice was still soft, it was also notably stronger. More confident. “Would you like to join me in meditation at this hour?”

Jim was helpless against the smile that spread on his face, and he could just feel that his eyes were crinkling. “That’d be great, Spock.”

Spock nodded in what must have either been agreement or relief, an act which Jim found inexplicably endearing. But as invested in Spock as he was sensing himself becoming, Jim also couldn’t shake the feeling that… something was amiss.

Not in regards to Spock himself, or even the conversation they’d just had, but… There was something wrong about their environment. Not bad, exactly, but something wasn’t right.

“Captain?”

Jim blinked at the nervousness in Spock's tone, and realized that he had been frowning in the Vulcan's general direction. “Oh, sorry, I was just… I was just thinking.” He tilted his head at Spock, mouth deciding before his mind could to let the Vulcan in on what was troubling him. “How long have we been in here? Shouldn’t we have arrived at one of the lower decks already?”

Though Spock’s expression didn’t change, he gave an unusually hard blink. He opened his mouth marginally, but didn’t say anything and instead diverted his gaze to the door. Without a single word, Spock slowly lifted a hand to press the button of the lift. Immediately after, Jim could feel the air shift around them as the turbolift began its descent away from the bridge.

Jim turned to Spock, his lips curling up in amusement. “Don’t tell me you were planning to keep us in here all day, Mr. Spock.”

Spock inclined his head towards Jim, though was refusing to make eye contact. When he spoke, his voice was subdued in either shock or shame. Maybe both. “It seems that… in my surprise upon finding you in here, activating the turbolift was something that I neglected to do.”

A bright string of laughter burst from Jim without his prompting, and as they rode down he had to consciously force himself not to lean into Spock while he giggled.

The affection that Jim was starting to feel for Spock was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Chapter Text

The moment the door to Spock's room opened, a hot blanket of air washed over Jim. A clicking hum sounded at the back of his throat in surprise, but it wasn’t a bad sensation to walk in to.

Spock led the way in and Jim openly looked around. The room was completely bare, save for the necessities. Which really wasn’t a surprise, considering the fact that the Enterprise wasn’t meant to be equipped for its real crew yet. Every room lacked any personal items.

The Enterprise had only been sent to aid Vulcan, it probably wasn’t intended to stay out for long. By all means, answering the distress signal should have been dealt with within a day. But, because of everything…

A day’s mission turned into one spanning almost two weeks.

Sour fury writhed in Jim’s gut as he was once again reminded that everything that had happened was so wrong. Everything with Vulcan, with the Narada, with Nero …

The Enterprise's maiden voyage never should have gone like this.

Jim watched Spock gather a couple of towels from the closet, and the Vulcan folded them with deft and swift fingers. The action was mesmerizing, Spock’s hands so long and slender, and Jim continued to stare until Spock addressed him. “There are currently no thin pillows on the ship, but I do not think it wise to have you sit on the bare floor since you are still injured. I hope these will suffice as a substitute.”

Something faintly fluttery warmed in Jim’s chest, and he smiled at the Vulcan, touched that Spock was being so thoughtful. “That’ll do fine. Thank you.”

Spock carefully placed the folded towels on the floor. “It is no trouble.”

The towels were placed in such a way so that Jim and Spock would be facing each other, and Jim swallowed back an inexplicable nervousness as he sat down.

As Spock took his seat on his own towel, he said, “I must apologize if it is too hot in here. I understand that humans prefer cooler temperatures. If you would rather I decrease the temperature, I am more than willing to adjust it to your liking.”

“Oh.” Jim lightly shook his head. “No, actually, this is perfect.” He averted his eyes before continuing quietly. “The heat is helping relax my muscles. The pain is noticeably more tolerable right now.”

Spock took a few seconds to respond. “Are you still experiencing frequent pain? Should we instead go to the infirmary?”

“No!” Jim quickly held up his hands and stared at Spock with slightly wider eyes than he intended. “No, I’m fine. The pain is already pretty tolerable, I’m just saying that the heat is making it… even more tolerable.” He laid his hands in his lap, and barely refrained from nervously playing with his fingers. “Honestly, this… right here, right now, this is fine.”

Spock gave an almost unnoticeable nod. “I will trust that you are telling the truth.”

The Vulcan then took a deep breath, and Jim found himself automatically mimicking the action. Spock was sitting up very straight, his already rigid posture seeming almost natural when in a knelt position. Jim tried to subtly straighten out his own spine, and refused to acknowledge the various aches that the shifting spurred.

Spock brought his hands together in front of himself, and deftly shaped them into an intricate symbol. The Vulcan brought his dark eyes up to Jim’s. “Have you ever done Vulcan meditation in the past?”

Jim hesitated. “Yeah. But it’s been a while.”

Spock’s head tilted. “How adept are you?”

With a little smile, Jim shook his head. “Not very. Especially not with how out of practice I am.”

Spock gave a quiet humming sound of acknowledgment, and took a moment to respond. “Do you have an idea as to what form of meditation you wish to practice at this moment? Or, would you like to be guided through your options?”

“Ah, I already have an idea of what I wanna do.” At Spock’s obviously interested blink, Jim continued before the Vulcan could comment or question. “But it’s kind of unorthodox. I’m just planning on mashing together a couple of different methods, so… If you look down on me for bastardizing the art of Vulcan meditation, I totally get it.”

Spock looked at the floor, before bringing his calming gaze back to Jim’s. “Human brains have different functions and requirements from a Vulcan’s. I will not condemn you for doing what you have to do. If you find that various aspects of differing methods work best for you, then that is what works best. Meditation is highly personalized as it is.” He paused. “Only answer if you wish, but may I ask what methods you intend to borrow from?”

Jim shifted a little in his seat, and took some of the pressure off of his hurt ankle. “I was planning to focus mostly on controlling the flow of thought. I know that one is mostly supposed to be used for clearing the mind, but I’m thinking of using it to address some specific things going on in my head.” He paused to lick his lips and squeezed his hands together so they would stop fidgeting. “And there’s a chance I might get a little emotional, so I’m also gonna try to do some emotional evocation to keep myself in check.”

Spock straightened up further (if that was even possible), his interest obviously piqued. “You have practiced emotional evocation?”

Jim thinned his lips and cocked his head, and gave a light shrug for good measure. “Ah, some. Again, I haven’t done it in a while, so… Don’t judge me when I try to put my hands together. It’s not gonna look nearly as pretty as yours,” he said, gesturing at Spock’s intertwined fingers.

“I have had many years of practice. It would be illogical to compare your own capabilities with mine in this field.”

Jim huffed good-naturedly. “Wow, Spock, you like to brag much?” He waved dismissively before Spock could comment. “I’m kidding. It’s all right. Anyway, I guess… we should get started?”

Spock nodded slowly, his whole demeanor exuding a gentle calm. “There is no rush. You may take as much time as you need. If you wish to leave at any point, or if you need something from me, or are experiencing any pain, then I will do what I can for you. Do not be afraid to interrupt me or ask of me what you may.”

Again, that fluttery feeling came back to tickle its way all through Jim’s lungs. He blinked a little desperately against the sensation, and was so overwhelmed by Spock’s assurances that he almost forgot to give the Vulcan a genuinely grateful smile. “I appreciate it, Spock. I’ll take you up on that if I have to.”

Spock gave him another reassuringly steady nod, before he closed his eyes and officially began their joint meditation session.

Jim took a few more deep breaths to anchor himself in the moment. He counted his heartbeats on each exhale and inhale, just as his Vulcan friend on Tarsus—T'Risa—had taught him. Thinking her name hurt and his breathing faltered, but he fought his way past it until his breaths were once again steady.

He was going to be controlling the flow of thought. It was a method that he had already more or less been using for the past two weeks. Letting thoughts come in and out as needed, not grasping and not pushing any away. He’d been using his physical pain as a focus, and while he was still going to do that while in this situation, he also wanted something else to ground him.

On Tarsus, T'Risa had taught him to focus on whatever rock formation they were closest to when they meditated. When he got home, he mostly used walls, since that was what was apparently recommended anyway. But, here… he didn’t really feel like staring at a wall.

With a surprised blink, he realized that he was staring at Spock’s face. And had been. For a while. He swallowed down some annoying, unidentifiable emotion, and quickly averted his gaze to Spock’s hands.

Oh. Perfect.

Spock’s hands could serve as the perfect anchor. Not too weird for Jim to stare at them, as it wasn’t nearly as personable as staring at the Vulcan’s face. No, Spock’s hands were safe. The position his fingers were in was complicated enough to already be enrapturing, so with a strange sense of relief, Jim kept his gaze on Spock’s hands before moving his own.

T'Risa had shown him that emotional evocation was heavily reliant on making symbols with hands. It had something to do with conditioning the brain with equating a particular hand shape with a particular emotion.

The symbol T'Risa had taught him was used to combat feelings of being easily manipulated, or feelings of timidness, fear, exhaustion or anything that might force you to withdraw. All of which were things they felt a lot on Tarsus. He remembered that the hand shapes she taught him felt unnatural and were at first difficult for him to do. Eventually he got the hang of it.

But so many years had passed since he last bothered to try out emotional evocation. He frowned and summoned the exact memory from the moment she had told him what to do. Her voice, so much younger sounding than he ever dared to dwell on, rang through his head in her commanding and tired tone.

“Place your hands together, palm to palm. Next, slightly separate them, while still allowing all the fingertips to touch. Let the third finger and thumb, of the left hand, reach toward each other and touch, to form a ring. Then, let the third finger and thumb of the right hand reach through the ring formed by your left, and let them touch, forming another ring. You should now have two interlocking rings formed by the ring finger and thumb of each hand.”

His eyes closed and his body thrummed with the familiar onslaught of guilt and sadness that her voice always provoked. He did as she instructed, and for a moment he was thirteen again, sitting in the dirt in the baking sun, blood and sweat caked across his cracked fingernails.

She was frowning at him, but then again, she was always frowning at him. “I am once again amazed by your ability to make everything seem a thousand times more complicated than necessary.”

He huffed at her. “I’m trying, all right! Do you want me to get this or not?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. She’d long since given up trying to keep all of her emotions in check. Annoyance seemed to bubble up the most. “If you were not always so emotional, we would not have to do this. But it is your horrible human empathy that is forcing us into this situation.”

“Why do you always have to blame everything on me? It’s not like I’m the only emotional human around here!”

“That may be so, but you are the worst.”

He didn’t have to sit and take this verbal abuse. He threw his hands up and released a loud guffaw. “All right, enough! If I’m so horrible, then why don’t you pick a different person to go with you when scouting! Or, better yet, just go alone!!” He shot to his feet and was all but ready to storm out of the grove of withered bushes they were sitting in, but a cool hand grabbed his wrist and an immediate litany of I’m sorry, I’m sorry, calm down rang through his head.

“I am not trying to insult you,” she said, voice quieter than before.

Jim hesitated, but didn’t pull out of her hold.

