Work Text:
tomorrow is another day, and you won’t have to hide away, when the night fades away
(run boy, run)
His head roars.
It feels like something has burrowed beneath his skin, sick and twisted, carving out a cavern of hatred and loathing that felt a lot like molten lava, melting his flesh and charring his bones, thick and fiery and consuming all in its path like a hungering monster with no will and no wish. Jim shifts in his seat, his muscles tense and ready to spring, coiling beneath his flesh like the muscles of a stalking animal would, as his fists clench manicured nails biting harshly into the vulnerable flesh of his palm, blood soaking into the crevice.
The blonde next to him, tall and thin with an expression of abject terror and uneasy splayed across his bland face, eyes him nervously, lingering on his coiling muscles and fixed expression eve as he carefully and slowly shifted away.
Jim can’t bring himself to remotely care.
The words roil inside his head, dark and poisonous, the only sound apart from the deafening white noise that’s infected his brain, seeping blood and liquid and poison into his mind and blinding his eyes even as anger and agony tightens his jaw and fury whitens his flesh to horrific proportions as stares down, cold and cruel, at the pacing professor.
He has never wanted to kill someone as bad as he does know; he wants to launch himself from his seat, wants to grab the man by his slim, scrawny neck and twist, feeling the creak of bone against bone beneath thin layers of flesh and hear the disgusting crack of a broken neck, laying limp and oddly angled over a pair of broad shoulders, he wants to see the lights leave the mans eyes as Jim was the last thing he ever saw, wants to watch his face go slack as he stared up at Jim with horror on his face-
Someone coughs behind him, and he realises he was half way up out of his seat in the middle of the lecture hall, eyes glacial cold and face white with a sort of fury that makes him feel nauseous and so much better for the feeling even as she snarls quietly beneath his breath, breathing dangerous invectives in a harsh whisper, disgusted anger a nebulous explosion just waiting to break out like the sun rises and the moon sets for the sun and falls in love with it’s beauty each morn.
His hands are making sharp claws, looking fierce and frightful in the harsh lights of the lecture hall, reaching forward as if to grasp the professors neck and wreck his cold anger on the man with the audacity to stalk into this room and demand respect for teaching something he has no idea about.
With bared teeth, slicking his tongue hungrily over white, even teeth, he sits back down, fingers digging into the fabric of his uniform.
“Perhaps Governor Kodos was right to take the actions he took; after all, he saved half the colony from starvation where if he hadn’t, the entirety of Tarsus IV would have perished-“
The snarl that erupts from his throat is vicious, loud and warning, guttural and there was no human to be heard in it. It was animal, pure anger and hunting, with a feral edge that makes the white-faced, trembling blond still trying to slowly inch away from him – as if trying not to catch his attention lest Jim looks control and take leave of his senses – abrupt sits stock still once more, face bleached further of any colour and any every emotion apart from sheer terror. The face of prey that thinks it’s being stalked.
But cadet is not on the menu.
Jim’s hands tighten over the edge of his desk, trying to deny himself the pleasure – oh by the Lord, how pleasurable it would – of reaching into his boot and grabbing the thick scimitar dagger that rests against his ankles, tucked away safely in a leather holster he had fashioned himself, just on the inside of the boot. His knuckles bleach drastically, even as his fingers crook over the edge of the desk in a distorted mockery of a phaser which would most certainly not be set to stun.
He needs to get out, Jim distantly realises, feeling anger and terror and fury burn through his veins like a disease, boiling his blood and blinding his brain and glassing his eyes. He needs to get out before he kills every single one of these cadets, dressed so prettily and so readily in scarlet red and with little weapons upon their persons – perfect targets, a traitorous voices whispers like venom into his ear – his hands burning with the need he finds so familiar, that he craves in a sick twisted way, and knows he always will, mouth and stomach hungering for blood lingering so readily on his teeth and tongue, wanting to feel the soft give of flesh as it squeals beneath dagger and hands and violence that twists the mind and poisons the soul-
“Can anyone tell me the last Orders of Governor Kodos?”
The airs seems to have been suddenly let out of him, leaving only agony and terror and hatred, feeling the air seep with poison as he recalls the words that had made him a survivor and yet, left him dead on the floor, half-starved and half out of his mind, hunger and revenge the only thing left on his mind as his kids rallied around his dying form-
The revolution is successful. But survival depends on drastic measures. Your continued existence represents a threat to the well-being of society. Your lives mean slow death to the more valued members of the colony. Therefore, I have no alternative but to sentence you to death. Your execution is so ordered, signed Kodos, Governor of Tarsus IV
The words revolve around his mind like a space map, bright and clear and it makes his mouth slicken with saliva, impending vomit rising perilously close to his mouth and he doesn’t even realise he’s speaking, too far gone and not caring enough as the professor and other cadets stare in horrified silence as this white-faced cadet with bloodied hands and glacial eyes mechanically repeats Kodos last words.
