Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The street lighting fixture above Peter’s head explodes in tandem to the whine of phaser fire, sparks cascading down. Like an idiot, he looks up, singing his forehead before he wises up. They’ve had a bit of a slow month, so he wasn’t exactly expecting much action. Sue him.

He moves now, though, throwing himself behind a waste receptacle in an adjacent alleyway, hand flying to his comm.

“We’ve got company! David, Saavik, get a move on!”

He hears a soft “fuck,” and then a clang before Saavik answers him. “Security a little tighter than originally thought, Captain. David has nearly completed the objective.”

“How nearly?” Jo barks back, making Peter wince. “Because we cannot lose this job.”

“Give us five more minutes.” Saavik sounds like she’s straining against something, though if it’s a door or a combatant, Peter couldn’t begin to guess.

“Copy,” Peter mutters, eyes fixed on the street end of the alley, waiting for movement. “I can do five minutes. I think.”

“Seeing some flashlights through the window, Captain.” Saavik barks.

“... I have an idea,” Peter says, already regretting the words as they come out of his mouth. “But no one is going to like it.”

*.*

“Connor, get your ass over here!” Peter screams into his comm over the high-keeling whine of phaser fire. “I need back-up!”

“Almost.”

Peter hates his crew. Almost as much as he hates his own plans. Because ‘just start shooting at the strange people who fired a warning shot at his head’ even sounds like a dumb plan, and yet…

He ducks back behind the bin (that’s starting to smell less like garbage and more like burnt plastic) just to see a blast shoot through the air where his head had been. They’ve got him pinned now, the shots coming from closer and closer to him.

When suddenly, the ground shakes with a boom of noise. A goes still for a beat as the glow of an inferno of flame a few blocks away becomes visible over the buildings.

“What the fuck was that ?” Peter actually yells over the comms, prompting the assholes to continue shooting at him. “I said ‘distraction,’ Connor.”

“And it’s distracting!” The Pike hellspawn insists. “En route to you, don’t die for two more minutes.”

Awesome. Better start shooting back again.

“It worked, Captain.” Tubey chimes in over the comms for the first time in almost an hour. “Law enforcement heading to the blaze.”

Well at least that’s working.

Connor runs up behind him, panting and looking a little singed. “Hey,” he pants, leaning his body against the alley wall.

“Hey, Connor.” Peter rolls his eyes. “Ready to run again?”

“Do I have to?”

Rather than answering, Peter raises to his full height, screaming, shooting backwards and running in the opposite direction of David and Saavik. Which is incidentally toward the flames. Connor only hesitates for a moment before joining him.

They only make it three blocks, their pursues right on their heels, before it starts getting hot. Like, really hot.

Peter is just wondering why it could possibly be so hot at night time in a mostly abandoned warehouse district on a continent with a mild climate when a window a few feet ahead of them explodes with the heat, flames shooting out.

“Connor what the fuck did you do, it’s spreading. ”

“I don’t know!” He protests as he literally jumps sideways to avoid a blast of enemy fire. “It’s one of David’s projects, he just told me it makes fire!”

They're doomed. Hopefully the rest of the plan works out.

“We’re far enough away from the mission, can we please ditch these guys?” Connor begs.

Peter runs sideways into a building that doesn’t yet look like it’s burning, Connor right behind him. “Come on, out the back.”

“Captain?” Tubey chirps over the comms. “I have good news and bad news.”

“What’s… the good news?”

“Cargo retrieved, and other than the two of you, the entire crew is on board.”

Peter opens a door to reveal a literal wall of fire as a burning beam falls out of the ceiling, landing to their left with a very near miss.

“Bad news,” Tubey continues, “You’re going to die.”

“Thank you, Two, that’s real fucking helpful!” Peter and Connor spin in place, looking for a path that doesn’t lead to certain death via either phaser-fire or literal fire. “Can you beam us out?”

“Negative, Captain. There’s too much heat-interference from the blaze, and the transporter on the Shu Fu isn’t exactly fancy enough to handle that.”

Another chunk of ceiling comes down beside them. They’re well and truly fucked this time. Peter is just starting to make peace with the idea of his fiery death when a figure seems to spontaneously appear in the room with them.

The man was a tall imposing figure, dressed in black from head to toe, including a bolt of fabric covering most of his face. And Peter really didn’t notice him show up. The smoke must be getting to his head.

“Do you have a ship?” The figure booms in a deep voice, with what might be a british accent.

“Fuck!” Connor yelps, spinning on his heels to look at their party crasher. “Who the fuck are you?”

Ignoring the question, the man continues, “I can get you out of here, in exchange for a ride off of this planet.”

“Stranger danger, Peter.” Connor warns in a low mumble, shifting his phaser into a more sturdy grip.

Another piece of ceiling comes down, the far wall cracking under the heat. And it’s so hot in here, it’s so hot, and the only exit leads back to the hired guns trained on their heels. And maybe him and Connor had a chance before, but now, with lungs full of smoke and heat stroke setting in, they don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell.

“Last chance,” warns the stranger. “I’ll find another ride.”

Peter glances at Connor. Small, exhausted, soot-covered Connor and sighs. “Okay. Get us out of here, and we’ll give you a lift.”

The stranger nods. “Follow me.”

He starts leading them back the way they had come from, which is probably a bad idea, but hey, the smoke is starting to get to Peter’s head, and at this point he’s starting to think that death via phaser is preferable to burning to a crisp.

The two of them stumble out of the building just in time to see their knight in black under-armor punch one of the goons out, the rest of them already unconscious on the pavement.

Well… that was unexpected.

“Our deal.” The man reminds not too gently.

This may be a terrible idea. But Peter is a man of his word.

“You guys got a lock on us?”

“Yes, Captain,” answers Tubey. “Two to beam up?”

“Three, actually.”

The faint glow of the transporter envelops them, Connor, Peter, and a strange man who can take down a team of hired security in under a minute with nothing but his fists.

Peter really hopes he’s not going to regret this.

Chapter Text

Peter likes to think that they’re all (excluding Demora, obviously) rational, capable, full-grown adults. That they can take care of themselves, that they don’t need supervision, and that they definitely don’t need to do a headcount every time they come back from a mission.

“Alright,” he says, stepping off the transporter pad and shedding his coat at the same time. “Sound off, who’s not dead?”

“No one,” Tubey says. “Surprising, considering how poorly that went.”

“Aw, it wasn’t that bad, Tubes,” Demora says, already sauntering towards the stranger with a gleam in her eye and a hand on her lightsaber. “We did so good not dying that we gained a member for our boy band, see?”

Peter ignores them all, muttering quietly to himself as he counts the haircuts once, twice, three times. Satisfied, he reaches for Jo’s phaser, still in its holster under her arm, and tugs it free, flicking its settings to stun as he turns it on the stranger.

“Now that we are all comfortably out of harm’s way,” he says calmly, cocking his head to one side. “I am going to need your identity, sir, before we continue.”

There’s a beat where nobody moves, and then, slowly, the stranger reaches up, pulling at the knot holding the fabric in place over his nose and mouth and tugging it loose.

David and Jo are up and moving before Peter knows what’s happening, red and blond shooting past his phaser to fly at— at— at fucking Khan.

Well, considering this guy is a superhuman and he did cause a lot of traumatizing shit for David and Jo, Peter doesn’t feel bad about the fact that he takes more time than usual to decide what to do.

“Tubey, Connor, restrain them, please.”

The twins nod, dropping their weapons out of arm’s reach of the tussle and diving in without pause, each one coming up with a writhing, roaring cousin.

They’re both panicking. They both have reason to panic. Peter can’t come up with a plan without all the facts, and he won’t be able to get those facts while his cousins are trying to claw out Khan’s eyes.

Peter’s phaser is set on stun.

Tubey sees it in his eyes the moment he decides the next course of action, and helpfully pulls Jo’s arms back and out of the way. Beside her, her brother does the same with David.

Peter pulls the trigger twice, turning away as his cousins go limp. He’s gotten over feeling bad about that sort of thing, since he agreed to be dragged back onto this ship— it might just be Farragutian luck at work, but just about all of them have gone nuts and needed to be stunned at some time or another.

Then he turns back to Khan.

“We will need a moment of privacy,” he tells the man. “Please excuse us.”

He raises the phaser and pulls— one, two, three. Khan goes limp, blood oozing from what appears to be a broken nose.

“Saavik, grab your idiot. Demora, take Jo to her room and get a drink in her when she wakes up.”

Both girls jump to attention, Saavik moving to throw David over her shoulder and Demora bending down to get a good grip around Jo’s ankles.

“Connor, if you could make our guest comfortable in the brig and keep watch, that would be great.” Peter pauses. “If we have anything that might restrain him, use it.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And tell me when he wakes up.”

“Of course, Captain.”

Tubey tactfully waits until her brother, straining against the weight of their prisoner, slips into the hall after the girls before turning to Peter.

“This is going to get ugly very quickly,” she informs him.

Peter sighs, rubbing at his temples with his fingertips.

“Thanks, Tubey. That helped.”

*.*

“We should space him,” David says as he strolls onto the bridge twenty minutes later, rubbing at the spot where the phaser had made contact almost absently. “It’s probably the easiest thing to do.”

“I second the motion,” Jo adds, already seated and clutching at one of the Andorian crystal whisky glasses they’d picked up the last time they’d stopped on Risa. There’s a slight tremor in her fingers, just strong enough for the ice to occasionally clink against the glass.

“We should probably call Uncle Jim,” Demora says, frowning. “Or Uncle Spock. Or Auntie One. Or Grandma Winnie.”

“We are not calling Grandma,” Peter says, shuddering. “Not after last time.”

Everyone winces, as they ought. Peter still hasn’t quite blocked the memories out. Just… jelly was everywhere…

Nope. No. Not thinking about that any longer, thank you.

“Uncle Jim might not be a bad idea, though,” Demora repeats after a moment. “I mean, this is Khan we’re talking about— that’s Uncle Jim’s murderer, technically.”

“Dad’s more likely to let him live,” David says darkly. “If we’re calling anyone, we’re calling Uncle Spock.”

“No!” Peter says quickly, cutting the conversation off before it turned into a vote. “We’re not calling Jim, we’re not calling Spock, we’re not calling Grandma Winnie. We’re not calling anybody.” He tucks a loose blond curl behind his ear, loosened from his usually tight braid during the chase. “The last thing we need is the cavalry riding in. We are handling this ourselves, like adults.”

There’s a pause.

“Technically, wouldn’t it be calling the navy?” Jo asks, frowning. She may have had a few more drinks than she’d let on when she first sat down. “Since Starfleet is a fleet of ships, which also go on water…”

She trails off, brow furrowing, then shakes her head, downing the rest of her whisky.

“... Right.” Tubey looks back at Peter. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to talk to Khan,” he says. “Without the threat of him getting his teeth knocked out. Can we manage that?”

“I believe I can keep David busy for an hour or two,” Saavik says immediately, which doesn’t say good things about what’s going on in her bondmate’s head, honestly.

Peter looks at Jo, who scowls.

“Fuck you,” she mutters, slumping forward in her chair to cradle her glass. “I’ll stay here, alright?”

“Thank you for understanding, Jo.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Peter’s comm flashes at his belt.

Connor:

He is awake and speaking nonsense.

He asks for sanctuary from Khan Noonien Singh.

You ought to get down here.

Well, fuck.

Chapter Text

“I was his second in command,” the-man-who-isn’t-Khan says from behind the glass. “When Marcus woke me, I— well, to put it simply, I thought my chances were better out of the pod.”

“You lied to Marcus,” Peter says flatly. “He wanted the actual Khan, not you.”

The man— John Harrison is what he calls himself— inclines his head.

“It was a calculated move,” he says. “There was no situation in which Singh would be joining me in the waking world, not while I was already conscious. I could assume his identity without consequence.”

“Yes, I suppose I can follow your reasoning.” It’s a placeholder, rather than an actual answer, giving Peter time to prioritize his questions. “How did your current situation come to be? That you were all reawakened, and that you escaped Khan’s wrath?”

“There was a malfunction, at the base where we were being kept,” John says, arching an eyebrow. “As your people abhor the very thought of murder, they ensured that protocols were in place so, should there be some kind of accident, we would be processed safely— at least, that’s what I assume, as my fa— my crew was all accounted for.”

John looks down, then, frustrated.

“Khan discovered what I had done before I could explain,” he says, shaking his head. “I barely escaped with my life… That was three months ago.”

“And you decided to approach my crew… why?” Peter cocks his head, expression soft and curious despite the rigid lines of his body. “Because of our family?”

John straightens.

“James Kirk is an honorable man,” he says. “A shining example of mercy and goodness in the face of adversity. It stands to reason that he would raise his children with those ideals in mind.” His lip curls. “Kirk didn’t kill me when he had the chance despite having a very good reason to do so. It stands to reason his child would hesitate similarly.”

Peter sighs.

“Well, you’re wrong on that point,” he says, tugging at the tip of his braid absently. “David is Uncle Jim’s son, not me, and he is prepared to chuck you out of an airlock face-first. The only reason I did not kill you is because I always prepare for the event that I want to add ‘murder’ to my list of crimes.” Grand theft auto, larceny, burglary, arson, assault, and breaking and entering are all quite enough, thank you— even if that tally only exists in the sanctity of Peter’s own, well-organized mind.

“Be that as it may,” Khan says, dipping his chin. “My prediction was correct. Here I am, aboard the ship of Captain Peter Kirk, and I live.”

“For now,” Peter reminds him. “David is much cleverer than he looks, and this is Jo’s ship, even if it is technically in my name. Connor’ll be watching over you, but I don’t think he much cares about whether or not we can deliver you safely to the authorities.” Peter glances over at Connor, who shrugs.

“I am ambivalent,” he says. “Despite the fact that I most certainly suffered traumas I don’t yet fully understand as a survivor of the crash Mr. Harrison instigated, I find myself absolutely uninterested in his presence aboard the ship.” Connor pauses thoughtfully. “If anyone really put in the effort to try and kill him, I’d probably let them. If they were interesting about it.”

“Exactly.” Peter nods in satisfaction as he turns back to John. “So with that in mind—”

The steel doors separating the brig from the rest of the ship drag open with a rusty screech, and Jo strides in, thundering down the steel-grate steps before coming to a halt in front of John’s cell.

“Jo,” Peter greets her, eyeing her warily as she pauses to inspect their guest.

“I know you’re not gonna kill him,” she says, purposefully turning away to look at Peter instead. She holds out what looks like…

“Is that… chainmail?”

“It’s a Klingon gran’roq a’qohra,” Connor says, arching an eyebrow in surprise. “That’s a very expensive toy you have there, Jo.”

“I’m aware,” Jo says shortly. “Connor, open a vent. Khan, you’re gonna put this on, got it?”

A section of the shield falls away, and Jo shoves the shirt through the opening. Khan takes it, watching her intently for a moment before shrugging and stripping off his shirt. There’s a moment of awkward silence as he struggles to pull the shirt over his head, but the moment passes and then, he’s dressed, looking vaguely uncomfortable as he stares back at them through the shield.

And then, Jo gargles, and the shirt starts to glow.

“Voice-activated, nice,” Connor says, grinning. “Where’d you get it?”

“Ancient Piratey Secret,” Jo says, a darkly satisfied edge to her smile as the shirt visibly tightens along John’s chest and shoulders. “You want one? I can get you a good deal, actually—”

“Excuse me,” Peter interrupts politely. “But could somebody please explain to me what a Klingon granola-cola is?”

“Klingon sex toy,” Connor answers immediately. “Meant to stimulate the erogenous zones in the most frustrating way possible, as far as a Klingon is concerned— electrocution.” Connor points. “See how the collar’s risen up a little bit? Klingons supposedly have an erogenous zone at the base of their neck.”

“Other zones, for clarity’s sake, include the armpits, nipples, abdomen, and along the spine,” Jo continues, smile widening as she turns to look at an increasingly horrified-looking John Harrison. “To a Klingon, the shocks feel like a light tickle— they’ve got tougher skins than us. To a Human, though…” Jo trails off, rolling her shoulders languidly. “It’s triggered by sharp movements, so as long as you move slow, you should be just fine.” She reaches over to drop the shield completely, reaching across the threshold to clap her hand heavily on John’s shoulder. He jumps, mouth twisting he experiences what Peter imagines to be rather intense pain.

“Good luck,” she says cheerfully, stepping away. “Connor, Tubey says it’s your turn to make dinner.”

Connor curses and hurries after her into the main hold, leaving Peter alone with John.

“... I think this could be more awkward,” Peter says, looking at John. “I mean, yeah, I just had the knowledge of my older cousin’s fetishes forced upon me in the form of what will probably be a very effective if inhumane and probably really creepy way of managing a prisoner, but it could be worse. Right?”

John looks… strangely pale. Possibly a little faint, though Peter isn’t sure why, exactly. Maybe this terrible new implication at his short-term future of bondage under the crew of the Shu Fu.

Gross.

“Well,” Peter says, clearing his throat. “I’m… going to leave now.” He turns the force field back on, which John doesn’t argue with. “Have fun?”

John blinks back at him. Peter does the only thing he can do, and flees.

Chapter Text

Peter storms up to the mess. Well, he says mess. It’s more like a glorified breakfast nook with a replicator, coffee pot, and a cabinet full of booze that runs chronically understocked. Which is a surprise to no one— they all know how much Jo takes after her father.

Speaking of the booze…

“Is that the good scotch?” Peter asks Saavik as he collapses into a chair across from her and David.

“It was this or murder,” she sighs, shooting her bondmate a exasperated glance. “I managed to persuade him against murder.”

“Damn shame, that.” David grumbles before gulping down half of his glass.

Saavik purses her lips slightly. “David—”

Peter holds up his hand and she cuts herself off. “You got something to say, Marcus, say it.”

There’s a beat of silence before his cousin lets out a slow chuckle. “Yeah, I’ve got quite a bit to say, Captain.” He downs the rest of his drink, and Saavik refills it in silence. “First of all, how dare you?”

“How dare I what, David?”

“You brought a genocidal maniac onto our ship! You know the rules, man. The ‘no tolerance for genocidal maniacs’ thing is number one.”

“I thought ‘no mercy for slave traders’ was number one?” Saavik asks, carefully hiding her expression with her cup when David turns to glare at her.

There’s a beat, and then, David allows himself a small smile. It fades as quickly as it comes. “He killed my dad, Pete.”

“Yeah, but he got better.”

“I do not believe that excuses it,” Saavik says.

“It most certainly does not.” David takes another long sip. “And you know who didn’t get better? My grandfather. Or the thousands that died in that crash. This isn’t a joke.”

Peter sighs. He greatly underestimated his cousin’s level of fury. He’s gone through anger and into calm. He’s got to deescalate the situation.

“You’re right. It isn’t a joke. The pile of shit that we just wiped our feet in isn’t funny either. Because that guy down there? He’s using our ship to run from Khan.”

Saavik and David glance at each other and then look at Peter with looks of curiosity so identical is like their telepathy is a visible trait.

