Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Coming To

•  Jim has just been revived.

Chapter 2: Unwanted State of Awareness 

• With increased consciousness comes increased concerns.

Chapter 3: Dread What's Coming 

• Jim is discharged from the hospital.

Chapter 4: Breaking Point 

• Jim can't take anymore.

Chapter 5: Useless, Helpless 

• McCoy makes a call.

Chapter 6: To Hold and Be Held 

• Jim is still having a hard time, but they might have found something to give him a little reprieve from the pain.

Chapter 7: Smothered Screams 

• Jim's emotional state is suffering.

Chapter 8: Changes for Better and Worse 

• There are new developments in the situation. Some good, some bad.

Chapter 9: Pale Morning 

• Jim and McCoy are still having trouble communicating.

Chapter 10: Breaking of a Dam 

• Spock is in charge of taking care of Jim for the night.

Chapter 11: All in Good Time 

• Spock and Jim both need time to recover from the impromptu meld.

Chapter 12: Being Seen 

• McCoy has to deliver some news.

Chapter 13: First Night in Georgia 

• McCoy and Jim arrive in Georgia.

Chapter 14: Held Through the Darkness 

• Jim finally looks up info on the Khan Incident.

Chapter 15: It's Not Your Fault 

• Jim and McCoy finally talk things out.

Chapter 16: Waltzing in Dreamland 

• Jim and Bones are both doing much better. Bones decides to try something to help with Jim's mobility.

Chapter 17: The Discomfort of Healing 

• Jim accesses his inbox again, and then a new aspect of the healing process involved with Khan's blood flares up.

Chapter 18: You, too 

• Jim wakes up in the middle of the night.

Chapter 19: Jeopardized 

• McCoy reveals why they're in Georgia.

Chapter 20: Fired Up 

• Jim accompanies McCoy to the courthouse.

Chapter 21: Feverish 

• The day at the courthouse has taken its toll on Jim's body.

Chapter 22: It's Okay

• Jim has a nightmare.

Chapter 23: Yearning for the Other 

• Jim can't stop thinking about Spock, and it's starting to affect his health.

Chapter Text

Bones couldn’t stop crying.

It was ridiculous, really, he knew he was being ridiculous. Hell, he had every reason not to be crying, it was just…

God, he was just so relieved.

Jim was alive, Jim was himself. They saved him. Jim spoke to them, his personality tangibly intact— Hell, he’d made a joke upon waking. Bones had been so afraid…

So afraid that they would revive the body, but not the man.

But Jim was there. As snarky and stupid as always, healed enough to talk for a few minutes, however brief.

He was sleeping soundly again in his biobed, right on the other side of the bathroom door that Bones was leaning against.

Well... huddling against, more like.

McCoy sniffled noisily into his hands, and tried desperately to calm down some, but to no avail. He smothered a messy sob into his palms as another bout of tears rolled down his cheeks, and he rocked slightly in the fetal position he had found himself in.

Ah, fuck, he was getting wrinkles in his white uniform. He had to get it together. He had to stop crying. McCoy buried his nose into his knees for a moment while he tried to catch his breath.

It had been two weeks of silent and desperate praying for Jim to wake, of countless sleepless nights, of refusing to even leave the room Jim was in. McCoy had been lucky enough to use the ‘primary physician’ card on why he had to stay, and no one had argued him on it. Maybe they just didn’t want to stress him more.

After so many days of watching over a sleeping Jim, the thought that Jim never would wake had taken hold of Bones more than once. Now he felt ridiculous for being as terrified as he had been. Jim was all right. He would be all right.

Deep, wracking hiccups repeatedly punched him in the chest, and he tried to force out larger breaths of air to get himself to calm. He was mostly only managing to gasp pathetically, though.

A knock sounded on the door and McCoy choked on the sob in his throat.

“Doctor McCoy?”

Shit, shit, it was Spock. McCoy dragged his hands across his eyes in an attempt to rid himself of the relentless tears. He cleared his throat as best he could before he growled out a wet and unsteady, “Give me a second.”

Spock didn’t reply, so McCoy could only figure that that meant the vulcan was doing as he was told.

McCoy pushed himself to his feet, using the wall as support, and the ache in his knees reminded him why he shouldn’t let himself get emotionally compromised enough to curl into a cramped and tight position. He wasn’t as flexible as he used to be, and all the time spent with Jim was making him feel way older than thirty-two.

He chanced a glance at his reflection in the bathroom’s mirror, and he quickly dampened a nearby cloth with some warm water to press against his face. His eyes had gotten all puffy and red in the few minutes he had let himself break down, and his cheeks were flushed and rosy. He looked like he’d been attending a funeral.

After a quick wipe down, he figured he couldn’t let Spock wait forever, so he threw open the door and leveled Spock with a glare. He had to make it clear that no comment on his appearance would be necessary.

Spock’s dark eyes honed in on his face and he was quiet for a few seconds, but eventually Spock opened his mouth. “I wished to inform you that I will be leaving now. As it has become apparent that the captain shall recover, I no longer have a reason to remain within the city,” he whispered. His voice had hushed down exponentially, after Jim had fallen back asleep.

The poor kid was still exhausted, and had drifted off without any sort of warning while he had been talking with Spock. The few minutes they had to talk to him were the first in two weeks, and McCoy had to constantly remind himself that the kid had come back from death, and so he undoubtedly needed to rest more.

To expect him to be able to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time would be unreasonable, at least for a while.

McCoy’s eyes wandered to Jim’s sleeping form on the biobed, the soft light of San Francisco’s midday shrouding him in a gentle blue. He looked as still as he had in that body bag.

“Where are you going?” McCoy ground out, sob-roughened voice hushed as low as Spock’s. He didn’t take his eyes off Jim and the monitors displaying his frequencies as he spoke. “He wakes up for the first time in two weeks, and you take that as your cue to leave?”

Spock sighed quietly. “It is not by choice. If I could stay longer, I would. However, since the captain is still incapacitated and is expected to be out of commission indefinitely, there are many matters that I must attend to in his stead.”

Spock paused, and McCoy drew his gaze from Jim to the reserved commander before him.

“I wished to request,” Spock whispered, “that you contact me should his condition change, be it positive or otherwise. If need be, I will return immediately.”

McCoy swallowed back the lump in his throat that still hadn’t gone away completely, and his eyes wandered back over to Jim. McCoy shook his head, self-conscious of the wet tear marks he could feel drying on his cheeks. “There shouldn’t be any need for something like that. I’ll call you, of course, but I don’t think his condition will get any worse from here. I mean,” McCoy turned his gaze to Spock and cocked a subdued, though still smug brow. “Jim doesn’t call me the best doctor in the fleet for nothing.”

Spock’s face didn’t change, but McCoy could almost swear that his eyes softened as though he were smiling.

Fuck, he was definitely spending too much time with the vulcan if he was starting to be able to read him. He’d never wanted to give Jim’s claims as to how expressive Spock could be any sort of thought.

McCoy smeared a hand over the damp skin around his eyes and scowled. “It’ll be fine, Spock. Leave if you have to. Jim will understand why you won’t be around.” He huffed lightly. “Hell, there’s a good chance he’ll be sleeping all the way until you come back, so he might not even notice you were gone.”

Spock’s lips tightened just slightly. “That is true. He appeared very… withdrawn.”

“Yeah, well.” McCoy sniffed. “We can expect him to be beyond tired for a while now.”

Spock inclined his head, and his eyes softened as they settled over McCoy. “I do not believe him to be the only one who is tired.” He paused, before saying quietly, “Doctor… It would be all right to allow yourself the time to rest now. Our captain is safe. And if he is to remain safe, it would be best if his doctor were working at maximum efficiency.” Voice still hushed, his dark eyes gentle and imploring, Spock added, “You should sleep. I know that you have not been allowing yourself the time or opportunity to do so in recent days.”

McCoy exhaled slowly and frowned at the floor. So, Spock was the doctor now, huh? He knew what was best?

Part of him wanted to be angry with the weird turn of events, but he also… knew that Spock was right. His body was exhausted, and so was his mind. Jim deserved to receive the best possible care— especially from McCoy—and he wasn’t gonna get that if his caretaker wasn’t in the best state.

Spock was right. McCoy hated that.

Still, he didn’t have the energy to try and combat Spock on this. No point in starting a losing battle. McCoy sighed low and said, “Thanks for the advice, mom.”

For a moment, McCoy got the impression Spock was about to smile, but a slight chirp sounded before anything else could happen. It was Spock’s communicator. The vulcan glanced at whatever message it was he received, probably something telling him it was time to get a move on.

Places to be, people to deal with, all the bureaucracies Jim always had to suffer through. Surely the kid would be glad to have a break from it, at least for a little.

“Doctor,” Spock whispered. “I have been hailed. I do not know when I will next return, but I—”

McCoy cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about it, I know. Get outta here already.” As Spock straightened up to make his way out of the room, Bones added, “I’ll call you if I have to.”

Bones looked tired.

For a few long, dragging seconds, that was the only thought that could settle in Jim’s addled mind.

He blinked slowly, his eyesight fuzzy and his mouth full of cotton, and watched as Bones fiddled with medical instruments about a foot away. Bones was so focused, Jim suspected he didn’t even know his patient was awake.

Jim took the opportunity to analyze what he could of Bones’s appearance in the dim lighting of the room.

Dark, dark circles under his eyes. Like he was the one that belonged in a biobed. His usually immaculate uniform looked a little wrinkled. He was scowling, as usual, his lips pouted in a tight frown. With surprise—and a hint of amusement—Jim realized Bones even had stubble growing.

Was he not taking care of himself? Jim’s vision was muddled and blurry, and it was incredibly hard to focus on things, but to him it looked like Bones hadn’t been sleeping.

And even if he was, then it wasn’t the kind of sleep that was accomplishing any rest. Just the kind that forced your eyes to close, even though you were too concerned with whatever was happening in life to actually replenish what little energy you had.

Jim was plenty familiar with that kind of sleep. He didn’t like the idea that Bones would have any reason to experience something like that.

Jim dabbed his tongue at his lips and tried to wet his mouth, but it didn’t accomplish much. It would have to do. With as much force as he could put behind his airways, Jim rasped out a quiet, “You look tired.”

Bones dropped the instrument he had been holding and cursed in a harsh rush of breath, before shooting wild and wide eyes at Jim. “Jesus, Jim! You trying to give me a heart attack?”

A grin tried to pull at Jim’s lips, and he did his best to let it. He had a feeling, though, that whatever he managed to produce could hardly be called a smile. “Is it working?”

Bones sighed loudly, full of hot air as he was, and bent down to pick up what he had dropped. “Look at me, worrying over you not feeling good, and here you are cracking jokes at my expense.”

“Would you expect anything less?” While Bones was out of Jim’s immediate line of sight, there wasn’t an easy target for his overworked eyes to focus on, so he let them slide shut. Just for a little. Especially because they were starting to burn.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed in silence. It felt like hours, it felt like seconds. Something about his brain was weird at the moment.

Why was he in a biobed?

A warm hand settled over his cheek, and with great difficulty he opened his eyes to Bones’s concerned face. He was sitting in a chair next to the bed.

Once they made eye contact, Bones brushed his thumb over Jim’s cheekbone in a soothing and repetitive motion. His expression noticeably gentled as he asked, “How are you feeling?”

Jim swallowed around his dry throat. “Tired.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” McCoy nodded as he continued to stroke Jim’s cheek. His lips parted, but he didn’t say anything. Eventually, he furrowed his brows and managed out, “What do you remember?”

What did he remember?

Jim closed his eyes, so he could stop wasting so much time focusing on the external and instead redirect that attention to the internal. What did he remember?

Fire, screaming, alarms and flashing red lights. People falling, people bleeding, people dying. A head being crushed right in front of him. There was noise, and there was heat, and there was pain, pain, pain—

Jim opened his eyes in a quick inhale, as a burning and breathtaking sensation manifested in his chest. He couldn’t remember what happened, not yet, but his body definitely did. He took more seconds than necessary to refocus on Bones’s face. “Not a lot right now. Doesn’t make sense.”

“Hm.” Bones removed his hand and sat back, before reaching forward again to brush his fingers through Jim’s hair. Like he couldn't stop touching Jim, like he had to maintain constant contact, which was... unusual, but Jim wasn't about to complain. It felt nice. “That’s probably for the best," McCoy continued. "It’ll probably come back to you soon, but for now, just focus on resting and getting better. You hear me, kid?”

“I hear you.” Jim closed his eyes, trusting that if McCoy was right there, then he was safe. Safe enough to go back to sleep.