He’s standing in front of the Professor, shorter and weaker and younger than the man, but Jim has never seen such terror, such agony, on a face that he so longs to eradicate. He watches, silently and still even as the cadets stare in turn at him, as the Professor turns, scrabbling frantically at a thick brown envelope that Jim knows what contains; the nine survivors of Tarsus that saw Kodos’ face, and he sees the very second the Professor realises what he has done, the horror in his face, the self-disgust radiating from his suddenly trembling hands.
“Cadet Kirk-,” He breaths in stilted horror and it’s all Jim can do from stabbing a stylus through his eye. “My apologies- I didn’t now-,”
“If you would excuse me,” He says, and he realises, distantly as if he’s standing very far away almost as if he’s underwater, that his voice is cold and cruel, and his hands are curled into sharp fists that feels the sharp stings of his nails in the vulnerable flesh of his palm.
“Of course- I couldn’t-“
The Professor continues to blather and Jim only does a perfect left turn about face, face blank and heedless of the confusion and bewilderment and terror of both student and teacher alike as he marches through the door of the lecture hall as if Kodos himself is standing on the very otherside.
The door thuds shut
o0o
He barely makes it too the toilet in time to vomit.
He feels cold, icy and chilly even as the sun filters through the window and turns his hair a brilliant white gold that matches the sun for brilliance and fire for its warmth. He’s shaking, he realises distantly, shaking like he’d just stepped into an ice bath without any coverings. He feels weak and shaky, on his knees as his stomach abruptly contracts only to release just as violently, clutching the sides of the toilet as he vomits violently, bile and saliva slicking the membrane of his throat.
He hadn’t eaten today, he realises.
The tiles of the floor are hard on his knees as he leans back somewhat, face glistening with sweat and bleached of any healthy colour. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, and in turn wiping that over the tissue kept to the side of the toilet. He lurches forward, stomach contracting sharply and he chokes on – flesh and blood and poisoned food, made to do what he could to survive, even if it meant using his body to make sure his kids, they’re only kids for pity’s sake, survived- watery bile, coughing and spluttering, throat wretching as tears stings his eyes and stain his cheeks with shame.
He gasps for breath, shame and anger and pain filling him, leaning his head against his forearm as he heaves desperately for air, airway thick and cold as a sob contracts his throat, even as his stomach contracts and expels itself violently and disgustingly, spitting into the toilet as he attempts to regain control.
It feels like ants are crawling all over his skin, thick and numerous and it makes him itch. Mind blank and panic setting into the flesh he’s trying to save, he’s frantic, desperate as he claws mindlessly at the thick and constricting collar of his cadet uniform, the gold Starfleet pin falling to the floor and clattering away as he ripped the buttons from the torso, scattering them every which way. Struggling with his arms, he threw the tunic far away, turning his head from the scarlet pool of – blood, blood they’ve killed his kids, all his kids, oh god his kids, he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed –
He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe and he lurches for the toilet again, blood slicking his forearms and burying itself under his nails as he smears it across porcelain smoothness, stomach contracting and releasing violently as he chokes on his own self-loathing and disgust and his own sobs, almost unable to support himself as he sobs, stomach aching and back creaking as he tries to regain control, kneeling there in only his cadet trousers and boots as sweat slicks his skin and – they’ve found us, they’ve found us oh god what are we going to do? – vomit slicking his teeth and mouth, straining for air as he sobs-
He can’t breath-
A large hand, warm between his sharp shoulder blades, surprises him.
“You’re okay now, son,” He chokes on his vomit, stomach contracting again as he chokes, spitting it into the toilet as he clutches ever tighter to the porcelain, knees aching and bruising with the hardness as a hand smooth’s back his hair even as the large, warm hand between his hand slowly stoked it’s thumb up and down in an affectionate gesture. Breathless and gasping for air, face white apart from the flush high on his hollowed cheekbones, he lurches away from the toilet, leaving blood smears on the white architecture.
“Chris,” He chokes out, voice hoarse and painful, and he huddles back against the man’s knees, trying to make himself as small as possible.
Christopher Pike kneels down in front of him, face tight with concern and worry, with a wet flannel in his hand. He cups Jims face in one hand, tilting his chin up and he gently wipes at the tacky tear stains and the saliva and bile slicking his lips and chin. Jim stares up at him, blind and hazy as Chris stares silently back at him, stern face warped with the concern that slicks his face of wrong hood. Jim raises a single, shaking hand and presses it slowly against Chris’ cheek as if to make sure he’s real.