“Yeah. Turns out that dude is actually a guy named John Harrison from Khan’s crew. His XO, he says. And apparently the whole crew is up and gallivanting about space and the actual Khan is not super happy about the identity theft.”

There’s a moment's pause where the hive mind in front of him tries to figure out if he’s fucking with them. And then they both softly curse in unison.

“Should we call the navy now?” Saavik asks. “Or after we take this guy to the nearest starbase to be hanged?”

“I say after,” Peter can feel the stress starting to bleed out of him. David was going to be the hardest to sway on keeping the guy alive and delivering him to the proper authorities. It should be smooth sailing from now on.

Peter is immediately shown why thinking positive thoughts never works out for him as Demora crashes into the room.

“Captain if you don’t come up with a good reason why this guy is still on our boat Jo is going to kill him.”

Before he can even think of something to say to that, Jo barrels in behind her. “It would be really easy, too. Do you want to know how easy?”

Saavik arches an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“The three top settings on that gran’roq a’qohra are fatal to humans. I figure the top one is fatal enough to kill a supervillain.”

“I’m sorry,” Saavik looks more shocked than Peter’s ever seen her. “Should I ask why you own one of those?”

“Not unless you want me to ask about the noises I hear coming from you and David’s room.”

“What noises?” David asks with alarmingly genuine confusion.

“All the yelling and cursing,” Demora speaks slowly, as if he’s concussed. “I can hear you from across the hall.”

“Do you mean me losing at cards?”

“He is very bad at Uno, Jo,” Saavik adds with a grimace.

There’s a beat of silence where (if Peter is reading the room right) no one wants to be the one to question the validity of that statement. At least not out loud.

And then the beat of silence stretches on to a moment. And the moment keeps going.

Now the silence is this tangible thing, and they are all frantically looking around the room and trying to avoid eye contact, and Peter just wishes they could go back to a simpler time when he could stubbornly pretend that none of his cousins have a sex-life.

Their sanities are saved, surprisingly, by Tubey.

The intercom crackles as it always does before her voice transmits ship-wide. “Captain to the bridge. We’ve got company.”

*.*

“You know she said ‘Captain,’ right?” Peter snips at his cousins as they all bolt for the bridge. “Not ‘entire crew.’”

“It’s my fucking ship.” Jo barks back, practically pushing him out of the way.

“And we just want to see what’s going on!” David calls from somewhere behind him.

He’s fighting a losing battle here, and he knows it. “Fine, Demora go to the brig. Send Connor up and keep an eye on the prisoner.”

“But, I—”

“Now, Demo.”

She huffs, but turns around, heading back the other way. At least Demora listens, no matter how much she complains while she does.

Peter and company crash onto the bridge like a herd of poorly trained circus elephants, to the little surprise but great exasperation of Tubey.

She doesn’t comment on the chaos of everyone finding their places on the bridge. The little Pike demon just hops out of the Captain’s chair and side steps so that when Peter sits down, she’s perfectly to his right, facing the viewscreen.

“We’re receiving a hail on a priority one channel, Captain. Figured you’d want to take it yourself.”

This is going to be bad, he can just feel it. Better get it over with.

“Onscreen,” he nearly sighs, Tubey already halfway across the bridge with that graceful, almost dance-like walk she has.

The command has barely left his lips before the viewscreen changes from the ambient navigation array to the incoming hail.

The man who appears on the screen is dark compared to Peter’s own complexion, with a large, regal nose and a strong jaw. His thin mouth is fixed into a perfectly pleasant smile that doesn’t quite cover the cold look in his dark, clever eyes, and his hair is pulled back into a tight black ponytail that Peter can’t see the end of.

Peter knows he’s staring, but he just can’t look away— especially not after his gaze drops a little to see the man's chest. His smooth, muscled, oiled chest that is visible between the lapels of a unfairly low cut shirt.

“To the Captain of the Shu Fu, ” the man who is clearly the hero of one of Jo’s trashy romance novels begins. His voice is like honey, touched with an accent Peter can’t quite place. “I am Khan Noonien Singh, of the Botany Bay.” The man— the real Khan, apparently— smiles like they're sharing a joke. “I think you have something that belongs to me.”

Peter, as a rule, isn’t a fantastic liar. At this point in his life, he’s passable— he does crimes, after all— but he’s not perfect, especially when he’s looking into the face of the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. This is a bad thing, because Peter is not an idiot, and Peter knows Khan, on top of being obscenely pretty, is also very, very violent.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to come up with a lie in that moment, because at the exact same second that he opens his mouth, Connor— who apparently slipped in at some point during this grand reveal of a clusterfuck— makes his presence known with three little words.

“Wow. He’s hot.”

Peter closes his eyes and counts backwards from ten.

This isn’t going to be fun.

Chapter Text

Khan is a tough motherfucker, Peter can tell just by looking at him. What he couldn’t tell just by looking at him was how smart he was, because fifteen minutes into the call Peter is nodding and smiling and agreeing to Khan’s request to board the ship. Jesus, Peter’s going to get them all killed over one handsome bastard with a silver tongue.

The moment the screen goes dark, Peter’s senses return to him, and his stomach goes cold with dread.

Thin fingers wrap around his elbow, grip gentle but firm.

“Peter,” Tubey says carefully. “This is a bad idea.”

“Yes, yes it is,” Peter agrees, tugging the end of his ponytail nervously. “But it’s too late to take it back, I think.”

Tubey meets Peter’s eyes with her own, peering into his face like she’s looking for something. Then, she turns away, squeezing his arm before pulling away.

“Connor, tie Harrison up and throw him in the cargo hold,” she barks, striding towards the transporter room. “One of the drop holds, please.”

Peter winces but doesn’t argue— the drop holds are used to hold only their most dangerous contraband, the sort of stuff that would get them killed if they were caught with it. As such, those holds are equipped with a safety feature that allows them to space whatever it is that’s going to get them in trouble.

It’s not a good idea, not with David walking around with murder in his eyes and Jo with liquid courage keeping her upright… but it’s probably safer for them if they do it, just in case.

Yeah, Peter keeps his mouth shut.

Tubey’s better at making these decisions, anyway.

*.*

Connor likes to think of himself as a rational, relatively logical individual. He’s no Vulcan, but he’s pretty practical when it comes to most social situations.

“I have the sudden urge to jump you— in a sexy way.”

Some would say blunt.

Khan, the man in question, seems rather amused by Connor’s words, which… is not usually the response Connor gets, but okay. Amusement looks good on him.

“It happens,” he says, and Christ, does the man always purr when he speaks? He’s— well, Connor would hesitate to say god, considering Khan’s history— but he’s something close to it, all chiseled muscles and white teeth and sharp, clever eyes.

He’d talked circles around Peter, so Connor feels no shame when he feels himself flush under his gaze.

“I’m Connor,” he says, sticking out a hand. “Connor Three Pike.”

“A pleasure,” Khan says, and his palm is soft against Connor’s when he reaches out to shake. “But— if I may ask, do you have any relation to Admiral Christopher Pike?”

Peter opens his mouth but Connor’s already nodding.

“He is my father,” he says, eyes fixed on Khan’s. “Why? Do you want to kill him?”

“Kill him? On the contrary, Mr. Connor,” Khan says, giving him a charming smile. “I’d like to thank him, if I may. He advocated against the destruction of my people while we slept— we owe him our lives.”

“Oh.”

“Our father can be a merciful man,” Tubey says, stepping up behind Connor’s shoulder. “But he is not to be underestimated.”

“Tubey, please,” Peter says. “I apologize, Captain Singh— it’s not often we have company on our ship. It makes the crew nervous.”

“Completely understandable, Captain Kirk,” Khan says, inclining his head. “I imagine it is hard to accidentally run into another ship out here.” he gestures towards the windows, to the stars twinkling in the distance.

“Almost impossible,” Peter agrees. “Which means I have to ask— why have you been looking for us?”

Khan hums.

“I was not specifically looking for you, Captain Kirk, though it is most interesting that you were who I found at the end of the trail.” He arches an eyebrow, finally tearing his gaze from Connor’s. “Tell me— have you taken on any new passengers since you last landed?”

“No,” Peter says, expression carefully flat. “How do you know about Admiral Pike?”

Khan shifts, turning his body more fully away from Connor, which is a damn shame.

“The facility where we were being held suffered critical power failure,” Khan says, shifting. “The systems that powered our pods failed, and we were awoken.” He shrugs. “After that, it was simply a matter of scouring the databanks within the facility. There we found a detailed account of the events leading to our placement within the facility. Admiral Pike was mentioned, as was your father, Captain Kirk.”

Peter frowns slightly, and Khan smiles.

“Was I incorrect in my assumptions?” he asks. “Is Captain James Kirk not your father.”

“My uncle,” Peter says. “My weapons’ specialist is his son. David.”

“Marcus,” David supplies, mouth twisting into a humorless smile. “I’m sure that name came up as well.”

Khan blinks at them both.

“It did,” he admits. “This ship… it is not a Federation ship.”

“It is not,” Tubey says. “We are civilians, albeit very well connected civilians.”

“Are all of you…” Khan trails off, eyes darting between the crew assembled before him. “Are all of you the children of Starfleet officers?”

Connor sees Peter thinking about his answer, which is stupid. After all, sometimes it’s best for people to know you’re better than them.

(At the same time, Peter’s always worried about the long game, and playing the long game usually does require a moment or two of thought. At least, that’s the excuse he gives when his rescues take too long.)

“Demora is the daughter of my uncle’s pilot and a civilian contractor,” Peter says after a moment. “David is the grandson of Admiral Marcus and the son of Jim Kirk. I am Jim Kirk’s nephew. Jo is the daughter of my uncle’s CMO, and Saavik is a ward of my adoptive father’s, as well as David’s bondmate.”

Khan arches an eyebrow.

“All familiar names,” he murmurs. “And yet you fly such an… unusual ship.”

“We’re smugglers,” Jo says, crossing her arms. “And yes, our parents are aware.”

Fuck, Khan has a handsome laugh. Does that make sense, a handsome laugh? Whatever, Connor doesn’t care.

“And how did your parents take your career choices?” he asks. “They must have been quite shocked.”

“Mother was happy we chose a profession at all,” Connor says. Is he smiling? He thinks he’s smiling. “Our father… got over it.”

“Whatever you’re looking for, we don’t have it,” Peter says. “Probably.”

“Probably?”

Peter shrugs.

“We keep all sorts of interesting things on this ship,” he says. “But unless you want booze or a blood portrait of Emperor Kragok the Conqueror, you’re out of luck, I’m afraid.”

Khan stares at him a moment, then smiles, sharper than before.

“If that’s the case, then you won’t mind if I have a look around,” he says. “Would you, Captain?”

Peter stiffens, and Khan arches an eyebrow in challenge.

“... Of course not, Captain Singh,” he says. “But only if you pinky promise not to tell anybody important.”

“You have my word,” Khan says, pressing a hand over his heart. “I have little love for authority, strange as it might seem.”

“It’s not so strange,” Peter says. “David, if you could—”

“I’ll show him around,” Connor interrupts. “Unless you want David to get distracted with history questions.”

“I would not,” David says. “You’re the one with the fascination with late twentieth century slang, not me. And anyway—”

“Shut up, David,” Peter says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Connor, show him around. Saavik. Everyone else, back to your stations— Tubey, you’re with me.” He looks back to Khan. “We’re having lunch in an hour. If you like, you’re more than welcome to join us.” Peter hesitates. “I’ve read your file, Captain Singh. If you have any questions, I’m sure we’ll be answer at least a few.”

Khan dips his chin.

“I would appreciate that very much, thank you,” he says. Then, he looks at Connor, holding out an arm. “Shall we, Mr. Connor?”

Connor feels himself flush again, and yeah, he’s definitely smiling at least a little when he loops his arm around Khan’s.

“Cargo hold first?” he asks, tugging Khan gently into the hall. “Unless you want to stop by my room, first.”

As Khan laughs, Connor can just hear David groan before the doors slide shut behind them.

He doesn’t care.

Chapter Text

Almost the instant the door slides shut, the room erupts into a deafening cacophony of various protests. Jo’s basically in Peter’s face, yelling.

“Have you lost what little sanity you have left, Kirk? He’s going to find him!”

“Connor is not stupid,” Tubey barks back.

“Are we sure?” Saavik snaps. “He’s making heart eyes at a war criminal!”

“Oh, and he’s the crazy one?” David’s voice is cold. “Pete’s the one forcing us all to harbor a mass murdering genocidal maniac!”

The screaming devolves at that point, and Peter is not even trying to keep up now. No, instead he just closes his eye, takes a deep breath, and counts to ten.

“Can everyone please SHUT THE FUCK UP!” he booms, then opens his eyes to five dumbstruck expressions.

Okay, scratch that. Four equally dumbstruck expressions and one Illyrian death glare promising immediate harm to his person should he ever tell Tubey to shut up again. Which, honestly? Fair.

“Sorry,” he says almost out of the side of his mouth to her, which gets him a curt nod. Feeling slightly less afraid for his life and or internal organs, Peter continues. “We could spend all day playing the blame game, but it would be very unwise. Because there is someone who I can only sufficiently describe as a supervillain loose on our ship with Connor who is making Number Two here look like the normal sibling right now.”

He looks around the bridge. David at least has the sense to look a little ashamed of himself. Jo just takes another swig of her drink (which she’s taking straight out of the bottle now).

“What we need to be doing is coming up with a plan. Or twelve. Because this thing can go so many different kinds of sideways I don’t think I can even list all of the potential complications.”

“I’m on board with anything that will get both of those assholes off of my ship.” Jo punctuates with another long swallow. “And us well away from that ship.”

Okay. Peter can work with that.

“Let’s get to work.”

*.*

The problem is the only plan they’ve managed to come up with that has any sort of viability is the one they’ve kind of already got: play nice to Khan until he leaves on his own, and then hightail it to the nearest starbase and hand Harrison over to the authorities. Which sounds like a great plan until one factors in the sudden heart eyes exploding out of Connor’s chest like a early twentieth century cartoon character.

And they don’t manage to find a work around that sideshow of a problem before Connor walk back in with Khan.

Sorry, allow Peter to rephrase.

Khan strides back onto the bridge, Connor hanging off his arm like a Victorian heroine, and laughing at whatever the living marble statue before them had just said.

“Oh, Captain!” Khan calls amicably, as though he had just noticed them. “You're crewmember here just gave me a most thorough tour.”

Peter’s eyebrow is high enough up on his forehead that he thinks he might even look a little like Sarek. “And you didn’t find what you were looking for?”

“Fortunately for all of you, no.” Khan flashes a charming smile. “And most fortunate for me and my people as well. You are all very interesting and…” he glances fondly at Connor, “accommodating folk. It would be a shame to kill you.”

“That’s a red flag right fucking there,” Jo mutters lowly.

Not lowly enough, for a dark shadow flits briefly over Khan’s face before he returns to his overly genial expression. “I believe I was invited to lunch, Captain?”

“You were.” Connor practically trills. “We’d better head back to the mess now then, I know you can’t stay all day.”

“Which is such a shame, truly.” Khan purrs, placing a hand over the one wrapped around his chiseled bicep. “I would love to get to know you better.”

Connor giggles. An actual, full-on, small child giggle.

“Okay, we’re going to eat.” Tubey orders the room and then storms out, leaving the rest of them little choice but to follow her out. Which is really for the best. The sexual tension on the bridge could have been cut with a chopstick.

*.*

Lunch is… an awkward affair. It’s a lot of silent eating by most people while Connor and Khan flirt shamelessly with each other. Peter really can’t take it much longer.

And apparently neither can Saavik. “I’m going to check on the engines.”

“And I’m going to help!” Demora stands up so fast she knocks her chair over, hastily righting it before bolting out of the room ahead of Saavik.

Which is great for them, they get to leave the room. And Demora gets to go tortue a prisoner, which is a pastime of hers. (Hopefully at least one person at the table bought her lie about the engine rooms, though.)

Their abrupt departure does give a great segue for conversation though.

“So, Khan…” Peter stops himself. “Can I call you Khan?”

“Certainly, Captain.”

Peter flashes what he hopes is a polite smile. “I was just wondering what you were looking for aboard my ship.”

Khan’s previously genial smile becomes almost predatory. “A mutineer.”

Connor blinks bambi eyes at him. “Really? I’m sorry.”

“Yes, it was quite a blow.” He sighs with such a heavy air that Peter knows what’s coming next: a supervillain monologue.

“John Harrison was my second in command, and a personal friend which made his betrayal sting all the more. We fought together, lost brothers together, and eventually… were defeated together, when we planned our great escape to the stars. So you can imagine when I learned of his betrayal I was… overcome.”

Khan shakes his head and squeezes Connor’s hand again before continuing. “When Admiral Marcus came looking for me, he thawed out Harrison by mistake, who then, as you well know, went on a killing spree in my name. He nearly got all of the people he had the audacity to call family killed over a shot at glory, and tarnished my good name in front of the entire galaxy. And when I discovered the depth of his crimes he ran rather than face justice, and for this…” Khan looks at Peter directly and there is a dangerous glint in his eyes as he finishes. “For this, Captain Kirk, he will face my wrath. ”

The crew seems the gulp collectively as the tension in the room spikes suddenly. The thing is, Peter believes him. He knows who Khan Noonien Singh is, a genetically modified super soldier from one of the bloodiest times in human history, a man who has slaughtered armies, toppled nations, and walked away from it all unscathed into a whole new century. If he wants someone dead, there isn’t much hope for that poor son of a bitch.

Right now, the only thing keeping John Harrison alive is the fact that Peter and his family are standing between him and the actual wrath of Khan. As a good Captain, it’s now Peter’s job to get his crew out of the way.

“I wish there was something we could do,” Peter hedges. “But as you can see, we don’t have your man.”

“And you must be needed back on your ship,” adds Tubey, clearly trying to shove him out the door. She’s never been one for tact.

“Ah, but there is something!” The darkness lifts from Khan’s expression, and he’s back to impersonating Michelangelo's David. “My crew and I are, shamed as I am to admit it, a little out of place. Or rather, out of time.”

David’s eyes narrow. “Your point being?”

“I could use some more crew, especially some locals to help us hunt down Harrison. And you’re ship is rather small, and judging the two ladies abrupt departure, not in the best repair. You could come with me.”

“I’d rather not,” David all but growls. “Fake-Khan killed my dad, and my grandfather. I’d like to steer clear of your entire crusade.”

Khan’s face lights up. “Ah what better reason to join us, young Kirk? Vengeance is a sweet dessert.”

“Marcus.” Jo speaks for the first time since her outburst on the bridge.

“I beg your pardon?”

“His name isn’t Kirk, it’s Marcus.”

The oiled demigod blinks before plastering a remorseful look on his face. “My apologies, Mr. Marcus. Regardless, the offer stands.”

“Thank you, Captain Singh, but I’ll have to decline.” It takes all of Peter’s admittedly impressive self control to keep a pleasant smile frozen on his mouth. Thanks, sa-mehk, for all those years of diplomacy practice. “I do wish you the best, though.”