She gently turned him so they were facing each other once again. “I am only trying to help you. You cannot continue like this.” She paused, and her dark eyes shone with something Jim couldn’t name. “The others rely on you,” she continued. “So you need to learn to control your emotions. For them. They need you to be strong, they need… we need you to keep us together.” She finally removed her hand from his wrist, and she squared her shoulders. “And you cannot do that if you cannot even keep yourself together. You have to let me help you.”

He could feel himself deflate. He’d been so tired lately. So tired… so hungry… “You’re right.” He swallowed back some inexplicable guilt. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. We can continue.”

They knelt across from each other once again, and as they reformed their hand positions, T’Risa spoke up. “If you are going to lead us, you cannot be susceptible to your own emotions. No matter what you may feel, you must control it so that it does not control you. You have to be unyielding.” An uncharacteristic, almost sympathetic sigh blew from her mouth. “You have to be strong.”

Jim’s throat tightened in a wave of heat, and pressure built behind his eyes. He forced himself to focus on Spock’s hands.

Analyze the slope of his knuckles, identify the color of his skin, count the veins you can see, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry—

With significant struggle, Jim managed to swallow back the pain that erupted from thinking of T’Risa. He thought about her as little as possible. He had quickly learned after being rescued from Tarsus that the mere thought of her rendered him incapacitated with sorrow.

She had been his right hand, his partner in crime, she had saved him countless times and taught him how to cope, and Jim repaid her by shooting her in the head.

A choked whimper erupted unbidden from his throat. Fuck, God damn it, shit. Jim watched Spock warily, but the Vulcan didn’t react to the unusually loud sound Jim had made in the otherwise silent room.

He scolded himself for thinking about her death. That was one memory that was forbidden, he could not address that, he could not—

...Fuck. He was going to have to. The only way to lock Tarsus back up behind his walls, was to address everything.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Breathe. He had to breathe. He focused on the feeling of his own intertwined fingers, and counted the heartbeats in every inhale and exhale. Just breathe. Just breathe.

“NO!!”

The guard’s knee was pressed into his back, right where that other guard had hit him last week. He kicked and bucked as much as he could, but God damn it, they were just so much bigger than him!

“Get the fuck off of me!” he screamed, even though he knew it was useless to struggle. But he couldn’t give up. He couldn’t!

T’Risa hadn’t yet, so neither could he!

One of the five guards wailed and stumbled back with his filthy, dirty hand bleeding, a sizable chunk missing out of it. “The little bitch bit me!!” The guard kicked T’Risa in the ribs, and some green blood splattered past her lips.

“Stop!!” Jim yelled. “Get off of us!!”

“Oh, quit your squealing!”

A hard smack cracked at the back of Jim’s skull, and for a few seconds a tide of cotton drowned out all of his surroundings. What brought him back was another sharp kick to his side, and his ears cleared so he could hear the snapping of his ribs and his own tearing scream. He’d been kicked onto his back, and dirt was sticking to his face and clinging to his eyelashes.

Thick, grimy fingers squeezed his face by the cheeks, and lifted him so he was inches away from a pair of fiery, hazy eyes. “Wait a second, I know this face. This one used to whore himself out to Hodges for supplies!”

The glee in the guard’s voice made Jim’s gut churn, more than the reminder as to how he’d spent so many of his months. But Jim’s eyes wandered, even as the guard continued to speak.

The guard’s gun was unlatched on his hip. On the same side where Jim’s untied, broken hand lay. With as mangled as Jim’s fingers were, they probably deemed his appendage useless. But it would be no trouble for him to swing it up, grab the gun and shoot their fucking brains out, regardless of the fact that two of his fingers were bent in the completely wrong direction.

“We've really lucked out tonight!” The hand holding his face tightened its grip, and the finger pads slid a few centimeters in the sludge of dirt and sweat that coated Jim’s cheeks. “Skinny as this thing is, I’d say it’s still pretty enough for a good fuck.” The thumb clutching his face stroked hard across his cheekbone, appraising and possessive. "Look at those eyes."

It took all of Jim’s willpower not to slam his knee into the disgusting fucker’s groin. If he changed their positions at all, then his chance to get the gun would be destroyed.

“You know what?” One of the other guards called, presumably the one that held T’Risa. “I think this one’s actually a girl.”

“Oh, shit! You serious?”

A spike of unbidden fear shot through Jim’s whole body like a cannon, and as all of his hairs stood on end he tried to shift himself to get a look at his friend. The grip on his face was firm, but he managed to contort his constricting position enough to lock eyes with her.

She was terrified.

Tears were brimming at her eyelids, and her pale skin looked even more sallow under all of the dirt and green blood.

Panicked breaths began an unforgiving pace for Jim’s lungs. What could he do? What could he do? He couldn’t let this happen, but what could he do?!

Even if he grabbed the gun, there's no way he'd be able to kill all of them in time. Before, he had been going off of the hope that they would just kill him after he shot a few, and in the chaos she could escape, but now he knew that they wanted something from him and her.

They were bloodthirsty mother fuckers, but he'd learned that they were usually more desperate for sex than death. It was the only reason he'd been able to barter so much of himself without fear of capture, at least until Kodos had his main client murdered.

So now that sex was something that was on the table, they weren't going to let him get away with a quick death. No, they would do so much worse. And not just to him, but both of them.

He couldn’t subject T’Risa to that.

No matter what he did, no matter what happened, the guards had already decided to take what they could from their bodies. But T’Risa had never experienced a violation of her body, not like Jim had. Jim was already used to it, but just because he was, that didn't mean she had to go through it too!

All of their options were gone. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and these guards had countless meals in their stomachs, as opposed to the bugs and filth in Jim’s and T'Risa’s. They had no options. They were completely and utterly defeated.

But, still, there had to be something he could do to save T'Risa from this!

There was… one thing he could do. There was only one way to save her.

He had one shot.

A wall of tears blurred his vision, but he could see that T’Risa was in a similar state. He bit his lip and stared at her for as long as he dared, screaming through his eyes I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!

Please, please forgive me!

He threw his mangled hand at the holster of the guard who was straddling him, ignored the howling of pain that erupted from his fingers as he forced them to curl and grip, and smacked the gun against the guard’s jaw. He didn’t have enough energy to dislocate it, but there was enough to stun, and that was all he needed. Jim swung the gun up, prayed that his split-second aim was correct, and fired a single shot into T’Risa’s face.

He closed his eyes as quickly as he could, but he still saw—He still saw her face—All that blood—His friend—!

An eruption of enraged shouts flooded his ears, along with horrible pain landing across his whole body, but what was pulling the tears from his eyes was the realization that the color green would haunt him for as long as he had left to live.

Breathe in, count ten heartbeats. Hold it for three heartbeats. Breathe out, count eight heartbeats. Hold it for five heartbeats. Repeat.

Jim’s hands were shaking. It was the only outward sign that he had confronted the memory at all. Somehow throughout his reminiscing—if it could even fucking be called that—his eyes drifted from Spock’s hands to Spock’s face.

The Vulcan’s eyes were still closed. He was so still. So calm. So grounding.

His breaths were long and shallow, and Jim found himself trying to match the Vulcan’s pace.

He’d confronted the memory. It was over. She was dead.

And he was still alive.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Hold. Repeat.

It was not the time to get emotional. Especially not over the fact that he was alive. To think such thoughts would be a disservice to her, to everything they had fought for. He was alive, and he had no right to be upset about that.

His eyes scanned over the lines of Spock’s face, and his mind supplied the image of Vulcan’s dust freckling Spock’s cheeks as his eyes stared at the spot where his mother should have been.

So many people were no longer alive.

If he was going to be bitter about anything, it would be about their lives being stolen. Not his continuing.

Jim’s eyes drifted towards the slow rise and fall of Spock’s chest, and the steady, lulling rhythm helped him focus on the pace of his own heartbeat.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Jim struggled against the restraints, but his body hardly listened to him anymore.

He’d been in custody for at least two weeks, but he couldn’t tell for sure. There were no windows in the compound where they held him, and it had surely been multiple days since he’d last seen the sun.

He never thought he could miss that awful, burning thing, but it was vastly preferred to the continued grimy darkness that made up his new surroundings. There was no ventilation. The air was heavy and thick with the smell of rotting bodies, both living and dead.

And it was so, so cold.

His body was withering away. It was terrifying, maddening, and he just wished he had enough energy reserves to actually fight back. But he was growing increasingly helpless.

Increasingly worthless.

He gave another hard yank at the cuffs biting into his wrists, knowing that it was futile but not able to help himself all the same.

“You’re just wasting energy when you do that,” the doctor said from somewhere behind the table Jim was tied to. “And I’d rather you didn’t, I need you alive for at least a few more tests.”

“Fuck your tests,” Jim hissed through a voice that was no longer his own. “Just get it over with and kill me already!”

“Oh, trust me, we will.” The unshaven, pale doctor came into Jim’s field of vision from the right, and he was holding a large syringe.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, not this again!

“In due time. But your resilience is really something else, and I’m having too much fun with you.” He gave Jim a grin, his teeth as yellow as the room’s lone flickering light. “And really, you should be proud. We’re making some serious medical advancements with you here. There’s a good chance the data you’re giving us could save some lives.”

“I don’t care,” he growled, and he hated that it sounded more like a sob. “Your data is probably useless anyway. I’m starving, my body is not behaving like a normal body. So unless your patients are a bunch of starved kids, I doubt this is gonna be of any help to anyone.”

“Even so,” the doctor flicked the air bubbles out of the syringe. “That doesn’t make this any less interesting. Now, then. You wanna see if we can give you another allergy? I’m hoping this time we can make it so your body can’t handle anesthetic anymore.”

Jim yanked on his restraints again, as the panicked urge to cry started to build in his weakened lungs. His mind raced through the memories of all the past experiments that had been done on him, on everything they’d been doing, and latched onto the last time he’d been given a shot.

He’d vomited blood and acid, his body had seized, he’d screamed and sobbed and nearly died. And now they were going to do that again?

Fuck, fuck, he hated this! Just let him die! Why couldn’t he die?! Why wouldn’t they just fucking kill him?!

The doctor stepped closer and Jim’s worn, sluggish heart tried to beat itself into his ribs. As the needle made the slightest contact with the sweat-slick skin of his arm, the door opened.

The doctor stepped back immediately. “Governor! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jim’s lungs pulled in gulps of air as he stared at Kodos, the relief at not being shot warring with the fear that Kodos’s presence always brought out of him.

“Is he coherent?” the Governor asked as he strode like a ghost into the room.

“Yeah, you caught me just in time. One second later and he’d have been incapacitated for at least eight hours.”

Kodos gave a small snort, before turning to Jim. His face didn’t move, his eyes were devoid of any emotion. He reminded Jim of the grim reaper in every possible way. The man was an omen of death.

“Are you ready to continue our conversation?” Kodos asked, stepping closer to Jim’s other side.

Jim bit his tongue as hard as he could. There were a lot of things waiting to be screamed at the man, but the last time Jim had an outburst in Kodos’s face, the Governor let his guards do whatever they wanted to Jim for three whole days.

He was pretty sure at least two of his ribs were still broken.

