Archive of Our Own ^beta

Day two of the debriefing was a three-hour joke of flaccid follow-up questions and faint praise. The fact that they dragged him back here to listen to all this bullshit back-patting was quickly going from mildly irritating to flat-out infuriating. Jim would have rather been at home, trying and failing to sleep.

"You should have let me—"

Jim dug his fingers into his thighs, swallowed against a dry, constricted throat, and struggled to at least act like he wasn't falling apart.

Not here. Anywhere but here.

"—kable proclivity for leading your crew through impossible situations."

There was so much wrong with that, at least with the part he'd heard, Jim hardly knew where to start.

"You mean letting a starship the size of fucking Iowa crash into the capital?" Jim asked. He didn't know why he chose to go with that—maybe he wasn't quite done with his suicide runs yet—but it shut up the entire panel. The quiet was glorious.

Admiral Barnett, who was probably the only admiral left even somewhat like Pike, didn't buy into it. "I believe we've established that happened after you died."

"That happened after a lot of people died," Jim retorted, "and yet there still seems to be confusion about the morality of Admiral Marcus's and Harrison's actions. How about we talk about that?"

Jim stared down the stony glares of the rest of the panel and didn't know at all how to take the near-smirk on Barnett's face.

"I think we're done here," Kelley snapped and tossed her old-fashioned stylus down on the table. She probably didn't mean for it to bounce onto the floor and roll completely out of her reach.

Back at Starfleet Medical, Kelley had presented herself as an early ally. It wasn't a good sign that she was throwing things. But, one, it was funny; two, Jim was used to having that sort of effect on people; and three, he didn't really give a shit.

"I agree. Off the record? Okay, Jim, look, you've been through hell, and, quite frankly, it shows," Barnett said, his tone a lot less pissed than Kelley's. "Take some time off. If it helps, we can all stop pretending we're coming down anywhere else but on your side. On the record, consider yourself dismissed and on indefinite leave of absence. Council, we're adjourned for lunch."

Jim's face bled expressionless. That…wasn't exactly what he'd expected. Suddenly, he felt immeasurably thick and incredibly young ("young," of course, being a euphemism for "childish"). Once, not so long ago, Pike had told Jim, "Your age can't be your excuse, even though it's going to be everyone else's. You got that?" Evidently not.

While the admiralty cleared the room, chattering more about where to eat and less about his outburst, Jim kept his seat and stared blankly at his PADD. There was a single message from Spock and pages upon pages of reports—status, damage, repair, personnel, casualty, everything. He didn't open any of it.

He was done. He was so done.

A week ago—no, almost a month ago—losing Enterprise was the world dropping out from under him. Getting her back, now—that's what "coming down on your side" meant, even if he was technically getting kicked out of his own debriefing—was numb indifference. It could be four years ago, before Pike, the last time he'd felt life-destroying animosity toward Starfleet. Before he'd bought into the lie—and what a lie it'd been.

That was the single-most thought on his mind, as he put Kelley's stylus back on the table, quietly left Command, and walked the short distance to his apartment: hands in his pockets, hat under his arm, head down.

Inside, the first thing he saw was the once-incredible view of San Francisco turned inside out.

"Computer, tint all windows, ninety percent."

The windows obligingly became opaque, eliminating the view of Harrison's last stand. Relief was minimal. He could hide it all he wanted, but the world out there was real, and it wasn't going anywhere.

All at once, it hit him: the stabbing, throbbing ache in his head; the cold swathe of exhaustion, like being buried alive; the intense sort of hunger he hadn't let himself feel for over twelve years; and the swells of nausea that came with the thought of doing anything except lying down.

Not good. None of this was good. Bones—wherever Bones was—was going to kill him. Only, god, he couldn't say shit like that anymore.

Jim sunk down onto the sofa, eyes so heavy he struggled to keep them open. He hastily set his hat and PADD on the coffee table, slipped out of his socks, and fumbled out of his pants, which he let crumple onto the floor. He fell over sideways and gathered a pillow into his arms, instantly comfortable.