Chris’ cheek is warm and alive beneath his trembling fingers, and he makes a sound in the back of his throat, hoarse and desperate and hurting, and all pride leaves him as he flings himself at the Captain, that little thirteen year old called JT who tried to do what was right in all the wrong ways, diving into the man who brought him his futures’ arm. He buries his head into the broad shoulder, curling around the man and trying to curb his shivering and trembling.
Chris’ arms slowly come up around him, and Jim makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat, hoarse and hurting and desperate in all turns as he clings fiercely to the man.
“I’m sorry, James,” Chris says, his voice sounding queer even as he clutched a hand to the back of Jims head, the man hiding even further into his shoulder. He turns his head to press his lips against Jims temple. “I’m so sorry, they were supposed to tell me, but then the professor got ill and they had a substitute-“
But Jim only shakes his head, clutching ever the more desperately at Chris, and pushing his face deeper into Chris’ shoulder and wishing to be anywhere but here.
“Can you stand?” Chris says, and Jim feels his eyes burn with shame, far too weak and emotionally drained to even being to think of standing. He shakes his head timidly, making sure to keep his face hidden in Chris’ uniform, blood slicking the grey fabric and splotching it something terrible.
“I’m sorry,” Chris says again, and Jim shudders with another sob, mouth tasting foul as he clutches tightly at Chris.
Somehow, with Jim clinging to him full of terror and self-loathing and so much disgust, Chris manages to worm his way out of his thick uniform overtunic, his captains’ strips standing out clearly, to drape it easily over Jims slender shoulder. “I’m going to pick you up,” He says softly, moving an arm to grasp at Jims back and another to slide beneath his weakly trembling knees.
Jim makes a queer sound in the very back of his throat, huddling deeper into the thick jacket hiding his form and bloodied forearms as Chris waved a hand over the toilet, activating the motion-sensor flusher.
“Thank you,” Jim says, an arm dangling towards the floor whilst the other rested against his bare stomach, blood filtering into his flesh, as he felt Chris start to move.
He feels lips press softly to his temple once more.
“You’re welcome, son,”
He feels warm.
o0o
He awakes to warmth once more, feeling himself still moving and knows he only been out for a couple of minutes.
He knows that door, knows that it leads to Chris’ office and his apartment and only curls closer into the older mans warmth as the man voice activates his door. He doesn’t look as he’s carried, weaker than a new born kitten and full of the shame he’s always managed to push to the back of his mind, and placed on a large sofa even as a fire is kindled. He’s tired and glassy eyed, exhaustion a heady concept even as Chris stares down at him, worry in his expression eyes.
“I’m sorry, James,” He says once more, crouching down next to Jims head, running a soothing hand through Jims unruly locks. His hand is warm and large, fatherly and Jim leans into it with all the attention of a kitten discovering a new toy. Chris makes a queer noise in the back of his throat. “They were supposed to tell me-,”
Jim reaches up weakly with on hand, the other stead fastly holding Chris’ warm and too large tunic coat to himself, to clutch at Chris’ wrist, who stills immediately, looking at him with worried and dark eyes.
“Thank you,” Jim whispers, and his eyes sting again at the pain, hoarse and unwanted when it feels like razor blades are being dragged over his skin. “Thank you,” He says again, and Chris looks away, eyes suspiciously damp.
“We should wrap your arms,” Chris says instead. He stands and Jim lets him, closing his eyes as he tries not to think- you’re not getting away from us this time, boy¸ you’re ours and always will be and you’ll never get away, Kodos will have his fun with you – his eyes shoot open and he rockets from the sofa, swallowing desperately to keep the vomit down.
A bowl is pushed into his line of sight and he can’t help the way saliva slickens his throat and bile is forced out of his violently contracting and releasing stomach at an alarming rate.
He sobs, stomach sore and tender at the rough treatment, head pounding in time to his erratic heartbeat. “Calm yourself, son,” Is murmured into his ear, and a hand softly brushes his hair away from his forehead again, before resting gently on the back of his neck and squeezing in silent comfort.
He leans sideways, feeling exhausted and utterly wrung out like a wet towel, leaning into Chris’ solid side and heat. A soft flannel wipes at his mouth before his arms are being took into Chris’
“These aren’t too deep,” Chris murmurs and Jim can’t even be bothered to say anything, just leans further into Chris and lets him do what he wants.
