Work Text:
The first time Jim sees his crew, since dying and waking up at Starfleet Medical Headquarters, is at a memorial. It seemed oddly appropriate. He'd seen a handful of his crew, here and there, over the last couple of weeks as he'd slowly regained his strength. Mostly he'd been visited by the bridge crew, or other members who had also been stuck recovering at the hospital. They'd stopped by his room whenever they could escape their nurses, at least until they were finally discharged.
The lack of visitors wasn't because no one gave a damn about him. Jim knew that. Hell, he had proof. He'd gotten to what amounted to a small avalanche of messages from every member of his surviving crew. If they'd been physical paper letters instead of digital, the messages would have filled his private room and spilled over into the hall. And many more came into his personal inbox every day.
What was keeping his friends –his family– away was simple: duty.
The skills of his crew were more urgently needed elsewhere. Starfleet recruits were some of the best minds of the Federation, and following the devastation and loss of life that Khan had wrecked on downtown San Francisco their skills were badly needed. Starfleet had yet to fully recover from the loss of personnel from the Battle of Vulcan so that even a year later, there were too many gaps among the ranks of Starfleet officers. So a lot of his crew had been temporary reassigned to different duties as Enterprise was docked for repairs for the foreseeable months.
Just the manpower required to clean up the destroyed skyscrapers and the ruined streets of San Francisco was taking a lot of time and energy by more than just Starfleet and the local civilians agencies. It was taking the resources of the entire planet.
And as if that wasn't time consuming enough, Spock, the bridge crew and even Bones are kept hopping, by answering the hard questions asked by everyone in authority, beginning with Starfleet Admirals, the Federation Council and President, and ending with various interstellar media groups. The only reason Jim hadn't been dragged into that mess had been because Bones had been fierce – and rather loud – in his insistence that Jim was medically fragile and couldn't leave the hospital. Damaged masculine pride aside, Bones was a damned good friend because Jim wasn't ready to deal with any admiral, not after Marcus. So Jim didn't see any of the friends face to face that much. Other than Bones who fussed over him everyday for a couple hours, and occasionally Spock who dropped by, sometimes with but usually not, with Uhura, Jim's crew was very, very busy and scattered all over the planet. Or out in the inner-system on the Enterprise working on fixing her. Like Scotty, who spent the days since Jim woke up sending him nearly hourly updates on the repair status of their lady, but who never actually stopped by the hospital to see him over the last two weeks.
But now his far-flung crew had drawn back together for a memorial, involving a series of funerals. The bodies that had been lost in space between the moon and Earth had finally been recovered from the various paths they'd taken through the solar system. A total of seventeen bodies had been found and finally released by Starfleet Medical. Seventeen funerals. Out of 258 dead, with 47 bodies still missing and presumed lost to space between Klingon space and Earth.
Jim been so fucking proud of himself when he'd boasted to Pike that he'd never lost a crew member. And now, from his own choices, his own vengeance-seeking grief, he'd doomed 258 members of his crew. And 47 families would never be able to bury their sons, daughters, fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers.
Youngest captain ever and Jim had set the record for the most crew deaths in Starfleet history by a captain within his first year of achieving the rank. Jim had checked and then proceeded to laugh bitterly until he hadn't been able to read the PADD screen anymore from the wet blurriness in front of his eyes.
“Jim, I don't think that being here is a good idea, you aren't supposed to leave the hospital for another two weeks,” Bones complained, low and gruff. He walked beside Jim's power chair, looking distinctly uncomfortable in his formal blacks.
If Jim didn't need Bones to monitor him –he was still getting terrible headaches and randomly nauseated– he wouldn't have asked Bones to come with him. McCoy hated funerals with a passion that was surpassed only by his hatred of losing patients. That memorial was for people that had been lost outside in his Medical Bay, was nearly as bad. Because, as the Chief Medical Officer, they'd been under his professional responsiblity.
“Captain, you should not be here.”
“Thanks for your support, Spock,” Jim sighed, flicking a glance at his first officer, who'd appeared at the other side of his chair. Spock's hands were clasped behind him and his face was stoic as always, but Jim got a distinct impression of disapproval which only increased as Jim ignored him.
He needed to be here.
That was all that mattered. He'd missed so many of funerals already by being unconscious. He wasn't going to miss any more. They were his people. His responsibility. And their deaths are his burden, his fault. The very least Jim could was to be at their memorial to pay his respects, even against medical advice.
Slowly, the crowd of the Enterprise's crew caught sight of him with murmurs spreading across the large group as an increasing susurration that abruptly went quiet as someone used the boatswain's whistle to pipe out the command for 'Senior Officer on Deck'.
Sulu and Chekhov stepped away from the crowd and stiffened to attention. And as if they'd practiced for this moment, every surviving crew member of Jim's ship, all 856 crew, faced him and came to attention. Several saluted, using whatever gesture had been traditional in their cultures. Some pressed fists over their hearts, others lifted fingers to their forehead or cross their arms across their chests.
Jim had to clench his teeth, to hold back the despairing shout that he didn't deserve their respect. He didn't deserve them. He'd nearly killed them all!
The crew remained at attention.
Jim forced himself to stand up, using Bones' grasping arm and Spock's shoulder.
“Damn it, Jim,” Bones hissed, out of the corner of his mouth but helped him stay steady.
Jim ignored him as he looked at his surviving family and carefully and solemnly saluted in the old fashioned salute once held popular among the military of the United States, knowing this crew would read his intent. He held it, and then dropped his hands as his knees turned to water. Spock lowered him back into the chair, even as Bones pulled out his medical tricorder.
Then his solemn crew – his family– in their formal dress blacks, wearing the gloves and hats that came out for funerals, dropped their salutes, and surged forward with smiles across their faces.
Sulu and Chekov got to Jim first with happy cries of 'Captain!' on their lips.
If anyone saw the tears that caught and glittered on Jim's eyelashes, no one was ever cruel enough mentioned it.
End