Which was good, because his body was charging down again. His energy was completely shot.

What had he done to get himself in this state?

He knew the memories were there, right below the surface, but… His brain was keeping them from him. Not buried deep, not like Tarsus or Vulcan, but far enough out of reach that he couldn’t grasp them.

If he knew anything about himself, it was that his subconscious had long mastered how to protect him. And if his brain decided that remembering would not be good for him, then he would trust it.

Besides, it would only be able to keep it away from him for so long. He knew, without a doubt, that it was going to come back to him.

And soon.

Maybe the next time he woke up.

Bones continued to card his fingers through Jim’s hair, and it was such a comfort that Jim willingly let it lull him out of consciousness. He was safe, and so was Bones, and for now that was the most important thing. Everything else could wait.

Chapter Text

Staying awake was hard. So, most of the time, Jim didn’t even try.

Sometimes he would fade into mild consciousness and would become aware of a hand that was smoothing over his hair. Sometimes he would wake and there would be darkness and silence, and a suffocating ache in the deepest part of his chest. Sometimes he would remember flashes of memories, and every single one brought him pain.

Sometimes physical, sometimes emotional.

The moment Jim remembered Pike had died, it was as though a cold hand had reached in and torn his heart out of his body, and he cried until he passed out.

“I’m worried about him,” McCoy confessed softly, as he and Chapel watched Jim sleep from the doorway.

“Why?” She asked, her own voice just as hushed.

McCoy crossed his arms as his brow furrowed, and he sighed. “His memories are coming back. It’s affecting him.”

She turned to eye McCoy. “In what way?”

“He’s…” McCoy chewed on his lip while he searched for the right words. “He’s very reserved right now. His heart rate keeps spiking up in a panic, his body temperature keeps fluctuating, his brain activity goes from resting to overactive at a moment’s notice. His memories keep forcing him to relive that high-stakes, adrenaline filled day, and it’s like— it’s like his body can’t get out of it. Each memory is putting him through the exact same shit he had to suffer through the first time, and he can only take so much strain.” He swallowed back a tightness in his throat, his eyes glued to the noticeably pale form of his captain and friend. “The physical healing process is bad enough as it is. I wish… I wish I had some way to spare him from whatever the fuck his brain is doing to him.”

Chapel was quiet for a few seconds, and when she did eventually reply, she placed a hand on McCoy’s uniform clad arm. “Perhaps, right now, the most you can do is be there for him. He’ll need someone that he can trust, that he can fall back on. I imagine that he will need a substantial amount of support.”

“I can give him that.” McCoy had the answer before he even had to think about it. He breathed deep, felt the ache in his eyelids from not sleeping and the discomfort in his lungs from being so worried about Jim, and nodded. “I will give him that.”

He could see Chapel smile out of the corner of his eye. “Then I wouldn’t worry too much. He’s in good hands.” She began to head back out into the hallway, but before she was out of earshot, she added, “According to Jim, the best in Starfleet.”

McCoy tried to keep himself from fidgeting too much, but damn it, he was worried.

Jim wouldn’t stop staring out the window. He wasn’t even blinking.

It didn’t spell good tidings at all for Jim’s mental health, but also, McCoy had to remind himself that this was likely the kid’s best way to process bad news.

He had just learned that he missed Pike’s funeral.

McCoy hadn’t wanted to let Jim know, since the kid was already dealing with so much as it was, but also… The sooner he knew, the better. It would have been more cruel to keep it from him, and at least in this way, there was a chance for him to have even more time to heal.

But… now McCoy was starting to worry that he had made the wrong choice.

The more time passed with Jim unresponsive and silent, the more convinced McCoy became that the news may have been too much too soon.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” McCoy said softly, hoping to engage him. “I’m sorry this happened.”

He still hadn’t fully processed Pike’s death himself. McCoy had liked the man, really liked him. He trusted him to do right by others, trusted his decisions and especially trusted his treatment of Jim. He’d only met less than a handful of people that he was comfortable with having around Jim, and Pike had topped them all.

He knew that he would never understand how deep Pike’s and Jim’s bond went, but he hoped that— hoped that Jim would be able to recover regardless. Then again...

Death was never easy.

And Jim, it seemed, had had to deal with more of it than most people ever should have. Hell, the kid had already died himself once.

“Why are you sorry?” Jim’s voice startled McCoy, both because he hadn’t been expecting him to speak and because the sound of it was so devoid of emotion, so un-Jim like. “It’s not like you’re the one who killed either him or me. What could you have done?”

McCoy didn’t have an answer for him. It made him feel useless and ashamed, and he really wanted nothing more than to grab Jim and just hold onto him. But, he had a feeling that Jim wasn’t in the mood for physical contact, as touchy as he was. Not with how things were.

He wished he could do more for Jim. Desperately, desperately he wished.

“I don’t know,” he finally whispered, knowing that his response was more than insufficient.

Jim didn’t speak further and his face was betraying nothing. McCoy was having trouble reading him, and that fact alone scared him more than he could explain. If Jim kept pulling so far away… what if he couldn’t be pulled back?

McCoy had already brought him back from death, but how was he going to be able to bring Jim back to life?

So far, he was definitely failing.

Jim wanted to see Spock.

The few times he woke up after that first instance, he had attributed Spock’s absence to the vulcan being busy elsewhere, and Jim just so happened to be waking up at the times when he would miss him.

But, Jim was able to stay awake more consistently in recent days, and it was becoming apparent that Spock didn’t visit. Ever.

At first he had been okay with it, since he could only stand so much interaction with others as it was, but… The more he healed, the more he dreamed.

And he had been dreaming about Spock more than anything else lately.

Most of the time his dreams were nothing more than vague images splattered together, maybe strings of words here and there, but things were steadily becoming more concrete in his mind.

He had been dreaming about Spock during the Narada Incident, dreaming about their fist fight and the moment Spock choked him out, dreaming about the times they meditated together, played chess together, walked through an empty Starfleet Academy campus together. The press briefings, the arguments on the bridge, moments when one saved the other during away missions that had gone south.

He dreamed about being carried through New Vulcan’s ruined construction when that Gorn ship had crashed, the feeling of Spock’s arms around him and the horrible pain in his leg until they had managed to get back to the Enterprise.

He dreamed about Kronos, Khan’s gunfire, the ache from being beat and the sense of safety when Spock had dragged him out of danger. He dreamed of Spock crouching over him protectively, Klingon blaster raised, and the way he hadn’t been able to meet Spock’s eyes after he had tried to attack Khan.

All of those memories were rushing through his dreams on an almost nightly basis, but the one that was the loudest, the one that dwarfed all others…

Was that moment in the radiation chamber.

Spock’s dark eyes not moving from his own. Spock’s tear, Spock’s voice, his hand right there on the other side of that horrible glass. He was there with Jim, through to the very end, he stayed and he watched and he had cried.

For Jim.

His whole life… His whole life, Jim had thought he was going to die alone. That when his time finally came, the only company he would have when the darkness took over would be his own. That was one aspect of life that he'd been sure he had figured out.

Jim, who lived alone, would ultimately and definitely die alone.

That was how it was supposed to go, he had been sure, and then Spock was there and he didn’t— He didn’t leave.

And, now…

Now, to not see him beyond the time he spent asleep, Jim was feeling disheveled. Like a piece was missing, like something was off, like there was a buzzing under his skin that wouldn’t go away.

It was pissing him off.

He didn’t need Spock, not in the way his brain seemed to think he did. He was Jim Kirk. He didn’t— couldn’t rely on anyone. He couldn’t be dependent, he couldn’t expect for people to stay all the time, and especially not while serving in Starfleet.

They were busy. He was a captain. And he had no doubt that Spock had his hands full dealing with all the crap that Jim left behind.

So Jim had no right to yearn for Spock’s presence. He had no right to yearn for anyone, but least of all Spock.

Jim stared at the ceiling above him, at the occasional flashing of monitor lights in the dark. He had been lying in bed for hours, refusing to sleep, because he didn’t want to see Spock’s face again. Lately, it had practically been the only thing he was seeing.

He closed his eyes and willed his mind to still. He was going to have a dreamless night. He was.

Jim wanted to see Spock.

And that was exactly why he had to get himself under control. Seeing Spock in the flesh obviously wasn’t going to happen any time soon, so he had to stop dreaming about him before his mind grew any more attached.

Chapter Text

After three weeks, Jim was released from the hospital and was given permission to recover at home. To no one’s surprise, Bones followed him and took on the job as Jim’s personal caretaker. As if he wasn’t already that before.

But McCoy wasn’t complaining.

At least, this way, he’d be able to monitor Jim’s recovery himself. Especially his emotional health.

McCoy couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to come back to life. If the emotional toll that the whole tragedy itself had wasn’t enough, then just the matter of having to reclaim control over your own body was sure to be more than a little disparaging.

He squeezed his hands around the back of Jim’s wheelchair as the turbolift carried them towards the kid’s apartment.

When he had injected Khan’s blood into Jim’s body, he hadn’t really thought about the recovery process when it came to coming back from death. Hadn’t bothered, not when Jim was cold under his hands and nearing the point of no return.

There had never been a case like Jim’s. Nobody had ever been brought back to life after having been pronounced dead for more than an hour. Nobody had any idea what would happen, how Jim’s body would react—least of all McCoy.

It was going to be a learning process, and an arduous one.

The way Khan’s blood had mixed with Jim’s brain chemistry did something he hadn’t expected. Jim’s frontal lobe, everything that made him him, was more or less fine. His motor control, on the other hand, had been absolutely ravaged.

It was like it had nearly forgotten its years of fine tuning and muscle memory, and they had months of PT ahead of them. McCoy was anticipating that they would have to do neurological, orthopedic, and some cardiovascular physical therapy. He wanted to get Jim back to how he had been before, and he was sure Jim wanted the same.

Also, there were still trace amounts of radiation in Jim’s body, and that was doing weird things when mixed with Khan’s blood.

So in addition to the physical therapy, Jim was also going to have to take a medicine to fight off the shit that was fucking up his body still. They had had Jim on some light stuff at the hospital, just enough to keep his condition from worsening, but neither was it really improving. What was designed to help fight the radiation off completely was McCoy’s own concoction, and though it had never been used before, he already knew that it was going to take a lot out of Jim. Which was why he waited to start getting Jim on it until after he was discharged from critical care.

McCoy sighed and stared at the top of Jim’s head, his pale blond strands noticeably devoid of their usual golden luster.

Jim had a long road ahead of him.

A long, hard road.

The turbolift finally opened out onto Jim’s floor, and they made their way into Jim’s apartment after McCoy keyed them in. As soon as Jim had bought the unit, McCoy had demanded he get access. After all, it was only fair. Jim had never given McCoy any space at the academy and had his locks and codes to everything, so McCoy had insisted the favor be returned.

Now, McCoy was glad he had. It was going to make the coming weeks way easier if he wasn’t relying on Jim the whole time to let him in.

The door to the apartment slid open quietly, and McCoy carefully maneuvered Jim into his unit. Even though Jim had had the place for a few months, McCoy was still a little surprised by its appearance.

It more or less had an open floor plan, and a lot of curves integrated into its general design. There was a large window on the far end that had a gorgeous view of the bay, nothing but green mountains and blue water. The apartment was nice, luxurious even, save for the fact that it had almost no decor.

McCoy had his suspicions that Jim hadn’t grown up with much, and if that were true, then there was a good chance the kid hadn’t had much experience with amassing objects that were his own, things he could display and show off as his. If you didn’t grow up surrounded by things that were yours, how would you know what to do when you were finally able to have things of your own?

There was a couch, a table, a few chairs, and a rug that Uhura had given Jim as a homecoming gift. It was a beautiful item, apparently from her hometown in Kenya, and really the only thing that gave the area any sort of personality. The only items in the whole apartment that were distinctly Jim’s were the chess set and the bookshelf lined with actual paper books.

Everything else was just a general object that could have belonged to anyone, and it made it feel like the apartment hadn’t been bought or lived in at all. Then again, as busy as Jim was, the apartment probably hadn’t been lived in as of late. 

McCoy came around to Jim’s front and paused, heart jerking unexpectedly when he realized Jim had fallen asleep again.

Poor kid…

He wondered, briefly, how long it would take before Jim could stay awake for extended lengths of time. He would have to keep an eye on that, especially when they started the radiation treatments.

He analyzed Jim’s sallow cheeks and his pale pallor, the redness rimming his eyelids. Jim looked like someone who had come back from death.

