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The first time it happened, Jim was pretty sure it was Bones' fault.
The welt from the hypo smacked on the junction of his neck and shoulder itched like a bite from one of those extinct mosquitoes Bones was convinced was making a comeback. Bones even did a paper in the Academy once about the resurrection of the mosquitoes. Jim had called him Bugs for about a week.
The hypo was for a vaccine, protein, nutrient, steroid, warts treatment, whatever Bones has been trying to test on Jim. Whatever it was for must have worked because Jim didn't feel anything. Except for that damn welt. Bones, in his brisk, CMO, 'I know what I'm doing' voice, explained that it was because Jim had tensed up when the hypo was applied. Jim knew it was because Bones had pounced on him outside the Mess like a disgruntled ninja and slammed that sucker down with all the accuracy of a proton torpedo.
Of course, Bones said he was being an infant. He checked the injured spot anyway, ever mindful of the blue uniform he wore.
Then he slapped another hypo on the exact spot for skin irritation.
Bastard.
So it was in the middle of gamma shift, one finger idly scratching the spot ("Remember not to scratch, Jim or it'll get worse." Oops.), when it happened. Jim stared at the viewscreen when things started to shimmer and his surroundings shudder. It looked like the ship took a direct hit, yet everyone around him had their asses firmly planted in their ergonomically fitted Starfleet chairs.
The bridge trembled without really trembling again.
Suddenly Jim found himself staring at the viewscreen, staring at a different parsec of space. Cerebus IV twinkled in front of the Rigel constellations.
Wait, that can't be right.
"Outpost Four is being attacked."
There was an echo of an unfamiliar alarm igniting at the base of his skull. Jim twisted around to Communications behind him.
Uhura looked up from the PADD she was reviewing. (Show off, their briefing wasn't until next week.) Her dark eyes met Jim's and her elegant brow furrowed.
"Captain?"
The melodious voice was void of the previous higher octave of alarm; it was smooth, pitched with a questioning lilt. Uhura's eyebrow arched higher. Huh. She's been taking Spock lessons. (No, that wasn't a euphemism.)
Jim stared at her for a moment, then swiveled back front. He could feel Uhura staring at the back of his head.
"The transmission's stopped."
"Maximum warp, Captain."
No, Jim thought detachedly, that's not fast enough. Even at their top speed, it would take them six point three hours to reach Outpost Four, which skirted the Neutral Zone.
"Scotty," Jim heard himself say.
The ship shivered like a big wet dog and the constellations on the screen were right again. Sulu turned completely around with Chekov—wait, shouldn't it have been that other, wait, who was that other guy? —and twin "Huh?" expressions greeted him.
"Captain?" Chekov twisted around without swiveling his chair. Jim blinked and his navigator was suddenly older, poised in the same contorted position in his chair. Another blink and Chekov was back to looking like someone's son playing navigator.
Staring at Chekov, who always look ready to spring to his feet and gambol through the ship's corridors like a Russian version of Archimedes, made him feel old, which wasn't fair because he's not thirty yet, damn it.
"Did you need Engineering?" Sulu and Chekov did a concerted left right head turn that made Jim dizzy. His stomach lurched when he glanced to his right and Scotty was painfully not there.
"No," Jim said numbly as the ship walls did another weird color change from industrial gray to a glare of white and glass and back again. He rubbed at the welt once more, belatedly remembered Bones' warning and lowered his hand.
"Just thinking out loud about some of the ship modifications we were considering," Jim said breezily, because Sulu and Chekov looked about ready to Rock, Scissors, Paper to see who rouses Spock in his quarters to inform him that their awesome Captain just pulled a Section 8.
To Sulu's credit, he didn't turn too green, but close enough for Spock to consider him a relative.
Jim scowled and Sulu pulled his apprehension to the appropriate interested look instead. Jim didn't know why everyone fidgeted like he had just started the self-destruct sequence the minute he mentioned Scotty and modifications. To be fair, he and Scotty didn’t expect that all the sonic showers would spray vinegar, and the smell wasn't too bad after—Okay, it was that bad; for a week, it was a ship full of stinky feet.