“This can be very painless if you simply cooperate,” Kodos said, his eyes not even reflecting the meager light in the room. “All you have to do is give me what I want. Where is your little group hiding?”

Jim bit harder on his tongue, until he was sure just a little more pressure would draw blood. Kodos had been trying to figure out where the last of the survivors were.

When Jim was captured, he was put with a bunch of other survivors that had been found. He’d not seen any of them before, but there were at least twenty. Most of them were adults, which had surprised him.

Their numbers had been dwindling over the past few days.

Kodos had been questioning everyone. He was trying to find the last pockets of survivors, the last of the chosen four thousand. Everyone refused to spill, of course, but not everyone could hold out.

Some had even given away the positions of their encampments. And apparently were greatly rewarded for it.

But Jim knew that when it came to Kodos, “greatly rewarded” might be another way of saying “disposed of when no longer necessary”. So Jim bit his tongue. Telling Kodos where his friends were hiding—were surviving—would only end in their deaths and his own. But even if his own death wasn’t a factor, there was no way he would just give his friends up.

He’d fought too hard and too long to keep them alive. And so had T’Risa, and all of the others in their group that had died.

“Tell me where they are, and I will have the doctor cease his operations,” Kodos continued.

A small affronted gasp sounded from the doctor, though he did not verbally object to the governor’s promise.

Jim and Kodos stared at each other for many long seconds while neither blinked. Nothing Kodos said, no promise he made, could be trusted. The man had killed so many already, chances were he just wanted to finish off the last of them.

“I promise that you will not regret it,” Kodos said, after Jim had gone too long without saying anything. “Once I have you all together, you will be fed and kept alive. Since so much of the population has perished, we no longer have to worry about there being enough resources for those who are still living.”

He was lying. Kodos’s eyes and brows were completely motionless as he spoke, and the complete lack of human expression set off all of Jim’s warning alarms.

Jim felt like he was being sucked into the empty void of the governor’s stare. Caught in the predator’s gaze, he could only react in shivers as Kodos added, “I promise we will take care of you. All of you.”

Somehow, beyond the nerve-wracking terror that seeped from Jim’s pores, his ruined voice found the strength to crack through. “‘Take care of’ as in ‘kill’, right?” Kodos didn’t react, but Jim nodded slowly in certainty. “I know what this is about. It’s been a long time since anyone came to check up on this colony.” Jim gulped and ignored how his body was shaking, and never once broke his gaze from Kodos’s. “You want to clean this up before anyone figures out what you’ve done, huh? You want to finish what you started?”

Jim grit his teeth against a sudden surge of pain, the ever-present ache in his body becoming more acute with the nervous clenching of his already destroyed muscles.

But somehow, regardless of how his exhausted and beaten body tried to silence him, Jim continued. “I won’t let you. You keep coming back to me because my group’s one of the last ones, right? Isn’t that right? You just gotta kill me and my group, maybe a few others, and then you’ll have finished off the last of your chosen four thousand.” He panted hot breaths through a dry mouth, his tolerance incapable of handling so much constant pain. “Help is probably already on its way. And I’m sure they’ll get here soon. That’s why you’re so nervous.”

For the first time since entering the room, Kodos’s face changed, though barely. His eyes tightened in obvious agitation while the rest of him seemed to grow more rigid. “If you do not cooperate, James Kirk, you will be dead before help arrives.”

“I know.” A strange flash of sorrow and defeat sparked through his chest, but he tamped it down. He’d long accepted that he was going to die on Tarsus. It was the only way it could end.

After everything he had done, the only way to atone would be to die. Out of the last few alive, he deserved to live least of all.

“I know,” he repeated again, voice soft. “They won’t get here before I die. But they will get here.” Despite what little energy he had to spare, he somehow managed to drudge up enough to pull a snarling sneer at Kodos. “And when they do, you will answer for everything you have done.” He took a second to breathe through the pain, and waited until he was sure his throat wouldn’t close. “I’m not helping you clean up your mess. They’re going to find survivors. And then you won’t be able to hide any of this away.”

Kodos held hard eye contact with Jim for a moment, before his gaze turned to the doctor. The governor’s eyes glanced at the syringe the doctor still held, before back to the other man’s questioning stare. “Make it painful,” he commanded.

Fury and fear exploded through Jim’s chest, and he somehow managed to wet his mouth enough to spit bloody saliva right into Kodos’s face. You fucker! You sick fucking bastard! You absolute motherfucker!

As Kodos wiped Jim’s spit off with a gloved hand, he gave one final command before turning away. “Make it very painful.”

Jim blinked the moisture out of his eyes, once again clearing his view of Spock’s face.

He hated sifting through memories. Horror was chugging through his veins at a slow pace, and he was only able to keep himself from crying out because he was not letting himself focus on the memories.

Just let them come through. That’s the only way. Just let them pass through, and you won’t have to think about them ever again.

Spock’s breaths were an easy distraction. They were slow and constant, and soothing in their rhythm. Jim’s eyes focused on Spock’s rising chest, and he forced himself to once again match Spock’s pace.

To his astonishment, syncing up with Spock was becoming easier. It almost felt… natural. Gratitude at the Vulcan’s presence surged up through Jim’s veins, effectively replacing the fear. Spock was helping him more than he’d ever realize.

He was a new and exciting distraction, a puzzle, a promise. He wanted to call the Vulcan a friend. He hoped… that it would only be a matter of time.

As a hesitant and small smile fell over Jim’s face, he closed his eyes and counted his heartbeats.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Almost done.

Gravel and slime was coating Jim’s shirtless body as he was dragged across the floor.

He was so tired. In so much pain. He wasn’t even hungry anymore. The want to eat had long disappeared, and he wondered if that meant his stomach was just eating itself.

He twisted weakly against the grimy ground, and a pebble or two cut into his flaky skin.

“Stop squirming,” grumbled the guard that was dragging him by the ankle.

Jim did as he was told, the fight in his blood weak and limp. He eyed the hallway’s ceiling as it passed overhead, tried to make it come into focus, and eventually gave up. He spared a thought for his waning vision, wondered for a moment if he was going blind, and ultimately decided he no longer cared. He was just ready to die.

But God damn it, the doctors wouldn’t let him.

He didn’t know what day it was, or how long he’d been there. His internal clock was off, it was confused, he couldn’t trust his own sense of time anymore. It used to always be impeccable. Even during the first few weeks in Kodos’s captivity, kept away from the sun or any sign as to the passing of day, he still knew when it was morning or when it was night. He knew how long he’d been there.

But, now… now there were gaps in his body’s sense of time. Strange voids of nothing that told him one thing.

He had died multiple times already.

The first time it had happened was after they'd put him in a tank of ten feet of water. They'd tied a giant stone to his ankles, and they wanted to see how long he could keep himself afloat as weak as he was. He held on for almost thirty minutes, and then he'd gone under. When he had finally come to, he had convinced himself he had only passed out, and the gap in his internal clock was because of how close he’d been to death. But, now, after so many holes in his body’s memory, he knew that his heart had stopped completely at least four times already.

And the doctors brought him back each time.

He suspected it was becoming a game for them. He already knew they had fun testing his limits, but now it was going beyond that. Now they were going past his limits, seeing how long he could stay dead and still be brought back.

It infuriated him. It was obvious they considered life a toy, his most of all. He just wanted to die. He just wanted to not come back. He was so, so, so tired of coming back. He hoped that the next time they stopped his heart, they would let him stay dead. But knowing what kind of bastards they were, they’d probably revive him for the sole purpose of making sure he belonged to them and them alone.

They’d already stolen his life, and now they were stealing his death.

Jim’s dry throat clung in on itself, and hot tears started to trickle down his cheeks. He knew he should be worried about using up precious salt and moisture, but he just didn’t care anymore.

The clicking of the cell’s locks echoed through the filthy, damp hallway, and the creaking of its door was the only warning Jim had before he was roughly kicked inside. A choking sound squeezed from his chest in pain, but he didn’t have the energy to release more than that.

After the door shut behind him, a pair of small, cold hands started wiping at the tears on his face. “Kirk? Are you okay?”

He breathed unevenly through a bloody mouth, before gently placing his fingers over the smaller ones on his face. “I’m okay,” he whispered, opening his eyes to Riley’s. “I’m okay,”

The seven year old was crying quietly, and he kept tracing his shaking fingers over Jim’s cheeks. “Does it hurt?”

Jim wanted to shake his head no. He wanted to sit up, give the kid a hug, he just wanted to be able to do something to assure Riley. In the end, all he could do was close his eyes and do his damnedest to ignore the horrible stinging of his neck and lower face.

They’d poured acid on him. It still burned, but he was too weak to really process the pain anymore. There was so much of it that it was starting to feel normal. He worked his throat slowly, until he could make enough noise to say, “Doesn’t hurt.”

“Same as mine doesn’t, huh?” Leighton cut in.

Jim forced his grainy eyelids open, to make eye contact with the only other person in the room besides he and Riley. Well, only other living person.

Sargent, Moss, Anderson, and Norwick had died within the past few days, but the guards hadn’t removed their bodies yet. Since they didn’t have anything to cover them with, Jim and Leighton had rolled their corpses to face the wall so they wouldn’t have to watch their faces deteriorate.

Leighton clenched and unclenched his fists where he sat in the corner, a tic he had developed after he came back two days prior with half his face missing. He wouldn’t tell them what happened, and Jim didn’t really want to know.

The bandages over Leighton’s face had long grown dirty. The red that had been on the gauze had turned yellow with infection, and Jim knew it was only a matter of time before his own bandages would start to do the same.

Jim squeezed Riley’s hand in his while he addressed Leighton’s previous comment. “Yeah. Same as yours.”

Leighton nodded in understanding. He and Jim were the same age, and though they had come from different groups, an immediate sense of camaraderie had sprung up between them. Riley, on the other hand, had come in with a group of two teenagers and an adult. Riley’d been separated from them and put in the same cell as Jim, and he’d been so scared that Jim immediately did his best to make him feel safe.

But as the weeks (months?) dragged on, Jim felt more and more like a failure.

“Riley, stop touching him. He’ll get infected,” Leighton rasped.

Riley’s hand froze on Jim’s cheek, before he pulled it back and whispered a litany of sad apologies.

Jim rubbed his thumb over the small fingers he still had in his grasp. “It’s all right. I don’t mind.” He opened a hazy eye to stare at Leighton. “Don’t make him feel worse.”

Leighton stared back, his own sallow appearance hard with grief and exhaustion. They were all so broken. So worn out. Both Jim and Leighton knew their deaths were right around the corner. Jim could only pray that Riley hadn’t figure it out yet, but he was a smart kid. He probably knew, too.

Jim closed his eyes and sagged into the frigid stone floor. He was so tired. It had been days since he’d last seen Kodos. Maybe weeks. Time felt false and unattainable.

He wondered if help would ever arrive for what was left of the colony. He wondered if help would arrive for Riley.

“Kirk,” Leighton muttered, his own voice scream-raw like Jim’s. “How is the mood out there?”