Every time McCoy remembered that Jim had actually died,  an agonizing burst of fear clouded McCoy’s lungs and threatened to suffocate him with the same nauseating grief he had felt that day.

He almost lost Jim. Forever.

McCoy blinked away a sudden stinging in his eyes and brushed his fingers across Jim’s cheek, needing to remind himself that Jim was warm with life, he was there, he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t dead.

Jim’s eyes fluttered open, and they were notably dim with exhaustion.

“Hey, kid,” McCoy murmured. “We’re home. Let’s move you to the couch so you can rest a little, and then we’ll need to get started on your new treatment regimen.”

Jim was angry all the time now.

He couldn’t help it, he was just so— so mad. He hated not being able to move. He hated how he couldn’t stay awake. He hated the incessant memories, the countless nightmares, the ache of fear that still hadn’t disappeared from his chest.

He hated hurting all the time.

His lungs felt too small, too tight, like they could never pull in enough air. His muscles ached like he had been using them nonstop, like he had traversed the Narada all over again, and it just pissed him off. He wished he could move enough to feel muscle fatigue in his body, but he could hardly even lift his head, let alone his arms.

And Bones was being so fucking gentle with him.

He couldn’t figure out why that was making him so angry, but he just— God, he hated being treated so fragile. What he hated more, though, was that he was fragile.

The exhaustion and pain was nonstop, and he couldn’t do anything to distract himself from it all. He couldn’t focus enough to read, his hands shook too much to hold anything, and because of his dreams even napping was taking its toll.

Bones’s tender touches weren’t helping either, and he couldn’t figure out why. But anytime his pain started to flare up, any time he made a sound of distress, Bones would be right there to comfort him.

He’d been using soft words and softer hands, careful with every point of contact he made with Jim.

Bones was currently holding Jim’s face with the light touch of his fingertips, while he smoothed a razor over Jim’s jaw to remove the stubble that had been growing. Jim had constant tremors in his hands and arms, so he hadn’t been able to shave himself and that fact alone was making him hot with anger.

He hated feeling so useless.

He was Jim fucking Kirk. He had always been able to do everything on his own, by himself, he had always had to. It was what he knew, it was how his life was meant to be. To have his independence taken from him like this filled his stomach with a sour, roiling feeling, and he was just so, so mad.

It didn’t help that his skin was too sensitive and always cold, so every time McCoy did touch him it was like a hot press of needles across flesh that already hurt. It was making him irritable, because Bones was having to touch him a lot, and— and he knew it wasn’t the doctor’s fault.

Bones was just doing his job. He was helping Jim.

Jim knew that, he did, but he couldn’t stop feeling what he was feeling… Regardless of how much he wanted to stop.

He was frustrated, with everything. Himself included.

There was no good reason for him to be feeling so upset. He was alive, for God’s sake.

And there were so many people who weren’t as lucky... So much of his crew weren’t as lucky as he.

He had no right to be mad, no right at all.

Jim scowled at the ceiling as McCoy tilted his head to get under his jaw.

All this fury, all this frustration…

This happened last time, too. After Tarsus. His life was saved. He was spared. And the only thing he could be was angry.

His skin was constantly crawling and he felt wound up, tight like a drum head, and every day he was getting closer to exploding. He couldn’t take all of this, couldn’t take the pain, and anger, and guilt, and nightmares.

He just knew that it was only a matter of time before enough was enough.

After returning to Earth when he was a teen, his breaking point had been when Frank laid his hands on him for the first time since Tarsus had happened. He had run away that night, set out on the road, and nobody even looked for him. Nobody had wanted him.

He hadn’t slowed down in his fast descent of rage and pain until that night in that bar, when—

...When Pike had found him… and saved him.

But... After Tarsus, all that build up of hurt and anger, both with himself and everything that had happened, eventually lead to years and years of trying to run from it all. From the memories, from the threats, from any contact beyond one night stands and fist fights.

When he had returned from Tarsus, for weeks his skin had crawled and his lungs had ached.

And now, after everything with Khan and Marcus… he was feeling the exact same sensations all over again.

Jim didn’t know what that meant. But… but he was afraid. The last time he felt the way he currently was, it put him on a path that likely would have ended in a sure and violent and lonely death at the ripe old age of twenty-two.

After everything with Starfleet, with his life and career finally looking up, Jim had dared to hope that he would never experience those old feelings again.

But they were back, as strong and furious as ever. It made his hands shake, and he knew he couldn’t blame it on his merely weakened muscles. The phantom pain, the age-old wrath in his chest, was back.

None of the people in his life knew him as a kid. They didn’t know what he was capable of. What he could do. What a hurt like this could push him to do.

Jim scowled harder at the floor while Bones went to pick out some clothes for him, and he refused to acknowledge how his eyes were burning.

He was so angry. He was so hurt.

He didn’t want to upset or harm those around him—least of all Bones—but everything was too loud, everything was too painful, everything was too much.

He knew himself well enough to recognize that he was once again nearing a breaking point. He had no idea what that meant, what he would even be able to do in the state that he was in—after all, it wasn't like he could just run away again. But still…

It made him scared. He knew himself.

He knew that there really was only so much that he could take. And what that meant, he didn't dare think about.

Chapter Text

The radiation treatment was the absolute fucking worst, and it was seriously making Jim wish he had never been revived in the first place— not if it meant suffering through the “healing” process like this.

He was doubled over the toilet, puking his guts out and overcome with the urge to claw his own overheated skin off. He’d been dizzy all day, like the room had slowly been rotating all around him, like his apartment had been put on a turntable—too slow to see but fast enough to feel.

His eyes felt too big for his skull, like they were swollen and constantly pressing against his eyelids, and they kept watering and making his cheeks and eyelids sticky. His head throbbed nonstop, his chest squeezed with every heartbeat, he was too hot and too cold and his skin was too sensitive for contact with anything.

Jim shoved his shaking fingers into his own hair and tugged desperately, wishing that it could all just end. He didn’t want to do this anymore. He didn’t want any of it.

He’d been wanting to cry so much lately.

But he couldn’t.

Bones was always around, and sometimes other nurses when Bones needed to get food or sleep. And as long as others were around him, Jim couldn’t let himself weaken at all. He had to be strong for them, he fucking had to, everybody needed him to stay strong.

He was still a captain.

And after everything that he couldn’t control anymore, that was one thing that he had to hold onto, that he had to keep to himself. He’d been more than weak enough for a lifetime, and to break down in front of others would be the last straw.

It made him sick enough that so many were already seeing him in such a physically weakened state, so he had to do everything he could to maintain emotional strength.

But… God, fuck, it was getting so fucking exhausting.

Jim screwed his sore eyes shut and squeezed fists around his sweaty hair, and tried not to flinch when a too-hot yet too-cold hand touched the back of his neck.

“It’s all right, kid,” Bones whispered, as his thumb rubbed gently on Jim’s nape.

The usually comforting motion hurt on Jim’s skin, and he wanted to shake Bones off, get him to stop, but he knew Bones was only trying to help. And Jim still wasn’t ready to admit exactly how bad of a state he was in.

He wanted to be better already, so if he kept pretending that he wasn’t feeling as bad as his body kept trying to tell him he was, then surely it would get him that much closer to being in working order, and sooner rather than later.

Before he could process what was happening, another bout of vomit forced its way out of Jim’s abused throat, and all he could do was take it and wait for it to end.

He wished… Every day, he wished it would end.

Jim couldn’t sleep any more.

Because every time he did, he’d have nothing but nightmares.

At first, most of his dreams had been about Spock. But he wasn’t so lucky anymore. Now… Now, all he could dream about was his dead crew, and Khan, and Marcus, and— and Tarsus.

He’d been so desperate to keep everyone alive during his entire captaincy. That was his plan, his intent, to just— not have to deal with anymore fucking death.

And for so long, ever since the Narada Incident, he’d been successful. He hadn’t had one crew member die for almost a whole year, and then in just a few hours, Marcus and Khan had killed almost half of his crew. If not more.

It made him feel so fucking useless. So Goddamn sick to his stomach.

When he’d been a kid, after everything with Kodos and all that shit, he’d vowed to not let anyone else under his leadership die. That was his promise. His purpose.

And he’d fucking failed.

He had failed spectacularly. Because not only had he allowed so much of his own crew to die, but he also had heard passing rumors that a massive portion of their city got killed.

Bones hadn’t been letting him watch the news or access his PADD, claiming that looking up the info would be too much for Jim in his current state. And he was probably right, Jim trusted his judgment, so he’d been keeping himself from looking anything up.

But… But he had a feeling he knew exactly how bad it had been.

And just the thought of how many people died because of him made him queasy and cold, and his body would start quivering everytime he remembered how many people died when he was supposed to be there to protect all of them.

What good was he if he couldn’t even keep one person alive?

He’d let Pike die, he’d watched Pike get shot, and he hadn’t been able to do anything right after that happened.

Was he so incompetent that after one domino fell, he couldn’t keep the rest from toppling over as well? Fuck, fuck, what was he even fucking good for if he couldn’t even do this right?

And if him letting so many people die wasn’t bad enough, he didn’t even have the decency to let himself die as well. How many fucking people was he going to have to outlive? How many times were people more important or worthy than him going to be stolen from the world, and instead have him be the only thing left behind?

He wasn’t supposed to live. He wasn’t supposed to be alive.

How many fucking times was he going to have to go through this?

Jim squeezed his shaking hands around his pillow and smothered his face into it, while the rest of his body trembled in unadulterated anger.

The doctors on Tarsus loved toying with his life when he was in their grasp. They had killed him and brought him back too many times for Jim to keep track of, all to see if they could, all to show him that he belonged to them, to the doctors, that his life never would and never could be his own.

And now it was fucking happening all over again.

Just like back then, just like when he was a kid, he once again deserved death more than anyone. Countless people were killed, on his watch, and though he deserved to join them more than anything, he was kept from dying.

The doctors always had to grab his soul, his life, pull him back from the brink to remind him that he couldn’t even be allowed the luxury of atonement through death.

He didn’t deserve to live. He didn’t deserve to live.

Jim’s pillow was growing damp beneath his face, as an unbridled stream of tears poured from his aching eyelids.

He knew that Bones didn’t know what he had done to Jim.

He knew nothing of Jim’s past on Tarsus, had no idea that he was forcing him to relive that fucking hell that he had suffered through as a kid. Jim was aware that the doctor was only doing his job.

But that didn’t change anything.

It didn’t change how much Jim hurt, it didn’t change how unbelievably furious he was with Bones, it didn’t change that he was the last person that should have been resurrected. There were so many others who were more worthy, more innocent than he, and instead he got to live again.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair.

Jim sobbed quietly—just once—into his pillow.

Why couldn’t Jim die? Why wasn’t he allowed to die?

Why had Bones stolen this from him? Did the doctor think he was God? What was he fucking playing at?

Jim buried his face as deep into his pillow as he could, and his body ached and burned and shook. Everything hurt. His body, his heart, his very soul hurt. How could Bones bring him back to this? Why couldn’t Jim stop being so angry?

He didn’t want to be mad at his friend, he didn’t want to take his anger out on anyone. He knew the only person who deserved his wrath was himself, but his ruined mind couldn’t even keep all of his anger reigned in. He was going to start lashing out, and despite how desperately he was trying to maintain control, he knew he couldn’t hold back for much longer.

He could only handle so much, after all.

“Atta boy, keep that up,” Bones muttered, letting his hands hover right underneath Jim’s raised leg. “Three, two… All right, lower it back down.”

Jim did as he was instructed, and puffed hot gusts of air against the mat. The kid was sweating a lot from the few exercises they had so far done, and Bones had to remind himself that they had made a lot of progress already.

Rebuilding Jim’s mobility and muscle control wasn’t going to be an easy feat, and it was going to take them a long time. Bones knew that. But, still, it was definitely hard to see Jim’s physical control so ravaged.

He could only imagine how hard all of this was for Jim.

Being unable to do more than imagine was due largely in part to the fact that Jim wasn’t talking to him anymore. He’d gone silent about a day or two back, and to say it worried Bones would be an understatement.

He was supposed to be helping Jim through all of this, just like he always had in the past, and this was the first time he’d had Jim be this closed off with him. It made him nervous and scared, because if he didn’t know what was going on with Jim, then he wouldn’t be able to help him work through anything.

In addition to going nonverbal, Jim’s complexion had worsened significantly. He’d somehow gone more pale, and there were these red rings around his eyes as though he’d been rubbing at his eyelids nonstop. He looked ill.

He looked like he was still dying.