“Unfortunate, but I understand.”

Out of nowhere, Connor blurts, “I’ll go with you.”

Khan’s face lights up, “Wonderful!”

“Whoa, hang on a moment,” Peter feels fear grip his chest. “Connor, you can’t just leave the Shu fu, you’re our linguist, we need you.”

“Exactly, Peter, I’m your translator. And Khan needs one more than you do at the moment.” He catches sight of the glare his sister is shooting him and quickly looks away. “You all speak Standard, and between everyone you can handle Vulcan, Romulan, Klingon, and Illyrian. You’ll be fine.”

“I would greatly appreciate to borrow your crewman, Captain,” Khan adds.

Peter takes a deep breath, and kicks Jo under the table before she has the chance to speak. David he’s not worried about. His cousin is just staring blankly at Connor like he thinks he’s dreaming.

“Connor, can I talk to you a minute?” He jerks his thumb at the door. “In private?”

“Yeah, sure.”

They head out into the hall, Tubey following behind uninvited. The door barely closes before she snaps at her twin, “How much smoke did you inhale earlier, Three?”

“Quite a bit, actually, but I know what I’m doing, Two. You got to trust me.”

Peter rubs his eyes. “This is a bad time for your sexual awakening, Connor.”

He shakes his head. “I’m just going to go get them a little more prepared for our century, okay, and then we’ll meet back up and I’ll come home.”

“I can’t allow you to do this.”

“I’m doing it, Peter.”

“By Surak’s teachings, what kind of spell does he have you under?” Peter is losing his patience. “We’re going to beam him back to his ship and part as unlikely acquaintances, and that’s the end of it, do you hear me?”

Connor sighs, and shakes his head. “Tubey, please. Help me out here.”

She purses her lips, staring both of them down simultaneously somehow. “Fine, but only if you promise me you’ll keep an eye on things. And call me if you need an extraction.”

“Alright, I was going to anyway!”

Peter looks at the ceiling for help. “Is anyone going to explain to me what the hell is going on?”

“Later,” Tubey hisses. “Just let him go.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain later. I promise. Just let him go with Khan.”

Peter knows when he is beaten. “This is a terrible plan. You both can see that, right? It’s important to me that you know this, Connor.”

“Don’t worry, Captain. I’ll be fine.”

Peter has a real bad feeling about this.

*.*

Peter’s bad feeling just keeps getting worse. There’s a twist in his gut as they walk back into the mess. A feeling like a punch to the liver when Connor tells Khan that he’s going with him, and Jo storms out of the room in response (which was probably the smartest thing she could have done).

His chest is aching as Connor packs a bag and says goodbye. But he trusts Tubey, and she said this is what should be done, so it’s happening. But after he beams them over and the Botany Bay starts receding into a speck on the viewscreen, he feels as though they have made a terrible mistake.

Chapter Text

The Botany Bay disappears from the Shu Fu’s viewscreen in a flash of warp blue, and Peter is left feeling… strangely bereft.

“That was a good idea, right?” He asks, staring at the stars twinkling across the empty screen. “We will get him back.”

“I would not have allowed him to board if I thought we wouldn’t,” Tubey says. “No, he will contact us soon enough, and even if he doesn’t, we should have minimal difficulty tracking him.” She touches Peter’s elbow gently. “Do not be afraid, Peter— Connor will not allow himself to be harmed, not even by Khan.”

Peter huffs a humorless laugh, turning to meet her gaze.

“‘Not even by Khan,’” he repeats quietly, arching an eyebrow. “An interesting choice of words.”

Tubey doesn’t speak. After a moment, Peter thinks he needs to prompt her.

“What makes Khan so special?” he asks. “Besides everything else, I mean. Connor was…”

“Titillated, yes.” Tubey hums. “It is… an Illyrian thing.”

“... Elaborate, please?”

Tubey fidgets, which is strange, because she never fidgets.

“It is… a fixation,” she says after a moment. “It is unique to the Illyrian experience— the closest approximation I can think of would be Uncle Spock’s bond with Uncle Jim.” She reaches out, fingers brushing Peter’s elbow. “Our mother experienced it when she met our father. She told me that she looked at him, and the whole world stopped, just for a moment.”

Peter stares at her.

“So, what you are telling me,” he starts, words slow and measured. “That Connor zinged with one of the most prominent dictators of the twentieth century?”

“... I can’t believe Hotel Transylvania is your point of reference,” Tubey says, letting her hand fall away. “But as much as it pains me to say it— yes. He zinged with Khan. But that doesn’t make him stupid— he will contact us once he has assessed the danger Khan and his people pose on the loose.”

“And if he can’t contact us?” Peter asks. “What then?”

“Then I will find him.”

“But how?”

“Peter, surely you have realized who my mother is by now.” Tubey arches an eyebrow. “Connor and I are microchipped, just like everyone else in the family— and more importantly, Mother gave us the access codes when we joined the crew, in case of emergency.”

“Wait a second, you guys are microchipped?” David asks, eyes wide as a smile begins to creep across his face. “Like dogs?”

Peter can see Tubey mentally counting backwards.

“No, David— your father is microchipped like a dog,” she says. “Because he can’t be trusted with the knowledge that Mother can track him. Connor and I are chipped like people whose parents love them.”

“And we’re moving on,” Peter announces. “So you can track Connor. Should we be doing that now, or…?”

One of the consuls begins to flash.

“Incoming message,” Jo says, leaning over to look. “Fuck, it’s Kragor.”

Peter swears.

“Onscreen,” he says, striding over to his chair. Jo nods, and a moment later, the backdrop of space disappears in favor of the ugliest, one-eyed Klingon Peter has seen— and he’s seen a lot of them.

“Captain Kirk,” Kragor rumbles, smiling meanly into the camera. “We have not talked in a while, and I am beginning to wonder— have you failed to complete the task I set out for you?”

He keeps talking, but Peter stops paying attention, cursing as he remembers that— right, he’s on a job. They’re all on a job, and there’s a guy tied up in their cargo hold who could put their next paycheck in jeopardy if they don’t move their asses now.

“Aim us towards Klingon space,” he orders, ignoring the way everyone scrambles. “Full speed ahead— we’ve got a job to finish, preferably before that bastard puts bounties on all our heads.”

“He totally would, too,” David mutters, collapsing into his usual chair.

“Warp six in five, four, three, two, one.” Saavik’s soothing monotone echoes through the halls of the Shu Fu. “If you have not put on your seatbelts… tough.”

As the ship shoots itself through the black, Peter sits back and closes his eyes.

There’s a lot going on, after all. He needs a moment to meditate on it.

As he slips into the depths of his own mind, he feels a gentle press of hands against his shoulders before the physical world falls away completely.

(He doesn’t need to be aware to know that it’s Tubey who’s touching him, though.)

*.*

Khan gives Connor his own quarters, of course, introducing him to a blur of crewmates that Connor hardly remembers. He’s walking around in a daze, taking in the richly-furnished— if somewhat outdated— rooms with absent-minded curiosity as he waits patiently for Khan to come back. Because he will come back, Connor knows. He may not feel it as strongly as Connor does, but there’s something there in the air between them, something that fills Connor with a strange, floaty feeling that makes him want to laugh and hide his face in his hands at the same time.

(Besides, Khan promised to have dinner with him. It would be rude if the man didn’t show up.)

As if on cue, the doors to Connor’s room slides open and Khan steps inside. He’s changed his clothes, switching from the reds and golds of what Connor thinks might have been ceremonial robes to a plain black robe, leggings, and sturdy-looking black boots.

The plunging neckline remains, which Connor is pleased to see. He takes a moment to appreciate it before speaking.

“You have a beautiful ship, Captain,” he says, finally meeting the man’s eyes.

Khan nods, the corner of his mouth turning up into a strange, half-smile.

“Yes,” he agrees. “My servants spent months refurbishing it in secret— even then, I knew war was coming.” He takes a step forward, watching Connor carefully. “I imagine it looks rather dated, nowadays.”

“Like stepping into a strange past,” Connor agrees. “I studied the Eugenics Wars, you know— Mother insisted.”

Khan cocks his head.

“Mother insisted,” he repeats, amused. “And, pray tell, why did your mother insist on including the… Eugenics Wars in your studies?”

Connor shrugs.

“Mother had to make hard choices, in her day,” he says. “I think it is the closest she will ever come to telling us anything beyond… well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. The point is, I’ve come across your name in places beyond your Starfleet casefile.” He shifts. “You are even more intriguing in person.”

Khan chuckles darkly.

“Well, I’m happy to hear it,” he says, taking another step forward. “Connor Three Pike is an unusual name.”

Connor hums.

“Mother is Number One,” he says. “The last of her people. Now, there are three— she named us appropriately.”

Khan arches an eyebrow.

“You are not Human,” he realizes.

“Only half.”

“Strange.” Khan is shorter than Connor is by a few inches, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t intimidating. If Connor weren’t who he was, he would be frightened by the hungry look in the other man’s eye. “You look Human.”

“Looks can be deceiving.”

“Many things can be deceiving,” Khan agrees. “Which is why I am curious as to your true intentions.”

“What do you mean by that, Captain?”

Khan is fast, faster even than Connor’s eyes can track. He catches Connor’s wrists in his hands, his grip like iron when Connor tries to pull away. With a strength Connor has only experienced when sparring with Saavik, he pushes Connor back into the wall, eyes intently watching Connor’s face.

“To leave your crew so easily speaks to me of duplicitous purpose,” Khan says, his face so close to Connor’s he can feel the other man’s breath ghost across his lips. “Particularly in light of your… connections.”

Connor feels himself go pink at the show of strength, the sudden intimacy of their position. He can’t break Khan’s grip, and while he most certainly isn’t powerless, there’s a certain thrill that creeps down his spine as he feels his breath go ragged.

“Well, Connor?” Khan asks, and his smile is sharp and dangerous and lovely.

“The crew understands,” Connor blurts out. “This is— instinct.”

And duplicity, sort of. After all, he technically is supposed to be spying, no matter how fascinated he is by the hunk currently pinning him to the wall like it’s nothing.

Khan tilts his head.

“Instinct?” he asks. “Alien instinct?”

Connor laughs, then, bright and breathless and helplessly delighted.

“Not to me, it’s not,” he says. “Apparently. It’s all very new.”

Khan stares at him a moment, brow furrowed as he searches for Connor’s lie. There isn’t one— Connor hasn’t lied yet, even if he is omitting the whole spying bit— and after a moment, Khan smiles.

“I do hope you’re not lying to me, Mr. Connor,” Khan says, and he’s so close Connor can count the golden speckles in his dark eyes. “It will end badly for you if you are.”

And then, Khan is kissing him, and it’s raw power and absolute control and wow, Connor has been missing out.

Well, with any luck, he’ll be able to catch up quickly enough.

Chapter Text

Emperor Kragok the Conqueror is the self named Emperor of the self-conquered outer planet in Klingon space quite near the Federation border. Well, not really a planet. More like a planetoid. Like Pluto.

Unlike Pluto, this planetoid sits in the sweet, sweet habitable zone of a star system, and right along the line of multiple Klingon shipping lanes. Which means that this tiny little planetoid is constantly changing hands as different oligarchs compete for the right to collect their share from all the ships moving by. It's a bloody little rock, with a name that changes with its new owners.

Right now, it’s called Kragok.

Clearly the Emperor is a modest person. A very modest, rational person with a large private army, an indecent amount of credits, and a lot of friends in very bad places. These were all factors that Peter had to consider when they were offered the job of retrieving an old Blood Portrait of the guy from his glory days in the live war with the Federation. Apparently this guy killed a lot of Starfleet officers in very creative ways. Which makes sense, considering how large this painting is.

Said painting that some asshole pirate stole and sold on the black market. Hence the Shu Fu’s current employment. Why send a Klingon into Federation space after a couple of thieving space pirates when you can just send another crew of thieving space pirates?

If you ask Peter, the logic of that business decision is super sound. The only issue here is the fact that Kragok was super specific about the delivery deadline, or else they weren’t going to get paid.

And the guy was eerily specific about the fact that a part of their pay was Peter’s crew’s ability to leave his rock safe and sound.

So yeah, he really does not want to have to take a pay cut because of this fake-Khan versus real-Khan nonsense.

Jo had warned against pulling back the tarp hiding the actual painting, and the faint, unhappy smell of old, cured death had kept most of them in line (he’s not so sure about the twins, but then, he never is). Emperor Kragok, however, has no such compunctions, and the moment David and Demora hand it off to the two biggest soldiers flanking the Emperor and they set it up on the specially placed, ceremonial three-legged stand, Emperor Kragok claps his hands in delight.

“Fantastic!” he says, his voice unusually reedy for a Klingon of his stature. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

He snaps his fingers and the soldiers pull back the tarp, letting it drop onto the black marble steps of the throne in a rustle of stiff fabric and— well, all warnings aside, Peter is curious. They all are, in a macabre sort of way.

The painting is made up of streaks of blue, pink, purple, and green, the canvas held in place by a giant, gilded golden frame. Peter doesn’t immediately recognize what he’s looking at, but— no, he sees faces, yes, and, and a few limbs, and a boob—

… Oh, God, it’s porn. It’s Klingon porn, and it’s painted with probably-definitely blood.

Everybody seems to come to the same realization at about the same time, judging by the vaguely green tinge to David’s face and the way Demora’s screwed her eyes shut against the… well.

Jo, however, seems to be having exactly the opposite reaction.

“Oh my God, is that an Ofkar’ka?” she asks, wonder in her eyes as she steps closer to inspect the painting. “Oh, wow— I completely understand why you wanted this back, now. This is really a masterpiece.”

Emperor Kragok seems surprised.

“Why, yes it is,” he says, intrigued. “You enjoy Klingon classical art?”

Jo holds up her hands, bowing her head slightly.

“Well, you know, I’m no expert— my husband’s the real art geek,” she says. “But I can appreciate a good Ofkar’ka. Really, an artist before her time, and quite the warrior, as well, as I understand it.” Jo glances back at Peter, and the knot in his stomach loosens, slightly. Jo may be a curmudgeon at the best of times, but she knows how to grease somebody up. Most of the time, anyway. “She had three hundred hands to her name, you know, Captain.”

Peter nods.

“A Human who knows her enemy’s history, how delightful,” Emperor Kragok says, smiling as he reaches out to take her hand. “And, it seems, her enemies’ luxuries.”

Jo grins, and it isn’t totally fake.

“I’ve got an active participant upstairs on my ship,” she says as the Emperor inspects the chunky golden machine that’s humming quietly on her wrist. “I’ve set the timer for three small shocks at five minute intervals, with another, bigger shock that comes at random between the first and fourth minute.”

The Emperor clicks his tongue approvingly.

“Oh, quite the little torturer, are we?” he asks, grinning. “I like your style.”

Jo beams at him.

“I like yours too,” she says. “I’ve gotta say, the purple silk? Loving it.”

Emperor Kragok gives her a thrilled little smile.

“Well,” he says, glancing over her shoulder at Peter and the rest of the crew. “It’s rare anyone with taste lands on this barren little rock— please, Madame. Stay for dinner. You and your crew is most welcome at my table.”

Jo’s smile doesn’t waver when she looks back at Peter, because really, they don’t have a choice in the matter.

“That would be great,” Peter says, nodding. “As long as we are not imposing.”

“Of course not!” Emperor Kragok looks back at Jo. He’s— oh, no, he’s leering at her, isn’t he. “It isn’t often my court is graced with an intelligen t sentient being, after all.”

If anything, Jo’s smile gets wider.

“I know exactly what you mean, Your Majesty.”

*.*

They have dinner with Emperor Kragok, his husband, and his four concubines. Demora has too much blood wine, just like always, and David ends up talking historical weaponry with the Head of the Royal Guard. Four hours later, Peter and his crew are beamed back to their ship, Jo unbearably smug and just a bit drunk as she taps the Emperor’s comm number into her device.

“He hasn’t stopped screaming for two hours,” Tubey informs them dryly as they step onto the bridge. “Just so you know.”

Peter glances at Jo, who shrugs.

“The Emperor was very interested in some of the upgrades I’ve done,” she says, pointing to the thing on her wrist. “He says my additions were inspired.”

Peter… Peter isn’t going to touch that with a ten foot pole. He’s not paid enough for that.

“Turn it off,” he says. “And leave him be. I do not want an angry Augment on this ship while Demora’s seeing double.”

“Triple!” Demora informs him from where she’s leaning heavily against Saavik’s side. She seems quite smug. “Four goblets!”

“Good for you, Demo,” David says. He’s not looking to steady either, not that Peter’s looking at him properly. “Make your dads proud.”

Demora grins at him.

“I am,” she says, earnest, and Peter sighs.

It’s bedtime.

Chapter Text

Everyone trudges off to bed, a little too drunk. Even Peter, who usually stays up until he’s sure that they’re in a safe port (or at least far enough away from an unfriendly one), only stays upright long enough to tell Tubey to steer them back into Federation space. She nods, silently, and he trusts her enough not to stay and make sure she does it. He just plods up with the rest of them, a dull clank resounding down to the cargo hold as he pulls his cabin door shut with just a little too much force.

With a quiet sigh to herself, Tubey heads not to the bridge like she is trusted to do, but down to the hole that John Harrison is shoved in. Some conversations are best had alone.

She opens the door carefully, the hinges on this old ship creak. But with carefully applied force at the right angle it eases open without so much as a gentle groan. The augmented human stares back at her in the dim light, eyes so lightly tinted with fear that, were she human, she probably would not be able to see.

“You shot my mother,” she says, not in an accusatory manner. She is not accusing him of anything, merely stating fact. “And killed my older brother.”

Harrison says nothing, just sits there, pale and weakened from what Jo put him through all evening.

She sighs. It almost isn’t fun when she doesn’t get a response.

“If it weren’t for the fact that they both have made a full recovery, I would kill you where you sit.”

“You Captain would not approve of that.” His voice is a little raw from all the screaming, a far cry from the overly velvetine baritone from before.

“No, he wouldn’t. Neither would Jim.” She can see him relax just a little. Can’t have that. “But my mother, she would most certainly approve.”

The tightness in his expression returns, and Tubey feels her mouth twitch in a facsimile of a smile. 

“So what are you going to do to me, then?”

Her smile flashes forward this time, completely unrestrained. “I’m going to give you a choice, Johnny boy. No fine print.”

His eyes narrow. He doesn’t trust her. Good, it’s more fun this way. “Option one, I throw you out of the airlock tonight, while the rest of the crew is asleep. And when everyone finishes sleeping off their hangover tomorrow, we’ll be so far away from where your corpse is floating that no one will ever recover your body. I’ll blame it on a ship malfunction, and Peter will believe me. Jo won’t, but she isn’t going to miss you enough to call me out.”

His fear is not hiding nearly as well as it was a moment ago. “What’s option two?”

Tubey smiles. It’s a perfect, angelic human smile, the one she perfected by the time she was three years old to get her father to do whatever she wanted. “I deliver you personally to my mother, and Spock. Do you remember Spock? I think he’d really like to pick up where the two of you left off. And I promise you, my mother is far worse.”