Jim took his time responding. Breaths were becoming a rare commodity, and he savored them while he could. “Tense. It’s possible they got word of someone showing up soon.” He swallowed down the burn in his throat. “Or something like that.”

“Starfleet?”

Jim didn’t understand the hope he could hear in Leighton’s voice. It still shocked him whenever he learned that people believed in the damn Federation. The past year was proof enough that Starfleet was a fucking joke. They abandoned thousands. Jim included. He coughed, and if Leighton knew it was supposed to be a laugh then he didn’t let on. “Who knows?” Jim croaked. “Maybe someone better.”

He released Riley’s hand to scratch at his protruding ribs, something felt a little off. Oh. He pulled a pebble out of his skin, and hardly any blood came out. Even his blood was too tired to move.

Riley started to pat his head with his tiny hand, and Jim let it lull him. Friendly touches had become rare in his waking hours, so he was a little disappointed when he could feel Riley’s touch sending him to sleep.

Well, not sleep.

It had been a long time since he’d slept. A state of in-between was a more accurate term for what happened to him. He’d just… draw out, for a little, until either he was spoken to or removed from the cell.

Jim blinked dry eyes open and decided that it had been a few hours since he had been returned to the cell. Riley was curled against his front, and Leighton was curled on Riley’s other side. Cold surrounded them, and unfortunately their bodies were so emaciated and worn down that they could hardly produce body heat. Sometimes Jim wondered what would kill him first.

Starvation, infection, the cold, or… the doctors.

That last one was more likely. It was only a matter of time. Jim breathed unsteadily while a brain-melting pain slithered across the area of his mouth, jaw, and neck. God, acid hurt. He wondered if his skin was still holding on, or if it had slid off.

Some of the guards in the hall started yelling. Jim closed his eyes, and elected to ignore them. They fought all the time. He was pretty sure a couple of them had killed each other in the dark corners of the compound. Screaming and yelling had become just another part of the background.

A sudden deafening shot echoed from beyond the cell.

Jim sat up with a burst of adrenaline he didn’t think he still had. Leighton did the same, and the two boys met each other’s wide-eyed stares. The guards usually weren’t careless enough to shoot each other. They usually chose to use knives, so why— What were they shooting at?

More voices sounded, and then the blast of a phaser that Kodos’s men were not issued rang out. Jim’s heart beat harder than it had in a long time as footsteps ran past their cell door, followed by more shouting. Could it be? Was it possible?

Had… Had help arrived?

As soon as that thought dared to manifest, their creaking and rusted door swung open. On the other side was no guard, caked in the blood and sweat that all of Kodos’s men carried, but instead a man clad in a clean and red Starfleet uniform.

“Jim! ”

Jim drew in a startled breath in a noisy gasp, his hands rushing to grab Spock’s wrists in a desperate grip. He panted frantically for a few seconds, while his eyes adjusted to the sight of Spock’s face right in front of his own.

Spock was frowning, his brows bunched together in a furrow that Jim was afraid to interpret as worried, and his hands were holding Jim's upper arms with a grip as tight as the one Jim had on the Vulcan's wrists. “Spock?”

“Are you all right?” Spock asked, while his fingers loosened their hold slightly.

“Of course,” Jim replied shakily, before he’d even registered for himself whether or not it were true. “Yeah, of course. I’m fine.”

Spock’s face remained tight, and even though it didn’t make any sense, he still had his hands around Jim’s arms. “You are crying,” he finally said in a soft voice.

“What?” Jim released the Vulcan’s wrists to instead press his hands to his cheeks. Oh, God. He was crying. “Fuck,” he hissed, while he hurried to wipe the tears away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

Spock finally let go. “There is no need to apologize,” he said while he leaned back.

It occurred to Jim that Spock had to have sprung from his own seat to get as close to Jim as he did. He could see the towel was all skewed behind Spock’s feet.

“Well, I mean, I,” Jim’s voice caught around his dry throat and he hurriedly swallowed. “I’m sorry I interrupted your meditation.”

“It is no trouble,” Spock told him, his dark eyes boring into his own with an inexplicable intensity. “Becoming emotional when meditating on troubling events is not unreasonable. I understand that it is more difficult for humans to control their emotions as it is.”

Jim rubbed at his eyes in frustration while his chest squeezed in on itself. “I swear I’m usually better at controlling my emotions than this.”

“That may be,” Spock replied, and his voice was so soft that Jim stopped rubbing his eyes in order to look at him. “But to expect yourself not to feel anything, particularly after all of this, would be unfair to yourself.”

Jim paused. He dabbed his tongue at his lips while he tried to think of a reply, but he felt so drained that he couldn’t come up with a good reason to disagree with Spock’s statement. While he sat there thinking, a pounding in his head that he had managed to ignore suddenly forced him to acknowledge its horrid throbbing. With a quiet groan he pressed his fingers to his eyes.

“Jim?”

He held up his broken hand while continuing to press his good one into his temple. “Sorry. I’m all right. Just a headache.”

“Do you need to go to Doctor McCoy?”

“No,” Jim sighed. “I don’t need Bones. I think…” His words died in his throat. After all of the memories that he’d been sifting through, his stomach was cramping painfully. Like an old ghost of what he used to feel in those early months of the famine. But this time, he couldn’t be sure if the hunger he was feeling was real or just remembered. Eventually… he decided it didn’t matter either way. “I think I just need to eat.”

“Have you not eaten today?”

Jim removed his hand from his eyes and stared at Spock’s face. The Vulcan was still crouched on the floor, not even bothering with the towel regardless of how immaculate he usually was. Something about it was incredibly endearing, and Jim gave a little lopsided smile while he shook his head in a negative.

Spock stood up, shoulders straight as though he were about to make some sort of great declaration. “I shall accompany you to the mess hall.”

Jim smirked at the way Spock wasn’t giving him the option to object to the decision, and let the butterflies run loose in his stomach. He was too tired to fight them at the moment. He snorted softly. “If you insist, Mr. Spock.” He carefully got himself in a standing position, and helped Spock gather the towels.

He had a feeling that, this time, eating wouldn’t be too big of a problem.

Chapter Text

Spock eyed Jim as unobtrusively as possible while they walked.

Jim’s cheeks seemed to have gained more color, his shoulders appeared a little less stiff, and his general gait was more relaxed. Overall, it would seem that their session of meditation had been beneficial to the young captain.

But… Spock couldn’t get the image of Jim crying out of his head.

Throughout their meditation, Jim had made the occasional minor sound of distress, but Spock had elected to ignore it each time as a means to save both Jim and himself the discomfort of confronting emotional vulnerability directly. What they had been doing was intimate enough, there had been no need to make the whole situation more uncomfortable than it already was.

However… When Jim began to hiccup quietly in the obvious heralding of incoming sobs, Spock had found he could not keep his eyes closed any longer.

Jim’s face had been contorted in grief, his mouth twisted and his eyes clenched shut. Spock had only been able to stare dumbly for a few seconds, as he had been taken aback by seeing someone usually so in control of his outward display be blatantly emotional.

It was only when Jim had started to lean forward, as though trying to chase after the tears that had begun to flow, that Spock had snapped out of his stunned inaction. He had jolted towards the captain, his body moving despite the fact that he had not yet made any conscious decision on what to do.

He had grabbed Jim by his upper arms, and was suddenly the only thing keeping Jim from curling in on himself. Jim hadn't reacted to the physical contact, hadn’t seemed any less overcome with emotion, and Spock had felt the creeping onslaught of panic the longer he touched Jim and the situation remained unchanged.

Spock had made the deduction that Jim was so deeply burrowed in his own emotions that he had grown numb to physical stimuli, and so Spock deigned to call out to him instead. And even then… Jim had not responded until Spock had called his name a number of times.

By the time Jim had looked at him with full awareness, Spock had realized his grip on Jim’s arms had grown progressively tighter and it was with immense shock with himself that he immediately eased the pressure. Yet, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to let go completely.

Not when there had still been tears decorating Jim’s flushed cheeks.

The sight had instigated a strange surge of protectiveness within him, an undeniable surge of worry. Concern. It had been stronger than what made sense for him to feel in regards to someone who was only an acquaintance, however… Jim seemed to make him feel a lot of things that didn’t make sense.

Such as the trust that ran deeper than what was logical, when considering how few interactions they had yet had. It could be argued that the trust stemmed from comradeship built in hardship, but it felt deeper than what he had felt when he and Jim had traversed the Narada together.

When he had been meditating, Jim’s presence brought a sense of peace and calm that he had not expected. He had not meditated with others since he had joined Starfleet, so he had anticipated himself to be tense with another meditating alongside him. But his body had easily settled into a state of relaxation, to a degree that he had not felt since the last time he had meditated with his mother.

Spock glanced at the captain walking beside him and lightly touched his own side, where his heart beat steadily.

He was comfortable with Jim. He trusted him, to the core. Spock mulled over the arguments and disagreements that they had had thus far, and though they were likely to continue to occur, they felt immensely insignificant when compared to the synergy Spock could feel growing between he and Jim.

It was… fascinating.

“If you take a picture, it'll last you longer.”

Spock faltered in his step when Jim turned to him with twinkling eyes, though they were still dulled with apparent exhaustion.

“I mean, I get that I'm handsome,” Jim added, “and I can appreciate staring as much as the next guy, but you're starting to make me worried. Do I have something on my face?”

Jim touched his bruised fingers to his own cheek, which brought Spock's attention to the burst capillaries that dotted the skin below Jim’s eyes.

Something hot and tight squeezed through Spock’s chest, and he quickly cleared his throat. “I apologize. I do not mean to stare.”

“Don't worry about it.” Jim knocked a fist against Spock’s arm gently, and gave a slight grin. “I get that I'm impossible to resist.”

Spock was once again astonished by Jim’s attitude. Or rather, his control of his behavior. Jim's current demeanor was a far cry from how he had been only a few minutes prior. If not for the redness around his eyes, there was no hint that he had been crying at all.

It made Spock wonder…

How exactly had Jim been able to master such control of himself? And what gave him the need to do so? For humans, hiding one’s emotions was not normal or healthy, at least as far as Spock knew. So why did Jim?

What gave him the impression that to present himself honestly would be unsafe for him?

“You’re still staring.” Jim’s smile was warm, the sides of his eyes crinkled as he returned Spock’s gaze. His expression once again stunned Spock by how differently Jim could behave when compared to how he was in Spock's room, after having been given a chance to compose himself.

“Jim,” Spock said, his voice low.

Jim’s expression faltered just slightly, into something more vulnerable.

“Are you all right?” Spock asked, his tone as gentle as he could make it. He silently hoped that Jim would take the question as seriously as the science officer did.

Jim looked away, and heaved a deep, subtle sigh. After a few moments of watching their path, Jim gave a slight smile. “I will be.”

They had reached the mess hall, so Spock took Jim’s reassurance for what it was, and accepted that if they were to continue their conversation then it would be later. If ever.

As they approached the replicator, Spock decided that he could not begrudge Jim the privacy to his own feelings. It was a blessing, after all, that Jim had not yet inquired after his well-being.