It made Bones’s chest ache. Jim was his patient, his charge, and the fact that Jim’s appearance had hardly improved made Bones feel like he was doing something wrong.

Like he was failing.

“Let’s do it again,” Bones said, once he was sure Jim had caught his breath.

Jim was on his stomach, his hands curled into shaking fists against the mat. There was perspiration dotting his hairline and a drop of sweat crawled down his temple every now and then. Jim glanced at him, the closest thing to acknowledgment Bones was gonna get.

Jim slowly raised his leg backwards again, and McCoy held his hands just underneath the kid’s leg in case Jim lost control. It would be bad for his leg to fall back down too quickly.

Bones counted down from five in his head, and told Jim when to lower his leg once more.

Again, Jim puffed out breaths of overexertion, the simple exercise obviously taking a lot of the kid’s energy.

Bones waited for his breaths to even out. Jim had so little energy, he didn’t want to use too much too soon. “Again,” Bones instructed.

Bones held his hands out, ready to let them hover under Jim’s raised knee, but Jim didn’t move.

The kid had his eyes screwed shut and his lips clenched together. The red blush of overexertion was spreading down his neck, and his hands continued to shake.

“C’mon, Jim, one more time,” Bones prompted, frowning down at his friend.

He waited for Jim to move, but the kid continued to pant through his nostrils, his face twisted in pain. Jim bared his teeth. “I can’t.”

Bones’s heart squeezed hard in his chest, those words having been the first he’d heard from Jim in days. A strange stinging sensation tickled at his eyes, but he ignored it.

“You can,” Bones whispered, hoping to get Jim to keep going. Just one more time. “You can’t give up yet.”

Jim’s breaths kept coming out hot and fast, his limbs shaking, and Bones could see his leg was quivering like it was trying to move. Jim suddenly pushed up from the mat and rolled himself over onto his back, blue eyes open and bright with apparent frustration. “I can, and I am,” he snarled.

Bones froze. He’d never known Jim to give up on anything. “Jim—”

Jim shoved himself into a sitting position and visibly swayed, his eyelids fluttering over his unfocused eyes for just a moment, before they refocused into a glare directed at the opposite wall. “I’m done for today,” he bit out.

Fuck.

How badly was Jim doing? He’d never known the kid to be pushed to retreating from a challenge. Was his body hurting him that much? Was it not something Bones could help with?

He reached a hand out to Jim’s shoulder, needing to assure himself that he could still comfort Jim, that he could still help him, that Jim was still warm and alive and within reach.

But as soon as his fingers grazed Jim’s skin, the kid flinched back and hissed, “Don’t touch me.”

A cold shard of ice struck Bones in the chest. He’d never had Jim refuse contact before. Hell, it was always Jim that always touched people, was always making physical contact. For Jim to reject him so blatantly, so vocally…

It… it hurt.

Bones’s throat started to close, so he spent a few seconds trying to swallow it back while his eyes threatened to water. He wasn’t going to cry over this. That wasn’t what Jim needed. If Jim was insisting on no contact, then it had to be for a reason. His skin was likely oversensitive, especially after their exercises.

As Bones got up to retrieve Jim’s wheelchair, he kept telling himself that it would be understandable for Jim to have a low tolerance of touch. He wouldn’t want physical contact in general.

It wasn’t Bones that Jim was rejecting. Just touch.

Bones watched Jim from across the table, as exhaustion and mounting frustration weighed heavy on his already tired shoulders. He was propping his head up in one hand, while a cup of coffee grew stagnant and cold in his other.

Jim wasn’t eating.

This wasn’t the first time Bones had seen Jim lose his appetite, but this was getting ridiculous. He needed to eat. It had been well over twenty-four hours since he’d last since the kid eat anything, and considering how weak he still was, and how often he ended up puking because of his medicine, Jim couldn’t afford not to eat.

Didn’t he want to get better? Didn’t he want to get stronger?

Bones was trying to understand Jim, but he’d been getting so little sleep lately, he was having difficulty putting himself in Jim’s shoes. Why wouldn’t the kid just eat?

“Jim,” McCoy grumbled, and watched how Jim didn’t react at all to the breaking of silence. “You gonna eat, or what?”

Jim’s eyes were focused on the bowl of oatmeal in front of him, but McCoy had a feeling Jim wasn’t seeing it at all. Jim hadn’t blinked in way too long—possibly minutes—so McCoy could only suspect that Jim was dissociating. It looked like he had completely checked out.

Rain was pattering softly against Jim’s apartment windows, and the blue light of a rainy morning was putting McCoy in a bad mood. He didn’t have the energy for any of this.

“Please, Jim?” McCoy tried again, voice quieter. “Will you please eat?”

Jim continued to stare unblinking at the tabletop, but this time, he actually responded. “I’m not fucking hungry,” he whispered.

McCoy studied the slope of Jim’s shoulders, his white knuckled fists on either side of his breakfast, the way his eyes appeared gray in the light. Jim’s face was slack with a lack of emotion, and his voice had been so quiet that McCoy could hardly hear what sort of mood the kid was in.

He sighed and rubbed his face into his hand. “Jim,” he muttered, “you have to.”

Jim shook his head slowly. “No,” the young captain whispered again.

It made McCoy feel like he was trying to work with a child. Did Jim not understand how important it was for him to eat? Did he not understand that he wasn’t going to be able to heal if he didn’t keep himself well fed?

McCoy watched the shadows of rain droplets slide across the tabletop, over Jim’s pale skin. His eyes ached so much. When was the last time he’d slept for more than four hours? “You’re not going to feel any better if you don’t eat,” he told the quiet room.

Jim’s fists twitched. “I told you I’m not fucking hungry.” Jim’s voice was still low, but there was noticeably a tinge of heat behind his words.

McCoy frowned at him. Why was he acting like this? McCoy didn’t have any patience for this, not after the past week of trying to coax Jim, trying to work with an unresponsive and petulant captain. Why did Jim always make everything so complicated?

A small voice at the back of McCoy’s head suggested that he himself was too tired and strung out to be helping others, but he quickly dismissed it. It wasn’t like he could just leave Jim, not again. He hadn’t even been there when Jim died. He couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from him just yet, couldn’t handle the idea of not having him within sight.

He couldn’t lose Jim, not again.

McCoy sighed and stood from his seat to come around beside Jim. The kid obviously wasn’t going to feed himself. He picked up Jim’s bowl and poked the spoon around, while he placed himself in the chair closest to Jim.

He’d barely lifted a spoonful of oatmeal before Jim struck out and smacked all of it out of McCoy’s hands, and the bowl shattered across the kitchen floor in a shockingly loud explosion.

Jim stared dumbly at the oatmeal and ceramic that had splattered across the floor, and his heart pounded wildly in his chest—hard and painful and nauseating.

God, what had he just done?

McCoy had shot to his feet when the bowl had shattered, and he shook his hands out as though Jim’s strike had hurt them. Fuck, maybe it had.

“What the fuck, Jim?” Bones said, voice teetering on the edge of yelling.

A sickening cacophony of emotions erupted in Jim’s chest, all too complex and intense and too much for him to navigate at the moment. He couldn’t look away from the oatmeal across the floor, and couldn’t shake the images of maggots and rotten food and burnt bodies out of his head.

It’s the doctors all over again, they won’t let you die, you can’t eat, you can’t eat, it’s Tarsus all over again.

“I told you I’m not fucking hungry,” Jim responded through a tight and barely working mouth, his unsteady breaths and vocal cords causing his words to shake. The oatmeal appeared to be shifting, writhing, like it was full of long dead larvae and something deep inside him whispered that his lack of sleep and lack of food was causing him to hallucinate.

The food was bad, the crops were gone, there was blood all over Jim’s hands and there weren’t even bugs to eat, and people kept touching him and hurting him and killing him and it wouldn’t stop, he couldn’t get it to stop, why do they keep bringing him back? Why won’t they let him die? Why can’t he die? Why can’t he die?

“Jesus—” McCoy covered his face with his hands, obviously exhausted and frustrated and Jim’s mind was screaming at him in disappointment for having pushed McCoy to this point.

He couldn’t do anything right, he couldn’t even be a patient right. He was causing McCoy so much trouble, but he couldn’t— he couldn’t stop.

“Jim, if you don’t eat, you’re not gonna get better,” McCoy growled into his hands.

Jim swallowed back the lump in his throat and the stinging in his eyes, and ignored how his jaw quivered. “Maybe I don’t want to get better,” he whispered, his mouth working against his will. He didn’t want McCoy to know what he was feeling, the doctor wouldn’t be able to take it, but— but he couldn’t get his mouth to stop. “Maybe I don’t want to be here.”

“The fuck do you mean,” McCoy removed his hands to stare incredulously at Jim, “you don’t want to be here?”

McCoy’s eyes were wide with confusion and hurt, and an unquenchable anger flared up inside of Jim. What right did McCoy have to feel hurt? Was he the one trying to relearn how to move, how to live? Was he the one that was brought back to life for what felt like the hundredth time?

What did Bones know of confusion and hurt?

As these mounting feelings began to cloud Jim’s weary head, a frantic voice inside him insisted that he wasn’t thinking straight, he didn’t really feel this way, but he couldn’t control himself anymore. The pressure build up of the past few weeks was at its max. He’d finally reached his breaking point.

“I mean,” Jim snarled, “you never should have brought me back in the first place.” The flare of a bomb was fizzling in his chest, the wick was growing shorter and shorter with every moment, and Jim could see the explosion that was looming before him. Quietly, his chest burning with fury, Jim asked, “Why did you do it?”

Bones’s eyes widened further. “What?”

Jim slammed his fist against the table and McCoy flinched. “Why the hell did you do it?!” Jim shouted, as the explosion finally set off in his chest and sent sharp shrapnel into his heart and lungs, making it that much harder to breathe. “How could you?!”

Bones faltered for only a moment, before understanding flit through his eyes and his face pulled into a scowl of disbelief. “How could I save you? How can you ask me something like that, Jim?”

Jim could hear the hurt in Bones’s voice, and— No, no, McCoy didn’t have any right to feel hurt. Jim squeezed his fists around the hem of his shirt and glared at McCoy with all of the fury that was slicing and destroying the inside of his lungs. “I didn’t fucking ask to be saved!!”

“I wasn’t going to just leave you there!” Bones shouted back, as hurt continued to bleed into his eyes.

He didn’t understand, he didn’t understand, Bones didn’t get how cruel it was for him to bring Jim back, how cruel it was for someone like him to be saved when so many other people weren’t allowed the same. A sob choked Jim for a second, but he forced himself to scream past it. “But I didn’t ask to live!” A grimace of sorrow threatened to contort his face, but he willed it back into a scowl. “You took that choice away from me!!”

Just like the doctors, just like the doctors, just like the doctors.

Horror colored Bones’s face for a second, before he shouted back, “You wanted to die?!”

Jim shook his head vehemently, face pulling into a snarl. Bones didn’t get it. It wasn’t that he wanted to die, he just didn’t deserve to live. The horrid pain of sitting in all of that radiation burned through his memory and Jim could feel that aching fire in his muscles, in his lungs, and the pain of being alone and of dying—this time for good—would never leave his memory.

He would have died that day, he was supposed to die that day.

“No, but I wasn’t supposed to live!” Jim insisted, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t be alive!”

“But you are, Jim!!”

Jim looked up at Bones, at the way his voice had cracked, and realized how Bones’s eyes were brimming with tears. He could feel the tears welling up in his own, and Bones’s face was suddenly blurred by the images of all the other doctors that had resurrected Jim back on Tarsus.

“Not by my own fucking choice!” Jim cried, staring up at Bones with wide and wet eyes, as his face continued to twitch in its attempts to contort itself enough that he’d have no choice but to succumb to his tears. “How could you do this to me?! How could you make that decision for me?!” The sob in his throat finally gripped his voice and he choked around it as he continued, and to his horror he could no longer hold the tears at bay. “How can I live when so many others died?”

Bones didn’t say anything further, and the ensuing silence was deafening to Jim’s ears, especially after all of the yelling that had been echoing in the too-large kitchen. Bones watched tears drip down Jim’s cheeks, and it made Jim feel stupid and worthless and so fucking incompetent and out of control, and—

Fuck, he was out of control. He’d just yelled at his best friend, and he was still so angry, and he just—

God, he wanted it all to end already.

He wiped at his eyes furiously and willed the tears to stop flowing. He couldn’t keep crying. He had to maintain what semblance of control that he could, though after this outburst, he doubted that was an option.

He was so fucking upset with himself.

He was so upset.