He just stares at her, dumbstruck.

“So what is it going to be, Mr. Harrison?”

*.*

Tubey slinks up to the bridge on feather light steps, careful to ensure that no one could hear her go. Not that she has anything to hide. Khan’s white identity thief is safe and sound in the airlock they like to pretend is a brig. 

She actually has nothing to hide. Her Captain asked her to set a course back to the Federation Neutral Zone, and she did. He never told her that she couldn’t go threaten the prisoner, just that she couldn’t kill him, which she didn’t. But she almost did.

She very well could have.

And then Peter would have seen through her lie in the infuriating way that he has to just always know exactly what she’s thinking. Which is really unfair of him to do that. It makes stabbing in the back a lot harder.

Not that she wants to stab him in the back, per se. It’s more that she just likes having her options. And while she normally has pleasant daydreams about murdering everyone she loves just to get them to shut up for five minutes (Connor especially), there is this weird twist in her stomach everytime she so much as thinks about upsetting Peter.

Tubey really doesn’t get it. He’s human, no matter how he does his hair. And sweet, and thoughtful, and just all around a good person without so much as a single mean bone in his body. All things that she finds nauseating.

So why in the world does she not want to push him down the stairs?

*.*

Connor wakes up feeling a little sore and wonderfully relaxed, which is— nice. Different.

Khan is still asleep behind him, a vision wrapped in burgundy velvet and white silk sheets. Connor allows himself a minute to enjoy the view, sighing comfortably as he props himself up on his elbow and just… looks.

Honestly, if it weren’t for the decades of rule as an authoritarian dictator, Khan would be perfect to bring home to his parents. Even with that history, it probably won’t end so badly— y’know. Considering his mother. Still, the man’s technically a prisoner of the Federation, which means his parents would be obligated to turn him over to the proper authorities, no matter how well he managed to charm them over dinner. Plus, well, Connor has to be realistic— the man is two hundred and fifty years his senior. His father might have a problem with that sort of an age gap, even if the man doesn’t look a day over forty-five.

He’ll probably be shipped off to a prison planet, along with the rest of the crew of the Botany Bay, now that they’re awake. It’s a shame. Connor thinks he might be… attached. Huh. It’s a strange feeling.

Sighing again, he shakes the melancholy thoughts from his head and rolls off the obscenely soft mattress and makes his way into the equally luxurious bathroom, snagging his toiletries and his PADD from his bag as he goes. The bathtub— an actual bathtub, with water and everything— is probably the size of the Shu Fu’s bridge. Idly, Connor sets the water to run and settles on the brim of the tub, legs crossed as he brings up his sister’s comm information. He’ll send her a recorded message for now— it’s late, and while he’s sure she isn’t sleeping, he doesn’t want to wake up his… Khan. Even if it’s highly unlikely that Khan would be able to grasp more than a few words in Illyrian without a proper tutor, Connor would rather not take his chances, if it’s all the same. 

The tub fills up quickly, steam rising from the rose-scented water as Connor carefully balances the PADD against the wall and steps into the tub. Of course, the temperature is exactly right; Khan’s... presence is clearly starting to affect him, because it takes him a full fifteen minutes to refocus and begin recording.

“Hello, Two,” he starts, sitting up slightly as he speaks. “I am sure you have already guessed my current situation, so I will not bore you with the details. He has been absolutely lovely thus far— he is a very charismatic man, with a great love for his crew and a passion that is…” he trails off thoughtfully. “It is something to behold, certainly.”

Connor pauses, scratching his chin as he recalls the short time he spent with Khan’s crew before being shown to his quarters for the evening.

“His people love him just as much, of course,” Connor says. “They would follow him to the ends of the universe, if they had to. That said, I believe he can and will rip our prisoner’s head from his shoulders, once they find him. Our prisoner’s betrayal was… it does not appear that anyone took it well. His death will be brutal, and they will consider it well deserved.

“I believe the best course of action would be to inform our brother of the current situation of my— of his crew. I am going to attempt to convince Khan to meet the Enterprise, so perhaps this mess can be handled sooner rather than later.” Connor bites his lip. “I was hoping… I was hoping you could perhaps contact Mother? So she can be made aware of the situation— my situation, specifically.” Connor looks away, swallowing. “You know, he would be easy to tame. A few days, and he would do anything for me, I am sure of it.” he sniffs, then frowns. “I apologize. That was inappropriate. I will find a way to the Enterprise. I suggest you make your way there as quickly as possible with your own cargo. Connor out.” He ends the message and sends it out, setting the PADD out of harm’s way of the water and sighs, sitting back until the water touches his chin.

“You look so comfortable, I loathe to disturb you.”

Startled, Connor looks up. Khan is leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, propped up by his forearm as he waits, in all his naked glory, to be noticed.

It is glorious. It really is.

“I did not want to disturb you,” Connor says, giving him a sheepish little smile. “I am… unused to sharing a bed.” In this context, it’s not even a lie.

Khan dips his chin.

“As am I,” he admits, pushing off from the doorframe and making his way across the room to kneel beside the tub behind Connor’s head. “But I found myself missing you, even as I slept.” He shifts forward, pressing a kiss to the space behind Connor’s ear as his hands find his shoulders.

This man, Connor thinks, leaning back into his touch. Smooth as Tennessee whisky, he is— or, that’s what Jo would say, if she didn’t probably hate him on sight. Unlike Connor— and the rest of the crew, most of the time— she’s a sensible sort, and actively takes steps to avoid trouble like former genocidal dictators whenever possible.

Especially when they’re in the middle of a mission of vengeance.

Connor’s never been sensible like that, though.

“Who were you speaking to?” Khan asks, and there’s suspicion in that soft, sweet tone. “The language, it was extraterrestrial, yes?”

Connor hums.

“My mother’s tongue,” he says. “We are a precious few who still speak it, and my sister and I try our best to keep our skills sharp. Most of our messages are in Illyrian, as well.” Using the Standard alphabet, but still. The principle stands.

“It is safe to assume your father is Human, then,” Khan concludes. He’s moved onto lightly massaging Connor’s shoulders. It’s very nice— Connor hasn’t had a proper massage in quite a while, now. Not since Risa, at least.

“Yes.” Connor lets his eyes slip closed. “My mother was his commander when he was still the captain of the Farragut. That’s how they met.”

“Rather like your sister and the young Captain Kirk, then?”

Connor pauses.

“Ah, well.” Connor shrugs slightly, turning to meet Khan’s eye. “They have not… progressed, shall we say, as quickly as I have. It is… we do not talk about it, really. She is more cautious than I am, when it comes to our Illyrian instincts.”

Khan arches an eyebrow.

“Progressed?” he repeats, amused. “You refer to us, then?”

Connor sighs.

“I am impulsive, my sister is not,” he says. “When I realized how you drew me to yourself, I followed my instincts. I trust them not to steer me wrong, in this.”

Khan has warm eyes. His smile is fond when he shifts to face the younger man, resting his arm along the length of the tub as he trails his fingers across the surface of the warm water.

“Tell me, then,” he says, his tone playful as he rests his chin on his forearm. “What did you tell your sister about me?”

Connor huffs an embarrassed sigh.

“Well,” he says. “Nothing she didn’t already guess, I imagine. We are twins— she knows me almost as well as I know myself.”

If anything, Khan looks even more amused.

“And what did she guess, Connor?” he asks, tugging lightly at the small hairs at the nape of his neck. “Go on, my love, tell me.”

Connor shivers. Nobody’s ever called him that, before.

“I told her you were a passionate man,” he admits, feeling his cheeks heat slightly under Khan’s gaze. “That you were— charming.”

“And?”

Connor looks away.

“I made it clear before we departed that I was following a— a gut feeling, as it were,” he says. “She has the same instincts. She understands very well what’s happened.”

“And what’s happened?” Khan’s thumb rests in the hollow behind Connor’s ear, his palm cradling the back of his head in a manner just shy of possessive. “Please, explain it to me, so we might both understand.”

“Uh…” Connor squirms. “Well. I have— feelings, obviously. For you.” Khan arches an eyebrow, and Connor clears his throat and clarifies, “Positive ones.”

Khan’s laugh rumbles deep in his chest.

“Are all Humans so stiff in the future?” he asks. “Or is it something to do with your mother’s blood?”

Connor bites his lip.

“We were raised to believe in actions over words,” he says. “Love can hardly be explained.”

“Love,” Khan repeats, and there’s triumph in his eyes when Connor looks up again. “Yes, there’s the word for it.”

He sounds— well, a bit smug, really, but Connor… Connor doesn’t necessarily find it unattractive. There’s a purr in his words, a warmth that Connor hasn’t heard him use with anyone else, not even with the members of his crew during the brief encounters he’d had the evening before. This… it’s different. Obviously.

Khan opens his hand, and unthinkingly, Connor reaches to take it.

“You are a most fascinating man, Connor,” he says, pressing his mouth to Connor’s knuckles gently. “You really are a wonder.”

Pleasure warms Connor’s chest.

“It is good you think so,” Connor says. “Because I do not believe it would work out between us if you did not.”

Khan lets out another deep chuckle.

“I believe I would have you by my side forever, if you’d permit it,” Khan says. “Would you permit it?”

Connor pauses.

“Just to be clear,” he says slowly. “That was... not a marriage proposal?”

Khan looks at him as though he’s just given him the secret to the universe.

“Is that common, in this time?” he murmurs, the hand at Connor’s neck following the line of his shoulder and arm until his palm rests over their entwined fingers. “A union between two men?”

“It is not uncommon,” Connor says, shrugging. “Society has evolved since you were… active, let’s say. People realized there were more important things to worry about.” There are quite a few books on the subject of Khan’s male lovers, but the man himself had never seemed particularly bothered with such particulars as marriage when it came to his partners of old. It had never occurred to Connor that he might have opinions on the matter.

“That is— good,” Khan says. “That things have changed.”

“Yes.”

There’s another pause.

“In that case,” Khan says. “I would have you marry me, Connor. If you were willing.”

Connor blinks.

“Really?” he asks dumbly. “So soon?”

“You’ll soon find, Connor,” Khan says, giving him a smile that makes Connor think he’s going to be eaten alive. “That I also am a man who follows his gut feeling.”

Connor feels very light, all of a sudden. Maybe even a little dizzy.

“Oh,” he says faintly. “Well, then. Yes, of course.”

Khan’s smile grows as he pulls Connor forward, careless of the water that sloshes out of the tub when he pulls him into a proper kiss.

“We can have a small ceremony on the ship,” Khan says when they break for air. “If you like, we can send our coordinates to your crew so they might attend, as well.”

Sometimes, life can get complicated. Other times, though, things just… fall into place.

“As convenient as that would be…” Connor starts, injecting a note of carefully practiced reluctance into his usual monotone. “It would probably be safer— for both of us, not just you— if we told my family, first. With how many accidental marriages we have had over the years, my family will wring both our necks if we rob them of the chance to throw a proper reception. My mother and elder brother, especially.” His father wouldn’t be too pleased, either, but a quiet wedding will be the least of his issues with Khan, if Connor’s honest with himself. “While I am sure you can hold your own, I would rather not have to deal with the headache.”

Khan snorts.

“As you like it,” he says. “Your family, they’re on Earth?”

“Actually, no.” Connor checked the trackers last night, and both his mother and Jim appear to be somewhere along the Klingon/Vulcan border or the Neutral Zone. “Most of them serve on a Starfleet ship, actually, and as it happens, my mother is also aboard the Enterprise. We could meet them without too much trouble, I think— Jim would be more than happy to give his crew a few days’ shore leave for a wedding, certainly.”

“Jim… you refer to Captain Kirk,” Khan realizes. “As in—”

“Yes.” Connor nods serenely. “He is my adoptive older brother. My adoptive sister is also aboard the Enterprise— she’s one of their more talented engineers.”

“And your father?”

“On Earth,” Connor admits. “But that is alright. He is used to it.”

Chapter Text

When Tubey wakes up, she has two messages waiting for her, both from Connor. The first one, she expected— it’s a somewhat awkward holovid recording of her brother luxuriating in a bathtub as he tells her almost nothing useful, twitterpated as he is. He is an embarrassment to their blood and it’s equally irritating and utterly adorable, even if she’d never admit it.

The second message is… different. It’s just a picture of Connor and Khan, Connor looking embarrassingly lovestruck as Khan nuzzles his hair, his eyes closed and his arm looping easily around her twin’s waist. As if the picture isn’t bad enough, Connor’s found some sort of tacky, heart-shaped border to apply to it, complete with a caption written in loopy, cursive letters.

When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want it to start as soon as possible...

Underneath it are coordinates— Jim’s coordinates, and by extension, the Enterprise’s.

Realization hits Tubey like a bullet train, and she scrambles out of her bunk, careless of the way her blankets fall to the floor in her rush to find Peter.

It’s late, which means her Captain is in his quarters, either meditating or tending to the dozen or so plants he’s gathered since they started flying together. As expected, that’s exactly where she finds him when she punches in the code to his quarters, his long, blond hair loose around his shoulder as he tends to a squat, ugly little fern with an eye dropper and a small pair of clippers.

He looks up at the sound of his door opening, startled.

“Tubey?” he asks, cheeks going pink as he straightens. “What’s wrong?”

Tubey looks down. She’s still dressed for bed, in a plain tank top and a pair of old, faded boxers she thinks might have belonged to David at some point. It’s… not exactly the sort of thing she wears, really, outside of the comfort of her quarters.

She ignores the horrible creep of embarrassment that tries to make its way up her spine. After all, she came here for a reason, an important one.

“Look what Connor just sent me,” she says, holding up her PADD for inspection. “Look at my idiot brother and tell me this is going to end well.”

Peter looks. Then, he swears.

“Full speed towards the Enterprise,” he says, dropping his clippers beside the flower pot on the table and reaching for the light blue over-robe hanging beside his bed. “Open up all emergency channels, all private channels, everything—”

“Is that Peter’s captain-voice I hear?” Jo calls from across the hall, sounding only half-awake. “Is something on fire?”

“Worse,” Peter says flatly. “Connor is getting married.”

Tubey looks out to see Jo straightening in the doorway in her room, surprise shaking away the last vestiges of sleep as understanding filters through her fogged brain.

“To who?” Jo asks, horrified. “Not—”

“Of course Khan,” Peter says, sounding irritated. “He’s the only conveniently-located genocidal maniac Connor has available at the moment.”

“You make it sound like he’s got a type,” David says mildly, barefoot and bed-headed as he stumbles out of his own room, Saavik only a few steps behind him.

“I apologize,” Peter says tightly. “I simply mean that his choice in life partner is a tad inconvenient, considering his status as a prisoner of the Federation.”

“That is fair,” Saavik says, rubbing at her eyes. “Is Demora awake, or is she ignoring us?”

“Let her sleep,” Tubey says, tucking her PADD under her arm and stepping back out into the hall, Peter close behind. “I can handle navigation, for now.”

“No, you need to contact the Enterprise,” Peter says, the door to his quarters sliding shut behind him. “I will handle navigation. David, Saavik, you can return to your rooms— the real trouble will not begin until we reach the Enterprise , I imagine. Or, until the Botany Bay reaches the Enterprise.”

“He’s gonna blow them out of the sky,” Jo says, horror softening her voice. “The moment he realizes who it is, he’s going to have them fire everything.”

“You mean Jim?” David asks. “That’s not really his style.”

“No,” Jo says, shaking her head slowly. “I mean my dad.”

There’s a pause.

“Shit,” Saavik says quietly.

Tubey quite agrees.

*.*

So here’s the thing about being the big, fancy Captain of the Federation’s big, fancy flagship: Jim is constantly getting his actual important missions sidelined for diplomatic nonsense. For example, about three months ago he had to give up their spot patrolling the border between two warring star systems that both wanted entry into the Federation in order to go fly along the Romulan Neutral Zone and look all scary and important.

Or the time last year when they had to play taxi-cab to the future governor of a new colony, a job that was oh-so sensitively thrown their way because the brass (and Jim is paraphrasing here) ‘wanted to make sure that everything was up to Jim’s standards.’

Or what is so far his personal favorite, which is happening right this very minute. He had to pull Spock and the entire science team away from a really exciting collapsing star, handing all of the progress and the future bragging rights off to another crew just to go pick up Number One from Earth and take her to a summit on the Yorktown base.

To be fair, it’s an important summit in regards to the escaped prisoners of the Botany Bay . And Jim is really excited about the fact that Number One gets to hang out with him for a week while they travel and then wait for the show to start. But he really doesn’t appreciate being treated like a rideshare program. Even though Spock, Bones, and him were all called to the summit anyway.

It’s the principle of the matter. And the principle is that he would much rather have his bondmate distracted by what Spock calls a once in a century observation opportunity rather than being constantly on edge.

Because he is on edge. Having the man that killed your bondmate and all of his genocidal pals woken from cryosleep and galavanting around the galaxy can do that to a Vulcan. Jim gets it. He does. He really does.

But the waves of protectiveness and stress that have been coming across their bond for the past week have been migraine inducing to say the least.

So that is how Jim finds himself, three days of leisurely sailing away from Yorktown, a very boring and yet somehow equally stressful meeting set to start two days after that, sitting in the Captain's chair at 0800, clutching a cup of coffee like his life depends on it. Because at this point it basically does. Between Spock’s protectiveness, Bones’ hovering, and Number One’s murder eyes, Jim might very well do something stupid if he ends up even slightly decaffienated for so much a second.

Ironically enough, it turns out that he should have been watching out for the stupid actions of other people.

Spock is glaring at some reading or another coming across his station, and Bones is on the bridge for his daily I-told-you-so rant. The rant is tradition at this point. The contents change, but the theme remains the same. And Leonard likes to get to Jim before he finishes his coffee, the sick bastard.

“Captain,” Sulu interrupts Bones’ prattling, “unknown ship within sensor range.”

Jim tries to fight back his smile. Can’t let McCoy know how happy he is to cut the good doctor’s rant short. “Transmissions?”

“None, sir. But the drive signature suggests Terran origin, most likely civilian vessel.”

The small part of Jim that never truly calms down relaxes slightly. A civilian vessel this close to Yorktown makes sense, especially one from Earth. No cause for alarm.

Yet there is still this prickling worry clawing at the back of his neck. A worry that is only heightened when Sulu speaks up again. “Sir, they… they seem to be on an intercept course with us.”

“They seem to be or they are , Mr. Sulu?” Spock asks from behind Jim’s right shoulder. He likes to stand there when he’s stressed.

“They are, sirs,” pipes up Chekov. “Still no transmissions, but they are nearly within visual range.”

Jim sighs. “The second that they are, get ‘em on screen. If we’re in for a mess of a morning I want to know about it before I step in it, okay?”

Sulu does a pretty bad job of hiding his chuckle. “Yes, Captain.”