Just as he closed his eyes, a brilliant surge of red pierced the opaque film of the windows and glared brightly across his face. Jim reopened his eyes, shielding them with a hand, and unsuccessfully quashed a burst of rising anger.

"Computer, god damn it, tint the fucking windows."

The computer chirped negatively: unable to comply.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Jim said under his breath. He sat up, bare feet on glistening Enterprise-white floors, and flipped open his communicator.

"Scotty, the windows won't tint, and something's wrong with the computer. Can you fix it?"

Silence.

"Mr. Scott?"

The muscles in Jim's neck and upper back tightened; the headache kept squeezing; and the combination of hunger and exhaustion had him feeling as out of control as he'd been in years.

Jim dropped the communicator and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes: calm, calm, calm—

The windows blew out, shards of glass raining sideways. Jim threw his arms up way too late: he smelled and tasted blood, felt loose flaps of skin on his face and warm wetness on his abdomen.

Pain radiated from the inside out, everywhere, red-hot and burning, like Iowan flood plains cracked dry under blistering July heat—and he knew this. He knew this.

Jim rolled off the couch and onto his feet, now wearing the same sneakers he'd had when he was thirteen: worn, dirty, and the sort of bright neon blue that got people killed. As he neared where the windows once were, he saw into the distance: Enterprise coming down in a dead descent, plumes of smoke trailing from her nacelles, the saucer a burnt-out skeleton.

There wasn't time to do anything. The room—the whole building—tilted sharply forward. Seconds stretched into minutes: sparks flying, Spock's voice over the comm ordering evac, the shrill shriek of red alert.

It was over. It was done.

The building tilted further over, and then rolled, side over side. There was nothing to grab onto. He fell backwards, out the open windows, thirty-two floors up.

Only he didn't fall.

Pike had him by one arm, fingers tight, secure, and warm.

Jim heaved himself up and grabbed onto Pike's forearm with his other hand, but it burned—his hand, arm, his whole body, from the inside out, seared like a piece of meat on an old-fashioned grill.

"Let go!" Jim shouted. He didn't care if he would fall. "Damn it, stop!"

Pike shook his head and made no effort to pull Jim to safety. His grip tightened. "The sun rose upon no sadder sight than the man of good abilities and emotions—"

The words melted into a rush of white noise and klaxons. Pike's mouth kept moving, lips forming words that Jim couldn't hear.

Jim wheezed, breathless, his lungs frayed and red-hot. His vision darkened with black and green spots. He couldn't breathe, it felt like he was drowning in fire, he couldn't—

He was falling, falling, falling, down, down, down—

"Jim. Jim. Captain, wake up."

Jim opened his eyes to the last heaves and twists of ice-hot, adrenaline-fueled panic. He blinked away blurry vision and took a few moments to acclimate himself.

The pillow trapped around his arms was squeezed flat. His heart thrummed in uncomfortable waves that stole his breath. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead and stuck against his chest and arms.

Through eyes heavy with fatigue, and a mind still working its way through dream-like fog and words like thrusters-on-full and let's ride , he noticed Spock—Spock, in his face, staring with what might be, could be, definitely was concern.

Jim blinked again and swallowed hard, making an involuntary noise that could be interpreted as a whimper, or maybe a sob.

Anger. Confusion. Loneliness. Fear.

Those first two feelings didn't belong to him. There were a lot of things to be angry about, but dying wasn't one of them. That was the one thing that made perfect sense. No, the first two were more like—

Jim became acutely aware of Spock's hand wrapped around his bare forearm. Jim pulled away, purposefully looking everywhere but at Spock, and sat up. He bunched his blanket into his lap.

"How—" Jim cleared his throat, his voice dry and cracked. "How long have you been here?"

Spock was quiet for a few moments too long. Emotional transference and all that: wonderful. What a fucking—

"Approximately three hours."