“Jim,” McCoy whispered, the difference in volume making Jim’s ears inexplicably ache. “I was only trying to help—”

“I don’t want your help anymore!” The words had burst out of Jim before he could stop, his tolerance and control still out of his reach. He was still angry, despite how much he wished he wasn't.

He just couldn’t keep talking to Bones, not right now. He couldn’t stand the other man at the moment.

“You’ve done enough, all right?!” He shot his burning, aching gaze at McCoy and ignored how much his own fists were quivering. “Just get out!”

McCoy hesitated, before he frowned back, the hurt still visible in his usually warm eyes. “Jim, you know I can’t just leave you—”

“Then send someone else.” Jim clenched his teeth together and redirected his gaze to the oatmeal all over the floor, and hated how his body was shaking. He couldn’t take much more of this, there was a well inside of him that was threatening to overflow, and he didn’t want Bones to be near him in case he lost control again.

Why couldn’t the doctor understand that he’d taken all that he could take?

McCoy was still just watching him quietly and Jim refused to meet his gaze. He’d said what he had said, and as loathe as he was to admit it, it was what he was feeling. It was the truth.

He couldn’t take it back now. He couldn’t take any of it back.

“Get out,” Jim repeated quietly, his voice completely shot and depleted of what little energy he had to spare. “Leave me alone. Please.”

He couldn’t look at Bones. He couldn’t. Not with the way his chest hurt, not with the way his eyes stung, not with the way he couldn’t breathe.

Without another word, Bones stepped away from him. Jim couldn’t bring himself to watch his friend leave him, but it was by his own doing. This was what he pushed for.

Why do you always do this? Why do you have to push everyone away?

The urge to cry was becoming almost impossible to ignore, but he had to hold it back just a little longer. Just until he was alone. Just until he didn’t have to be Captain anymore.

Bones had reached the door already, and the sound of the apartment unlocking echoed through the horridly quiet space. The door slid open and Bones paused. Quietly, his voice barely audible, McCoy said, “I’m sorry, Jim. I didn’t want to live in a world that didn’t have you in it.”

And then he was gone.

Jim’s shaking hands gripped his knees and he started to rock in his seat, as his face finally twisted to accommodate the overwhelming surge of sorrow that rushed through his whole entire being.

The tears fell unbidden from his eyes and he allowed his lip to tremble while he continued to rock back and forth in an attempt to process how much hurt was throbbing through his body. What had he done? How could he have done that to Bones?

He folded himself in half enough to bury his face against his knees, and for the first time in too long, allowed himself to openly sob. His whole body hurt, he felt sick, how could he have said those things?

This was why he shouldn’t have lived, this was why he never should have been spared.

He didn’t deserve any of it. All he could ever do was push others away, hurt those who only wanted to help him, he couldn’t even be fucking thankful that he was alive.

What was wrong with him? Why did he have to be like this? Why did he have to hurt so much?

Pike’s words rang out in his head, declaring that “ if anyone deserves a second chance, it’s Jim Kirk.”

How fucking wrong he’d been.

Chapter Text

McCoy rode the turbolift out of Jim’s building in a shocked stupor, the suffocating amount of emotions inside of him too much to process just yet.

Jim had kicked him out. Had yelled at him.

Had made it very clear that McCoy wasn’t helping him.

A surge of tears clouded McCoy’s vision and he was too tired to blink them away, and couldn’t even bring himself to care when they spilled over and began a steady stream down his cheeks.

Jim was hurting so much worse than he had thought, and there was nothing he could do.

He’d never felt so useless before.

How had he not realized sooner that Jim was suffering from survivor’s guilt? It was so obvious in hindsight, what with the closed off nature, the nightmares, the mounting irritability, the fact that he died and came back.

Of course… of course he would feel guilty for that.

McCoy knew what kind of person Jim was. He should have anticipated such a reaction. Jim, along with thousands of others, had died. And he was the only one that was brought back.

McCoy squeezed his eyes shut and focused on regulating his breathing, but didn’t make any attempt to wipe away or stem the flow of tears. He couldn’t imagine what Jim was going through.

He knew that Jim’s physical and emotional ailments from having gone through such a trauma would have been plenty to deal with, but there was also Pike’s death to take into account, as well as so much of their crew and city having died.

It was simply too much for anyone to bear.

And, despite how much he wanted to, McCoy knew that he wouldn’t be able to support Jim through this. At least…

At least, not by himself.

There was no way that they would be able to heal from this, just the two of them. As close as they were, as much as they loved each other, McCoy knew that their particular personalities and coping methods would not compliment each other in the current situation.

They both tended to get too abrasive and closed off when working through stuff, and especially when they were sleep deprived.

McCoy often appreciated how alike they were, but when it came down to something like this—how similarly they were reacting to their own traumas and ravaged health—he knew that they probably weren’t the best things for each other.

They were both too tight. Too tired. Too hurt, too strained, too sad.

The turbolift opened out onto the ground floor and McCoy let his feet carry him out, though he wasn’t paying attention to where he was going. He was still crying, but he didn’t… didn’t really feel like getting himself together. He didn’t care.

He couldn’t care. Not when he thought about how badly Jim was hurting just floors above him. Not when he thought about how there was nothing he could do to help his captain.

The cold chill of the outside bit at his cheeks, and it was so frigid it was as though it were reflecting how he was feeling inside. A few people stared at his tears as he passed them on the street, but he ignored them. He didn’t care.

He was walking away from the only thing he did care about, but he had no other choice than to keep moving. Jim didn’t want to see him. He couldn’t quite blame the kid.

This wasn’t… This wasn’t a hurt that Bones could just hypo away.

And it wasn’t a hurt that he could heal by himself.

The tears were starting to become painfully cold on his flushed skin. He took deep, shaking breaths, and finally started to wipe the moisture off of his cheeks. He couldn’t keep wallowing in his own emotions, not when there was still stuff he had to do. For Jim.

Bones located a bench through the wall of tears that still hadn’t disappeared completely, and continued to wipe at his eyes while he sat down. Sniffling, he drew out his PADD and immediately sent a message to Chapel, asking her to tend to Jim for the night.

He had a feeling Jim wouldn’t want to see him until at least tomorrow. Maybe even… maybe even not for a few days.

That thought alone brought up a whole new slew of unbidden tears, and McCoy scowled at his knees while he did his best to wipe them away. Now wasn’t the time to be getting so worked up. He had no right to be miserable, no right at all.

Besides… He had a feeling that the next person he was going to contact wouldn’t appreciate having to decipher his words between his blubbering. He had to get it together. For Jim, for himself, and for Spock to be able to figure out what the fuck he was gonna say.

Spock had been in meetings with Starfleet’s commanding officers almost nonstop in recent days. Starfleet had numerous matters to discuss, to mend, and to address. The destruction of the Enterprise and her crew was enough of an issue as it was, but the amount of destruction that Starfleet had suffered—and, arguably, caused— was infinitely more pressing.

A majority of the meetings were focused on deciding exactly what Starfleet was responsible for, and to what extent. Due to the fact that Marcus had been their Fleet Admiral, more destruction than not could be blamed on Starfleet.

Admiral Marcus’s acts of treason and warmongering were nothing short of catastrophic, as he had been the root cause of all that had happened with the Enterprise, with the Klingons, with San Francisco, and with Khan.

Spock clenched his fist without meaning to, the same reaction that seemed to manifest every time he thought of that genetically modified soldier’s name.

The… emotions that threatened his control every time he thought of the man, were not dissimilar to those that materialized whenever he thought of Nero.

It was… a concerning matter. Nero had been responsible for the deaths of billions of lives, of his planet, of his mother. The amount of life that Nero had stolen far outweighed that which Khan took. And yet…

Khan had killed Kirk.

Spock’s fists clenched again and he forced himself to relax, though it only made him feel more tense. His emotional control had been abysmal ever since that day. He closed his eyes for just a second and took a deep breath.

Now was not the time to focus too deeply on Khan. Not while he was busy with the meeting.

They were discussing the exact role that Marcus had played—or at least, that was what they were supposed to be discussing. For reasons that Spock could not fathom, the discussion had once again veered towards Captain Kirk and the actions he took—or, in the opinions of some, those that he did not.

There was one rear admiral in particular that Spock had always struggled to tolerate, and unfortunately he was the one that had been holding the ground floor in recent minutes.

“I don’t think we should completely dismiss Kirk as far as responsibility,” Rear Admiral Howerd said as he eyed all commanding officers sat at the table. “I mean, was he not demoted just before this all happened? We already know that he causes more trouble than not—” Howerd cut himself off to raise a hand and brow, as smug self-righteousness wafted off of him. “Just look at what he did to Nibiru. It is obvious that he has zero respect for the Federation. He has consistently shown himself to be an instigator and a short fuse at best, and he has been a constant cause for concern. In fact, Commander Spock...”

Spock instinctively bristled once Howerd’s attention turned to him, and he tensed as he anticipated whatever accusation the rear admiral would likely make in regards to himself or Jim.

“Did you not once call him to an academic trial for cheating, Commander?” Howerd’s brows rose imploringly, as though he did not already know the answer.

Spock clenched his jaw before answering. “Yes, Rear Admiral, however—”

“I just find it real suspicious that every time he gets in trouble, every time he commits an unforgivable act—” Howerd once again cut himself off to start counting on his fingers. “Cheating, sneaking onto a Starfleet vessel despite academic suspension, using manipulative tactics to climb the chain of command, taking liberties with the rules and using his own God-given luck to justify his actions, violating the prime directive. Any time he does something that would get anybody else kicked out of the ‘Fleet, he conveniently becomes a full blown hero not days after.” He paused to squint his gaze at Spock. “Doesn’t that bother you at all, Commander? That when you tried to make him answer for what he’d done, he just so happened to be in the right place at the right time and never came to justice, and instead became lauded as a hero despite the fact that he didn’t even save your planet—”

“I was the one that had rescinded the call for an academic trial,” Spock cut in, and made an active effort not to let his frustration seethe through his voice.

He knew Jim Kirk felt guilty for having been unable to do more for Vulcan. Spock knew that Jim would carry the weight of all of those deaths for the rest of his life, despite the fact that they had never been his responsibility in the first place. Jim cared so hard, so deeply, and Spock knew that his supposed “failings” continued to haunt him even still.

To hear someone who did not even know Jim claim that the captain had not done enough, to try to word it as though he had failed Spock, stoked the flames of an infuriated rage within Spock’s lungs.

“I do not hold Captain Kirk accountable for what transpired regarding my planet’s demise,” Spock continued, his voice and throat tight with thinly veiled emotions. “After working alongside him at that time, it became apparent to me that he is a capable man, and an even more capable officer. To continue with the trial would have been illogical. Your accusations as to his character are entirely unfounded and hold no merit to the discussion at hand.” Spock paused to eye every officer at the table, in an attempt to convey his disappointment in all of them for having allowed the meeting to derail to such an extent. “We are not here to discuss Captain Kirk. We are here to gauge the exact level of responsibility Alexander Marcus has had in all that has transpired. Not the role my captain played in saving as many as he could.”

“I get he’s your captain and all,” Captain DeMuir cut in, distaste clear in his tone, “but you call that saving? Half of San Francisco was killed. Under his watch. ”

Spock’s muscles clenched with an unanticipated wave of hot anger, and he slowly squeezed his hands into fists. He did his best to keep his voice calm and collected, but he had his suspicions that he was not entirely successful. “I should not have to remind you that it is not Captain Kirk’s responsibility to keep San Francisco safe. His duties are relegated to off-world matters, not the defense of Earth.”

“The Commander is right,” Admiral Park said from across the table, her eyes steady on Spock. “This meeting was called solely to discuss what must be done about Marcus and his actions. Captain Kirk may be discussed at a later date, but now is not the time to let personal opinions distract from the issues that are of real concern.”

She turned her gaze on Howerd as she spoke, and to have her support—however minor—eased some of the tension that had been building throughout Spock’s body.

He did not understand what it was about Jim Kirk that made so many so against him. Jim was entirely undeserving of such unforgiving scrutiny, particularly from those that did not even know him.

With relief, Spock noted that many of the officers at the table had shifted to better face Admiral Park as she rerouted the course of the discussion to Marcus and Khan, and what would be told to the public.

Before he could relax entirely, however, his communicator vibrated in the way that heralded an incoming call. He glanced down at the contact, and his heart jolted unexpectedly when his eyes landed on Doctor McCoy’s name.

The doctor would not call unless there was an emergency.

An emergency regarding Jim.

Spock quickly rose from his seat and before stepping away, made sure his communicator was visible. “I must take this call.” Some of the urgency running through his lungs must have bled into his voice, because no officer made any move to stop him.