Jim can feel Bones move to take his customary place behind his left shoulder, a few feet away from Spock. More importantly, he can feel the rant starting to rev back up. If Jim’s lucky something will go horribly wrong right about now and then he won’t have to hear another word about how he needs to get his blood work done again.

By now Jim really should know to be careful what he wishes for. Because less than a minute after that thought Sulu announces that the vessel is within visual range and the viewscreen changes from the ambient flashing past of star systems to a close-up focus of a ship. And not just any ship. No, that would be simple. This ship is old, almost comically so, in a way reminiscent of space junk or a cartoon. Not something you would expect to be flying with a live drive straight at them. And not only is it old, but it’s big , the only part initially visible is the old fashioned, sea-faring vessel style bow.

“Sulu, back the image up,” Jim orders, “I want a proper look at this thing.”

The image slowly scales out, and there is it, written on the side in flowing cursive script, The Botany Bay.

Before Jim has the chance to process that the missing war criminals ship is right in front of him, let alone react, Bones barks an order with more authority than Jim has ever heard come out of his friend outside of an operating room.

“Fire everything!”

Kirk turns sharply to ask him what the fuck his problem is, but any chance of rectify the situation goes out the proverbial window with his dignity as he upends his entire cup of steaming black coffee all over himself.

He curses under his breath. But it’s okay, he can come back from this.

Except he never gets the chance.

Bones is an angry authority, all fire and steam. Spock, though, he’s cold— icy, even— in his calm. “Everything but the nuclear weapons,” he orders, causing Jim to quickly whip himself in the other direction, whacking himself in the face with his now empty mug as he does so, “we are within range.”

Now Jim isn’t sure whether it’s the fact that Spock has never ordered something without Jim’s approval before, or just the fact that the CMO and first officer agree on something for once, but no one stops to check how the Captain feels here.

Sulu just starts shooting.

The view screen goes orange and white with the light of the silent explosions on the enemy ship. At the same time Uhura, previously staring at the screen in dumbfounded shock, sits ramrod straight. “I’ve got about seven different hails coming in, Captain.”

“Origin?”

Her usual attentive focus quickly shifts to horror. “It’s the Shu Fu, Jim.”

Jim’s blood runs cold. The kids have never hailed the Enterprise directly before. He knows what they do on that ship, and their children aren’t that stupid. If they are calling the bridge like this… someone is dying.

Apparently he’s not the only panicking dad on the bridge, if the looks on Sulu and Bones’ faces are anything to go by. He doesn’t have time to think.

“Put them on.”

The screen changes from silent explosions to his nephew's face. He doesn’t look hurt, and there’s Demora in the background, super focused on the controls in her hands. The icy hand around Jim’s heart relaxes it’s grip ever so slightly.

“Hey, Pete, now really isn’t a good time. What’s --”

“--Connor is on that ship! ”

And if Jim thought he was stressed before. 

“Cease fire!” he barks, and thankfully Sulu doesn’t need to be told twice. “Peter, is everyone else okay?”

His nephew nods.

“Keep it that way,” he snaps before jabbing the button on the arm of his chair that hangs up on them. Jim turns to tell Bones to get down to medical, but he needn’t bother. His friend is already gone.

“Mr. Chekov, is it possible to discern Connor’s life signs amongst those aboard the Botany Bay ?”

“Negative, sir.”

Jim really wishes he could have boredom back right now. He can’t let Number One’s kid die on his watch. Especially not with her on board his ship. 

“Fuck, okay.” Jim sighs. “Start beaming them all over then, four at a time to the brig. And get a triage team standing by to take those in need of immediate attention to Medbay.”

“On it, Captain,” Chekov says, already flicking switches.

“And Uhura, hail the Shu Fu, tell them to park in our shuttle bay. I need to have a word with its crew.”

This is going to be a really long day.

Chapter Text

Number One has many measures in place to ensure she is never caught off guard. She has her children chipped— the twins thrice, though they don’t know it, and Jim four times, because he’s an idiot, sometimes— and her husband trained well enough she only felt it necessary two put two trackers under his skin, both with his amusingly exasperated permission. She’s never trusted anyone else like she does him, and she probably never will again.

This is what love is.

Due to the third tracker— the ones the twins do know about— her PADD pings them the moment their within range of the Enterprise. Arching an eyebrow, Number One sets down her evening cocktail and pulls the device onto her lap.

Ah. The Shu Fu is docking aboard the Enterprise, how strange. Her children should know better, and if not them, then Peter, at least. More interestingly, Connor’s tracker appears to be on a different ship altogether, his life signs indicating he’s under some amount of stress.

Clearly, something has gone terribly wrong. She wonders if it has something to do with the Enterprise raining hell on… somebody. She wasn’t on the bridge to see it, and she hasn’t bothered to tap into the ship’s systems yet, mostly because that means having to work around Scotty’s code, which is an effort and a half when she can just ask Jim for his passcodes. It’s not like he would be able to tell her no for long.

Well. Nothing for it than to see for herself, then.

*.*

Jim feels more than sees Number One fall into step beside him as he makes his way down to the shuttle bay, and honestly, he isn’t surprised.

“Why is the Shu Fu here?” she asks, because she doesn’t like to waste time. “I thought we made it clear that their activities were not to come in contact with the ‘fleet under any circumstances.”

“Yeah.” Jim sneaks a glance out of the corner of his eye. She doesn’t seem— angry, or anything. “We made contact with the Botany Bay.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I say we made contact,” Jim says, wary. “The moment Bones recognized the ship, he ordered the crew to fire everything. And then, Spock told them to hold back the nuclear missiles, but not to stop firing. And then, the Shu Fu hailed us, because apparently, Connor is on the Botany Bay.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Connor is on the Botany Bay,” Number One repeats carefully. “And you just blew up the Botany Bay. Am I understanding that correctly?”

Jim swallows.

“We’re beaming the survivors aboard,” he says. “The ship hasn’t actually blown up yet— their shields were patchy, but they held off most engine damage, we think.”

“I appreciate your friend’s loyalty, and the loyalty of your bondmate,” Number One tells him after a moment. “But I am going to break both of their hands.”

Jim winces.

“Please don’t,” he says. “We need their hands. Bones’ hands specifically.”

“I will wait until after Connor is safe and the situation is under control,” she concedes, and, well.

That’s probably the best offer Jim’s going to get.

*.*

The crew looks rough when they tumble out of their little ship, but then, they’re pirates. They’re supposed to look a little rough.

It’s deeper than that, Jim knows, but he can’t help but be a little amused at what little ragamuffins his nieces, nephews, and son have turned out to be, all wrapped up in Klingon leather and Romulan silks. Actually, how did they even…

No. He doesn’t want to know. None of them want to know, because, y’know. Plausible deniability.

Still, they do make for an interesting picture, nowadays. Jo may look like she nailed down the red-headed Star-Lord thing a decade and change ago— and God, it’s terrible to think how long it’s been, Jim’s getting old— but Demora’s got a bit of personality going on, too, with all those swords hanging from her hips like a belly dancer’s bells and streaks of pink in her dark hair. David and Saavik are literally dressed almost exactly the same in Andorian-style tunics and leggings with heavy, Terran work boots in the late stages of wearing out, while Tubey comes stalking out in a bomber jacket that Jim is pretty sure belonged to him at some point. Even Peter looks a little wilder, his long hair loose around his shoulders and his usual Vulcan over-robe open over threadbare undershirt and loose linen pants. Jim didn’t know the kid had it in him; he’d be proud, if the world wasn’t currently on fire, a little bit.

Peter makes a beeline for him and Number One, Tubey only a step behind as she tries to smooth out the furrow in her brow behind his back. It makes Jim’s stomach twist, to see her like that— normally, her poker face is nearly as good as her mother’s.

“There is a situation,” Peter says tightly.

“Yeah? No shit, Sherlock,” Jim says, folding his arms. “What the fuck have you gotten yourself into, Peter?”

“It is complicated—”

“We were on a job,” Tubey says, interrupting him. “We picked up a man who we realized to be the recently defrosted John Harrison. Upon imprisoning him in our airlock and ensuring certain security measures were taken, we were boarded by the captain of the Botany Bay— the real Khan Noonien Singh.”

“John Harrison is an imposter,” Peter continues, looking at Jim. “Upon waking from his cryogenic sleep, Khan discovered Harrison’s actions following his awakening the first time around. He has deemed it a betrayal, and has vowed to find the man… and kill him.”

“This is all very interesting,” Number One remarks. “But why is my son on that ship?”

Peter hesitates, glancing at Tubey with uncertainty.

Tubey looks her mother in the eye.

“His decision was twofold,” she says. “To keep an eye on Khan and his crew, and…” she trails off, grimacing, but Jim isn’t feeling particularly generous today.

“Peter,” he says warningly, and his nephew sighs uncomfortably.

“Connor is fascinated by Khan,” he says, shifting when Tubey turns to glare. “Tubey said… they zinged.”

Jim pauses, because, no. He didn’t just say that. That— that’s not even real.

Except, apparently it must be, because beside him, Number One sighs and reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose, and— genuinely, Jim can’t remember the last time he saw Number One look so… exasperated. And that’s saying something, considering who he is.

Sidenote: Jim doesn’t remember ever forcing Number One to watch Hotel Transylvania, which means either the twins made her watch it (adorable) or she watched it alone (amazing).

“Captain, the Doctor’s calling,” one of the engineers calls from his console. “He wants you in Medbay.”

And just like that, a part of Jim relaxes, which— that’s a first, definitely. Jim’s never relaxed at the idea of going to Medbay in his life.

“Right,” Jim says. “Peter, Tubey, you’re with me. The rest of you… find someone who knows how to make you useful and be useful.”

“I’m going with you, then,” Jo says, stepping forward, and Jim nods because, yeah, obviously.

“Let’s go.”

*.*

The clasps on the device John’s been forced to endure these past days aren’t that difficult, really, simply difficult to reach— or, they would be, for someone who isn’t John.

All he needed was the opportunity to slip away, and by luck, it’s been given to him in the form of a ship in chaos. With the little ship docked and the crew thoroughly distracted, it’s a simple thing for John to slip away.

After all, the transporter rooms aren’t a security priority at the moment. Damaged as the Botany Bay may be, John knows his ship well enough to know she can handle one more burst of speed, just enough to get him free and clear.

All he needs to do is get there.

*.*

Bones isn’t thinking, he’s doing. It happens, sometimes— shit gets so bad in the Medbay that his body just moves on its own, barking orders and snapping gloves and plugging the leaks as needed.

That’s usually how it works. He says usually because it— it all stops, when he sees Connor stretched out across a biobed, his hands pressed over a steadily growing bloodstain just under his ribcage as he gasps ragged, wet breaths, struggling through the blood coating his teeth and staining his mouth.

“Connor, oh, fuck—” He shoves his way through the knot of nurses and equipment flying in every direction, forcing his way to Connor’s side even as Chapel calls for him from the other side of the room. “Shit—”

His tricorder whirs in his hands. A punctured lung, a few broken ribs— he’s got a hole that goes clean through, from one end to the other, punched through like he was… impaled by something, maybe.

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” Bones mutters, reaching for for his tools. “I brought you into this world and I’ll be damned if you leave it on my watch, you little bastard—” Not on his call, either. There are reasons Bones isn’t in charge of his ship, and mistakes like this are one of them. “Hold on, you hear me? I’ve got you.”

Connor nods weakly, going still as Bones pulls an oxygen mask from overhead and straps it to his face, limp even when Bones sticks him with one, two, three hypos.

“He will not survive.”

Bones looks up so fast he hears something in his neck snap. There’s a man looming over him, an Augment, his arm cradled to his chest gingerly as he looks at Bones, urgency in his dark eyes.

“His injuries are too dire,” the Augment says, voice low but clear despite the chaos unfolding around them. “Even for your technology. Please—” he holds out his uninjured hand, palm up. “My blood. Use my blood.”

Bones feels his stomach drop into his shoes.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demands. “You need to sit down, or I’ll have you strapped to the bed my—”

“Uncle Bones.” A long-fingered hand wraps itself around his wrist and he looks down. Connor’s having trouble focusing, the sedatives already starting to set in. “It’s okay. He’s… mine.”

Connor coughs, splattering the inside of his mask with blood, and Bones feels himself flinch, looking back at the Augment who’s standing much too close.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he snarls, because of course Connor went and decided to make friends with a member of a race best known for its genocidal tendencies. Birds of a feather, and all that jazz.

“Unfortunately, he is not, Doctor,” the Augment says, drawing himself up. “He is my fiance, and I demand you do what is necessary for his survival.”

Bones… Bones does not have time for this. He does not have time for the drama that this is going to bring. He also does not have the time to waste fighting about medical procedure with a random civilian, mostly because said civilian is probably right, if his tricorder readings are accurate.

Fuck it. The guy called Connor his fiance, which is more than enough to bend the rules in his favor. Number One would rather have her son alive through questionable medical means than dead, anyway, and it’s not like Bones doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s even done this before, weirdly enough.

“Nurse!” he barks, and three appear. “Keep him alive. I need twenty minutes, and then he’ll need to be prepped for surgery.” He jabs a finger in the Augment’s direction. “You. Follow me.”

Twenty minutes to extract some super blood and dilute it so it doesn’t kill Connor the moment it enters his bloodstream.

Yeah. He can do that.

Chapter Text

“Captain Kirk.”

Peter looks up at the same time his uncle does but it’s clear who Khan’s speaking to when he rises to his feet to shake Peter’s hand with his own, uninjured one.

“How is he?” Peter asks, hyper aware of his uncle’s surprised eyes on the side of his head as he steps further into Khan’s space than is probably advisable. “Was he injured?”

Khan’s jaw tightens.

“The doctor is doing what he can,” he says. “I have offered my own resources, of course.”

“Where is he?” Tubey asks sharply, and Khan bows his head.

“In surgery— I believe his surgeon is your father, Miss McCoy.” He nods in Jo’s direction, and she flinches.

“Right,” she says, looking away. “Right, okay— I need gloves, somebody gimme gloves.”

She shrugs her jacket off and tosses it into a corner, grabbing at the box of rubber gloves that appears like magic on the table at her elbow.

“Peter—”

“Go.” Peter doesn’t look away from Khan’s handsome face. The man is injured, clearly— his wrist appears broken, with some swelling around his shoulder that might be indicative of a recently dislocated shoulder. “What happened, Captain Singh?”

“Our communication systems are outdated— we needed to be within range to hail the Enterprise,” Khan admits, mouth pinching. “While we were aware of our apparent status as prisoners of the Federation, we didn’t expect such a strong response to our admittedly abrupt appearance— you Starfleet types seem soft, compared to what we knew.” He looks at Jim as he speaks, and there’s respect there, begrudging as it is.

This could be a good thing, assuming Peter’s uncle doesn’t do anything insane— which he probably will.

“It was bad luck,” Khan says, and he sounds… just a little bit wretched. “Too much strain on the forward bow caused splintering of several load-bearing beams, and Connor was standing too close.”

Peter takes a deep breath.

“Captain Singh, this is my uncle, Captain James Tiberius Kirk of the USS Enterprise,” Peter says, gesturing vaguely in Jim’s direction. “Uncle Jim, this is Khan Noonien Singh—” He swallows. “Connor’s intended.”

There’s a beat where Jim is absolutely still, and Peter— coward that he is— absolutely refuses to look at him. God, he hopes this isn’t going to force Jim to arrest them all again. Then he’d have to call Uncle Sarek, and Uncle Sarek would probably have to get T’Pau involved, and that’s without all this nonsense thrown on top of it—

Khan moves, breaking Peter’s thoughts as he shifts his focus completely on Jim.

“I feel we cannot be properly acquainted without my first begging your pardon, Captain Kirk,” Khan says, bowing shallowly as he steps closer. “Through the documents archived within the base in which the Botany Bay was docked, I learned of my former crewman’s actions. You nephew and his people have been nothing but helpful in our short time knowing one another. Please, accept my apology for my place in all this— without my name, Harrison would never have been able to cause the damage done against your people.”

It’s the sincerity that gets Peter— or the seeming sincerity, anyway. Carefully, he shifts to look at Jim, whose expression is… worryingly blank.

“I appreciate that,” Jim says slowly. “But like, White Khan— sorry, Harrison— killed me. He almost killed Number One, too, and she practically raised me. I can’t help but have… a little bit more of a personal stake in all this than the average Starfleet captain— assuming your apology is meant for Starfleet and the Federation as a whole, anyway.”

Khan’s expression darkens.

“I do not imagine I would easily find horses this far from our native planet,” he says, and there’s something evil rumbling in the back of his throat. “But I promise you, captain, the moment Harrison is within my grasp once more, I will find the closest available approximation and have the man drawn and quartered.”

There’s a beat, and then, Jim gives the man a positively angelic smile— probably, Peter thinks miserably, because he knows John Harrison is about four floors below them.

“Fantastic,” Jim says, clapping his hands together. “So, with all of that figured out, how about we see about getting someone to look at that wrist of yours really quick? It looks a little… floppy.”

“I am not so badly injured,” Khan says. “I can wait— there are others with greater need.” He pauses, turning to look across the Medbay as he does a silent count. “How many survived?”

Jim sobers.

“Seventy-three, including you and Connor,” he says. “Assuming you haven’t picked up any other fiances, I think that means no fatalities.”

The line of Khan’s shoulders loosens, slightly— Peter hadn’t noticed how tightly the man was holding himself.

“No,” he says, leaning carefully against the wall. “No, that’s everyone.”

“Cool,” Jim says. “Cool. Right. Um, Peter?”

“Yes?”

“Where’d Tubey and Number One go?”

Peter pauses.

“I… believe they might have gone looking for Connor,” he says. “The privacy screens haven’t been activated, so I assume…”

Jim arches an eyebrow.

“Is that a good idea?” he asks, and his nephew sighs.

“Probably not, no.”

*.*

Tubey has seen her fair share of blood at this point. Not as much as other members of her family, perhaps, but enough to be able to quiet her roiling stomach as she watches her uncle and half a dozen nurses pull him apart.

She’s— scared. Terrified, really, and her mother… her mother isn’t exactly helping.

“Dr. McCoy will do everything in his power to save him,” Number One says. “Besides his personal connections to you both, he knows what it will mean for him if he lets your brother die here.”

Her mother is a lot of things. Not particularly comforting, though.

“Connor begged to go with him,” Tubey says, folding her arms over her chest. “The moment he realized what was happening. It was foolish to let him.”

“Probably,” Number One says. “But it was what he wanted. There are always consequences to acting impulsively, foreseen or otherwise.”

Yeah, like getting blown up by your parents. Tubey hates to admit it, but that one blindsided her.

“That said, your brother is exceedingly practical, once he has a goal,” Number One continues thoughtfully. “He is not afraid of failure.”

Well.

“What are you implying?” Tubey asks, trying to stifle the irritation sparking in her chest.

“You are having difficulty understanding your brother’s immediate feelings,” her mother says. “And it bothers you, because until now, you have understood every motivation that has ever driven him to do anything.”

“And?”

“And, it would be much easier to understand if you took steps to ensure your own happiness.” Number One looks at her daughter. “How is Peter, Two?”