"Carry on," Jim waved them back towards the screen. "Try not to drive us into a moon or something."
Behind him, Uhura made a sound that bordered insubordinate. Jim frowned to himself. It sounded weird when only moments before she had sounded distressed that their sentry on the Neutral Zone was possibly wiped out—No, that didn't happen.
Jim scratched the itchy spot again. The walls wavered and the viewscreen flipped from one set of stars to another.
Damn it, Bones.
The second time it happened, Jim blamed the coma.
Jim shrugged carefully so he wouldn't jar his heavy head precariously perched on his aching shoulders. He's swearing off century old rope bridges for the rest of his life. Or at least until the next mission that sends his away team running away from ticked off xenophobic fanatics with pointy sticks.
"...four goats and fifteen chickens?" Lightyears away, Pike glanced down at his PADD again to see if the paragraph would change. It didn't, but the admiral checked anyway, because he was a glass half full kind of guy.
"And a flask of New Kentucky bourbon," Jim added. Man, Bones was pissed.
Pike's eyebrows seesawed from disapproval to amusement.
"Captain Kirk, did you nearly violate the Prime Directive with sixty proof Earth alcohol?"
Actually, it was eighty proof, which was why Jim was only looking for Nurse Chapel for his next set of vaccines. He felt Bones' glower through his coma, although it might more have something to do with the whole falling off a bridge and skull fracture thing.
"That's what they wanted from us in order to buy back Chekov." Who would have thought pointing at a sacred pink flower the size of a small house cat would start an intergalactic incident? "We followed their trading laws and didn't reveal any advanced technology."
Unless, of course, Starfleet counted that slow burn, warm caramel elixir of a bourbon as cutting edge. Considering how Scotty had tried the natives' ceremonial wine and snuck some back onboard for scrubbing the Jefferies tubes, there was a good chance.
"Although, I would recommend," Jim added slowly, "we may want to arrange a second visit in say, another ten years? Just in case?" Maybe five. He didn't want his ship to be remembered for inducing planetwide alcoholism.
The transmission feed was clear enough to show Chris Pike suppressing a grimace before the admiral gave in to the impulse to massage his temples.
"I'm actually looking forward to training those brats now," Pike muttered.
Jim grimaced for him. "That Class J craft going to the Letharin system?"
"Three weeks of telling cadets what buttons not to push." Pike groaned. He gestured towards himself. "The moment I was out of my chair, they recruited me to training brats."
"Better than reprobates," Jim reminded him. Watching Pike lever out of his chair and pacing the confines behind his desk made Jim want to bust out in a broad grin. Despite the lingering stuttering gait, Pike looked ready to kick some Romulan ass again.
Pike snorted, taking refuge in that it was an unofficial comm. Spock already told Pike the gist of the mission, but he insisted on hearing Jim's version as well when he finally came to.
"Remind me when I get back," Pike muttered as he dropped back in his seat. "Otherwise I might do something that'll get me exiled to Dega Vegas."
Jim grinned at Pike. He opened his mouth when the ship shuddered again. Pike wavered and now stared blankly to a spot towards the ceiling, his face wasted and aged beyond his years, his petrified limbs hidden in a machine that told his body to breathe and see and think, but not to move, feel or live.
Something black and heavy crashed over Jim; its impact forced all the air out from around him, inside him. He couldn't breathe and logically he knew it was improbable. Jim stared, in dismay, at the man he followed since Captain April. Talos. He needed to get him to Talos...
"Jim?" Pike leaned forward, his face filling the screen. He frowned across to Jim.
Mouth dry, Jim stared back at Pike. He wondered if this was what aviaphobia feels like: the bulkheads suddenly too thin, his palms clammy, the urge to throw up so overwhelming, his eyes burned.
Talos? April? What the hell?
"I'm alerting Doctor McCoy." Pike was reaching forward to switch channels.
"No, wait. I'm good." Jim cleared his throat. "Something just occurred to me."
"Looked more like a planet occurred to you." Pike stood halfway out of his seat, poised as if he was going to sprint to the nearest beam out station and somehow transport himself to the Enterprise. The unfamiliar look directed to Jim pooled an unexpected warmth in his chest and compelled him to say the first thing in mind, no matter how bizarre.