He answered the call as soon as he had stepped out of the room and into the sunlit hall, and walked farther from the door as he spoke. “Doctor McCoy?”

“Spock.”

Spock froze in his step for just a moment, the raw emotion in the doctor’s voice having sent a pang of fear through his whole body. Did the Captain—?

“Has something happened to the Captain?” Spock’s voice trembled just slightly, and he wondered if McCoy could hear it.

For a few seconds, the only sound from the other end was that of the doctor breathing roughly. It sounded as though he had been crying. “He’s—” McCoy’s voice caught, and Spock found that he could not breathe until the doctor continued. “He’s all right, he’s— His condition hasn’t gotten worse. We just…”

Spock stepped into a private corner, away from the light coming from the windows and any possible prying ears. He bowed his head and listened intently for McCoy to continue. “Doctor?” he prompted.

McCoy audibly drew in a breath. “We got in a fight, Spock.” His voice cracked, fragile as falling glass, and Spock was shocked by the amount of pain he could hear. “I can’t… I can’t help him.”

A chill caressed Spock’s skin. For McCoy to make such a claim…

He was the only doctor that could help Jim Kirk. So if he couldn’t , what… What did that mean?

“Please elaborate,” Spock said. “What happened?” McCoy sniffled, and Spock wondered if he was crying again. “Doctor…” he whispered, intending to soothe, though it quickly became apparent that it could have been taken as a command to continue.

“He’s mad that I brought him back to life. And I— I understand. I’m forcing him to live with the trauma of having died, and— And the survivor’s guilt. He can’t— This is so much for him to deal with. I don’t blame him. But, Spock…” The doctor was definitely crying, and it made Spock’s chest unexpectedly tight to listen to him continue. “Spock, having me around him isn’t helping him. We can’t— We keep butting heads. We’re not… We’re not good for each other. I’m the last person that should be around him right now. But I also— I don’t trust anyone else to take care of him. And that’s probably a failing on my part, but he’s…” A sob cut the doctor off, and the sound of it caused Spock to frown as a wave of worry rolled through his body. “Spock, I don’t know who else to turn to. I hate to ask this of you, but… When’s the soonest you can come back?”

His gut reaction was to say immediately, but the knowledge of how vastly important his presence was for the meetings stilled his tongue. He wanted to return to San Francisco as soon as possible. He wanted to return to Jim as soon as possible. He had been dealing with the politics of Khan’s disaster for three weeks. He had wanted to leave before, but now that he knew that he was needed elsewhere, the yearning to go back to Jim and the doctor nearly suffocated him.

“As soon as I possibly can, Doctor,” he finally replied. “No more than three days.”

“Okay.” McCoy’s voice was so uncharacteristically subdued on the other end of the call.

It was… unnerving. Not right. Spock hated that he wasn’t there.

“I’ll… do what I can for him in the meantime,” McCoy mumbled. “I’m sorry to drag you back here like this, Spock, but— I think you’re the only person that he would be okay with having near him right now.”

Spock’s heart stuttered in his side. He had hoped, desperately, that Jim’s condition would improve in his absence… To know that he was still suffering, even after everything that had happened, made Spock wish his captain could just rest, just for a while. He deserved to have some reprieve.

Yet, for some unknown reason, it seemed Jim would not be allowed such a luxury.

“I am sorry that I cannot return sooner, Doctor,” Spock whispered.

“It’s okay. I understand.” McCoy sniffled a few more times, before clearing his throat. “I’ll give you daily updates on his condition until you come back. I hope— I hope being around you will help his condition improve, at least a little.” There was a long pause on both ends, and McCoy finally said, “Okay. McCoy out.”

Spock held his communicator to his chest while thoughts of Jim ran rampant through his head. Why… could he never seem to be there for his captain? Why did this always happen, when Jim seemed to need him most?

The current situation felt no different from the moment of Jim’s death.

Spock was once again separated from him, so close yet so far, helpless to assist Jim regardless of how desperately he wanted to. The few times he’d managed to sleep since that day had left him susceptible to dreams of that horrid glass— that rueful, hateful pane of glass that kept him from doing anything more than watch as Jim withered only centimeters away.

Even still, he could not yet help Jim.

Spock wondered, desperately, when the glass would be removed and he could finally reach Jim— finally help him.

Chapter Text

Jim woke up with sticky and damp cheeks, which meant he had been crying in his sleep again. He stared at his ceiling unblinking, and was too tired to even bother wiping at his face.

It had been two days since his screaming match with Bones.

He had felt hollow before their fight, but now… Now, he was barely even a shell. All of his energy—especially emotional—had been completely exhausted. His body was hurting worse than ever, but he couldn’t even muster up the strength to be bothered by it.

A bone-deep ache, the kind that usually accompanied a cold or fever, thrummed through his whole body. His chest was tight, but that wasn’t unusual.

Mind-numbing pain had been permeating his whole entire being for weeks, and it had become such a constant that he was having difficulty remembering the days when he wasn’t hurting.

And... his nightmares were getting worse.

And because of the nightmares, he knew he was clenching up in his sleep—from stress and fear and fury—and it was leaving his muscles sore from over-exertion and constant tension.

To add to that, he was becoming incredibly dehydrated from all of the crying. Since it was happening in his sleep, he was helpless against his own emotions and couldn’t keep himself from releasing more tears than he could afford to lose.

It made him feel so incompetent. So weak.

He was Jim Kirk. He was supposed to be in complete control of himself.

Self-hatred had been squeezing its hot fist around his heart for days, and with every hour its hold was growing tighter. His breaths were shallow and short because of it, and Bones was always watching him quietly.

It made his skin crawl, but he also knew that it was Bones’s job to. He couldn't be mad at Bones for doing what he was supposed to. He just wished…

He just wished that they could talk again.

But they weren’t saying anything beyond what was necessary when they were around each other. He knew it was his fault. If he’d never blown up the way he had, if he’d had better control of himself, if he’d just been a better person, then he wouldn’t have fucked up the one good thing in his life that he’d been able to rely on for the past four years.

It just took one mistake from him to have it all come crashing down.

Jim blinked sluggishly and his gummy eyelids clung together. He wanted to laugh at how fucking predictable he was.

He could never keep anything good. He didn’t deserve anything good.

Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if McCoy was inclined to cut ties after Jim was all healed. Now that McCoy’d gotten a better taste of what a piece of shit Jim was, he was all the more informed that Jim wasn’t the kind of person one would willingly keep in their life.

Jim had let people die. His own crew, his own city, countless deaths that were added to the blood always staining his hands. Bones was surely getting a clearer idea as to how ugly Jim was inside. They’d had fights before, of course, but— But none quite as sour as this.

This fight was only worsened because of Jim. It wasn’t going to get any better—because of Jim. He always made living worse for those around him, and if Bones hadn’t figured that out yet, then he would soon.

Besides… Bones didn’t even want to be in space. So Jim wouldn’t begrudge him the want to leave, especially now that he was surely starting to realize staying only for Jim would never be worth it.

Jim was never worth it. Never had been, never would be.

Nobody ever wanted to stay with Jim, and he knew that.

He closed his eyes and exhaled shallowly. He didn’t want Bones to leave. He liked the man, liked being around him. They’d had a lot of fun together.

But if McCoy could be spared the pain of seeing how fucking awful Jim was, then maybe… Maybe him leaving would be for the best.

Jim didn’t want to drive him away. But it was going to happen no matter what. It always did.

You’d either be smart enough to leave Jim Kirk on your own, or you died on his watch.

The memory of calling Pike’s name right before the man got shot flashed through Jim’s head, and he squeezed his sheets as much as his shaking hands would allow.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

If he hadn’t called Pike’s name, hadn’t distracted him, then he probably never would have been caught by that gunfire. It was Jim’s fault. It was Jim’s fucking fault.

Why couldn’t he keep anything good?

Why did he bring ruin and destruction and suffocating pain to everyone near him? How many deaths was he going to be responsible for?

Tears were beginning to prick at the corners of his eyes again, but he froze when he heard his front door open.

“It’s me,” called Bones’s voice, and Jim’s chest clenched at the sound of it.

He didn’t respond. Never did, anymore.

Couldn’t bring himself to force sound out of his throat. Besides… it felt raw enough already, which led him to suspect that he had been vocalizing—maybe screaming—in his sleep.

No. He didn’t feel like talking. But he still missed it. Still missed Bones.

The noise of things being moved around came from the kitchen, though McCoy wasn’t saying anything beyond his first declaration as to his presence. He was probably fixing up food. Jim’s stomach rumbled at the thought, even though the very idea of eating made him feel horribly nauseous.

He closed his eyes.

Maybe he could sleep his hunger away. It was what he’d done plenty of times back on Tarsus.

A suddenly vivid, burning, merciless memory ripped its way across his skull, tearing at the flesh of his brain, and the sounds of Bones in the kitchen were drowned out by the horrified screams of a girl no older than seven as she grabbed at her brother’s body.

“Simon!! Wake up!! Why is he so cold? Why is he stuck like that?!”

Fuck!!

Jim shot up and his head swam from moving so fast, but to be pulled from sleep by such awful screams forced adrenaline through his veins, replacing everything else that belonged there.

Too loud!! Too loud!! She was being too loud!!

Their cave of a hideout was too cramped for such loud screaming, and the shape of it was surely projecting her voice across the landscape outside like some sort of megaphone. Jim scrambled towards the back of the cave, not bothering to apologize as he accidentally kneed and trampled some of the other kids.

She had to shut up!

“Clary, shh!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and hid her face against his own chest, as his eyes landed on the stiff body of five year old Simon, already caught in the deep stages of rigor mortis.

Fuck, he must have died a little over 3 hours ago. Jim hadn’t even realized the kid had been on death’s doorstep.

“Take her!” He hissed behind himself, as he passed Clary off to either Eddie or T’Risa. He wasn’t paying attention, he didn’t care who took her. He had to get Simon out of there before the other kids could see him.

Jim yanked the thin blanket out from under the five year old and wrapped it around the kid’s stiff body, and barely refrained from gagging as he lifted the hard, cold, solid form of the kid that had been one of their only sources of laughter lately. It felt like holding a mannequin, or— or a mummy.

He was so stiff.

The wrongness of it sent buzzing prickles all across Jim's skin, his natural instincts recoiling at having to hold something so clearly dead. But he couldn't— he couldn't just  leave him.

As Jim carried Simon’s body out of their hideout, he hissed at Eddie to help him start digging. They would have to bury him before the sun rose, because otherwise he would start rotting in the heat and the stench would be enough to make them have to leave. But they couldn’t afford to leave. Jim hadn’t found another safe space yet, they couldn’t leave. They couldn’t.

And they still hadn’t found a new shovel yet, so as Jim carried Simon’s still cold body to the bottom of the valley, he accepted that he was probably going to lose the last of his fingernails to the bare handed digging he was going to have to do.

A disorienting weightlessness overcame Jim for a long, brief moment, before an explosion of pain suddenly erupted throughout his shoulder. He yelped on reflex and slammed his head back against the floor, and it took him a few seconds of suffocating around his own throat before he realized that he had fucking fallen out of bed.

“Fuck!” he wheezed, just as a warm pair of hands grabbed onto him and eased him onto his back.

“Jim! Are you okay?!”

He wanted to scream that NO HE WASN’T FUCKING OKAY, but instead all he could manage to do was struggle to breathe while Bones helped him into a sitting position. Pulses of pain radiated down his right shoulder, and he squeezed his eyes shut against how much it hurt. He could hardly breathe.

“C’mon, c’mon, easy,” Bones soothed, as he half-carried, half-dragged Jim over to a couch. “Let me see what you did to yourself.”

Jim glared at Bones through watering eyes, wishing he could find his voice just so he could yell at the other man for implying he had meant to do this to himself. But as it was, he could barely figure out what to do with the air he did have in his lungs, and so he put all of his focus on actually breathing through the pain of landing on his shoulder and the pain of having to relive that fucking moment on Tarsus.

Why in the fucking God damn hell was he having Tarsus flashbacks again?!

He was supposed to be done with that! That was supposed to be all locked up, he had locked it all up! After the Narada Incident, he’d done what he needed to do to rebuild his mental walls!

Fuck getting resurrected! Of fucking course this shit with Khan would undo all his hard work! He hadn’t had a lapse in control in well over a year, why the fuck—

Why the fuck couldn’t he catch a fucking break?!