"Super," Jim sighed, before burying his face in his hands and reminding himself to breathe, breathe, breathe, you've been through so much worse than all this, breathe, breathe, breathe.

"Dr. McCoy did not release you from the hospital."

There were too many answers to that to choose from, so Jim decided to not choose at all. Spock was doing a poor job of talking around how Spock didn't think Jim was healthy enough to be out on his own, a point which Jim would be much more amenable to had Spock not inadvertently just shared all his stupid repressed feelings.

Also, Jim smelled the strong, distinct scent of Vulcan spice tea, which he'd never owned, programmed, or made.

Jim turned his head, still in his hands, and peered at Spock through his fingers. "Did you make tea?"

"Yes. Also, I brought your books."

Spock was starting to sound familiarly smug, which was good. Jim could work with that.

Wait. Jim leaned back and regarded Spock with a scrunched brow.

"Books?" he dared to ask.

Spock inclined his head. "All personal possessions were removed from Enterprise."

That made perfect sense, only Jim had the feeling that there was something more to what Spock was saying.

"Would you like tea?"

Jim didn't really care for tea, but what the hell. "Sure."

Spock seemed pleased with Jim's answer and went sauntering—not that Spock sauntered or anything—off to the kitchen.

In Spock's absence, Jim felt comfortable enough to let out a long, long breath and scrub his hands through his hair. Life was exhausting.

He pulled his PADD from the coffee table and tapped off a quick message to Bones: "Got done around noon. Spock's here."

A cup of steaming tea was all of a sudden in his face, its strong aroma enough to knock out Jim's sinuses for a good couple of hours. Nevertheless, he smiled, accepted the cup, and tossed his PADD back on the table.

The tea tasted far less strongly than it smelled. In fact, it was like all other spice teas Jim had ever tried and rejected: warm, a tasteless sort of spicy, and chalky. But he'd be damned if it didn't lay a heavy, calming blanket over his jittery nerves.

Jim gave into the relief and sank back into the couch, eyes closed, cup precariously balanced in his lap.

"Jim, I am compelled to express concern for your well-being."

Jim opened his eyes and looked over at Spock. He offered a closed-lipped smile. "Don't be. Tea's good, by the way."

"It's from New Vulcan," Spock advised, like Jim was an idiot. Of course it was a Vulcan recipe. "Great advances have been made in preserving—and recreating—fundamental Vulcan delicacies."

Spock sounded optimistic, but Jim thought the whole thing was depressing.

During his second year at the Academy, Jim had drank Vulcan spice tea once or twice, during study sessions with a Vulcan named Kren'na (the one who liked to discuss how "absurdly human" Jim tended to be, and the one who'd been the (calmest-ever) assistant chief engineer on Farragut). This new brew wasn't even close to the original, which was saying something, coming from him.

It hurt, the way Spock had to settle for something so much less, just to have any piece of it at all.

Jim dropped his eyes.

"This year's been..."

Jim shook his head, at a loss for how to finish that sentence. Everything that came with Narada in 2258 had been too much to process—from losing Vulcan and most of the Fleet, to Pike handing Enterprise over to him—that it had been easier to just forget and keep going, despite it all. After Vengeance and Marcus, Jim realized how naïve a mindset that was; he felt like a little child betrayed.

"Difficult," Spock finished. "And demoralizing."

Jim nodded in agreement. For some reason, he wanted to laugh. Instead, fingers tight around the cup of tea, Jim softly said, "We got her back."

Spock raised his left eyebrow. Now, Jim really could laugh. "As Admiral Marcus reinstated your command, I was not aware that you had anything to 'get back.' Nevertheless, that is reassuring."

"I said 'we,' Spock," Jim said, and that's all he was going to say about it. No "she's just as much yours as she is mine" and definitely no "I'd last all of five minutes without you."

Spock seemed to be taken off guard. He had no thoughtful reply at the ready, just a tight, pensive expression. Jim didn't know why; Enterprise had been their command from day one.