How strange that the two of them kept insisting on the other divulging their emotional state, while withholding their own. Spock had never met anyone that seemed so concerned with how he was doing, and he likewise had met few people that made him feel quite so invested in how they were doing.

Spock blinked himself back into the moment, and realized he was already stood before the replicator. Jim was at his side and was scanning his eyes through the room, his posture relaxed as he leaned against the wall.

For some reason, it reminded Spock of the confidence he had had on the Narada. The confidence that Jim had his back, that Jim was there to watch it.

That same comfort Spock had felt in Jim’s presence on the Narada returned, and he operated the replicator while a contented warmth spread through his side. It was… familiar, yet new and strange to have Jim watching their surroundings for him. Stranger still to find he could trust Jim unerringly, despite the fact that they were not in danger and were in as casual a setting as a mess hall.

“Hey, Spock,” Jim muttered, casting a glance at Spock. “Can you order a side of apple slices for me? I'm not in the mood for eating much else right now.”

The memory of Jim throwing up in the hall, hunched and shaken and distressed, flashed through Spock’s head. He was relieved that Jim was now keeping an eye on his own limitations. “Of course.”

Jim and Spock didn’t talk while they ate, but Jim was all right with that. He wasn’t ready to discuss his breakdown in Spock’s room, and he didn’t really feel up to pushing Spock’s buttons at the moment either.

So, silence was a fine alternative.

As Jim nibbled on his last apple slice, he had to admit that even though neither of them talked, it wasn’t a horrible lunch “date”. There weren’t a whole lot of people Jim felt comfortable around when silence dragged on, so he was a little surprised to find that things with Spock just felt… content, regardless of whether a conversation was happening or not.

Jim ran his thumb along the edge of his empty plate, and tried to think of how many people he was comfortable with enough to be silent around them. Bones for sure, and Pike, and…

Um...

Oh, come on. Surely there were more people than that?

Before Jim could dwell on this troubling revelation, Spock started to gather his dishes. “Captain, I am assuming that you have finished and are ready to leave.”

“What? Oh, yeah. I’m done.” He helped Spock collect their stuff and carefully eased himself to his feet.

He handed his empty plate to Spock, who asked, “Are you sure the apples were enough food for you? If you have not eaten until this hour, perhaps you may need more sustenance.”

A fond wave of endearment ushered a smile to Jim’s face, and he shook his head. “I’m sure. I never really eat a whole lot of food. You don’t gotta worry about me.”

For a second Spock looked like he wanted to argue, but he ultimately nodded at Jim and led the two of them first to the dishes disposal, and then to the door. As they were stepping out, though, they almost bumped directly into Hikaru Sulu.

“Oh, excuse me!” the pilot gasped, right before it visibly registered for him who he had almost run into. “Commander! Captain!”

Seeing the pilot again brought forth a surprising amount of joy in Jim, and he didn’t even try to hold his grin back. “Hey, Sulu!”

Sulu immediately gave him a returning smile, though it did seem to falter some the longer he looked at Jim.

It made Kirk want to cover himself up, to keep others from seeing the ugly bruises he knew were still decorating his face. It took all of his willpower to stay at Spock’s side, and not hide behind the Vulcan’s back like some childish part of him wanted to.

The childish part of you that had to hide all of the bruises you got from Frank, some ugly voice decided to remind Jim.

Sulu blinked and shook his head almost imperceptibly, apparently having finally caught himself staring and his smile once again grew. “How have you been, Kirk? I haven’t seen you around, though I’ve heard you’ve stopped by the bridge a few times. I guess I keep missing you.”

“Ahh, I’ve been all right. Been getting babysat by a couple of mother hens, though.” Jim ignored the indignation he could feel radiating off of Spock and shrugged, before nodding at Sulu. “What about you? You’ve got a nasty shiner right now.”

“It’s not so bad.” Sulu lightly touched his fingers to his right eye, the bruising so severe it was obvious that it had been swelled shut at least a few days ago, though it still seemed he could barely see out of it. “Looks worse than it is.”

“Tell me about it,” Jim huffed, a light smile easing his words.

Sulu smiled back, and Jim felt a resurgence of the same sense of camaraderie he had felt on the drill. God, he was glad that Sulu had been with him on Vulcan. He was even more glad that he had jumped after him.

Enough good people had been lost in the past few days, so Jim would always be grateful that he at least kept this one from dying.

An urge to say I’m glad you survived bubbled to Jim’s throat, but fearing that that was too personable, he quickly amended it to, “Well, we won’t keep you from getting some food.” He ushered Spock forward, and Sulu sidled past them.

“It’s good to see you up and about, Jim,” Sulu said as he passed.

“You too.” A thought occurred to Jim, so he quickly turned around before he and Spock could get too far away. “Oh, and Sulu?” The pilot glanced back, and Jim continued. “When we get back to Earth… Can you show me how to do some of that fencing you did?”

Jim was aware that they were only a few days away from home, so while the nightmares of the past were taking up most of his attention, that didn’t just mean he could ignore the impending future. After reaching Earth, there was a good chance everyone would part ways.

And after the trial regarding his cheating, Jim wasn’t entirely sure he would even be able to serve again. A shocking blast of fear and panic punched him in the chest at the thought, so he hurriedly ushered it to the back of his mind, and reminded himself that his biggest concern for the moment was just to be sure that he could still see certain people after their return.

And that definitely included Sulu.

To his relief, a borderline blinding smile lit up Sulu’s face, and the pilot responded with an eager nod. “Definitely. I’d be happy to.”

Jim let Sulu head back into the mess after that reassurance, and fell in beside Spock to continue their walk.

After they stepped into the turbolift, Spock spoke up for the first time in a while. “Shall I accompany you to the doctor’s quarters, Captain?”

Jim glanced at the Vulcan beside him, noting the coil of fondness that had been settling inside his gut since he and Spock had met up earlier in the evening. “That’s all right, Spock. I was actually thinking I’ll meet up with Bones at the sickbay so he and I can head back together.”

Spock activated the lift and said, “As you wish.”

Before he could really think about it, Jim smirked and muttered, “Have you ever read The Princess Bride, Spock?”

Spock turned his dark eyes onto Jim. “I have not.”

“Ah.” Smirk still in place, Jim ignored the heat tingeing the edges of his cheeks. Why the hell did he ask that in the first place? What would he have done if Spock had said yes? “Don’t worry about it, then. I was just gonna make a joke.”

One of Spock’s brows twitched just barely, apparently a physical manifestation of Spock’s relief for being spared a joke from Jim. Jim snorted despite himself, and the lift doors opened right after. They walked in silence, and it didn’t take them long to reach the medbay. Once they did, Spock visibly hesitated in his step. “Captain.” Once Jim was facing him, Spock gave a stiff nod. “I shall leave you in the doctor’s care. And…” A strange pause passed, before Spock adamantly held eye contact with Jim. “Thank you for meditating with me, Jim. I hope it proved beneficial.”

“Yes!” Jim’s voice came out a little breathless, so he quickly cleared his throat. “Yes, it was beneficial for me. Definitely. I… really, Spock, I should be the one thanking you.” He looked away and swallowed roughly. “I appreciate you doing something like that for me.”

“Jim.”

There was another explosion of butterflies through Jim's chest. Every time Spock said his name, it demanded all of Jim’s attention.

Once they were looking at each other again, Spock’s eyes had become noticeably warmer. Jim would always be surprised by how gentle such dark eyes could be. “It is no trouble,” Spock assured. He gave a slight nod and turned. “Good night, Captain.”

Jim watched Spock walk down the hall, and leaned against the wall right beside the medbay’s doors. How had he ever hated Spock? If not for the Vulcan, Jim never would have been able to address his worst memories. God, if he had had to go through those alone…

Thank fuck Spock had been in the same room at the time. Spock hadn’t expected him to talk or explain himself, and provided a calming, solid presence for the duration of those horrid memories.

Almost everything was locked away already. In fact, Jim was now confident that he would have the last of it squared away by the night’s end. He'd really just needed to meditate through those three specific memories, so since they had been dealt with, Jim had been able to work through most of the remaining memories while he ate Spock’s apples.

He was almost done.

He already felt more like himself. His interactions with others were feeling less disjointed, and he wasn't second guessing himself as much as he was before. Even teasing others felt like something he could do again.

Yeah, meditating with Spock definitely helped. Jim couldn’t tamp down the gratitude he felt for the Vulcan if he tried.

“What, he didn’t give you a kiss goodnight?”

Jim startled into a straighter stance and whirled on Bones, who was standing in the doorway. He pouted at the older man. “Oh, shut up.” He knocked his knuckles against Bones’s chest and stepped past him into the medbay. “Were you spying on us or something? Don’t you have work to do?”

“I’m almost done here,” McCoy admitted as he followed after Jim. “I was just about to check in with Pike, so after that we can head back to my quarters.”

Pike? Jim’s heart stuttered at the reminder that Pike was still alive and well, and he watched Bones over his shoulder. “So how’s that old man doing?”

Bones raised a brow at him and stepped past Jim into Pike’s room. “Wanna see for yourself?”

Pike looked infinitely better than he had the last time Jim saw him. There was more color to his complexion, despite the still healing bruises and scratches, and he was even sitting up. Well, the bed was propped up so that he could sit, but still. The difference between Pike’s current appearance and the condition he was in when Jim first found him on the Narada was like night and day.

Bones was a miracle worker.

"Hey, kid,” Pike said when he noticed Jim behind McCoy. His smile was wide, though muted with exhaustion. “What brings you in here?”

Jim placed himself in the seat next to the bed, while McCoy continued towards where all the important medical equipment was. “Ah, I’m just here to walk Bones back.” Jim leaned forward, and in a mock whisper said, “He tends to get lost when he’s on his own, you know.”

A loud harrumph of disagreement came from the monitors where Bones was at, and Jim smirked at the doctor’s back.

Pike snorted. “I’m sure. So,” he turned his head to face Jim completely, making it clear that he had his full attention. “How have you been?”

“Good.” Jim rested his elbows on his knees and fiddled with his fingers. “I’m good. I, uh…” He swallowed back some inexplicable nervousness, and said, “I just got done meditating with Spock.”

Jim met Bones’s shocked stare that the doctor sent his way, and gave a slight nod.

“Really! That’s—” Pike cleared his throat. “That’s good news. I’m glad you guys are getting along.” A surprisingly warm smile spread itself over Pike’s face. “It seems to me you won him over a lot quicker than you did McCoy. Which, I gotta say, I wasn’t really expecting.”

Jim chuckled softly, and sent a small grin towards McCoy’s incessant stare. “Yeah, me neither. But I, uh, I’m not so sure I’ve really won him over or anything. We had a bit of a fight yesterday.” He raised his brows at Pike imploringly. “He called me a hypocrite.”

Pike somehow made his own raised brow seem smug. “Then you were probably being a hypocrite.”

“What?” Jim sat back in indignation and avidly ignored Bones’s quiet chuckling. “How can you say something like that? Whose side are you on?”

Pike shrugged as much as his condition would allow. “When it comes to Spock, usually his.”