Soft but calloused fingers takes his wrists in their hold, and Jim hisses at the feeling of a stinging liquid being pressed softly into the slices he’d inflicted on himself. “I know, I’m sorry,” Chris whispers, fingers gentle as he twists Jims wrist to cleanse another cut. He then gently wraps the arm he’s finished with a tight covering of light, flexible bandage, from wrist to elbow and though they’ve been cleaned, blood spots through into a light pink colour. It makes Jim’s stomach twist in self-disgust just looking at him.
“Why?” Jim asks when Chris is bandaging up his other arm, wrist to elbow once more. He draws Chris’ tunic closer to his bare torso, leaning further into the older mans side. Chris looks away.
“They said they’d tell me, so I could warn you before, but the usual lecturer came down with the flu, a bad case of it, and the substitute jumped ahead of schedule without telling anyone and when I heard, well-,” He gestures uselessly at Jim in a moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability. He wraps a gentle arm around Jims shoulders, pressing the man closer to his side. “I’m sorry,” He says again, and his mouth tightens when Jim simply turns his head into Chris’ side, pressing his tear stained face to the fabric of his shirt.
They stay like that for a few minutes, and it feels right.
“Can I sleep here for the night?” Jim asks quietly, hesitantly, as if expecting to be rejected. Chris tightens his arm around his shoulders.
“Let me just go get a blanket and a pillow,” Chris says, and moves as if to get up, but a tight grip of his wrist stops him. He turns and his heart almost breaks in two. Jim is looking up at him, face stained with tears and eyes glassy, wide and fearful as he stares up at Chris. “I’m just going over there,” He sooths, running a parental hand over the thick blond locks. Jim just shakes his head, tears splashing over his cheeks as his stomach twists – Chris doesn’t want him, he’ll kick him out and Jim will never get those fatherly, fond touches again no matter how much he craves them and he can’t do that again, no nono not again-
“Hey, hey, hey,” Chris soothes lowly, bending down to crouch in front of the cadet, cupping the boy’s sharp jaw bone to force him to look Chris in the eye. “I’ll be just over there, you’ll see me all the time,”
Jim looks like he isn’t going to let go, stomach tight with nerves and hurt and ready for the crippling blow of rejection. He slowly releases his grip, curling immediately up beneath Chris’ tunic, clutching his bandaged arms to his chest, biting his lip as his unshed tears turns his eyes glassy.
“James,” Chris says, and his voice is warm and low and Jim looks up, wide eyed and pallid faced. Chris is standing over him, smiling with a pillow and duvet held in each hand. “Which end?” He asks and Jim shrugs, clutching at the tunic with wide eyes watching as Chris smiles, quick and fleeting but oh so genuinely before tossing the pillow to the side furthest from the door whilst keeping a hold on the duvet.
“Go on,” He says encouragingly when Jim just stares at him, looking to and from the pillow with an expression of utmost bewilderment. He’s handed a pair of too long and too big grey sweatpants, and he hurries his uniform trousers down his legs, kicking his boots off easily and sliding into the sweatpants with the ease born of getting dressed in a rush. Chris had politely looked away, but is now staring at him expectantly. He keeps the tunic tucked close around him, clutching it like a child might clutch a teddy bear and he curls up tightly around the pillow, exhaustion already pulling his eyelids down.
He barely feels as Chris pulls the blanket over him, curving it around his legs and torso as he presses himself back against the back of the large sofa. A hand tucks the blanket under his chin and the hand slowly slides up to pet gently at his hair. He makes a queer sound in the back of his throat, and he shoots an arm out to clutch tightly at Chris’ wrist.
“James?” Chris says, and he’s crouching down to look at Jim through worried eyes. “What’s the matter?”
It’s shameful, humiliating but he wants it all the same. “Can-can you stay?” Jim asks shyly, curling up under the blanket and clutching the tunic ever the more tightly. Chris smiles slowly. “Just-Just until I fall asleep?”
Chris raises a hand, and he flinches back instinctively, but Chris only raises the hand Jim is grasping desperately like a life line to gently card his fingers through Jims hair and Jim makes a purring sound in the back of his throat at the gentle ministrations.
“Of course,” He says warmly, twisting until he’s sat comfortably on the floor and leaning against the sofa, looking on as Jim clutches Chris’ wrist tightly once more before letting go, wrapping his arms around the tunic again and burying deeply into the blanket. Chris watches as his breathing starts to even out and reaches a hand up to swipe at an errant lock of hair that’s fallen onto Jims face.
“Hmm, ‘night dad,” Jim murmurs, and it sounds like he’s asleep, as if he doesn’t know what he’s saying but it makes Chris’ heart lighten all the same.
He presses a gentle kiss to the crown of Jims golden hair.
“Goodnight son,” He murmurs softly.