"I was not aware that you enjoy reading," Spock said, a fucking fabulous change of subject.

An eye roll withheld, Jim shrugged and shook his head. "Not much time to do that, these days."

(Well, there usually wasn't much time to read. Funny how quickly his schedule had cleared up.)

"Where'd you put them, by the way?"

Spock leaned over and reached around the side of the couch, pulling a blue bin around to the front.

"Oh," Jim said. "Okay."

He scooted over toward the end of the couch and reached down, running his fingertips along the spines of the neatly organized books. Vonnegut. Gaiman. Heller. Huxley. All of them.

Sometimes, just looking at these books, altogether like this, took Jim to a different world.

About fourteen years ago, sometime between Jim's last day on Tarsus IV and when he actually started to become aware of where he was and why, Mom brought him a black bin marked U.S.S. Kenexa full of twenty-first century books.

"They were your father's," she said. "He only kept the ones he liked. They'll keep you good company."

One, their musty smell made Jim nauseous, but he didn't have the strength to push them away. Two, he couldn't hold his own dick to take a piss, let alone a book. He wondered if she got it, like, at fucking all, or if she was still in Winonaland, where everything was great and perfect and amazing.

"So you're going back."

"Your doctors say you're going to be fine now," she answered, and he was hardly listening, because a question not asked didn't require an answer. "You've gotta stop finding trouble, Jim."

See, there wasn't humor there. That wasn't a joke. He was something that happened to Frank and Tarsus IV, not the other way around. He never forgave her—for any of it—one of the few grudges he never learned to let go.

The books sat in the corner for weeks, until Nurse Prinad, a young Andorian who Jim actually liked to some extent, walked in, went straight to them, and started poking through.

"Can you not?" Jim snapped. "Chri—"

A hard-cover book smacked Jim in the chin and landed in his lap. It smelled like two-hundred-year-old ass and had dead, wispy spiders pressed into its cover.

"Vonnegut," Prinad said, before walking right back out of the room. "You're a Vonnegut sort of kid."

"That's all you—?!" Jim didn't finish. He rolled his eyes and almost threw the stupid fucking book out the stupid fucking door. It wouldn't make it, and he'd look stupid, so he didn't.

Instead, he read it in two goes. (It would have been one go, except no one cared how much he wanted the lights on past 9.) Afterward, he read rest, all of them, over and over and over again.

Winona never asked for them back, and Jim never asked how or why they'd survived Kelvin.

His favorite became Gaiman, easily. That's the one he picked out of Spock's blue bin, only a little regretful that it—and the rest—now smelled more like a starship than an old, paper library.

"You prefer that book?" Spock asked, a little oddly.

It seemed to Jim like Spock was sitting straighter in his seat (a chair meant for slouching, not that Spock would ever know it), and his ears seemed perkier.

"It was my dad's," Jim said. He flipped through the pages and shrugged, easing into the lie: "I read it once or twice. It's not bad."

Spock seemed less than pleased with that answer, like he'd ever say it. Questioning decisions and offering critical input was one thing; commentary on personal matters seemed to be another, one which Spock rarely provided.

Jim sighed and thumbed his way to probably his favorite part of the book. He scanned the words, though he knew them by heart. "The whole thing about songs," Jim said, looking up with a faint smile, "is probably my favorite part, though. It sort of gets to me."

Spock cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, something of a hint of a smile on his face. "You truly recall nothing of your time asleep?"

Jim could laugh at that―"asleep," like he'd just been napping instead of close to never making it back―but didn't. "Not really. Why?"

"That is also the part that I was most drawn to," Spock answered, though Jim wasn't entirely sure it was at all responsive to the question he'd asked. "We spent many days reading to you."

Jim froze, just for a second, and ran through all the implications of that very important piece of information, which he hadn't known until just now. Suddenly, Bones' comment about people "willing his ass back to life" made a lot more sense. (Sometimes, he could really kill Bones.)