“Oh, really?” Jim crossed his arms and decided that it didn’t make him feel as petulant as the older Captain and doctor probably believed him to be. “Would you have been on his side when he threw me off the ship?”

Pike’s shocked face was a sight to see. “He—What?”

Bones was hurriedly shaking his head at Jim on the other side of the room, an obvious command of DON’T STRESS HIM OUT, so Jim quickly waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing, sorry. You’ll hear about it later.”

“What—?” Pike closed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh through his nose, and without looking up said, “Either someone is going to start telling me what happened while I was gone, or I start saying the most embarrassing things I know about the both of you.”

Jim faltered. “Wait, what makes you think we don’t already know all of the most embarrassing things about each other?”

Pike finally opened his eyes and cast a sidelong glare Jim’s way, one that somehow promised that Pike would pull out something neither he nor Bones could come back from.

“Oh, fuck. Bones, quick, get him a PADD.”

Disbelieving sputtering heralded McCoy’s approach, and when he finally stepped up to Pike’s bedside with a PADD in hand, he had a particularly hearty frown plastered to his face. “Chris, it is against my recommendation that you stress yourself out further.”

“McCoy.” Pike sent one of his classic disappointed frowns Bones’s way. “I assure you that being left uninformed is making me infinitely more stressed.”

McCoy tilted his head in acquiescence and handed the PADD over. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Once the PADD was in Pike’s hands, McCoy turned to Jim. “Since you’re here, I’ll let you know now. You’re cleared for duty for the remainder of our journey.”

Elation washed down Jim’s whole body, and it took him a few seconds to wet his mouth enough to talk. “Really?” He would… actually get another chance to captain the ship? He knew that since they were nearing the end, there wasn’t going to be a whole lot for him to do, but still.

He was really going to be able to captain the U.S.S. Enterprise?

McCoy nodded at him, and the look he gave Jim was jarringly gentle. “We might not be out here for much longer, but… Two days are better than none, kid.” After that final addressal, he turned back to Pike. “All right, sir, before you get too invested in the reports, I want to talk to you about how your health is faring. There have been some developments in your charts that I think we should talk about.”

While Bones and Pike started getting into it, Jim deigned to tune them out and instead focus on the fact that he would be able to captain again.

But… if he was going to do that, he would want to be at his best. Captains had to be at their best. And he couldn’t be at his best until all of his walls were back up.

He watched Pike’s brow crinkle in concentration while he spoke with McCoy, and Jim decided there was one final memory that he ought to face directly.

Jim panted unsteadily, his breaths hot and tight in his chest. But he couldn’t stop moving yet. He could hear running feet coming from down the hall.

He turned another corner, and—God damn it, everything on these starships looked the same. If not for his internal compass, he’d almost think that he’d been running in circles. But if what his body was telling him was true, then he was still heading towards the tail of the ship.

And that meant farther from the sickbay.

The sound of running feet grew louder, and in a panic he threw himself into one of the nearby rooms. It was blessedly empty, save for a few tables and chairs. Maybe it was a rec room or something. Starships had those, right?

He ducked under one of the tables, and placed himself in such a way that he wouldn’t be immediately visible from the doorway. Ah, God, but it wasn’t good enough. What if they decided to go further into the room? He needed more cover.

There was a potted plant nearby, so Jim carefully reached towards it. His ribs twinged painfully in his chest as he moved, but he bit it back.

He had to hide. He had to hide. He had to hide.

He couldn’t let any more fucking doctors touch him, not again. The very thought of going back into a sickbay was making him nauseous, and if his healing hands weren’t busy trying to pull the potted plant closer, then he’d be trying to brush off the horrible feeling of dust and grime covering his skin.

They’d been in Starfleet custody for two days, and still Jim couldn’t shake the feeling of being covered in dirt, and sweat, mud, dust, blood, blood blood so much blood—

The door to the room hissed, giving Jim enough warning to duck back under the table before the door had opened all the way. Damn it, he had to abandon the plant completely. Cover from the chairs would have to do.

His heart pounded mercilessly in his chest, every beat threatening to steal his already weak breaths. He managed to keep from trembling, though, as whoever it was stepped into the room.

In shock, he realized that the person who entered wasn’t one of the nurses that had been chasing him. They were wearing one of the red Starfleet uniforms, rather than the pale garb of the nurses.

He bit his tongue when they sat at the table closest to the door. If they were to look to their right, there was a good chance they could spot Jim’s hunched form in the shadow of his hiding spot. Jim continued to watch them warily, but all they did was lean back in their seat and read from—Was that a paper book?

Jim took a better look at the red-shirted man, took in his dusty brown hair and bright blue eyes. Just like Jim’s. The man seemed completely unaware that he wasn’t alone.

The door to the room hissed open again, and the nurses that were chasing Jim barged in. At the sight of them, Jim’s breaths froze in his chest. The only part of him that moved at all was the rushing blood through his veins.

“Hey!” One of them gasped out, out of breath from the chase Jim had been giving them. “Have you seen a kid anywhere?” they asked the red-shirt. “One of the Tarsus kids keeps trying to get out, and he finally ran off on us. He’s nowhere near healed yet though, we’ve gotta get him back as soon as possible.”

The red-shirt shook his head, and took a bite out of an apple slice. He had a whole plate with him, Jim realized, and Jim willed his stomach not to grumble at the sight of it. “Nah, I haven’t seen anyone. Just me in here.”

“Okay, well,” the nurse took a second to catch their breath, before ushering the other two with them back towards the door. “Let us know if you see him, all right? He’s blond, blue eyed, and as skinny as the others. His most visible wrappings are the bandages around his neck and chin.”

The red-shirt nodded. “All right. I’ll keep an eye out.”

The nurses nodded back, and rushed out into the hall, continuing their useless search for Jim.

Jim inhaled slowly and steadily through his nostrils, while the red-shirt went back to reading. He evaded them. The thought of Kodos’s medical team flashed through his head and Jim squeezed his eyes shut.

They were gone. They were gone. He was safe. The medics were gone.

“Any particular reason you’re hiding from them?”

Jim’s eyes flew open as horror and a strangling urge to run shot through Jim’s body. He stared with wide eyes at the red-shirt, but the man didn’t move more than turning one of his pages.

He had known Jim was there? Why didn’t he tell the nurses?

“It’s not really any business of mine though, so long as you’re not endangering anyone else.” The red-shirt cast his piercing blue eyes right at Jim, and the thirteen year old’s whole body clenched up. “Or yourself, for that matter.”

Jim gulped quietly, and didn’t dare breathe or blink. The red-shirt continued to watch him, and the longer he stared, the higher Jim’s hackles rose.

“Surely those hurt,” the red-shirt practically whispered, obviously referring to the bandages covering Jim’s face and bare feet and hands. He turned back to his book. “So I guess you’re not one for talking. Do you have a name, at least?”

Jim squinted at the man. He was acting… different. Different than anyone else on the ship.

So far everyone had been talking to Jim with horribly gentle voices and even gentler hands, handling their words and demeanor around Jim so carefully that it was like they thought he would outright croak at the slightest breeze. It was making him sick, it was too much of a contrast to how he’d been treated for the past few months.

He was a human, after all! He needed to be treated like one! Not like a dog, or a flower, or a toy, or glass!

The red-shirt looked at Jim again, and Jim’s lungs froze without him meaning them to. The red-shirt gave a barely-there smile, and his eyes crinkled in such a way that assured Jim the expression was genuine. “If you don’t tell me your name, I’m gonna have to make one up.”

A snort blew from Jim’s nose, and Jim blinked in shock at himself. He hadn’t heard… a gentle sounding joke in so long. Hadn’t laughed in so long. He stared at the red-shirt in mild wonder. After a few long seconds of thought, he forced saliva down his still dry throat—damn Tarsus and all its dust—and parted his scabbed lips. “James.”

The red-shirt’s whole expression softened, but that was the majority of reaction he gave. He closed his book. “I’m Christopher Pike. You can call me Chris.”

Chris. Jim openly stared at Chris, and the older man didn’t seem bothered.

Jim cleared his throat as subtly as he could manage, and spoke up with his weakened voice. “Are you a first lieutenant, Chris?”

There was a braided stripe on Chris’s sleeve, and try as he might, Jim couldn’t remember what rank that made him. He’d never cared enough about Starfleet to figure out how it worked. But his mom wore a red uniform, and she was a first lieutenant. So, maybe Chris, too?

Chris chuckled lightly and looked down at his book. “No, not yet. I’m just a regular lieutenant right now.” The PADD Chris brought with him started to beep, and Chris looked down at it with a disgruntled frown. “And as a lieutenant, that means I’ve got a lot of duties to attend to.” He looked back at Jim apologetically and pointed back at his PADD. “And that’s what that is. Duty calling.”

Chris stood from his chair with a loud sigh and gathered his PADD and book, but he left his plate of apples on the table. He must have noticed Jim staring at them, because he motioned at the plate. “You can have those if you want, I just wanted something to chew on while I read. But since I can’t read anymore at the moment, you’re welcome to have them.”

Jim gaped at him. He was willingly giving Jim food? He didn’t want to keep it for himself, or eat it before it could go bad? He was trusting Jim with his food?

Chris smiled again, and it somehow put Jim at ease. Which… What the hell? He couldn’t remember the last time he was able to trust a smile.

“Do you like to read?” Chris asked.

The question threw Jim off guard, but he didn’t hesitate to nod yes.

“Well, then.” Chris set his book down, right next to the apples. “Why don’t you start reading that? And next time I get a break, we can talk about it. Does that sound good?”

Jim swallowed back a lump, and ignored how his eyes burned. He gave a jilted nod and squeezed his hands around his white medbay shirt. He didn’t dare try to speak.

“All right.” Chris gave another one of those comforting smiles. “Then I’ll come find you in the medbay next time I’m off. By the way,” he motioned at the apple slices, "an apple a day keeps the doctor away." Then he stepped out with a wink, and Jim could only stare dumbly at the closed door.

With stiff limbs, he crawled his way out of his hiding spot, and carefully approached the apples and book. His body screamed at him to eat the apples immediately, but he held himself back and instead picked up the book. Ender’s Game.

Jim remembered Sam reading it, back before his brother ran away. That was at least five years ago. Jim flipped through the pages without actively reading anything, and wondered how his brother was doing. Out of everyone on Earth, he was most excited about seeing Sam.

Jim held the book against his chest and picked up one of the apple slices with trembling fingers. As he forced himself to chew slowly so as not to hurt himself, he ran his thumb over the spine of the book.

Chris seemed… good. Jim would have to head back to the medbay soon if he didn’t want to miss the lieutenant’s visit.

McCoy checked over Pike’s readings, and noted how quiet the two captains were being. Pike had a good excuse, since he was reading through the report still, but Jim… He had that same distant look on his face that Bones had caught multiple times throughout the past few days.

He had thought that meditating with Spock had done Jim some good, because Jim seemed livelier than he had in weeks when he came in. More relaxed, more at ease, just generally healthier.

But… that healthy liveliness had apparently worn off, because Jim was back to sitting silently with glazed over eyes.