“Jim, you have to calm down,” McCoy said, as one of his hands smoothed over Jim’s good shoulder to reassure and gently squeeze. “Try to breathe. I’m gonna help you out, but you have to breathe through this before I get the hypo ready.”

No, no, he didn’t want to deal with any hypos right now!

Grimy hands were holding him by the shoulders and shoving him against the cold metal of the medical table, as the straps over his body were tightened to the point of hurting. “Fucking hold still, kid!” A hypo glinted in the yellow, flickering light of the medbay, and Kodos’s doctor smiled down at him. “This’ll only sting a bit!”

“Whoah, whoah!” McCoy’s grip on him tightened, and it took Jim too many seconds to realize that he had started thrashing away from the hypo in McCoy’s hand. “Jim, holy shit, calm down! You’re all right!”

A weird, garbled choking sound came out of Jim’s throat, and he pressed himself against the couch as much as he could. He was too weak to try and shove McCoy away, or fight him off, or— or do anything more than shake and struggle to breathe.

He could still fucking feel Simon’s cold, hard body in his arms!

The hypo hissed against Jim’s neck almost quicker than Jim could perceive it—possibly gentler than McCoy had ever administered a hypo for him before—but then it was immediately replaced by a tricorder, and the doctor held it over Jim while his other hand kept a firm but still gentle grip on his arm.

Jim’s chest was hurting so fucking bad. At first he had thought all the pain was coming from his lungs, but now the majority of it was focused around the center of his chest, right at his heart.

God, was he— Was he having a fucking heart attack or something?! It felt like someone had stuck him with a jagged knife in the middle of his chest, and was slowly twisting it deeper and deeper. He couldn’t stop shaking, his teeth were even starting to click together.

Bones’s warm hands were suddenly cradling Jim’s cheeks, and Jim hadn’t realized exactly how much he had missed them. It took effort, but he managed to focus on Bones’s wide, worried eyes, and he found the strength to speak past the suffocating pain in his chest. “Is this— a heart attack?”

He held his own cold, trembling fingers against the backs of Bones’s hands, too weak to actually grip them, but wanting the contact all the same. Bones visibly swallowed, while his eyes darted at their surroundings before settling for a few long seconds on the couch Jim was on.

Bones was biting hard on his lip, and glanced into Jim’s eyes. “Do… do you trust me?”

That— That was a dumb question. Of course he did.

Jim scowled at Bones’s apparent stupidity, and at how he still couldn’t breathe, and at the pain that was only getting worse in his chest. He nodded, stilted and stiff.

Bones inhaled deep, like a reverse sigh, before he wrapped his hands around Jim’s upper arms and sat himself on the couch beside Jim. He turned the young captain to face him as he moved, and didn’t let go as he began to lie back.

For a few seconds, confusion drowned out everything Jim was feeling as he was manhandled atop the couch. It wasn’t until he was sprawled across Bones’s chest, their legs tangled together, that he realized they were snuggling.

It was so Goddamn confusing and jarring, that it took him way too long to realize he had stopped breathing.

Bones’s hands drifted from Jim’s arms to his back, where he was rubbing in soothing circles. The motion spurred Jim to start breathing again, and the cacophony of emotions knocking around inside his already hurting chest drained him of any fight he might have had.

Jim let his head flop onto Bones’s shoulder, and took the time to just focus on breathing.

He… had missed this. He missed being close to Bones like this.

His own arms cradled Bones’s sides, but he couldn’t bring himself to hold on. They’d been so distant from each other lately, he didn’t feel like he had any right to make any sort of contact beyond what Bones was initiating. His eyes stung, so he made sure to keep them shut tight. He just had to focus on breathing.

Bones’s pulse was thumping wildly in the doctor’s neck, right where Jim’s forehead was pressed. “I’m sorry if this is uncomfortable for you,” McCoy whispered. “But it was all I could think to do.”

Somehow, beyond the ever present ache and the tightness in his lungs, Jim managed to pull words out of his strained throat. “Hugging cures heart attacks?” His hoarse voice hardly reached a whisper, but as close as they were, he knew Bones would have no problem hearing him.

Bones’s fingers drifted to scratch gently at Jim’s neck and into the short hairs on the back of his head. Jim was beyond shocked to find that it didn’t feel irritating, or uncomfortable, or painful like so much contact had lately. Breathing was getting easier.

The doctor inhaled slowly, and Jim found the sensation of laying on Bones’s rising chest more comforting than he wanted to admit.

“Not a heart attack, Jim,” Bones whispered. “Panic attack.”

Oh. That made sense.

But… what didn’t make sense was why they were just… lying on the couch the way they were. Or— or why the vice around Jim’s chest was loosening with every second. Jim swallowed carefully. “So why the cuddling?”

Bones’s hand settled against the back of Jim’s head, just a warm press of weight against his skull. His other hand was still occupied with smoothing over Jim’s back. “It was… It was a guess. I’m working blind, here. I don’t know what I’m doing.” His fingers went back to carding through Jim’s hair. “But… it made sense in the moment. You’re one of the most tactile people I’ve ever met, Jim.”

Jim continued to breathe slowly with his eyes closed, let himself relax under Bones’s gentle hands. His lungs were almost starting to feel normal. “And?” he whispered.

“And you haven’t had any contact for weeks.” Bones’s hold on him got just a little tighter, and still, it didn’t hurt. “I think you’re touch starved, kid. And I think it’s making your condition worse. It’s making your stress worse. You don’t… You don’t do good when you’re isolated.”

Jim continued to focus on the rise and fall of Bones’s chest against his own, let Bones’s words stew around in his brain.

Touch starved, huh? 

It seemed probable. He… loved touch. Loved being able to be in physical contact with others, even though— even though he didn’t deserve it. He'd always, always wanted to be close to those around him, especially physically, but he could rarely bring himself to. Some days he felt like his skin, his hands, his very being was tainted. Like if he were to touch someone, then they would crumple into a pile of ash right before him, and it would be his fault.

Now that he thought about it... He'd probably spent most of his life touch starved. Fuckin' figured.

And as much as he didn't want to accept it, he couldn’t deny that what they were doing... Being as close together as they were... made him feel the most relaxed he had since he first woke up in the hospital.

It made his heart squeeze in hurt, but in an entirely different way than it had been in the past few minutes.

“When Joanna was little…” Bones muttered, as his thumb caressed behind Jim’s ear. “When she would get upset, I would have her lie on my chest because the proximity and connection helped her calm down. I mean, you’re obviously not a baby, but— Your body is still trying to remember how to work like it’s supposed to. I figured that it might have forgotten how to regulate itself after too little physical contact.” Quieter, he added, “Was I… Was I wrong? Is this okay, Jim?”

Jim barely refrained from nuzzling himself closer. Breathing wasn’t a chore anymore. His chest didn’t hurt, either, regardless of the light squeeze on his heart that he was starting to suspect would never go away.

He still… He still had a feeling that Bones was going to leave him sooner rather than later. It would be better for Bones if he did.

But Jim wasn’t a good enough person to not be selfish. He… liked being so close to McCoy. It was stupid to let himself stay attached. But he couldn’t help it. Didn’t want to.

Jim sighed quietly and let his fingers grip onto the sides of Bones’s shirt. “It’s okay.”

At least, now… He was no longer feeling the stiff dead body of a child in his arms, and instead the warm, sturdy torso of his doctor was all that he held.

Chapter Text

Bones winced in sympathy as he slid the IV into the vein on Jim’s arm. “Wish there was a better way to get this to you,” he whispered apologetically.

Jim huffed quietly, in what Bones assumed to be as close to a laugh as the captain was gonna manage. “You should know by now that nothing is ever easy when it comes to me,” Jim whispered back, his voice still so shockingly weak and fragile.

Bones sighed as he stepped back, and let the drip of medication begin its slow crawl into Jim’s system. He eyed Jim’s blatantly exhausted form against the couch, the dark circles around his eyes, the stark blue of veins across his pale skin. Keeping his eyes open seemed to be a chore for the young captain.

“I’m well aware,” Bones replied half-heartedly. He didn’t really want to feed into the self-deprecation that had been coming from Jim for the past few weeks, but the nature of their relationship was such that faux antagonistic banter was their main form of communication. It was a hard habit to break, and Bones didn’t… Didn’t think Jim would appreciate the curveball of making every single one of their interactions totally sincere.

Jim did about as well with emotions—and confronting them —as McCoy. Which was to say, not at all.

Bones ran his hand over his aching eyelids. “We’re gonna keep that IV in for about two hours, so if you’d like, I can give you something to knock you out.”

Jim’s head twitched a little, in what McCoy could only interpret as the kid’s best attempt at shaking his head with what little energy he had. “No. I’ll sit with it.” Like with every other time Jim had spoken over the past few weeks (not counting their fight), only half of Jim’s words actually manifested into audible sounds. Most of his sentences were strung together with the occasional vocalized word, while the rest of it was just air passing through moving lips. 

McCoy wondered if part of the reason he hadn’t been having any trouble understanding Jim was because they’d spent so much time together. That he’d figured out how to understand him without having to hear him.

Too bad that wasn’t something he and Jocelyn had ever been able to figure out.

God. What the fuck? McCoy pressed his fingers hard against his closed eyes, until it almost hurt. Why the fuck did he just think about Jocelyn?

He’d been trying to think about anything but her, what with all the shit she’d been trying to pull lately.

Fucking… he just needed to stop thinking about it.

Maybe he should try to sleep. 

He rubbed his hand across his face and blinked at Jim. “I’m gonna lay down. Holler if you need anything.”

Jim gave him the most tired looking thumbs up he’d ever seen.

McCoy woke with his heart pounding, all of his instincts screaming at him to do something help him fix him, and it took too many seconds for him to realize what it was that woke him up.

Jim was having a panic attack.

Bones threw the blankets off of himself and rushed towards the awful, breathy keening sounds that were coming from the other room.

He found Jim on the floor in front of the couch, curled into a fetal position, his hands gripping the top of his head protectively. He was hyperventilating and visibly trembling, and the sight of it was like a hard punch to the center of McCoy’s chest.

“Hey, hey, hey,” McCoy breathed, as he practically fell beside Jim’s balled up body. “Hey, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

He did his best to gather Jim into his arms, though it was difficult with them both on the floor. He ended up leaning against the front of the couch, with Jim half dragged onto his lap. 

Jim was shaking horribly, and the sounds he was making were on the verge of becoming full on cries. McCoy realized the kid still had the IV in his arm, so he removed it as carefully and painlessly as he could manage.

“It’s okay, Jim,” McCoy whispered, and gently rubbed at the spot the IV had been, hoping to soothe any discomfort. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” He had one arm wrapped around Jim’s stiff waist, supporting him against himself, and his other hand caressed Jim’ s tight shoulder. 

Jim was breathing hard, but his vocal cords were no longer being activated. No more keens, no more moans. His fingers were gripping his hair, his forearms covering his face in a defensive position, and he was still shaking like a scared, beaten dog .  

It was a position of such pure, unfettered fear that Bones’s heart squeezed with a nearly suffocating concern. He could feel Jim’s wild pulse through his skin. The young captain was so panicked.

“Try to breathe, kid,” McCoy murmured, his free hand drifting to cover one of Jim’s. He stroked the back of Jim’s hand with his thumb, and slowly began to exaggerate his own deep breaths. “Like this, okay? Can you do this?” 

McCoy continued inhaling and exhaling, his own heart pounding as hard as Jim’s, and he allowed his fingers to keep stroking Jim’s arms, hands, shoulder. Jim was so tactile, he was hoping that he could help pull him from this sudden, terrible episode with the kind of touch that Jim had responded to in the past.

Although… Jim had been so resistant to touch in recent weeks… So often he acted as though it hurt him.

McCoy stopped petting him immediately, and instead opted to lock his hands together and hold Jim tightly to his chest, regardless of how awkward the position was. He continued to breathe, steady and calm, and noted every glacial change in Jim.

Kirk’s breaths were slowly starting to even out. They were still a little too punchy, a little too wet, but there was slight improvement as time dragged on.

His body was clammy and cold. Similar to how one might feel after breaking out of a fever. But his shaking… It was becoming more intermittent. Less constant. The occasional shiver would grip Jim’s muscles, but it was no longer engulfing him.

Jim abruptly went limp in McCoy’s hold, his hands slipping from his hair and dropping softly to the floor.

A spike of fear tore through McCoy’s ribs, and he leaned forward while also adjusting his grip around Jim. 

McCoy was half expecting to see his captain had passed out, but after pulling him closer, it became clear that Jim was still awake.