"'We'?"

"Nyota and myself," Spock replied, as cool as ever. "Doctor McCoy opined that it may have been beneficial for your recovery."

Family was the only word that came to Jim's mind, tritely so. It felt like the sweetest relief. He'd spent the better half of the past year yearning for the connection that Ambassador Spock had inadvertently―maybe intentionally, Jim had no idea―shared with him. He'd made every stride possible toward that friendship, often forgetting it wasn't one they had. And then, all it once, there it was, only...

Dying meant he was on an invisible, fucking clock. Every word, breath, and decision had to be weighed, only there wasn't time to do that. It was a race that he hadn't wanted to run, to an end he couldn't see and was terrified of reaching, because the end was it, the end. That was precisely the moment Spock decided to comprehend and embrace everything they should have been and were meant to be and would never, ever have the chance to―

Stop. Thinking.

"I'm sure it was," Jim said, tone more even than he expected it to be. Maybe it wasn't a lie. Maybe their voices and touches had kept him from sinking into the endless, inescapable black. Maybe he owed them more than he was able to give them. "Thank you."

"There is nothing to thank us for," Spock said, matter-of-fact, and Jim knew exactly what was coming next. He knew, and as much as he tried to close his ears and drown out Spock, it was too late. "You..."

"Out of danger. You saved the crew."

Jim's stomach twisted, shoulders tensing with hot fear. His heart stumbled and then took off into a dead-run sprint. Jim dug his fingers into the cover of the book, uncaring when it bowed under his strength, and put every bit of himself into staying in the here and the now.

He was less than successful―only somewhat aware of Spock kneeling in front of him, saying his name over and over and over again―and unable to break out of the whirling, suffocating mass of ash-gray panic.

He had no idea how much time passed, but that, at least, was something he was getting used to. Spock, on the other hand, with wide, round brown eyes and the same gutted-alive look on his face he'd had outside the warp core, was something Jim was most definitely not getting used to.

"Relax," Jim said, forcing a smile and feeling like a huge hypocrite in the same moment. (Learning how to do that was, like, day three and a half of So You've Decided to Captain a Starship class.) His own heart was still skipping beats, and he felt like he'd just run fifty miles. Relax was so much easier said than―

Suddenly, he became uneasily aware of Spock's hands on his legs―his bare legs―and fuck.

This wasn't Bones in the hospital's stupid garden, looking so damned exhausted and eviscerated that Jim almost felt bad for not dealing with everything very socially (so sue him). That had been bad enough: losing it in front of his best friend and his doctor, the one person who could close in from every side but didn't seem to realize it.

But losing it in front of Spock? For the second time in a day? Who'd probably just read every single damned one of Jim's emotions—again. Maybe without meaning to. Maybe exactly because he meant to. Whichever.

"Captain..."

Right now, Jim didn't have the emotional wherewithal to be pissed, or concerned, or whatever. He also didn't want to discuss any of it; he'd spent the last two days talking it all out with the people who were supposed to be his colleagues but were twice his age with twice the experience and all the wrong answers for all the wrong questions. Sometimes, it was good enough to just let things rest.

Jim stood up and slapped Spock on the back, like they were the same people they'd been thirty or whatever days ago, and he walked off to anywhere else.

"We need to approve the refits for the 3R. Boot up the holo-emitter," he said over his shoulder.

In the bathroom, Jim flipped on the hot water and stuck his freezing hands under the stream. He closed his eyes, leaned boneless against the sink, and groaned as his skin absorbed the welcome, stinging warmth. Eyes heavy and sleep-deprived cold, he could fall asleep right here. The look on Spock's face might actually be worth doing it.

Instead, he turned the water off, immediately missing its presence, and dried his hands on a (probably dirty, but, eh) towel. On his way out, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and nearly recoiled.