Pike didn’t seem worried, though, and he kept glancing at Jim every few seconds. So if he wasn’t worried, maybe McCoy shouldn’t be either. Still… he’d never seen Jim be so dissociative in all of their years together. It was obvious the Narada had done a number on him, and McCoy wondered if these bouts of silence would ever stop.

Or… if this was going to become a permanent part of Jim’s life after this event.

A strange humming sound abruptly came from Jim’s throat, and the kid blinked for the first time in too long. His vibrant blue eyes drifted towards Pike’s, and the older captain was staring back in interest. Jim’s lips parted, as though he were surprised, and then he spoke. “Oh, I… I’m done. My walls are back up.”

Before Jim had even finished speaking, his eyes suddenly slid shut and he slumped forward.

“Jesus!” McCoy darted forward to catch Jim by the shoulders, and though he kept the kid upright, Jim still slipped out of his chair. “Jesus Christ!”

McCoy maneuvered himself around Pike’s bed, since he had to practically throw himself across Pike’s lap to catch Jim, until he was able to carefully gather Jim against himself. Pike was sitting up, though his injuries kept him from moving very far.

“What the hell happened?” McCoy asked, as he pressed a hand to Jim’s forehead and took the young captain’s full weight into his chest. He would be embarrassed about the two of them being sat on the floor, but when it came to Jim, McCoy couldn’t care less about propriety. “Why the hell did he pass out? He doesn’t have a fever or anything, and there shouldn’t be any wounds that I don’t know about.”

As McCoy continued to check Jim’s body over with his own hands, Pike leaned back into his cushions and sighed. “Did you hear what he said?” Pike asked.

McCoy blinked up at Pike, his hand still pressed against Jim’s head. “Something about walls?”

Pike blinked at him patiently. “He said, ‘my walls are back up’. He’s talking about mental walls.” Pike’s gaze drifted towards Jim’s unconscious face. “If they’re back up… Then that must mean that it’s safe for him to sleep again. So his body acted accordingly.”

McCoy looked back at Jim silently, and carefully brushed his fingers over the kid’s face.

Had he… not been sleeping? Had his mind been fighting against him this whole time?

McCoy inhaled slowly and bit back a surge of sorrow on Jim’s behalf. Jim carried too much by himself. At least… at least he trusted McCoy enough to help him after it all. McCoy pressed his forehead to Jim’s for a moment, before getting Jim situated in his arms and standing with the captain cradled against his chest.

Pike blinked up at him. “Shouldn’t you get a stretcher? If he’s too heavy…”

McCoy shook his head. “No, this is fine. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve had to carry his drunk ass home.”

Pike gave a slight smile. “I’m sure.”

“Get some sleep soon, sir,” McCoy told Pike as he backed towards the door. “And don’t read for too long. You still need to rest.”

After Pike nodded in agreement, McCoy stepped out into the rest of the bay and thanked the stars that no one was out so late to see Jim in such a state. As McCoy carried Jim through the hall, he tried to remember if Jim had always been so light.

Chapter Text

McCoy stared at the bags under his reflection’s eyes in the bathroom mirror, and tried to decide whether or not they were as dark as they seemed or if it was just the low light making them appear worse than they were. He rubbed at the stubble along his jaw and sighed, before spreading shaving cream over the offending facial hair.

It wasn’t the low lighting. He was as tired and haggard as the mirror suggested.

He had hoped that what few hours of sleep he’d managed and the warm shower he allowed himself after waking would have helped. And they did, in a way, but… it was stupid to think that that would have been enough to wash away two weeks of bone-deep exhaustion and continued adrenaline-laced effort.

He couldn’t complain. At least he was still alive to even feel exhausted, which was a privilege that had been stolen from so many in the past few weeks. Even among the living, he still had no right to complain.

As McCoy began to shave, he glanced at Jim’s sleeping form on the bed. Now, Jim… He had a right to complain. Even through the mirror, and with what little light reached the young captain from the bathroom, McCoy could easily see the bruises that still dominated Jim’s skin.

Poor kid had definitely been wrung through the wringer. McCoy suspected the marks from days past—both physical and otherwise—would stay with Jim for a long while.

McCoy’s PADD on the counter buzzed softly, signaling that it was time to wake Jim up. If McCoy could let him sleep longer, he would, but he had a feeling Jim would want to spend as much time as acting-captain as possible. He finished shaving and smoothed a warm, damp towel over his face, and threw it over his shoulder as he approached the bed.

Jim looked so relaxed. He was on his back, his breathing slow and even, and the low lighting had noticeably softened the intensity of the bruises and scratches all over his visible skin. McCoy carefully sat himself on the edge of the bed, not quite willing to disturb the younger man yet.

When was the last time Jim had been able to relax? If what Pike had said was true, then Jim hadn’t been sleeping for the past few days. Or at least, not deeply. McCoy considered brushing his fingers over the dark circles around Jim’s eyes, but held back. He had a feeling the kid would wake at the slightest touch, and he deserved to have a few more seconds of sleep.

Death had reached its icy fingers towards Jim so many different times over the past few weeks, and McCoy drew in a shaky breath as he dwelled on that fact. Jim had come so close to being forever at rest.

An inexplicable need to see that Jim was still whole and well forced McCoy’s hand, and he nudged Jim’s shoulder gently.

Jim quickly inhaled through his nose, while his eyes fluttered open and locked onto McCoy’s.

“Hey,” Bones whispered, gently patting Jim’s chest. “Time to get up, Captain.”

Jim brushed his fingers over Bones’s in a way that seemed more instinctual than intentional, but he loosely held onto Bones’s hand regardless while he blinked himself awake. “What time is it?” he asked, his voice rough and sleep-heavy.

“Like I said.” Bones took his hand back and grazed his fingers over the side of Jim’s face that wasn’t fractured, and stood from the bed. “Time to get up.”

“That’s not an answer,” Jim grumbled quietly as Bones turned his back on him.

Bones glanced over his shoulder while he gathered his and Jim’s clothes, watched as the young captain stiffly rolled onto his side and smothered his face in the pillow. Jim released a breathy groan, and Bones wondered if it was because of lingering aches that resurfaced from such little movement.

Well… It’d be more surprising if Jim wasn’t still feeling the effects of everything he’d been through.

Bones decided to give Jim a little time to regain his bearings, and busied himself with shuffling into his own uniform shirt. “Hey, kid,” he called while he adjusted his sleeves.

Jim groaned in response.

“You wanna wear Pike’s gold shirt?” He turned to look at Jim, who was staring back with tight, clear eyes. “Talked to him last night. He said you could.”

Jim’s immediate reaction was to stay silent. He merely stared at Bones for a few dragging seconds, before he gave some hard blinks and turned his gaze to the floor. “I… I don’t know. Um…” He trailed off to sit up, the endeavor taking him longer than expected. The kid made no sounds of distress, but McCoy didn’t miss the way he grimaced once he was straightened up.

Hm. Maybe he was fighting back more pain than Bones had anticipated. The more he thought about it, the more he conceded that he would have to expect Jim’s body to be in bad shape for at least another week. Regardless of Jim’s likely opposition, McCoy set to preparing a mild anesthetic while Jim worked to answer Bones’s question.

“I don’t think I will,” Jim finally said, voice gravelly and subdued. “I think it would just feel weird if I started wearing gold now. I mean, I do want to, but… I’ve been commanding just fine in black.”

Bones ran his eyes over Jim critically. For years, Jim had been hemming and hawing about how he couldn’t wait to wear command gold, about how he couldn’t wait to have his own ship. He’d been the most cock-sure of all cadets that he was going to be a great captain, and soon—and he hadn’t been wrong.

So while McCoy put back the gold shirt he’d grabbed for Jim, he tried to figure out why his friend was suddenly so hesitant to take what was finally in his grasp. He wasn’t having second thoughts about Starfleet, was he? He did still want to command, right?

Bones tossed the all black clothing at Jim, and the young captain caught it with unexpected ease. Damn kid was always so high-functioning, regardless of whatever state his body was in. “Any particular reason you don’t wanna wear the gold?” Bones asked.

Jim sighed quietly through his nose while he untangled the shirt from the pants. “It’s kind of hard to explain,” he muttered. “It just… It doesn’t feel right yet. Do you know what I mean?” He looked up at McCoy, his expression appearing troubled. He was almost pouting. “It’s like... I’ve been working so hard and so long to get here, you know? But now that I’m here, it doesn’t—It didn’t happen the way it should have. I didn’t want to come into command at the expense of others.” He wrung his fingers around the black cloth and watched his own ministrations. “Not at the expense of Pike. Or the Vulcans.” He paused. “Or our friends.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and the sound made McCoy’s heart squeeze in unexpected pain. Right… Jim only got this position because others were hurt and killed. And though none of that was Jim’s fault, McCoy suspected that he was in some part feeling responsible… or guilty.

Jim cleared his throat and shifted the shirt in his lap. “With how this has all played out, I don’t want to wear gold under these circumstances. So if I can still command without it, then that’s what I’ll do. I just feel better about wearing black for now, you know? So I think I’ll stick to black for the rest of this journey. At least until I’m given command of a ship the right way.” He stared down at his lap, and stopped the minor fidgeting he had been doing. “To prance around in gold like I won something would feel disrespectful.”

Oh… Fuck, now it made sense.

Jim was in mourning. Even if he wasn’t consciously aware of it, that was definitely what was going on. Bones swallowed back a lump that had formed in his throat at the realization and he looked away.

“All right. If that’s what you wanna do.”

Jim tapped his fingers against his thigh as the turbolift carried him towards the bridge. He wasn’t nervous, or scared, or anything like that, but his chest was feeling super tight. A little tighter than what would make sense if he was just excited. He carefully rubbed his good hand against his sternum and conceded that what he was feeling was probably anxiety.

Relax. There’s no reason to be anxious.

He huffed quietly in amusement. That voice sounded a little like Bones’s.

But he still couldn’t help feeling a little anxious. He hadn’t been in a position of command in almost two weeks. And last time he’d been in charge, they’d been in a high stakes, life-or-death situation. And he did good with that. Great, even. But, he’d always been able to function beyond well in circumstances where his or someone else’s lives were on the line.

He’d had plenty of experience leading through conflict.

But, the conflict was over. Nero was dead. The Narada was defeated.

So… Was he still going to be a good leader when there were no active threats? Threats he could handle, threats he could conquer. Threats he could lead through. And, yeah, he’d passed his command classes with flying colors and everything, including the classes that were about the more mundane aspects of command. But, still, no matter how hard Starfleet tried, they couldn’t perfectly replicate real life.

Grades really weren't proof enough for how he'd do.

That was part of the reason why Jim had had a hard time taking the Kobayashi Maru seriously.

Dangers created in simulations were nothing like dangers in real life, as Jim had had plenty of time learning. After his childhood, he got a good idea of what he should feel threatened by and what he could dominate. And, overall, he learned that anything could be dominated.

Hence, his philosophy of no win scenarios.