"Don't go," Jim blurted. "On that Class J ship."
Pike dropped back into his seat. "You're not convincing me you're good, Jim." Pursing his lips, Pike considered Jim. "Can I ask why?"
Damn if Jim knew, but the words that came out felt both strange yet familiar and entirely heartfelt.
"Because delta particles are a bitch, sir."
Jim forgot about it until it happened again.
Leaning against a biobed, Jim watched Bones with his little group of terrified medical blues. Whatever crawled up his ass got him so riled up, he didn't notice Jim was in Sickbay, early for his vaccinations. Hey, he has to keep Bones on his toes.
After a few more snarls and grunts—okay, there was probably serious medical stuff going on over there, but it all sounded like Klingon to Jim—Bones spun around and did a double take.
"Christ. What did you do this time?"
Jim scowled at him. "We're not even in orbit around Oreon II yet, how could I have done anything?"
"You're upright, Jim. That alone is a factor for like ninety-five percent of all the trouble you get into."
Jim bared his teeth. "Don't you mean ninety-five point three, Doctor?"
Judging the dark look Bones threw his way, it was a pretty good imitation of Spock's voice.
"Anyway," Jim went on. He spread his arms wide. "Here I am."
"Goodie. Let me get Chekov to make a shipwide announcement."
"I'm here for my pre-mission vaccines." Jim tracked Bones stalking from station to station, collecting empty hyposprays—Wait, those weren't all for him, were they?
The hypos rattled when Bones froze. Very deliberately, he pivoted back to Jim.
"You're here for your vaccines," Bones enunciated slowly.
Jim waggled his eyebrows. "I'm early, too."
The hum of the tricorder jolted a "Bones!" out of Jim.
Jim nudged the wand away from his head. "Funny."
"Who's being funny? Hold still, damn it." Bones clamped a hand on his elbow. He squinted into his scanner after it beeped. He frowned.
"Unbelievably, it says you're normal, although you haven't been eating those nutritional wafers, have you?"
"They taste like ass." Jim shrugged one shoulder and Bones gave him the stink eye.
"I'm your doctor, not your personal chef, Jim. I don't care what they taste like."
Out of the corner of his eye, though, Jim spied Bones making some notations into his PADD.
"Anyway, I haven't got time for you right now. I'm busy."
"What? You're not going to relish this rare opportunity?"
Bones snorted, not sounding particularly impressed. "Thanks but no thanks. I have to figure a way to vaccine an entire ship full of hypophobics."
"Bones, I know you're trigger happy with the hypospray, but isn't this taking it a bit far?" The mark on his neck still gnawed on his skin like a bitch.
"You're a barrel of monkeys today." Bones gestured towards his PADD. "Orders from Starfleet Medical. New vaccine they've developed." He muttered something about 'testing' and 'guinea pigs' as he lined up the hyposprays on the biobed opposite of Jim. "I never even heard anything they were working on this, not even—"
"What's it for?"
"Xenopolycythemia."
"Gesundheit." Jim wiggled a finger in his ear. "I didn't bring my universal translator, Bones. Xeno what?"
"Xenopolycythemia," Bones repeated, slower, but somehow managed to inject increasing irritation with each syllable. "Blood disorder. Rare. Even rarer than you having bouts of common sense."
"Hey!"
Bones went right over Jim like he hadn't heard him. "I have to chase down and inoculate the entire crew and spend the next three days watching for side effects. Three days of nausea, numb fingers, heat rashes, sudden—"
The ranting whittled down to a low buzz, like a hum of an engine under his feet, thrumming through bulkheads as he walked past. Jim could hear Bones as he went on but there was something else, below the ripples, trying to get out.
"…no one's even heard of xenopolycythemia for the past decade! What? Maybe one percent has it?"
Point one two percent actually, Jim thought as he blinked at the fuzzy image of Leonard pacing from computer to computer.
"We don't even have a way to proactively detect the carriers but oh, ho, let's just inject everyone we see with this—Where…where did this even come from?"
The Fabrini. Jim absently tugged at his right ear. There was a weird twitch in his left eyebrow.
"What?"