Over the past few days, a lot of people had told him he looked tired, or even "like ten kinds of shit" (leave it to Bones), but Jim had kind of ignored them for lack of caring. He had worse things to worry about than his face, but Christ.

"Congratulations, shithead," he said into the mirror. "You're a god damned mess."

Harsh, maybe, but so true.

Spock watched Jim come back into the living room, shameless without pants on. He appeared perfectly normal, save for the tell-tale signs of sleeplessness and lack of proper sustenance that changed the contours of his face. He looked very little like himself.

"Are you hungry?" Spock asked.

Jim shook his head with an exaggerated frown. "Nah, I'm too hungry to eat."

Spock lifted an eyebrow, to which Jim responded, "It's a human thing. Don't worry about it."

In fact, Spock would make certain to speak with Dr. McCoy about the issue. Until then, he would not press that particular matter further. There were others to address.

Such as: "Are you regularly not sleeping well?"

Spock knew the answer, of course. The most important being that the entire crew had undergone mandatory counseling and psychological evaluations. Most of them had completed their sessions and passed their tests. Some had done neither, like Jim. It showed.

Jim bounced down onto the sofa, pulled his blue blanket back over his lap, and examined the holographic projection of Enterprise.

"Should I be?" Jim asked.

Spock had the response to that ready: that difficulty processing everything that had happened in such a short time span was to be expected, but the decision to ignore medical advice and attempt to cope independently was not only ill-advised but a poor example for a crew that was unsure how, or even if, to proceed. That is to say, it was not a sign of weakness for a captain to acknowledge his troubles—but rather a demonstration of security and strength.

He did not say any of that. They had learned each other well in the year since Narada. For his part, Spock had learned that Jim was more self-aware than he appeared and, often times, simply needed time to realize that his decided-upon course of action could be improved. Also, as it was often said, now was not the time.

Instead, Spock watched Jim's eyes trace the damage shown on the replicated Enterprise, which precisely displayed the current state of its equivalent.

"Computer, show only damage inflicted by U.S.S. Vengeance under Admiral Marcus's command."

The computer complied. An odd request, Spock thought, but he felt a swell of antipathy when the hologram coalesced into a display that left no question as to Admiral Marcus's intention to murder the crew.

"'Murder' is a strong word, Commander. Choose yours more wisely."

"I apologize, Admiral Lakh, as I am unable to think of one more apt. Perhaps you could be so kind as to enlighten me."

Jim watched the display rotate full-circle, took a deep, shaking breath, and shook his head. "I... I don't know how to come back from this. I'm mad, Spock."

To the contrary, Jim did not seem mad at all. He appeared exhausted, sad, and, for lack of a better word, hollow, all precisely the emotions he had imparted when Spock had touched his leg. They'd been worse when Spock had woken Jim from his nightmare.

"Motherfucking Christ." Jim rubbed his face with his hands, and then roughly through his hair, leaving it in a state of disarray that Spock found…irksome. "All right. Refits. What do we got?"

On his PADD, Spock reset the hologram back to Enterprise's current condition.

"Enterprise will require almost a complete reb—"

"I read most of that report yesterday. I know we almost lost her," Jim interrupted. He blinked tiredly. "What are we keeping; what are we upgrading—plain and simple. C'mon, I'm a month behind."

Spock inclined his head, although he had quite illogically hoped to avoid the ensuing conversation until later.

"Starfleet Command has expressed its desire to integrate key systems from Vengeance into Enterprise's refits, including increased warp capabilities and automation in key parts of the—"

Jim interrupted again: "No. I saw that already. Absolutely not."

Spock blinked, brow knitting. "As Vengeance was—"

"I don't need the spiel, Spock. I know what Vengeance was and we're not having anything to do with it. I didn't think I'd need to convince you of that."

Jim did not shake his head or make a face. He was perfectly still. Spock was aware that the joke amongst the crew was that Jim never sat still. That was not true. Jim sat still—very still—when confronted with situations he found threatening.

"With respect, you are reacting excessively."