Tubey swallows.

“I do not want to talk about this,” she says. “I will not.”

“I understand, of course— you have always exhibited a greater likeness to me than your brother,” Number One says, unbothered. “And I took my time with your father as well— perhaps not sixteen years, but…”

“You would rather I throw myself at someone I have known for an hour, then?” Tubey says, scowling as she glances in the direction of Khan where he stands between Peter and Jim. “That seems healthy.”

“You have known Peter for nearly as long as you have been alive,” Number One says placidly. “My concerns for your brother have less to do with his apparent inability to keep his emotions in check— which is a flaw your father and I have been aware of for a very long time, I promise you— and more to do with the fact that he has chosen to spend his life with a man literally bred to bring the people of Earth to its knees under his rule. As far as I know, Peter has yet to commit genocide.”

There’s a flurry of movement from the other side of the glass, and whatever response Tubey has dies on her lips.

Quietly, her mother shifts until their arms touch, and after a moment, Tubey lets herself rest her head on her mother’s shoulder.

And then, they wait.

Chapter Text

Everything is on fire— metaphorically, for once— and Jo is in the zone. She is flying back and forth between biobeds and medical pantries, dropping off fresh gloves, masks, hypos, and regenerators. Legally, she can’t work as a nurse— she never took her certification exams— but she knows her father’s organizational systems like the back of her own hand, and anyway, it’s not like she’s ever just going to forget a lifetime’s worth of reading medical journals in her free time, not to mention the actual, Starfleet-standard training she was given, those years at the Academy.

She’s in the middle of firing up the replicator to get started on the next batch of gloves when her arm beeps at her. It takes her a second to locate the source of the sound until it beeps again, lighting up the inside of her sleeve in bright red light.

Her stomach drops. Throwing off her coat, she steps away from the replicator and looks at the device on her wrist.

GRAN’ROQ A’QOHRA INACTIVE. SYSTEM POWERING DOWN.

Oh, no. No, no, no no no no no no no…

The toy has a few safeguards built into the software, mostly to preserve power when its users are distracted by their physical pursuits. Specifically, after thirty minutes of inactivity— nearly impossible when someone is actually wearing the thing— it turns off.

It just turned off, which means Khan hasn’t been wearing it for thirty minutes. Which means he is almost definitely loose somewhere on the Enterprise.

Jo’s a tough person. She’s got to be, to do what she does, and her strength, usually coupled with a nice dollop of old McCoy charm, can get her through most things.

An escaped, evil superhuman with a grudge against her uncle— and probably every single person on this ship, if she’s honest— is not a situation she can tough out or charm her way out of. It is— too much. Simply too much.

With shaky hands, she reaches for her comm where it's tucked into the breast pocket of her protective vest. She scrolls through her contacts quickly, jabbing the one she’s looking for without really thinking about it.

She hears two tones, and then, someone picks up.

“Yes, my love?”

Jo swallows.

“I’m on the Federation side of the Neutral Zone,” she manages, words choked. “On my Dad’s ship. There’s a— a situation. I need you to come get me, please.”

There’s a long pause.

“Send me your coordinates,” comes the reply. “We’ll be there.”

Something in Jo’s chest cracks.

“Thank you,” she says softly, hanging up.

She needs to go tell her dad she can’t help anymore.

*.* 

Bones comes out of Medbay with blood down the front of his scrubs and clean hands, his expression grim but not grieving. He makes a beeline for Number One and Tubey, catching them both by the elbows and dragging them into his office, where Jim and Peter are standing behind Bones’ desk, bent over some file and arguing about something important no doubt.

Bones shoots Jim a glare as they walk in that says that ‘if you Kirks have any sense between you, you won’t butt in right now.’ Hopefully that sticks.

“Connor’s gonna be fine,” he says the moment the door slides shut behind them. “I want to lead with that.”

“That implies you have bad news to give,” Number One says, arching an eyebrow. “But you know better than that, Doctor.”

Bones pales slightly.

“It’s not— bad news, necessarily,” he says, hitting the privacy screens. “Just not something I want to advertise.”

Number One waits, crossing her arms expectantly.

“Uh… Superblood serum?” he says, leaning back as mother and daughter fix identical, flat eyes on him. “He… it wasn’t great.”

Almost immediately, Number One relaxes.

“Oh,” she says. “Well, then. Your interest in privacy is understood.”

“I had to explain how I did it with Jim,” Bones says, shifting uncomfortably. “But that’s because he was already dead. I know how you are about privacy— if you want me to keep it quiet, I will.”

“I do want that.”

“Perfect.” There’s a beat. “Um… I’m sorry?”

Number One tilts her head to one side.

“We will discuss your reparations at another time,” she says, peering over his shoulder. “Your daughter appears to need assistance.”

“What—” Bones pivots on his heel just as the door to his office slides open. “Jo?”

“She fainted,” Khan says shortly, wincing slightly as he deposits her carefully onto the small couch mostly reserved for night shifts and occasionally Jim. It looks like somebody took care of his wrist— it’s in a splint, now, in Starfleet standard issue gray. “It appears my quarry has been on Captain Kirk the Younger’s ship this entire time.”

“I apologize for the duplicity, but we were uncertain of the situation and were unwilling to inadvertently—”

“Quarry?” Number One asks sharply, cutting Tubey off, looking at Jim as Bones moves to kneel by his daughter’s side.

“John Harrison,” Khan says, crossing his arms. “A former member of my crew. And you are… Connor’s mother, yes?”

“I am.” She’s still looking at Jim, though. “You are his chosen, then?”

“I am.”

“We will talk later. Jim?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” Jim shakes his head. “Anyway, I’ve already put on a red alert. Security’s looking for him now—”

“Peter.”

Tubey points to Jo and her father when he looks. Jo’s regained consciousness, shoving herself up as she fumbles for her comm.

“Where is he? Oh, Christ, where is he?”

“Where’s who, sweetheart?”

Jo is crying, choking on her own breath as she tries to get the words out.

“W- where is m-m-my husband?”

There’s a pause.

“Nope. No,” Jim says, shaking his head furiously. “There is too much going on right now to have this revelation to have on top of everything else— no more mixing family drama with actual emergencies, we made a rule—”

“Is she always this dramatic?” Khan asks Peter quietly, leaning over to speak into his ear.

“Only when she thinks she fucked up,” Peter says, looking and, more importantly, feeling tired. “Jo, we were holding an Augment hostage with stuff out of the sex dungeon that you apparently have. The fact that it held for this long is honestly pretty impressive. Chill.”

Beside him, Jim’s face twists into something caught between a wince and a laugh.

“Did you have to say sex dungeon?” he asks, frowning at his nephew. “I don’t want to know about sex dungeons, not about my niece, why—”

“I want Jerry, Daddy.”

“No problem, sweetheart, we’ll call him, don’t worry.” Bones is fast with the hypos— Peter barely even sees him move until it’s pressed to his daughter’s neck and she’s gone limp.

“Who the fuck is this Jerry?” Bones demands, turning on Peter. “When did she get married?”

“I have no idea,” Peter says stiffly. “While she has on numerous occasions mentioned a husband I always figured that it was. Y’know. A lie.”

Bones opens his mouth to argue, but before he can take a breath, someone calls his office comm.

“Dr. McCoy, is the captain there?” Sulu asks, his voice crackling from the overhead speaker.

“I’m here, Sulu,” Jim says, sounding relieved. “What’s up?”

There’s a pause.

“Well, sir, it appears the Botany Bay is attempting to go into warp,” Sulu says. “And Spock said to call you.”

Seriously? Jim thinks, frowning internally as he waits for Spock’s response.

Well, Captain, I suppose I could always fire again, Spock replies, the thought flat with sore temper.

No don’t.

“Cool!” Jim claps his hands. “Great. We’re coming, Sulu, hang on a sec.”

“Yes, Captain.”

The call ends, and Jim turns a beaming smile on his nephew and Khan.

“Hey, Khan?” Jim asks, shifting his gaze to the older man. “Out of curiosity, what did Harrison do, on the Botany Bay?”

Khan’s lips thin.

“He was our chief engineer, as it happens.”

Jim’s smile widens.

“Fantastic.”

He’s being sarcastic. It’s not fantastic. Peter knows this by the throbbing pain developing behind his eyes and the look on Tubey’s face that tells him she wouldn’t be opposed to killing something right this second.

“Tubey, why don’t you go with your captain, now,” Number One says, glancing at her daughter. “I need to make some calls.”

Tubey looks at Peter, who looks at Jim, who looks at all of them and just… keeps grinning.

“Yeah, why not?” he says, throwing up his hands. “Pirates and dictators, why not? The more the merrier.”

Peter keeps his mouth shut and falls into line behind his uncle, shooting Khan a warning glare as Tubey slips into place beside him. Something in Peter’s gut tells him that, when this is all over?

They’re so grounded.

Chapter Text

Jim doesn’t get long to think about the sight that they make stepping off the turbolift and on the bridge. Under normal circumstances that entry alone would be the most interesting thing in a week. Two pirates and an augemented super soldier that looks like an Indian sex god? Not the kind of entourage one would expect to accompany the Captain of the Federation’s flagship to the bridge.

But these are not normal circumstances.

The instant that the lift doors slide open, the view screen goes bright white with the flash of an explosion.

This is what Jim gets for wishing for some excitement, isn’t it?

“I thought we agreed no more shooting at people without my orders?” Jim barks, practically vaulting over the rail in his rush to get to the helm. If he needs to forcibly remove Sulu… at this point, he’ll do it without regret. 

“It wasn’t us, Captain!” Chekov all but squeaks, as both him and Sulu throw their hand up in the air as if that will help the situation.

Jim blinks. Huh.

“He is telling the truth,” Spock says from his place in the corner where he had been previously glowering at Khan in silence. “We did not fire.”

“Okay…” Jim looks back at the viewscreen just in time to wish that he hadn’t.

Although the Botany Bay was obliterated in a fireball, it seems that it’s only passenger… apparently did not meet the same fate. Instead, Jim watches his stiff, frozen body drift gently across the holographic panels like the galaxy’s creepiest screensaver before disappearing completely into the vacuum of space he and his crew call home.

The only thing Jim finds more unpleasant than the visual is the cold slide of satisfaction practically oozing across the bond from Spock.

They’re going to have to have a talk later.

And then, Jim’s bad day goes from unbelievable to a mess that can only be explained as a cosmic joke.

“Captain?” Uhura sounds almost apologetic. “We’re being hailed by a Klingon ship.”

“Of course we are,” he sighs. Better just to get this over with. “You three, go over with Spock so you’re out of frame,” he says to three obectively strange guests on the bridge.

And if Spock’s murder eyes get a little more intense as he places himself between Khan and their niblings? Jim pretends not to notice.

“On screen.”

Jim collapses into the Captain’s chair with a sigh as the image of the sizzling remains of the Botany Bay changes to the bridge of a Klingon ship. Or rather, the face of one Klingon standing far too close to the camera, with the vague impression of a bridge behind him,

Maybe the universe will shed just a drop of kindness and Jim can make this quick. “This is Captain James Kirk—”

There is this whole spiel that Jim had ready, about border lines and treaty violations, and how this ship is on the wrong side of both of them. But he never gets the chance because said Klingon cuts him off.

“James Kirk!” He bellows in a (is Jim imagining things here?) surprisingly friendly voice. “Just the man I was hoping to see!”

Jim blinks

“I’m sorry, have we met?”

The Klingon laughs. “Sadly, no, I have not yet had the pleasure. But my wife speaks very highly of you.”

Is this a trick? A prank? Is that what’s happening right now? Jim thinks to himself. “Your wife?”

“Yes, Joanna is very fond of you, Captain.”

With that, the small part of Jim’s consciousness that was clinging to the delusion of this shit show ending any time soon deflates like an old balloon. “You’re telling me that your -- I’m so sorry, what is your name?”

“Jeh’ri,” he answers.

“Jerry?” Jim asks.

“That is the closest approximation that your human tongue is capable of, yes.” He says with a smile. Jim doesn’t correct him.

“Okay. Jerry.” Jim couldn’t script this if he tried. “Do you mean to tell me that your wife is Joanna McCoy?

Jeh’ri nods.

“Human female? Dark skin? Red hair? Average blood alcohol content of about 80 percent?”

“Yes, that is my bride!” Jeh’ri exclaims, smile somehow getting bigger, his teeth flashing in a way that makes Jim just a little uneasy.

Sometimes all anyone can do is just roll with the punches.

“Well, Jerry, it is nice to meet you, but your ship is on the wrong side of the Neutral Zone, so there better be a damn good reason you’re in our neighborhood.”

“There is, Captain.” The joy drops out of Jeh’ri’s expression, making way for worry. “My wife sent me a distress call, and requested I retrieve her. So I have destroyed her enemies— may she forgive me for taking the pleasure from her— and am now here to escort her from whatever danger she may be in.”

Jim is starting to think someone might have slipped hallucinogens in his coffee. That would be a really nice thing to hear right about now.

“So you’re just here to see your wife?”

“Yes.”

“Joanna McCoy?”

“As I have said.”

Fuck it. “Alright, Jerry, here’s what we’re going to do. You— just you— will be beamed aboard and taken to Jo, and your crew will standby until your safe return. Sounds like a plan?”

“Indeed it does. I will be standing by for transport.”

And then Jeh’ri the Klingon hangs up on them. Which might as well happen. Jim jabs at the intercom controls a litter harder than needed, but he’s having a day. “Transporter room, this is the Captain.”

“Scott here, Captain,” and that is a bit of a surprise. “Sorry to say that I haven’t found the problem yet, sir.”

“What problem, Scotty?”

“There was a weird reading from the transporter earlier, like it was in use, but the log is empty. I’m afraid it must be on the fritz, but I can not for the life of me figure out where the malfunction came from.”

Jim can’t help it. He laughs.

“I don’t see what’s funny here, Jim.”

“We already figured that one out, Scotty, the transporter’s fine.” There ends the mystery of how John Harrison got off of the ship in the first place. “But I am actually pretty glad you’re there, I got a job for you.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You’re going to beam aboard a crew member of the Klingon Bird of Prey that we’ve got hanging out next us, and then this part is really important, Scotty, are you listening?”

There’s a pause. “I’m listening, I’m just afraid I’m hearing you wrong, sir.”

“Afraid not, Scotty. You heard me right.” This day just keeps getting better and better. “Beam the Klingon aboard— his name is Jerry, by the way, that’s fun— and then I need you, you personally to escort him to Bones’ office.”

“And once I bring him there, Captain?”

Well that is an excellent question. “Make sure Doctor McCoy doesn’t kill him, his daughter, or both, and then go about your day.” There’s enough security in and around Medbay (what with all their new passengers) that Jim figures adding one Klingon that claims to come in peace to the mix can’t make things much worse.

“Yes, sir.” The bewilderment in his engineer’s voice is thick enough that Jim can practically see the dumbstruck face he is making at that moment.

“Thanks Scotty.” Jim clicks the line off and looks up at Spock. “Scotty is taking Jerry the Klingon to Jo.”

“Yes, James,” Spock sighs in his if-it-weren’t-for-the-teachings-of-Surak-I would-scream voice. Normally, Jim loves that voice. Today all it’s doing is feeding his own frustration.

Of course that’s that moment that one of his unorthodox guests see fit to remind him of their presence.

“Damn, Uncle Jim,” Peter whistles. “And I thought my bridge was hectic.”

“Go fuck yourself, Peter.”

While the ‘Jo married a Klingon’ revelation truly deserves at least several hours of freaking out over, Jim doesn’t have the time for that right now. Because he’s already got a situation. A situation in the form of an unfairly attractive escaped convict and his crew.

He should probably deal with that right about now.

Chapter Text

The sky is falling, everything is metaphorically (for once) on fire, and Jo is mostly not-crying in a corner of Medbay while Bones does his best not to let his Dad-instinct override the fact that he has about thirty patients with freaky superhuman genetic makeups that require varying levels of medical attention.

“Er, Doctor?”

Scotty’s voice filters in from somewhere in front of him, but unfortunately, Bones is trying to fuse ribs back together and can’t look up right now.

“Who did you break, Scotty?” he grunts, squinting at pink insides and white bone. “Not another Ensign, I hope, considering the shitstorm I’ve got on my hands right now.”

“Everyone’s fine,” Scotty says, which, lie. Nobody in Engineering is ever fine, they’re just all successfully hiding varying degrees of injury because they’re babies who don’t want to go to the doctor.

“The Captain had me escort Miss Jo’s husband aboard. He’s with her now?”

Bones perks. He still can’t look up, though.

“What’s he look like?”

“He’s…” Scotty hesitates. “A bit of a surprise. Friendly enough chap, I think. Considering.”

“Scotty, I found out my daughter was married about twenty minutes ago,” Bones says, and make no mistake, he’s absolutely pissed. “Nothing can be a surprise, at this point— and, there we go.” He straightens, wincing when his back cracks with the movement. “Chapel, get him under the re-gen. He should be alright.”

“Got it.” Chapel shuffles into Bones’ spot, pushing back the machines and triggering the biobed to float beside her as she moves the patient to the next room. She’s lucky— this patient, at least, seems to respond to anesthesia.

“So, where is this guy?” he asks, stripping off his gloves as he looks at Scotty.

Scotty looks… cautious.

“Just there, Doctor,” he says, nodding over Bones’ shoulder. “Can’t miss ‘im.”

Bones turns. Bones looks. Bones goes very, very still.

There’s a Klingon. 

In his Medbay.

There is a Klingon in his Medbay. A big fucker, too, with black hair like a lion’s mane and shoulders like that hot horse tribe guy from that old tv show Jim made him watch. What was it called? It had an awful ending, is all Bones can remember. Why is he thinking about this? There’s a Klingon in his Medbay, for God’s sake—

Huh. Jo seems to know the guy, judging by how hard she’s clinging to him where he’s knelt beside her chair, seemingly careless of the looks they’re getting from the nurses as they hurry past. She never told Bones she had Klingon friends— oh, no.

“That’s Jerry?” Bones says faintly, looking at Scotty.

“Aye,” Scotty says, watching him carefully.

“Nickname?”

“Ah, no.” Scotty looks like it’s paining him to say it. “Jerry’s what he’s called. It seems most Humans can’t quite get the accent quite right.”

“Oh.” Leonard… doesn’t have time for this. “Well. Thanks, Scotty. You can go.”

“... Are you sure?”

No, Bones isn’t, but that’s fine. Leonard has things to do, patients to keep alive. Jo’s not going anywhere; Jim’s got that bucket of bolts she calls a ship locked up nice and tight in the Docking Bay for the foreseeable future, which means that Bones can have the panic attack that’s threatening at the back of his throat later. If there ever is a later.

“Absolutely, Mr. Scott, thank you.”

Technically, they’re the same rank. If Scotty wants, he can call Bones out on the lie, which would do nothing, probably, but Bones would prefer it if he didn’t all the same.

He doesn’t. Scotty goes, and blindly, Bones moves on to the next full bed.