Jim roused from the weird haze he found himself in—Bones was starting to put him in a trance, hah—and found Bone frowning at him, looking one tirade short of yet another tricorder scan. A beat later, Jim realized it was because he'd spoken out loud.
"You're taking it, right Bones?" Jim asked; partially to stop the encroaching spontaneous physical he could see brimming in Bones' narrowed eyes and partially because of the "What the hell?" that popped up in his head.
Bones' irritation swung from Jim to basically everything else. "Personally, I'd rather not. Not until I see the research on this, the basis of where they pulled this rabbit out from what god damn hat. But what choice do I have?" Bones waved a hypospray stuffed with a vial of clear, bubbling yellow liquid like a sword. Jim edged back.
"They're making vaccines for everything now, but just they wait. All this skipping through space with the immunity of a rock and we're going to come up against some disease we can't vaccine fo—"
"I think you should take it."
"Didn't I just say I would? Once I get everyone inoculated and treat every upset tummy from this thing, I'll give myself this undetermined, unprecedented vial of xyneophalox and—"
"I think you should take it now."
Bones shook his head, waving Jim off. "I can wait. How the hell are we going to rotate three shifts of vaccinated crew who will be suffering all the symptoms of food poisoning and still keep this tin can afloat—"
Jim wasn't sure why. Hell, he didn't even realize he grabbed Bones' left wrist until Bones jerked and whipped his head around to stare.
"I think you should take it now, Leonard."
Bones' mouth snapped shut. He blinked. He studied Jim for a long moment. His mouth opened again but then he looked hard at whatever was on Jim's face. His eyes widened.
Bones nodded.
"Yeah. Sure, Jim." Bones gently pried Jim's hand off his wrist. He didn't seem to notice the reddened mark banded around his wrist. "I'll take it."
"Right now?" pressed Jim.
Bones waggled the hypo at him. "Would you like to do it for me?" He sobered. "Okay. All right. All right. I'm doing it right now. Happy now?"
Happy wasn't the way Jim would describe it. There was this bizarre…Jim didn't know what to call it, but he found himself leaning heavier against the biobed, sagging when he heard the hypospray hiss against Bones' neck. A weight he hadn't realized sitting on his chest, a suffocating weight, eased and the Sickbay's lighting seemed to have brightened ten percent.
Jim smiled wanly at Bones. One hundred percent fatal chanted in his mind. Jim swallowed. One hundred percent? Bones must have mentioned it before.
"There," Bones said with exaggerated care. He held up the hypospray with its depleted vial. Jim arched an eyebrow at him and for some reason, Bones started.
"Jim?" Bones was talking to him like he was tiptoeing on thin ice—now there was a fun Starfleet survival course—"You feeling okay?"
"Sure." A quick slap on Bones' arm got him his exasperated yet fond "Why do I put up with you, kid" he got for three years in the Academy. It was reassuring to see. An irritated Bones was as comforting as a worn, favorite jacket; everything predictably fits right.
"I'll leave you to your guerilla hypospraying, Bones." Jim stretched his arms above his head, enjoying the few pops his spine made. Bones, as always, grimaced.
"Fine. But if I get nauseous from this, I'm throwing up on you. I'll—Wait, what about your vaccines? Jim!"
"Later," Jim singsonged. He snapped back into a straighter posture when he entered the general area, fast enough that Bones couldn't throw that rack of test tubes he knew Bones was tempted to throw.
Jim exited Sickbay and stepped into the turbolift. The moment the doors hushed shut, he sagged against its walls, his grin dropping. The knot that cinched tight around his chest—when did that happen—released abruptly and he found himself wanting to find a dark corner somewhere to sit down.
Jim dropped his head back on the wall as the turbolift rose to the Bridge. Distantly, he stared at the ceiling and thought if he jumped high enough, he could touch it.
It would be like touching the sky.
The fourth time it happened, Jim was almost glad it did.
Sitting in his quarters, Jim drummed his desk with his fingers tapping out a beat of a random song he vaguely recalled hearing in his father's restored Cadillac. He couldn't remember if there were any words, just the almost vibrating notes of a few archaic guitars whining out sounds only real strings could produce.