Jim sat back against the sofa and laughed. It was not a real laugh. "'With respect.' Right." Jim waved a hand in the air. "Fine. Okay. Let's hear it."

It was a trap. Spock refused to be its victim. "Perhaps another time."

"When?" Jim raised his eyebrows and spread his hands. On the outset, he appeared conciliatory. This, too, was a trap: Jim's way of winning arguments. If allowed, he would narrow the field until there was no room left for anyone but himself. "When would you like to explain the ways in which you find Enterprise to be deficient and how replacing her with a warship is the logical thing to do?"

When the trap failed as set, Jim often resorted to baiting. He was quite often successful. Like now.

"You are intentionally misconstruing the facts, as I have suggested no such thing," Spock argued, pinning Jim with a pointed glare. Jim stared back. "It is a simple fact that Vengeance was the most technologically advanced Federation starship in existence. You automatically preclude the notion that good can come from it. You are wrong."

Jim blinked first, long and slow. He crossed his arms against his chest and looked at the hologram again.

No other captain in the Fleet would have allowed Spock to go so far. Jim's inclination to listen to the crew—to their exceptional ideas and candid analysis, both the good and the bad—was what had encouraged Spock to believe that Jim, while absurdly young, frequently overconfident, and often impulsive, was a sufficient captain. That, in itself, was remarkable, even if Jim had not been.

But Jim was remarkable; there was no mistake.

"I agree with you that it's logical," Jim said, tone placid, voice weary. Spock did not doubt Jim's genuineness. "I get that Starfleet is barely hanging on, after everything in the past year. I get that if we jump the wrong way, we could lose it all. Trust me, I get it."

"And yet?" Spock prompted.

"You tell me. You lost your planet and half of the Fleet within a half hour."

There was no anger or antagonism in Jim's words: only a straightforward, factually accurate statement. Nevertheless, Spock lowered his eyes and did not wish to continue this conversation.

"May I ask you a personal query?"

Jim rolled his eyes: a familiar gesture, one that Spock had intentionally elicited. Common ground, as it were. "Yeah."

"Are you at all relieved that recent events not only saved but cemented your command of Enterprise?"

Jim did not smile or shake his head or erupt into anger. He stared at the hologram, ever still. It was the same stare that Jim had in the hospital, through their few games of chess and visits with other members of the crew. It was not at all like him, except, now, it seemed to be.

"I've never wanted it less in my life." Jim's brow creased. "And, actually, that's saying something."

Spock did not know what to say, or what to do when Jim's eyes suddenly made contact with his.

"Honestly, I..." Jim shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know."

Not only Jim's answer but his reaction was unexpected. Spock felt an inexplicable urge to shout you died and shake Jim until he behaved like himself again. Such a measure would not only be inappropriate but also a display of emotion he could no longer afford.

"Pike's dead," Jim suddenly said. His eyes were instantly red and glistening. Spock stared, at once both fascinated and stunned. "That's about as far as I can think, honestly."

Spock's fingers involuntarily twitched against his thigh.

Despite his rank and experience, Spock spent the majority of his pre-Enterprise career described as a "distinguished graduate of the Academy," rather than "distinguished science officer," or something similar. Rather, the two captains he served under prior to Enterprise characterized Spock as "rubbing people the wrong way," "unwilling to work well with others," and "a poor fit for any starship."

Instructing at the Academy became a..."better" use of his skills. Simply, there was nowhere else to go. Spock's human side refused to let him give up and return home, a failure. Likewise, his Vulcan side refused to allow him to succeed in Starfleet. One would need to give; it was only a question of which.

"Yeah, I don't see what they're talking about," Pike said from the top of linguistics auditorium number six. "Between you and me, Captains Kelley and Caras are...imperceptive, to say the least. Christopher Pike, will-be Enterprise. Can I take you to lunch?"

The human complexities of "getting to know each other" struck Spock as utterly ridiculous, and he could think of nothing worse, at this moment, than being "taken" to lunch.