Yeah. He’ll deal with the kid later.

*.*

At some point, something’s got to give. For Jim, it’s right around the moment that he realizes that, through some terrible, wretched twist of fate, he is once again involved in an intergalactic incident. It isn’t even his fault, this time; technically, if Jim wants to be really petty, it’s Sam’s fault, because Peter is Sam’s kid and Peter is the one whose ship was apparently carrying illegally augmented superhumans and also a citizen of the Klingon Empire (Human though Jo may be). Jim’s pretty sure there are laws about how Klingon citizens are allowed to move through Federation space, and as much as he’d like to see someone try and tell Bones that his daughter’s not allowed to visit for Christmas, it might actually become something of a problem if they don’t come up with a really, really good excuse as to why all these things have occurred.

That’ll be a problem for later, though. For now, Jim’s gonna be cool about this, he’s gonna relax, and the easiest way to do that is to find something to do with his hands.

The place for that, of course, is Engineering, where the party has been happening for at least forty minutes already.

“Hey, Uncle Jim!”

Demora is… drinking , sandwiched between Gaila and Saavik as she waves merrily in Jim’s direction. They all are, now that he’s paying attention, Saavik and Demora and Gaila and David, who’s already relocated himself to the floor between Saavik’s knees.

Honestly, it’s kind of adorable, and Jim takes heart in the knowledge that Gaila has probably already taken a thousand pictures in the time that their niblings have been visiting. That said, they’re definitely in Engineering because they’re hiding from the boatload of trouble waiting for them on the upper decks, and Jim’s not going to let that go, if only because they stole his idea. Let alone the fact that this is his ship, damn it, and they brought the trouble here.

Folding his arms over his chest, he summons his best, disapproving stare and levels it at the lot of them. 

It works about as well as he expected.

“Aw, Jim, what’s with the face?” David asks, snorting as he throws back the rest of his engine-shine in one, easy swallow. “You’ll get all wrinkly if you keep looking like that.”

Okay, one— ouch. Jim’s not exactly young anymore, but Christ, he’s not even fifty. Who does David think he is, Bones?

And for another,

“How did you even know how to get down here?” Jim asks, frowning. “Didn’t anybody stop you?” If nobody did, then he’s going to have to have words with Cupcake. Family or not, these people are pirates, and they’re actively in the middle of a big enough clusterfuck that Jim doesn’t really want to contemplate the ramifications of pirates in his Engine Room right now.

“We took the vents,” Saavik tells him placidly. “They’ve been widened considerably to aid in the repair of electronic mishaps, mostly thanks to several of Aunt Gaila’s publications on the subject.”

Slowly, Jim turns his gaze on his sister.

“Gaila?” he asks, and she blinks up at him.

“Technically it was my thesis for Practical Mechanics,” she says innocently. “Professor Mao thought I had a lot of good points, and since our retrofitting at Yorktown, it’s pretty much a ship standard, to have decent-sized vents.”

Jim came down here to relax, maybe have a quiet drink and get his thoughts in order. He wasn’t expecting this— this betrayal .

“You’re telling me,” he says, words slow and measured. “That I could have escaped Medbay a thousand times if I’d wanted?”

Gaila’s eyes are wide with apology, even as her mouth starts curving up into a surprised grin.

“Well, I mean, yeah?” she says, glancing over at her niblings. “I mean, didn’t you look at the blueprints? I know Scotty told you we were getting upgrades.”

He had. But he hadn’t exactly been expecting anything to noticeably change regarding vent sizes. He hasn’t been able to fit in a ship’s vents since he was what, twelve?

Leaning forward, he snatches Demora’s cup from her hands, draining it in three long swallows.

“You know what? I’m going to bed,” he says, handing back the cup. “Clearly, nobody loves me. My own sister has been letting me sit through Bones’ poking for years, now, and never thought to say a word—”

“I thought you knew—”

“And I thought you knew me.” Jim huffs, ignoring the way David buries his face in Saavik’s shoulder to hide a snicker. “I’m going to bed, and when I wake up, hopefully Spock will have thrown you all in the airlock and washed his hands of you.” There’s a pause, and then, he relents, leaning over to drop a kiss on each of their cheeks.

“I’m glad you’re all okay,” he tells them seriously. “You had us all worried for a second.”

“Sorry, Uncle Jim,” Demora says, and the sentiment is echoed by her cousins, only a beat behind.

“Yeah,” David adds with a sheepish grin, “sorry, Dad.”

Ugh. Too much. David’s nearly thirty and Saavik actually is thirty, so how is it they manage to give him such effective puppy eyes? At least Demora has the excuse of being a baby, sort of.

Straightening, Jim rolls his shoulders and pins them all with his most captainly stare, the one he uses for press releases and ‘fleet-funded photo ops.

“Sleep well, kids,” he says. “With all the trouble you’ve caused me, I’ll most likely kill you in the morning. Fair?”

It’s not quite the quote he wants, but they seem to get it anyway, judging by the way David groans.

It’s good to know he still has some power over these little assholes.

Chapter Text

Jim gets to his quarters, takes a shower, combs his hair, puts on his pajamas, and spends the next hour staring up at the ceiling. Spock’s still on shift— one of them should be, at least, considering, y’know, everything — so he can’t exactly bother him, and Bones is in the middle of his own drama. Assuming Jim knows him as well as he thinks he does and can accurately predict the amount of nope coursing through the good doctor’s veins in any given situation, now would be a very bad time to go to him with his emotional problems.

(That’s a lie. He could call either of them right now— one of them literally with a thought— and they’d drop everything to talk to him. He knows that by now, at least. That he has people, should he need them. But he doesn’t need them right now, not really; he’s just feeling restless.)

He wonders if Pike ever had nights like this; nights where despite everything seeming to work out okay (by Jim’s measurement, at least— no one he likes is dead) but the adrenaline hasn’t stopped pumping yet. Spock’s kind enough not to call him on it (he’s been politely ignoring his mental ramblings for the past few hours), but Jim’s been mentally drafting his scoldings— and counterpoints for when he gets talked back to, because the kids always talk back— basically since he fled the engine room. Yeah, technically they’re all adults, but only barely, and anyway, being a grown-up doesn’t mean you make good decisions. Jim knows that probably better than anyone else he’s ever met, except for maybe his mother.

Okay, definitely except for his mother.

That’s an idea, he should call his mother. She could probably use an update, considering she mentioned she’d be waiting for him on the Yorktown after he picked up Number One— but then, she tends to know what he’s doing before Jim even figures it out for himself. So in theory, she’s probably going to know every nitty-gritty detail of this entire clusterfuck before he even steps foot on the station.

No , he thinks after a moment. Number One’s probably already sent a message on the secret grown-up group chat that she, Sarek, his mother, and Chris are all on. It’s funny, the things they think he doesn’t know about— like he isn’t a hacker, or something.

Instead, he picks up his comm from its place on his nightstand and looks up his favorite contact nickname— Space Dad.

Pike picks up within three rings, his face filling the narrow screen with all the exasperated concern that Jim has ever seen.

“Jim? You okay?” The concern in his voice is so sincere that it nearly hurts. Jim should call more on days where the universe isn’t ending.

“A couple of things I didn’t realize I depended on for my sanity are gone,” he says frankly, ignoring Pike’ relieved snort. “The line between crew and family drama? Gone. The line between what I, a parent and uncle, should and do know about my children and their cousins? Gone. The rules about Klingons in Federation space? Gone. The trust in the knowledge that my two most high-ranking officers are pacifistic in philosophy and wouldn’t fire on another ship without my order? Gone— and, since I’m on the subject, the Botany Bay? It’s gone. With fireworks!” Jim imitates the sound of an explosion, his fingers spreading out like a mushroom cloud for Chris to see.

Pike doesn’t seem surprised. Number One did send a message to the super secret group chat, then. “First of all,” he says. “There was no line between your crew drama and your family drama. They literally use the Enterprise as an example of what not to do on a starship in Social Ethics at the Academy.”

Wait, they do? Jim didn’t know that. When did they add that to the curriculum—

“Second, Jerry’s a nice guy and you should give him a chance.”

Jim feels his eyes bulge. It’s probably not attractive, considering how hard Chris is trying not to laugh.

“You knew about Jerry?” he demands. “Bones didn’t even know about Jerry!”

Oh, yeah. Pike is definitely laughing at him.

“Well, Jo had to get him Federation citizenship somehow, didn’t she?” he asks, as if Jim is just supposed to just expect shit like that. “I wrote him a letter of recommendation when he put in his application.”

Jim’s brain is short-circuiting. It’s so bad, he can only distantly feel the way Spock’s prodding at him, concerned by his apparent malfunction but unable to walk out of his call with the Yorktown council. If he’s not careful, Jim’s going to accidentally dump a whole other mess of bullshit on their heads, this time Starfleet-issue.

He pauses, taking a deep breath and thinking calming, non-murderous thoughts.

“You knew,” he says quietly, finding his voice. “You knew about Jerry the Klingon and didn’t tell anybody?”

Chris shrugs.

“She asked me to keep it quiet, so I did,” he says simply, eyes sparkling. “Plus, y’know, it’s fun not to be the last guy to find something out once in a while, isn’t it?”

Jim opens his mouth, can’t work out what he wants to say, and closes it again with a sigh.

“Jim?” Pike asks. “You know I’m just teasing you, right?”

He exhales sharply, rolling onto his side and taking the comm with him.

“I know,” he says. “I figure this is probably like, karmic justice, or whatever, for all the trouble we’ve caused you.”

“Is everyone alive?”

“Yeah.”

“Is everyone safe?”

“For now.”

“Have you been beating yourself up for the last couple of hours over the idea they might not be?”

Jim bites back a groan. “Yeah.”

“And are you still panicking a little bit?”

“Listen, is there a point to this—”

“If everyone’s safe, it’s a win,” Pike says. “And that’s all that matters. All the other bullshit we can figure out.”

For a moment, there’s silence, but Jim doesn’t feel like it’s so heavy.

“Hey, Pike?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“No problem, kid. You should probably get some sleep— you look like shit.”

Jim snorts.

“I’m surprised you don’t look worse,” he admits. “I’d be on my way to Yorktown if I found out my son was planning on shacking up with a hot genocidal maniac.”

“He what?”

Oops. Looks like Number One didn’t tell him everything. This conversation is about to get a whole lot longer.

*.*

Unlike his bondmate, Spock does not have an irrational, compulsive need to avoid the Medbay at all costs. After all, it is a practical, functional place on any starship, where one goes for assistance, staffed entirely by personnel that have taken a solemn oath to do no harm.

That being said, if the dread that he now feels taking the turbolift down is even a fraction of what James feels, Spock can no longer blame the man for trying to avoid the place at all costs. Dread that, for the record, is entirely justified. Spock is not trying to avoid a routine exam, or escape a round of vaccinations. Nor is he (as on one of Jim’s more dramatic displays) literally trying to run away from the person trying to set his broken arm.

No, Spock’s dread is far more logical than that. He has the displeasure of going to question one Khan Noonien Singh.

And said questioning must occur in front of Leonard McCoy, who is grating at best of times, let alone on the day that he has recently discovered his daughter’s elopement.

Therefore Spock feels no shame at the crawl of trepidation in his spine as the Medbay doors slide open.

“Hey, Spock!” Joanna calls from her bed near the door, a huge grin on her face. “Have you met Jeh’ri?”

He pauses mid stride to nod politely to the Klingon sitting at her bedside. “We have not been formally introduced, no. I am--”

“Commander Spock!” the Klingon cuts him off. “My wife has told me much about you, and you’re legendary feats as a warrior worthy of much honor.”

He arches one eyebrow, not sure how to respond to what was surely intended as a compliment, but certainly did not feel as one. Choosing not to engage, he instead addresses Joanna. “Where may I find Dr. McCoy?”

“Dad’s in isolation room one, with Khan.” Her eyes go wide. “I think that’s where you’re headed, huh?”

“Indeed.”

He turns on his heels and marches to the end of the room, taking a steadying breath before typing in his access code. To delay the inevitable is a fruitless endeavor, Spock reminds himself, and then he steps inside.

Chapter Text

“So John Harrison… was, in fact, John Harrison.”

“Now you are beginning to understand, Commander.” Despite the fact that his left arm is currently immobilized under the blue glow of the regenerator, Khan seems relaxed, his smile charming and easy despite the excruciating nature of the procedure. Spock knows it well— without anaesthetic, the pain can be… extraordinary.

Khan had refused anaesthetic— it would do little for him, or so he said— and yet there is no strain to his handsome face as he speaks, no indication of any discomfort.

Human as he is— and regardless of the circumstances of his genetic makeup, he is still, ultimately, Human— Spock finds this whole interaction… disturbing.

“And do believe your intent to execute him upon his capture was a logical means of clearing your name?” Spock asks, ignoring Dr. McCoy’s incredulous snort in favor of focusing entirely on… Khan.

The man shrugs, a slow fluid motion of his free arm, his long, dark hair falling over his eyes.

“It is the way I know,” he says. “A traitor in the ranks would surely prove our end, in a world so much larger and stranger than the one we remember. We are so few already…” he trails off, shaking his head. “Harrison put us all at risk with his actions. No. He could not have remained a member of my crew, after what he did to us.”

Spock hums.

“It was you he chose to impersonate,” he remarks. “Surely your… reputation , had something to do with this.”

Khan’s face doesn’t change. In fact, it becomes rather… fixed.

“I was made for war , Commander,” he says. “And I was made well, as were all of my brothers and sisters, John Harrison included. But I was a leader, the only one which survived the uprisings long enough to be… punished. I assume your Admiral wanted the best of the best, and Harrison…” he trails off, smile finally fading into something Spock can’t read. “He was an opportunist, always, but never disloyal. His actions may have been for the benefit of us all, to his understanding, but it is clear that he enjoyed the power he was given, working for Marcus.

“Either way, his choices nearly led to the death of us all.” Khan shakes his head. “Were it not for your doctor’s quick thinking, we would have perished— the trick with the torpedoes was inspired, Doctor, and for that, I am eternally in your debt.”

Dr. McCoy stiffens at Khan’s side. “You know about that?”

Khan inclines his head.

“The documents regarding the events leading to our ship’s relocation to the prison planet known as Echo VII were kept in hard copy aboard the Botany Bay,” he says. “I believe it was an act of kindness on the part of your Federation, should we have awoken… alone.”

Spock is aware of this particular protocol. He’d used it as an example for a thought exercise when he’d been a guest speaker at the Academy. The concept of cryogenic sleep is an interesting one, but it does have its own problems— namely, the unknown passage of time.

“The Federation will not take punitive action against you or your people for your escape,” Spock says. “We recognize the instinct that exists in all sentient life to be free. However, your history complicates our usual protocols.”

“I understand the sensibilities of this time are not as they were,” Khan says. “The world— or rather the galaxy, I suppose— has changed so much, while we slept. It does take some getting used to.”

“And, we’re done.” Dr. McCoy turns off the regenerator, undoing the brace strapped around Khan’s newly healed arm before carefully removing it entirely. “I recalibrated everything to make up for your altered bone density, but if there are any problems, tell me. The last thing I need to do is cripple Connor’s boyfriend.”

“Fiancé,” Khan corrects, mouth quirking up. “Thank you, Doctor. Your help is much appreciated, as is the help of your staff. I admit to having had some concern— our own doctor, it seems, passed during our rest. His life support systems failed, along with another fifty of our people.”

“I grieve with thee,” Spock says, because his mother raised him to be polite. “I will keep you informed on any changes, but for now, it would ease tensions if your crew could try and keep any potential altercations to a minimum. Considering Harrison’s actions, there is some animosity that cannot be denied.”

Khan nods, smile widening.

“Of course, Commander,” he says. “They will be on their best behavior.”

*.*

“What do you think of him, Doctor?”

“Personally, or professionally?”

“Both.” Spock hesitates. “I am unsure of what to make of him.”

Bones sighs, stripping off his gloves and tossing them into the recycler. The chaos of Medbay is winding down as bruises and breaks and lacerations are dealt with promptly and efficiently, and the Beta shift is finally able to stop and make way for Gamma. He doesn’t really need to be here anymore, but the adrenaline hasn’t quite worn off yet, either.

Technically, they should both be in bed. Jim’s in bed right now, he checked, and that never happens without hypos involved (or at least some manner of chemical help), especially considering how high-stress the last four hours have been. But, Bones has reports to write, once he can summon the courage to deal with his daughter and her— oh God, husband— and he hates leaving that shit until morning.

“Professionally speaking, Khan’s probably some kind of sociopath,” he says, picking up a PADD to start checking inventory and give himself something to do. “No one does everything he did without some kind of mental toll. That said, we’re friends with Number One and Winona, so…” he trails off shrugging. “Not quite the red flag it should be, in our family.”

“And personally?”

Bones sucks his teeth.

“Well, Connor likes him,” he says. “And Connor’s not an asshole. An idiot maybe, but usually a good judge of character. So Khan… He’s… I don’t know. Very handsome, very charming. Likeable, when he wants to, and I think he very much would like to be liked by us, considering our connection to Connor.”

“Do you think he is a danger? Considering his potential instability?”

“Is Jim a danger?”

He can feel more than see the way Spock stiffens in the corner of his eye.

“I do not see the connection.”

Bones’ mouth pinches.

“Jim’s never told anybody about Tarsus, really, hell I don’t even have the whole story,  but you’d have to be an idiot not to realize he had to make some hard decisions,” he says. “That’s all war is, is hard decisions. You don’t survive by being nice and merciful.”

“Jim was not an Augment,” Spock points out. Was, because, well. Y’know.

“No, but he was young,” Bones says. “Right around the age Khan was when he marched his armies across Afghanistan— don’t look at me like that, I looked it up when Harrison was in our brig, that first time.” Scowling he looks back to his PADD. “Look, I don’t know what Augmentation does to a mind. I mean, it heightens intelligence, yeah, but what else does it do? Does it dampen their emotions? Heighten them? Does it make them less vulnerable to trauma, or were they all just scared little kids with the strength of seven men getting sent into battle, those first couple of times?”

“Is it relevant?”

Bones scowls.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I think it should be taken into consideration that people do terrible things all the time without being told it’s their destiny to rule, or whatever, and you can’t really blame people for doing what they’re told by their… well, I guess Khan and his people probably didn’t have parents so much as creators, but you get my point.” He shakes his head. “All you can do is try and teach them better and hope it sticks.” He pauses, looking up at Spock consideringly. “Infinite diversity in infinite combinations, right? Treat them as an alien, warlike species, and work from there.”

Spock doesn’t speak, and when the silence goes on long enough, Bones almost finds the rhythm in his busy work.

“Thank you, Doctor,” he says. “You have been most helpful. I will leave you to your duties.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bones flaps a hand at him. “Go see Jim, I’ll be up in a little—” he looks up, and Spock… isn’t there. “Bit.” Rolling his eyes, he huffs a sigh and kicks a step-stool out of its hiding place under the cabinets, taking a seat with an achey groan.