Even… Tarsus… he’d managed to overcome. He had compartmentalized and buried everything as needed, in the least detrimental way he could manage for himself. He reclaimed who he was, he took complete control over his own life, and he did everything he could to make sure he couldn’t be subservient to anyone ever again.

Jim ran both his hands through his hair, and exhaled slowly.

Okay. So, he knew for sure he was a pretty darn good captain when tensions were high, when they were in danger. But they weren’t anymore.

So… Now would be as good a time as any to see how well he could command when stakes were low or nonexistent. Hell, it was likely going to be his only chance to.

The turbolift pinged softly and its doors opened.

Head held high, the aches in his body barely breaching his comprehension, Jim stepped onto the bridge and nodded at those he made eye contact with.

“Captain on ze bridge!” Chekhov called, his smile bright with unprecedented enthusiasm.

Captain on the bridge. Jim faltered in his step for a moment, that phrase stealing the breath from his lungs. It made his heart soar and ache all at once, and he smiled at Chekhov in response.

At Chekhov’s call, Jim had noticed Spock turn in is peripheral, and he glanced at the Vulcan. His heart, still recovering from being called captain, somehow squeezed even more once he made eye contact with his science officer.

His science officer. God, if only he could hold the title of Captain after they returned to Earth. But he had a feeling the admiralty wouldn’t be too keen on letting him keep his position. For one, Pike was alive, and for two, he was technically still a cadet. One that was supposed to be on academic probation.

He swallowed back anxiety as he thought on that fact, and approached the captain’s chair without a second thought. Spock walked over to him before he’d even completely sat down.

“Mr. Spock,” Jim greeted, and couldn’t not smile at the Vulcan beside him. After everything that had happened the night before, seeing Spock again made Jim’s gut feel… a little weird. But, not bad. The time they’d spent together had definitely been good, at least for Jim. “Anything going on that I should know about?”

“Yes. Starfleet contacted us nine point eight minutes ago, and know to expect us to arrive in the Terran system in approximately thirty hours.” He handed Jim his PADD, so he could look over the report himself. “They will be sending out shuttles to meet us at the system’s edge, and will begin the process of towing us back and transporting crew members to Earth as needed.”

Jim ran his eyes through the report, processing the words he read and those he heard. “Sounds good. Are they wanting to hear back from me?”

Spock gave a soft blink that was paired with a slight inclination of the head, and Jim figured he was getting the Vulcan equivalent of a nod. “They are. I and the rest of the crew provided them with information as needed in your absence, but… We could not substitute that which you could provide them.”

Jim gave him a lopsided smirk, before checking through a few things on his PADD. “So, you saying I’m irreplaceable?”

Spock paused for a long time, and Jim continued to smirk while he allowed the other to gather his thoughts. “There is certainly no one else like you,” Spock finally replied.

“Aww,” Jim responded, before he started sorting through the messages Starfleet had left for him specifically. Damn, he’d have to set to reading. He glanced up at Spock, still smiling. “Thanks for the report, Commander. I guess I’d better get started.”

“Of course. If you require any assistance, simply say so.” He turned on his heel after that little remark, and went back to his station.

Jim kept his eyes on the science officer a moment longer, but Starfleet wouldn’t wait forever. He sighed quietly and began the long series of replies he’d be writing.

It had been about six hours since he got to the bridge, and Jim’s body was seriously starting to ache. He shifted for what must have been the fiftieth time in the past hour, his ribs groaning in the exact way his vocal chords were wanting to.

He huffed softly. Was he just doomed to be in pain every time he sat in the captain’s chair? Maybe it was a sign that he ought to get out of it, at least for a little. He rubbed at his chest in a small attempt to ease the pain and glanced around, until he caught sight of Spock at his station.

Almost as though he could sense he was being watched, the Vulcan immediately looked up and met Jim’s gaze.

Jim’s heart did another weird leap, but he ignored it. “Mr. Spock,” he called as he stood from the chair, and paused to stretch his torso a bit. “You busy right now?”

Spock froze at the question, but he ultimately cast his station one last glance before stepping away from it. “I am not currently occupied with anything that requires continued attention.”

Jim smirked despite himself. “Could’ve just said ‘no’.” He spared Spock the trouble of having to respond by nodding towards the turbolift. “I’m thinking of heading to see Scotty. Wanna come with?”

After a brief hesitation, Spock approached Jim. “Yes. I believe it would be in our best interest if you were not left unattended.”

Ooh, sassy Spock.

Jim snorted and rolled his eyes as he led the way into the lift. “God, you sound like Bones. Sulu, you have the conn.”

Sulu waved at him over his shoulder just before the doors closed, and had time to add in an, “Aye, sir.”

As the turbolift began to carry them lower into the ship, Spock turned to Jim. “Is there a particular reason as to why you wish to see Mr. Scott at this time?”

Jim released a shallow sigh and shook his head in a negative. “Not really, I just felt like I needed to move around a bit. I don’t do good sitting still for extended lengths of time. And plus, I’ve really been meaning to check in with Scotty. I haven’t seen him in, like…” Jim frowned as he tried to figure out how long it had been. “Damn, like two weeks.”

“That is understandable,” Spock replied. “You have been incapacitated for a large portion of or journey.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Jim huffed. He opened his mouth to add more, but hesitated. He didn’t want to make Spock worry, or think that he was still too hurt to command, but… Confiding in someone else sounded pretty good at the moment. “Another reason I wanted to move around was because my body was starting to ache.”

He could see Spock staring at him in his peripheral, but Jim didn’t quite feel like meeting his gaze.

“Your injuries are still troubling you?”

Jim shrugged. “It’s not so bad. I think everything will probably be bothering me for a while longer, but I can manage. I just gotta remember to let things stretch and relax. Not keep myself tense.”

The doors opened up before Spock could give a reply, and the immediate rush of noise, and heat, and movement, and noise demanded every ounce of Jim’s attention. His eyes quickly flitted through the large engineering deck, sifting through all visible personnel in search of that one particular red shirt. “Ah— There he is.”

Scotty was crouched in front of a panel to the far side of the deck, and Jim walked towards him as quickly as he could while also avoiding the traffic of the other engineers. “Scotty!” he called once he was close enough.

The Scotsman jerked upright and looked around, and once he caught sight of Jim an unexpectedly large smile broke out on his face. “Captain!”

Jim wasn’t sure he would ever stop being shocked by how happy so many people on the ship seemed to be when they saw him. It was a reaction he was not used to getting.

Scotty got to his feet and met Jim halfway with an outstretched hand, which Jim readily shook. “Good to see you up an’ about, lad!” He nodded at Spock over Jim’s shoulder. “‘Lo, Commander!”

“Mr. Scott,” Spock replied, a little closer to Jim’s back than the young captain had realized.

“What brings you to my domain?” Scotty asked, once he took a small step out of Jim’s space. “I’m not in trouble, am I? I swear I haven’t been tinkering with the ship’s core, not after ye asked me not to.”

“No, I’m not down here for that.” Jim waved Scotty’s concern away, shaking his head lightly. “I just haven’t been down to check in with you yet, is all. Plus, I…” He trailed off to pout his lips in thought, and glanced around himself to openly appraise the engineering deck. “I kind of wanted a change of scenery, you know? Bridge can get kind of boring, at least when we don’t have anything going on.” Once he was facing Scotty again, he clapped his hands together. “So! What were you working on?”

“Oh!” Scotty crouched back to where he had been, picked up the tools he had set down. “I found a set of ventilation passages that don’t seem to be working quite right. Not as much air flow, and I’m thinking it’s either because the system’s interface got jangled during all that nonsense two weeks ago, or it might have something to do with its compressor network.”

Jim crouched beside him, and analyzed the circuit board and vent schematic Scotty had uncovered. The whole tubing network was flashing red on the screen. “Isn’t the computer supposed to tell you specifically what’s wrong?”

“Yes,” Scotty sighed. “But according to this,” he pointed at the screen showing the schematic, “everything is wrong. But that can’t be right, because it’s still doing something.”

Jim acknowledged that Spock's presence was still right behind him, and he glanced at the engineer. “The stuff it’s supposed to, hopefully?”

“Yeah, more or less.” Scotty shrugged and picked up a wrench, and started to remove the bolts to the panel beside the one he’d already uncovered. “It’s still working, so I want to get in here and see why the computer can’t pinpoint the problem.”

Jim bit down on his lip, and visualized in his head what the layout for a ventilation system on this part of a ship would look like. He mentally sorted through individual components, until he could recall what parts would confuse a computer if damaged. “Could one of the compressor cords in the haptic array have been split?”

Scotty turned to him with wide eyes, which Jim had half expected. People never did seem ready to believe that he actually knew stuff, and lots of it. “Aye,” Scotty finally said after a long pause, nodding slowly. “That’s very likely. Especially if it was one of the gamma cords, because their volatility when cut would--”

“Cause them to explode and affect the surrounding cords,” Jim finished, immediately catching onto Scotty’s thinking.

“Yes!” Scotty sat up a little to point a greased hand at Jim, his previous look of surprise morphing into one that was more giddy. “And if a gamma compressor cord has exploded--”

“Then that means microcopic acid has been exposed throughout the compartment, which means--”

“That the superluminol ions are disrupting the matrix transistors responsible for communicating with the computer!”

“And if those are tampered with,” Jim continued, feeling the same sense of excitement he always got when solving a complicated problem, “then the only way to fix them would be with a repolarizer, but as long as there’s still microcopic acid--”

Scotty snapped his fingers. “The repolarizer would immediately combust when exposed to the ions!”

“So the only way to clean up the acid is to go in there with a torsional shift infuser!” Jim realized that he was grinning at the Scotsman, and he could see his own enthusiasm mirrored on Scotty’s face. God, he forgot how much fun engineering was. If he hadn’t been so set on pursuing captaincy, he would have happily gone into engineering.

Scotty blinked at him a couple of times, before his brows furrowed and he tilted his head. “Exactly why aren’t you in my department?”

“I was wondering the same, Captain,” Spock said from a little above and behind Jim.

Fuck, Jim had forgotten he was there. He craned his neck up to look at Spock, who was leaning over him just slightly.

“I had not realized you were so proficient in engineering,” Spock added.

“Oh. Yeah, well,” Jim eyed both Spock and Scotty, feeling inexplicably flustered now that he could feel them looking at him. Like, really looking. “I took a class in Starship Engineering last year. I thought it was fun.”

“Well,” Scotty chuckled softly and started sorting through the equipment. “If you weren’t already captain, I’d say you ought to be transferred down here. I’d’ve been happy to have you in my department.”

Jim smiled, recognizing the compliment for what it was. He’d been hearing plenty about how picky Scotty was when it came to his officers.

“But!” Scotty held up a pair of dermo-repellant gloves and a large wrench. “That doesn’t mean you can’t help out down here every once in a while, right? What’re you doin’ right now, Captain?”

“Nothin’,” Jim said, sparing a cheeky smile Spock’s way. He hoped the Vulcan wasn’t too keen on getting back to the bridge anytime soon. “Why? Would you like some assistance, Mr. Scott?”

Scotty smiled wide and handed the items over to Jim. “That would be much obliged, yes.”