He was stalling.
Jim swiveled in his seat, indulging in the kind of behavior a starship Captain couldn't indulge on the Bridge. But he knew that was just an excuse. He eyed the monitor and the holo-recorder like they were overloading phasers. He ignored his PADD and the half finished notes in it.
Two flat data tapes mocked him on the desk, sitting there all yellow, flat, formatted and ready for use. Jim took one, turned it in his hands over and over again until he realized he was counting in threes while he was doing it. He made a face.
Before Jim could think up something against it, Jim shoved the tape into the recorder's slot. His knee bounced as he waited for the recorder to light up its eye to start tracking him.
A red pinprick dot blinked into activation, faster than he figured.
Ah hell, screw it.
Jim took a deep breath.
"Bones. Hey. Since you're playing this tape, I'm probably dead. Let's be honest, you always said I was going to get myself…" Jim let the words trail away. He shook his head. "Computer. Delete."
A chime replied.
"Shit, why is this so hard? No, computer, disregard."
Another patient chime.
Slumping into his chair, Jim stared at the computer. He could feel the urge to kick it growing, like whenever his motorbike crapped out on him. There was always one part that needed a good jolt to knock it back to purring condition. He missed his bike. It took him where he wanted to go. It didn't matter who rode her, so long it was done right. Wonder if he could sneak one into the Enterprise? No. It'll leave tread marks all over. Scotty would have something to say about that. A lot of somethings.
Jim's eyes slid over to his PADD; it had reminded him he still needed to record his last orders. His yeoman reminded him it needed to be done. In fact, it needed to be done last week. But Jim found himself meeting after meeting, talking to Spock and Bones separately. Christ, Jim had a residual headache from the last meeting: back to back of them disagreeing with each other even when the other was not in the same room.
It had gotten to the point where even Spock pointed out it needed to be completed. Bones wondered out loud—naturally within earshot—if that was a veiled reminder to make sure Jim granted Spock Captaincy in case of him buying the farm. Unfortunately, that lead to a 'discussion' on why Jim would buy a farm and why would it result in Jim stepping down and shit, things went downhill from there.
No, Jim was certain Spock wouldn't want it; never had, and even when he did get it, he'd always found a way to step away from it. It was a seat that could only be filled by his brother, his friend, his—
Jim shook his head and sat up. He rubbed his eyes. Shit, he hated falling asleep sitting up; it always gave him the weirdest dreams.
Clearing his throat, squaring back his shoulders, Jim tried again.
"Spock. If you are watching this, it is safe to conclude—"
No, no, no.
Jim sighed. "Computer, delete that as well." He grunted out a frustrated sound, drowning out the acknowledging beep. He scrubbed his face. He sank back into his chair and glumly stared at his desk, his walls, the mangled paperback Bones gave him for his not-birthday and the wall safe.
A long wallet lay next to the data tapes. Jim picked up the flat pouch. He rubbed a thumb over its oily surface, warmed from his grasp, supple and soft from years of handling when Pike was captain of Yorktown. Jim was planning to stick his last orders in it, tuck it into his safe, to lie in wait for the time no one liked talking about.
Admiral Pike gave it to him: a black pouch with Starfleet's insignia barely still visible on it. Chris joked it was naval tradition for captains to pass down swords but since Chris didn't own one, they needed to make do with this. Chris' commanding officer gave him this and now Chris gave it to him.
The synthetic leather was made to feel like cowhide yet it felt cold and stiff. Too cold, which did not make sense as the safe was climate controlled. Yet it irrationally burned in his grasp, ice against hands too used to heat that it was…uncomfortable and matched the unfamiliar emptiness in his chest. He did not want to view this…
Jim started. Damn it, not again. He unclenched his fist around the supple material. He grimaced when he noticed the nail impressions he'd inadvertently left behind. He smoothed a palm over it, disconcerted that it felt different to him now when it hadn't changed at all. But he could still feel its stiffness: a new, unused wallet left almost forgotten in a wall safe until the day came, shortly after a memorial service that left a disturbing hollow sensation in his chest…
With a jerk, Jim dropped the wallet to his lap. He blinked rapidly, unsure why he suddenly felt so untethered, like he had been dropped into Degas Vegas again. Waking up on an unknown ice planet, uncertain of where he was, yet positive he needed to do something at the same time.