Maybe if he waits long enough Jo will get the hint and spirit the boy away on her own. God, he hopes so.

Chapter Text

It is three hours after the attack on the Botany Bay when Leonard finally steps out of the isolation room he operated on Number Three in, covered in blood, face pale. Here, now, with that look on his face, there is a single moment that Number One feels remorse. For if the worst is true, if that is more than exhaustion behind the pain in the doctor’s eyes, then Number One will take no pleasure in killing this man.

He is one of the only people she has ever truly trusted. The thought of a betrayal of that trust, that he could fail, that he could let her child die on his table… it does not sit well, that thought.

Fortunately, he does not let her stew for too long. 

“He’s okay.” 

The relief is dizzying. Is that even possible, for a room to spin from joy?

Leonard must see something in her face, because he sinks to his knees in front of her, even being bold enough to squeeze her hand. “One, Connor is fine. I promise, he’s — he’s out of the woods.”

Two finds her voice then, “What did you do to him?”

The doctor huffs a short laugh. “What I had to. It happens a lot, out here. You know that.”

She stares at him. “I saw what he was like… before. The damage was— severe.”

Number One knows very well the capabilities of a Medbay surgeon, she’s witnessed it firsthand. That said, Connor’s wounds were severe, and even with the help of his Illyrian genetics, his chances had seemed slim. Now, forty minutes later, all readings are normal, no risk of infection, and it looks like his intestines are already responding to the regen treatments the nurses are no performing on the other side of the glass. She arches an eyebrow pointedly as she pulls her hand out of McCoy’s.

He sighs, shaking his head. “He’s fine. I just…” He pauses, near apology in his eyes as he continues, “I, um… I had to follow a very particular… Jim Protocol, and—”

Number One holds up a hand, silencing him. Jim Protocols need no explaining.

“Which one?” she asks, and her daughter frowns, eyes darting between her mother and her doctor uncertainly.

Leonard winces.

“Protocol K.”

K, for Khan. Well, that’s typical, but not the worst thing in the world. Number One assumed he was going to die.

“So what you’re saying is that, just as with Jim, the only guarantees that you have for me are his health and that he ‘most likely’ will not have any changes to his personality,” Number One says slowly. “You are saying that we no longer know what his aging process will look like, or if he could randomly just drop dead someday, or randomly develop augmented super-strength at the drop of a hat?”

“Yeah, like I said,” The doctor has the gall to smile. “Jim Proto—”

“We will go sit with him now,” she announces, standing abruptly and pushing past him faster than he can stand, nearly dragging her daughter by the arm in her haste.

Leonard does not stop them. He knows better than that. Besides, he has a whole Medbay of super-humans to deal with now, so, on to the next crisis.

Once inside the room, Number One can at long last see that McCoy is telling the truth. Three is alive. A little worse for wear, but breathing. And he has certainly looked better. A good chunk of his hair is singed off, one arm still bent at an awkward angle. Deep purple bruising lies splattered across what she can see of his face and arms, and presumably of the rest of his body. His lip is split. She has never seen any of her kids look worse. (Well, Jim has looked worse, but never after Leonard has already gotten to him). Number One can only imagine how bad he was before. The thought is… unsettling.

But there, even and gentle, is the rise and fall of his chest.

Three is alive. 

Number two rushes to her twin’s bedside, nearly collapsing into the space in between him and the edge of the bed. Number One does not comment, just fold herself delicately into the chair beside them.

And then they wait.

*.*

Leonard returns exactly an hour later. He gives a polite nod to the pair of conscious Pikes before busying himself with Three, checking monitors, getting vitals, drawing blood. Nothing that Number One particularly understands or cares for.

No, she has a few questions of her own.

“His arm is broken.”

Fortunately, Dr. McCoy knows her well enough by now to understand what she’s really saying. “The strain on his body with the other procedures and the transfusion was enough. I’d rather set it tomorrow, or rebreak it a week from now then have his heart give out.”

Two’s eyes go wide, but Number One nods in understanding. “The same with the bruising, I assume.”

“That I can fix in five minutes once he wakes up.” The doctor’s eyes soften. “One, I know how he looks, but he’s stable, okay? It’s all cosmetic at this point.”

She nods. “Then the cosmetic can wait until he has a say.”

“My thoughts exactly,” McCoy responds, stiff posture loosening. “Good news is, there’s no medical reason for him to be unconscious anymore. Seems to me like he’s just sleeping off the past day.”

Two sits up slightly. “So he’s going to wake up?”

“He will if you don’t quiet down, yeah.”

“Thank you, Leonard,” Number One cuts them off before they can really begin to start bickering. “We will call you once he is awake.”

“Thanks, One.”

With that, the doctor takes his leave, and Number One is alone with her children again. If she can still call them children. They are grown now. Older than she was when she left home for the last time. Was she ever really that small?

No matter. She has other things to worry about.

Mainly, how long she is going to be trapped in this room waiting for her son to wake up so she can threaten his life.

*.*

It is three hours, seventeen minutes, and twenty three seconds later that her son finally blinks awake with a groan.

“Connor!” Two gasps, sitting up and flinging her body over him in a crushing hug. And going by the yelp that leaves him, it was as tight as it looks.

“Two,” Number One scolds, “gently.”

“Sorry,” she apologises to her brother. And then punches him in the side.

“Ow! What the fuck? Mom, get her off.”

Number One shakes her head. “I believe you deserved that.  After all, it was your own stupidity that led to this situation in the first place.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, it really is. Two, leave us.”

Her daughter opens her mouth, ready to argue. Number One doesn’t let her.

“I need to talk to your brother about how we got here, and what happens next, so that we don’t send the wrong people to prison, or convict the nice Doctor of mutiny unnecessarily.” She flashes a cold smile. “So if you would make yourself busy for an hour or so, I will let you know when Three is available for a proper emotional reunion.”

Three sighs, “Yeah, mom’s right, Tubes. I’ll make sure someone comes and gets you the second I’m free, okay?”

“Alright, Conn.” She kisses his forehead, lingering a second or two longer than needed before taking her leave.

The door shuts behind her, and finally, Number One is alone with her son. And she has many things to say.

“Connor Three Pike, you were the last person I expected this sort of thing from.”

“What do you mean?” He looks genuinely confused, the poor moron.

“You were always the good one, you know that? With Jo breaking treaties, Peter running a Piracy ship, David and Savik committing crimes against the laws of physics and nature… and let’s not even mention Demora or your sister. Out of all of you reckless, dangerous, stupid children, you were the one that I never felt the need to worry about. You wore a helmet. You look both ways when you cross the street.

“So I guess that this is my fault. I gave you too much freedom, not enough supervision. I trusted you too much, and now here we are.” As she talks, his eyes grow wide with fear, and uncertainty about where exactly this is going to lead. “So you have one chance, here and now, to tell me exactly why I was not wrong about you, and help me figure out how to fix this mess you made. Or you are on your own.”

He stares at her, mouth open.

“What are you waiting for?” She prompts. “We have a time limit, Number Three. Talk. ”

Finally, he speaks. And then Number One gets to hear the actual events of the past few days, along with some uncomfortable details about her son’s sex life. Those… those he could have left out.

Chapter Text

Jim didn’t mean to fall asleep. He really shouldn’t be sleeping at a time like things, but the emotional roller coaster he’d just been on was apparently enough for him to pass out the moment that he was safely in a dark room behind a locked door.

An action that he was immediately punished for, it seems, because he couldn’t have shut his eyes for longer than a few seconds before opening them to the sight of another pair of eyes inches from his face.

He yelps, bolting upright, and nearly falling off the bed as his assailant gracefully stands with a gentle smirk.

“What the fuck, Number One?” 

“I didn't mean to frighten you,” she says, perching delicately on the edge of his bed.

He laughs, gracelessly collapsing next to her, “That’s a lie and we both know it.” Jim pauses, realization dawning, “How did you even get in here?”

“If I tell you, you’ll never sleep easy again, James.”

And honestly, that is probably true. In one of his wiser moments, Jim chooses to drop it. He has other problems. Speaking of which, “Is everyone still alive?”

“Yes, and Three is awake.”

Jim releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Good, I guess I’ll go see him now.”

Number One places a hand on his knee. The touch is gentle, but the message is clear: he might as well be bolted down because he is not going anywhere.

He waits, not saying a word. He knows her well enough not to interrupt her dramatic pauses. Penny’s in the air… 

“We have to figure out how to save Khan.”

And the penny drops. “You’re joking, right?” Jim pleads. “This is the part where you say ‘sike’ and mock me for believing you, One.”

“I do not believe I have ever done that before in my life. Why would I do it now?”

“But…” Jim blinks stupidly at her for a moment, “ why? ”

“Because your idiot brother is in love with him, that’s why. And technically he has not been indicted for any crimes in any existing legal system, so he does have a case to appeal, a strong case if we help.”

He can’t help it, he laughs. “So you want me to help you acquit a genocidal maniac because Connor thinks he’s hot? Not fucking happening.”

“James, please,” she asks. And that does give him pause. Number One does not use the p-word very often. “Will you at least hear them out before you make a decision?”

“Fine, they get ten minutes.”

The moment that the words leave his mouth, Jim knows. He is really going to regret this.

*.*

Peter’s been assigned guest quarters, as have they all. Normally, he’d be uncomfortable with the luxury — the ‘fleet spares no expense making its guests comfortable, particularly since the guests starships like the Enterprise typically host tend to be ambassadors, government officials, and the odd ruler by divine right. That said, he’s so damn exhausted that by the time he actually stumbles to his rooms, he barely makes it to his bed before sleep takes him.

An hour or so later— Peter isn’t really sure, it might have been less— he’s awoken to the quiet whoosh of his door opening. He’s not worried, exactly, seeing as it’s his uncle’s ship and no one would be stupid enough to try and kill him here, but his sleeping quarters are dark save for the starlight that twinkles through the porthole above his bed, and his weapons belt is somewhere on the floor, out of reach.

“Apologies for waking you, Captain. My mother gave me the code to your quarters.”

Oh.

Peter sighs, rubbing crust from his eyes as he tries to find Tubey in the dark. She’s standing at the foot of his bed, her face hidden in shadow and her arms crossed over her chest.

“Okay,” he says, then stiffens, his eyes widening as he begins to sit up. “Is Connor okay? Did something happen?”

Tubey shakes her head.

“No, his condition is stable, though due to the nature of his injuries he will likely need more than the two surgeries he’s already had,” she says. “Khan is with him now, watching over him while my mother convinces my father that this isn’t in fact the worst decision his son has ever made. I am not necessarily sure I agree with that, but…” she trails off, shrugging. “My mother can be very convincing.”

“I’ll bet,” Peter says, sinking back into the pillows. “How’s Grandpa Chris taking it?”

Tubey shrugs again.

“He will accept it,” she says. “He is ultimately rather adaptable, even for a Human, and I believe Connor’s choice in partner is less concerning than any decision Jim’s made in the last twenty years. In my father’s mind, at least.”

Fair point. Pike didn’t even really freak out when his kids ran off to be sort-of pirates, and that was a pretty big deal, in terms of damage control. At least they weren’t trying for Starfleet, first— Jo technically went MIA to live a life of crime, and could face some real bullshit if anyone had the balls to call her out on it.

Of course, nobody wants a fistfight with Bones McCoy, either, which is probably the reason no one’s brought it up yet.

“So, Connor’s okay, Khan’s okay, everyone’s okay?” Peter asks, just to make sure, and Tubey nods.

“Demora is staying in Aunt Gaila’s room until she sobers up, but that is simply to avoid a lecture from her father. I imagine she will be getting a call from Uncle Ben come morning, but that is a personal problem, and not under her captain’s or her first mate’s purview.” Tubey pauses. “May I stay with you tonight?”

Peter blinks. The twins have a way of jumping from one subject to another, abruptly and with little care of the people tasked with keeping up; Peter thankfully has gotten pretty good at following the conversation, but still, it takes him a second to understand this strange request in conjunction with all the knowledge he has regarding Tubey’s personal habits, likes and dislikes. 

Tubey doesn’t like to sleep in front of others. She’s also been sharing a room with Connor since the day they were born, barring extreme circumstances such as kidnapping or injury.

She’s never asked to stay with him, though. Not even in the privacy of the Shu Fu.

Of course, Connor’s never gotten quite so close to death before, either.

“Sure thing, Two.”

Tubey waits at the foot of his bed until he’s wriggled the blankets out from under his back. Illyrians run a little colder than Humans, and a starship as big as this one runs cooler than most, for safety reasons. Once he’s made space for her, she moves, leaning over to tug undo the laces of her workboots before toeing them off and sliding into bed beside him. She doesn’t do anything else, though, not even pulling the blankets up over her goose-pimpled skin as she lies back against the truly excessive amount of extra pillows piled behind her. After a moment of silent stillness, Peter sighs and sits up fully, reaching over her to pull the blankets over her himself. Tubey doesn’t stop him, even though he’s further into her personal space than he’s ever been without an injury to justify it, so maybe she’s a little more shaken up than she wants to admit out loud.

The silence stretches on, and Peter tries desperately to think of what to do. He’s not like the other Kirks he knows he’s not socially gifted like David or relentlessly impossible like Grandma Winnie and Uncle Jim. He doesn’t have that Kirk luck, the kind that guarantees that they always come out on top, that they always win any argument, battle, or card game they come across. His little brother was like that, from what little he can bear to remember of those days on Deneva, and had he lived, he probably would have been the next generation of terrifying brilliance that Starfleet wants and can’t stand in equal measure, but baby Sybok’s dead, and all Peter has is Vulcan self-actualization tactics and an awkward relationship with his humanity, even if he is getting better. He can’t even ask his uncle or somebody for help, because they don’t know Tubey like he does, and she’ll know pretty much immediately that it wasn’t his idea, and therefore, he was spreading her business.

“Peter?”

Oh, good. Maybe she can give him some more clues as to what exactly he needs to be doing for her.

“Yeah, Tubey?”

“I think…” she trails off, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I think I need a hug.”

Excuse me, what? Tubey doesn’t like hugs, neither of the twins do. Only their father and Jim are allowed to give hugs, and that’s usually under duress.

“From me?” 

Tubey swallows, mouth pinched as she nods, staring resolutely at the ceiling.

Well, that’s clear enough, Peter thinks as he turns onto his side and reaches out. She’s stiff when he touches her, clearly unsure of her own request, but she relaxes when he pulls her in, dipping her head until her nose is burrowed into the front of his shirt. Another minute passes and slowly, the arm not pinned between them comes up, wrapping itself gingerly around Peter’s waist.

Pete thinks this is probably a trauma response, this incredibly out-of-character request for physical comfort. It’s not the worst one out there, by far, but as captain, he should probably look for a therapist or something for his crew. They get into enough shit that they’ve probably needed one for a while, anyway, and he has more than enough contacts that it wouldn’t be difficult to arrange some kind of semi-permanent stay aboard the ship, just until everything smooths over and they all develop healthy coping mechanisms.

That’s something to think about tomorrow, though, because Peter’s still not sure whether or not Illyrians have mind-reading capabilities or if Tubey and her family are just like that. He doesn’t want her to leave because he’s made her uncomfortable — in fact, despite the jeans and jacket that she’s still wearing while tucked in under his arm and a mountain of fancy blankets, he hasn’t been this comfortable in a bed off-ship in a long time.

He’s tired, Tubey’s tired, and if Uncle Jim doesn’t have the situation handled by tomorrow morning then Number One certainly will. It’s okay if he waits until tomorrow morning to start looking for a rogue psychiatrist to add to his crew of technically-pirates.

For now, they can just rest.

*.*

Tubey doesn’t know what time it is when she wakes up with her face pressed into the gap of Peter’s shirt. Her internal clock has long since proven useless in the vast darkness of space, and considering the events of the day before, she probably hasn’t had her usual six-point-four hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Peter is warm, like all Humans tend to be. Some of his hair is stuck to her cheek, and he smells like sweat and old worry, and when she shifts to look at him, she sees a trail of dried saliva cutting across his cheek.

She’s seen him in worse states than this, for worse reasons, and she still thinks he’s probably the prettiest Human she’s ever laid eyes on, Auntie Nyota included.

Tubey lets herself be distracted by her looking, so much so that when his eyes start to flutter open, she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t even blink.

Peter doesn’t seem to take her staring badly, at least. His breath catches, just for a moment, before he settles again, giving her a small, crooked smile that she finds… fascinating.

“Good morning,” he says softly, voice still scratchy with sleep. “Have you been awake long?”

Wordlessly, Tubey shakes her head, still staring.

“Oh. That’s good, I guess.” He moves to roll over, the hand that was on her back while they slept slipping away, but Tubey doesn’t let him, her arm around his waist tightening. “Tubey?”

Tubey doesn’t have the impulse control issues her brother does. She thinks her actions through, even if it doesn’t always look like it, because in that split second between understanding and reacting there’s time for evaluation, at least for a woman like herself. It doesn’t take her months of thinking and considering and rehashing to make a decision, it takes her seconds, not even seconds.

She leans forward, and presses her mouth to Peter’s, just for a moment. The surprise on his face is amusing, to say the least, or it will be, once this particular decision plays itself out.

“Uh,” Peter says, dumbstruck. “Did I miss something?”

“You have been, for years,” Tubey says. “But that is because I wanted you to.”

Peter blinks at her.

“Oh,” he says. “Um.”

“I just feel that I have avoided the subject for long enough,” she says. “What do you say, Peter Kirk?”

For a minute or two, Peter is absolutely silent, long enough that the niggling feeling that maybe she fucked up starts to worm its way into her stomach. She doesn’t let him see it on her face, though; she keeps her expression carefully blank, and waits for his answer.

“We…” Peter trails off. “I mean. Well, we…” He stops again, shaking his head. “You said years?”

Tubey hums.

“Since we were children, according to my mother,” she says. “I don’t believe I myself came to terms with this reality until we ran off with Jo’s ship.” That had been an uncomfortable first few months. Connor teased her mercilessly for it, though thankfully no one else on the ship seemed to notice. “I realize this isn’t ideal. It never looks good to have a captain and his second… together.”

Peter snorts.

“That is hardly the issue,” he says, which, considering her parents and his uncle… fair point. “But you realize that I… don’t date.”

“That’s good,” Tubey says. “Because neither do I. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Peter repeats. “Um, well…” He’s starting to go pink, Human pink, and for some reason the only thing Tubey can really think of is strawberry ice cream. “Can I think about it?”

“Is that a no?”

“... No, I don’t think so.”

Tubey hums, considering this.

“Very well,” she says, letting her head drop back into his chest. “I could use more sleep. Do you mind?”

Peter is quiet for a moment. Then his arm finds its way back around her waist, and he sighs.

“No,” he says. “I don’t mind.”

They will move slowly, Tubey knows, his Vulcan upbringing and her own personal habits adding to the long and winding paths of their future. But progress has been made, good progress, and while it might take some getting used to, this closeness that she feels now, wrapped up in Vulcan linen and Starfleet-issue blankets, is already proving to be worth it.

This is good.