"With respect, Captain, I must decline, as I already have alternate plans, as well as a full schedule of classes. Thank you for the offer."

Pike smiled, nonsensically. "Didn't think so. Look, I'm trying to get the flagship off the ground—" Pike waved Spock off, the second Spock opened his mouth to correct the improper usage of "off the ground," as starships did no such thing—"without a First Officer. You see my dilemma?"

"I did not submit my candidacy for the First Officer position available on Enterprise," Spock non-answered. He chose to keep to himself that he knew the position became formally closed to applicants 3.6 weeks earlier.

"Yeah, hence why I'm here. What's the matter with you?"

From any other person, such a question would have been intentionally offensive. Spock was raised by a human mother and, despite the incorrect assumptions of many, understood human nuance. "What's the matter with you" often meant "why can't you feel?" or "why are you so literal?" or, worse, "why are you here?"

This time, Spock understood Pike to mean, "I might have chosen you."

Vulcans could not lie and, thus, Spock could not say, "I am not interested." He could say, "I do not see the point," but that would be shortsighted, at best. Spock remained silent.

Pike shook his head, not nearly done. "This is the flagship. Deep space. Exploration. Discovery. This is everything you came here for. Explain it to me, and I'll leave you alone."

"Captain, please accept my apologies, as I have other commitments to which I must attend," Spock said, PADDs in hand. With a bow of his head, he turned toward the exit and was nearly there, when Pike went all-in.

"I'm not taking a chance on you, Lieutenant."

Spock stopped, arms at his side, knuckles white. His face flushed green with anger, adrenaline, humiliation.

"I'm asking you to take a chance on me. You've proven yourself. You're intelligent, loyal, and dedicated. You encourage nothing less than perfection and refuse to take an ounce of bullshit. And you're wasting your career, before it's even started, here at the Academy. Submit your candidacy, and it's yours."

Spock listened to Pike climb the steps and leave through the top door of the auditorium, the hiss of the door as good as a slam.

Obviously, Pike's words that day resonated in a way that changed Spock's life forever. People like Pike were...rare. Now, one less. Spock understood Jim's tears.

"May I ask another personal query?" Spock asked Jim. Jim's head was back in his hands, fingers locked in his hair. Spock saw what could be a nod. "What did Admiral Pike say that made you join Starfleet?"

"Oh, god!" Jim exclaimed. He pulled his head up, face red, eyes more green than blue, and gave Spock a dirty look. "I'm already a mess, and that's what you ask?"

"Yes."

For a few moments, Spock thought Jim was not going to answer. He prepared himself to share with Jim his own experience—to admit that he had been very close to resigning his commission, until Pike convinced him to "take a chance."

"He said—" Jim took a deep breath, choked out a laugh, "—that I was meant for something better than a less-than-ordinary life. And he dared me to do better than my father. And maybe the warp. Maybe."

Spock failed to follow Jim's train of thought. "I'm sorry?"

"The refits. The warp could be good."

That was expected—Jim choosing the most innocuous and "fun" refit option—but hardly good enough. Except, Spock could now see that Jim was nowhere capable enough to make an objective decision; further discussion would clearly be best saved until later.

"I will see to it that the 3R is amended prior to your final review."

Jim nodded, mid-yawn. "I think I'm fading on you."

"Yes, as you need proper rest."

Only, Spock's words were all but meaningless: Jim was already tipping over, legs swinging up onto the cushions, arms wrapping tight around the pillow.

"You put something in that tea," he mumbled.

"The tea consists solely of boiled water and leaves from—"

"Spock!" Jim sighed, the customary shake of his head lost to the pillow. His eyes closed. "Kidding."

"I see."

Spock watched Jim ease into sleep, more quickly than normal for a human: a sign of exhaustion. It only served to strengthen Spock's resolve—to put away logic, do what felt right, and never let something like the warp core incident happen again.

-end