Jim lifted up the wallet. He squinted, almost cross-eyed at it, feeling its old-yet-new texture and thought how it would feel stuffed with two data tapes in it.
After a moment's hesitation, Jim discarded the extra data tape left on his desk.
"Computer…Start recording."
Beep.
"Bones, Spock…Since you are playing this tape, we will assume that I am dead, that the tactical situation is critical, and both of you are locked in mortal combat…"
It wasn't clear who he should blame for the fifth one.
The Mess' porkchops tasted even better with Spock and Bones quiet and for once content to only eat and not discuss (argue) whatever it was they didn't disagree with today. Yesterday it was about the value of opening a door for a lady when most of this century's constructions installed pneumatic doors. Spock referred to the gesture as "inefficient"; Bones referred to it as being a gentleman. Spock countered that 'gentle' was not a word he would normally associate with the doctor. Things went to hell from there, and the headache Jim was telling himself didn't exist was pounding steadily in the base of his skull.
In an unspoken truce (because Jim doubted they went anywhere and shook hands on it), Spock and Bones were exchanging pleasantries between clenched teeth. Well, Bones' were clenched. Spock wouldn't do “clenched”; his slanted eyebrows just arched higher in an attempt to go up into his hairline, expression so blank, Jim knew Spock had to be boiling inside in a very non-logical way.
"The pork chops are good today," Jim noted loudly. Hell, if he can keep the peace between these two, brokering peace between the two Man'ta tribes they were en route to should be a snap.
"They appear to be cooked sufficiently," Spock agreed because he was a polite Vulcan. "Although I do not consume deceased animal protein, the meal appears to be satisfactory to a majority of the crew as well."
Bones grunted.
"Do you not agree, Doctor?"
There was a narrow-eyed look over his forkful of green beans. "I did, didn't I?"
"Your response does not suggest it." Spock cocked his head to the side. "You do not seem to have agreed with the Captain's assessment the food is good today."
"Wait," Jim protested wanly when Bone's gaze dragged over to him. "Just because I said the pork chops were—" He cleared his throat loudly. He was not going to be in the middle.
"Jim," Bones drawled and it felt like some threatening soundtrack should be growing louder over Jim's head when he set down his fork. "Did you enjoy your food?"
"I like it," Jim said slowly.
"Oh oh, well then, I guess that means chops are good. Logically, the majority of the crew must like it then."
It felt like someone issued a yellow alert behind his eyes.
"It would seem to be the normal response." Spock's tone bordered on human smugness.
Bones shrugged as he pushed away his plate. "Guess I'm not normal then."
"For once, Doctor, we agree."
"Hey, hey, hey, what's going on?" Jim jumped in because the last thing he needed was...well, whatever was going to happen right now. He glared at them both until they settled down, Bones slumping in his chair, Spock sitting all too straight. Jim speared a piece of porkchop, but when it touched his tongue, he gagged. It suddenly tasted rancid, too coppery, almost bloody in his mouth. Jim dropped the piece, shoveled some salad to wash down the taste and marginally felt better for it.
"Captain?"
"Jim?"
Jim held up a hand at the twin frowns now directed at him. When the urge to gag past, he grimaced.
"Look, this is getting ridiculous. You two have been going at it since the last mission and it's getting tiring. Sooner or later, I'm going to need both of you, like when we reach Tholian space, and Leonard, you need to help Spock come to a decision then, and what about when you have to put Spock's brain back? No one else can do that and I sure as hell am not going..."
Maybe it was the bad piece of porkchop, maybe it was the headache, or maybe it was because the damn ship was playing neurotic chameleon again and subtly changing from gray to white, stark bulkhead to glass. Jim found himself reminding them they were all good friends, whatever bout of PMS they were going through was trivial. They slingshot around the sun together! And didn't they find it funny when Jim was drowning in tribbles that time? Bones carried Spock's katra, for God's sake, why the hell they were hissing and sniping at each other now?
When Jim stopped finally, to take a breath, he realized both Bones and Spock was staring at him, pretty much in a "You distract him, I'll phaser stun him" sort of way.
"What?
Bones' mouth snapped shut. He glanced over to Spock, who replied with an arched eyebrow.
"What?"
"What the hell were you speaking?" Bones exploded. He did a funny hand flappy thing to grab his tricorder.
"He was speaking in Vulcan."
The scanner wand squawked in Jim's general direction. Bones' eyes rounded.
"Vulcan?" Bones exclaimed.
"I gave you my katra?" Spock asked Bones, his voice half an octave higher; the Vulcan equivalent to shrill.
The ship was saying "the hell with it" and writhed rhythmically in both colors, pulsing brighter and brighter as everything tunneled away.
Jim stared at the two of them. When he finally got his mouth working again, he said "I spoke Vulcan?"
The ship around him quivered and then everything blanked out.
Jim hated waking up in Sickbay; he never knew if he was going to wake up to with limbs all puffy or spotted with purple dots (long story). He was pretty much content though to lie there this time, eyes closed, because ship walls can't change if he can't see them.
"...regrettable but not unforeseeable consequences. Such a hasty mind meld was sure to backlash on Jim."
Old Spock—or pre-screwed up universe Spock—was speaking to his right. The elder Vulcan's voice was warm, like the ghost impressions of heat on his temples.
"So we warp to your colony, get you up here to fix this and your solution was you twins give him another?" Understandably, Bones' ire doubled when confronted with two Spocks. Jim would have wanted to see if he didn't think the ship was going to play magic tricks on him again.
"We are not twins." His Spock spoke from the left. "We do not share the same zygote development."
"Nor do we share the same age," the other Spock agreed.
Spock stereo. Awesome. His life is complete.
"This will not happen again." Whoa, their Spock got this really cool deep voice going on there.
"Hell, no," Bones vehemently agreed in a rare moment of camaraderie.
The tricorder scanner hummed serenely over his head.
"Jim appears to be fine now," Bones admitted begrudgingly. A punch nudged him on the shoulder. "And awake."
Jim reluctantly opened his eyes. He was heartened to see the walls staying put, everyone looking like they should.
Both Spocks leaned into his field of vision. Jim glared back. It didn't matter who; they were both to blame.
Before Jim could say anything, the older Spock gave him a dip of his gray head.
"My apologies, Jim. I did not realize my memories would affect you so deeply."
"I..." Jim paused to make sure he was speaking Standard again. "I'm not mad." He gave the older Spock a half-hearted glare. "I am annoyed though. I can't function this way."
"It has been repaired," his Spock assured him. "My other's memories have been sealed deep in your mind. They will feel distant and no longer intrude into your consciousness."
Oh. Jim looked at the other Spock. He thought about what he saw, what he felt and thought it was sad. And when the older Spock met his gaze, Jim thought he looked sad too.
"Okay," Bones declared. Apparently, he's reached his limit of Spock double teaming him. He pointed to Jim. "I need to monitor you overnight." His finger swiveled to their Spock. "And you need to...not be here. As for you..." Bones' scowl faltered at whatever he saw in the other. He heaved a sigh.
"Ten minutes."
"Thank you, Leonard." The other Spock made an elegant bow. "I will not be long."
Bones stared at him before shaking his head. He stalked out Sickbay, their Spock following.
"What the hell is a katra anyway?" Bones griped as they left.
"It does not matter," Spock said stiffly, "you will not get it."
The double doors whispered shut behind them.
"It was never my intention to cause you harm, old friend." Spock sat down on a stool by Jim. "At the time, I..." He paused.
"No matter. The memories will no longer bother you." Dark eyes slid away to study the empty beds around them.
"This is no longer my universe. It would be illogical to burden you with the memories of my home."
Illogical, yes. Burden, hell yes. It was disconcerting when his ship was suddenly feeling like someone else's. But something in Jim twinged when he watched Spock study the bio-feed screen above one unused bed.
"I have a question," Jim said suddenly.
Spock turned, his lined face open with curiosity.
Jim grinned. "What the hell is a tribble?"
The smile that bloomed on Spock's eyes pretty much made up for everything.