Sweat—and what seemed to be tears—coated Jim’s cheeks in a thin layer. His lips and nose were flushed pink, and his bangs clung to his forehead in dark, wet streaks. His eyelashes were clumped into black spikes, visibly heavy from having been coated in tears, and his ice blue eyes were staring blankly ahead.

Jim's nostrils flared occasionally, apparently when the slow breaths he drew through his mouth weren’t enough to fill his lungs. There was still a tremble to him, deep seated, as though his very core was actively being throttled despite the lack of full bodied tension.

“Jim?” McCoy’s voice quavered just slightly with uncertainty. He wiped his hand over Jim’s forehead, combing damp hair away from his face. “Are you with me?”

Jim’s eyelids closed, just as a shiver took him in a passing wave. He grunted quietly after his body calmed.

That was his version of a yes.

Good. At least he was lucid.

McCoy was about to ask if he was okay, but the answer was obvious. Instead, he whispered, “Are you in pain?”

Jim clenched his already closed eyelids together, and his eyelashes glittered as they shifted. “No,” he breathed.

McCoy wasn’t sure if he could believe him.

But… he wasn’t going to press. The fight from the other day was still fresh in his mind, and to say that he was reluctant to push Jim again any time soon was an understatement.

He still wasn’t sure why Jim had had a breakdown, but he didn’t want to ask. 

Maybe Jim had fallen asleep on the couch and had had a nightmare. Maybe he got caught up in his own head over something. 

Maybe it was just a very reasonable and human reaction to everything that had happened to him so far.

God. McCoy wished he could help Jim.

He stroked Jim’s hair carefully, the action admittedly a physical reassurance more for his own benefit. “What do you need? What can I do?”

Jim swallowed roughly, and made a sort of, “Ngh,” sound as he did. He breathed silently for a few seconds. “Can you help me to the table?”

Fuck.

Fucking fuck.

Jim was so fucking exhausted.

He had his elbows planted on the table and his head in his hands, breathing through lungs that didn’t want to cooperate. He’d hoped sitting up would’ve helped.

Something cold and hollow was just beneath his skin, causing him to shake like a fucking leaf every few seconds. He was so tired.

He was so tired.

He’d been thinking about his ship when he was laying on the couch. Thinking about his crew.

How horribly they died. How painfully they died.

And all he’d been able to do was watch.

Always, always, the only thing Jim could ever fucking do was watch.

Tarsus, Vulcan, his own fucking crew. He’d seen them all die. Just within reach, just close enough for him to almost help. And he hadn’t been able to do anything.

What was he doing?

Why was he playing captain when he wasn’t even able to keep anyone alive? He hadn’t even been able to keep himself alive.

A terrible heat flushed through his muscles, reminiscent of the radiation that tore him thread from thread, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the soul deep pain that erupted. 

Sometimes he wished he could scream.

His lungs just didn’t have the strength for it.

But he wished he could scream with everything he had, scream until it hurt, pull at his hair and claw at his face and just scream and scream and scream, the horror and terror of years building in his chest like a physical thing that had no way of getting out—

The soft thunk of something being placed in front of him drew Jim from his thoughts, and he blinked bleary eyes open to a steaming mug of tea.

“I know you’ve been having trouble keeping anything down,” McCoy whispered, his voice soft and cautious. He sat himself across from Jim, in the same seats they’d been in when they had their fight. “It’s okay if you can’t keep this one down either,” McCoy muttered, his dark eyes locked on the mug. “But I figured it’d be worth trying. Chekhov sent it from his home in Russia. Should be good for health, he said.” 

Jim’s chest squeezed at the thought of his navigator. 

Chekhov’s young, cherubic face appeared in Jim’s mind. The hollow expression of horror he had made when he’d been unable to save Spock’s mom on Vulcan. 

It was a horror that had been permeated into Jim’s own marrow. His heart ached in sympathy at the knowledge that Chekhov had felt such a thing. 

“I tested it,” McCoy added, holding up a twin mug that presumably held the same tea. His strong surgeon’s hands were wrapped around it like it was a lifeline. “You won’t have an allergic reaction to it. Should be safe for you.”

Jim’s mind clung to the word safe for a moment, and a searing wave of rage thrashed and recoiled at the very concept. The idea of safety was pissing him off. There was no such thing. 

No such thing for him, for his crew, for so many others—

“It’s okay if you don’t want it,” McCoy whispered again, before sipping at his own cup. He wouldn’t look Jim in the eye.

And why would he?

Jim had hurt him. Had been hurting him.

And McCoy couldn’t help him. It felt like no one could.

Jim wanted to scream. He stared at his mug sitting inoffensively on the table, and remembered what it felt like to throw that bowl of oatmeal across the room.

He wanted to break something. He wanted to hurt something. This was too much. This was so much. He couldn’t take it.

He inhaled shakily, and his face ached from having cried earlier. He was so tired. Something rotten and frozen and miserable was seeped into his blood. 

Jim let his fingers brush at the side of his mug, and he wanted to start sobbing when the warmth spread into his fingertips. The difference in temperature almost hurt, but Jim was just so tired of always being so cold. 

He took the mug in hand carefully, almost afraid that he might be too weak to hold it up. But he kept his grip around it, let the warmth spread through his palms.

Jim chanced a glance at his doctor, but McCoy was watching Jim’s hands.

Jim’s chest squeezed strangely at almost having McCoy’s attention. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d made eye contact. But McCoy was focused on Jim’s hands.

To make sure he could hold the mug without issue?

To make sure he wouldn’t throw it?

For a moment, Jim was almost tempted to chuck it. Just to hear something shatter.

But he didn’t want to make Bones clean up the inevitable mess. The doctor was already having to deal with so many of Jim’s messes.

He wanted to… to stop…

He wanted it all to stop. He wanted to stop being so much trouble for McCoy.

He wanted to sleep. He wanted to eat. He wanted to touch.

He wanted to scream.

Instead, Jim carefully lifted the mug to his lips. The tea was hot, but not so hot it hurt, and its flavor was reminiscent of cinnamon. It spread slow through Jim’s chest when he swallowed, and he savored the momentary comfort that it brought. 

His face felt sore. Pain radiated from his chest, and he could feel his heart ticking away with palpitations like an agitated bomb. He wished his body was his own.

“What do you think?”

Jim glanced up, and for the first time in ages met Bones’s gaze. He had to fight back a sudden wall of tears. 

Bones’s brows were pinched together, like he was worried Jim was gonna hate the tea that Chekhov had gifted him.

There was no way he could. “It’s good,” Jim forced out, and held McCoy’s gaze despite how badly he ached. “Thank him for me?”

Bones nodded, looking away and breaking the thin tether Jim had been hoping to reach. “I’ll tell him.”

Jim sat there in silence for a while. Observed how McCoy sipped at his own tea, how his index finger stroked the ceramic mug he held. He almost wished he could reach across and take McCoy’s hand in his, squeeze it, feel it, hold on until his breaths didn’t feel like they were splintering into shards of ice anymore. Until it didn’t hurt anymore.

But no matter how badly he missed Bones, no matter how much he wanted to stay close, Jim didn’t deserve such a thing.

Never…

Never.

Chapter Text

Jim watched a small flock of birds pass in front of his window, and realized he couldn’t remember the last time he had blinked. He’d been awake for at least thirty minutes already, but he had yet to move. 

He just… He didn’t feel like it. There was no point.

A black hole had been growing inside of his chest ever since he first woke up in the hospital. It was a yawning, gaping mass of hopelessness that had been eating at his lungs for weeks.

Mentally, emotionally, he was getting worse. Definitely, definitely getting worse.

And even though his fucking weird cuddle session with Bones the day before had been nice, it hadn’t exactly fixed anything. Jim still couldn’t bring himself to talk to the man.

It was like every time they were in the same room, or made eye contact, or made physical contact, an overwhelming urge to let Bones in, to just fucking talk to him would stir itself through Jim’s whole body. And yet, it was like the words would hit the wall he’d built around himself, and nothing but wheezed breaths could escape Jim’s throat. He couldn’t talk.

He couldn’t even fucking talk.

It felt like he was cocooned in a swell of darkness and silence, as though his body—his soul — were still dead and trapped in the black of space.

He was still… He was still trapped behind the glass of the radiation chamber. He was just a carcass, still hot from his life having literally been burned from his body.

Jim wrung his clammy hands around his sheets, and wondered when—if—he’d ever feel okay again.

Was he… Was he not still dead? Was his heart even beating?

He drew in a shuddering breath, the action feeling unnatural and strained. His body hadn’t felt like his since he was resurrected. It was like…

Like Khan had stolen his whole entire being. 

Khan’s blood was in him, rushing through his veins. Khan was irrevocably a part of Jim, and always would be. As if Jim didn’t already have enough blood on his hands, as if he hadn’t already been responsible for the deaths of so many, he now carried Khan’s legacy with him.

And he always would. There would be… no escape from it. Not unless he had a permanent death, which…

The more time passed where Jim just didn’t fucking die, the more afraid he became that he never would.

What if—what if he was doomed to live? He was sure that he had long outstayed his welcome, but what if he was never allowed to leave? What if he was going to be forced to outlive everyone he’d ever fucking known?

The very thought kicked his heart into a painful panic. He squeezed his sheets tighter, and his gaze drifted towards his ceiling. His chest was tightening again. He couldn’t breathe.

He sucked in sharp, shallow gasps of air, and though he could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest, he still couldn’t fucking breathe.

Jim was so fucking stressed out. He was passed stressed. He clenched his eyes shut as he mentally, against his will, went down the list of everything going on. 

He had died. He’d fucking died. And Pike—one of the only safe people in his whole life—was dead. Half of his crew was killed on his watch, their blood was staining his hands to the point that he feared his skin was forever going to be colored red. And he had tried—he had tried so hard not to let anyone die. He’d tried so hard. What’s more… everything that had happened, had happened because of a corrupt admiral—someone he had trusted. His confidence in the Federation was shaken as badly as his body, and that was another thing—his fucking body.

He’d lost physical control, and he was once again losing his mental control. His Tarsus memories were seeping back into his dreams and his thoughts. He couldn’t fight it all off, not as weak as he was, and he couldn’t ask for help. He couldn’t talk. Not even to Bones. He was cut off from one of his last remaining safe people, not including his first officer that he hadn't seen in weeks. 

Jim felt… so alone. So helpless, so overwhelmed, so scared. 

Tremors beyond his control coursed down his arms, causing his muscles to clench and ache. A wave of… fuzziness cascaded over his body, like dulled pins and needles washing down every inch of skin.

It felt like his atoms were vibrating, trying to separate, trying to make him shake into nothing. Like a thin cloud dissipating in the sun. It would almost be fascinating if it didn’t also aggravate the pain that clung to his bones, causing it to reverberate through his flesh and joints.

What the fuck was happening? Was it another fucking panic attack?

His breaths somehow got even tighter, as he was struck by an unadulterated terror at the prospect of losing control of himself again. It was almost like Khan was still trying to wring the life out of him, and was ripping him apart from the inside out. His body was not his own. 

Every single fucking thing had been stolen from Jim.

His life, his death, his very body and soul.

The buzzing that was enveloping him was accompanied by a dizzying wave of confusion, like his thoughts could no longer stick together in any feasible way.

Great. Now his fucking brain, too?

The ceiling above him came in and out of focus, like he was staring at it through water or something. He felt weightless, like he was falling, like he was drowning, and his uncooperative lungs were acting as though he were being buried alive. 

A familiar pang of fear shivered from his shoulders to his toes, reminiscent of the feeling that had hold of his gut the moment Khan had turned against him.

“Leave me alone,” he slurred through chattering teeth, desperately willing whatever the fuck was in his blood to stop freaking messing with him. “Leave me alone.”

Bones had not been staying over that often, and less so after they’d had their fight. Not for the first time since being released from the hospital, but definitely the fiercest, Jim wished Bones was in the flat. He wished he was there.

But it was barely past dawn, and Bones wouldn’t get in for another half hour or so. 

Jim wished he was there, to make it better, to bring him back, to ground him, but— he wasn’t. And an unfamiliar sensation of both being smothered and shattered into pieces overcame Jim, until all remaining coherent thoughts were suffocated completely.

Bones squeezed the cups of tea he held, trying to will their warmth to spread through his hands. He tapped his foot against the pavement, his every muscle thrumming with a weird sort of nervousness that he couldn’t quite bite down, and exhaled until he could see his breath. 

He pressed into the wall he was leaning against and checked the clock for what felt like the millionth time. 

Spock’s shuttle was bound to arrive any minute. 

He was up earlier than he had been for days, due largely in part to the message he’d received form the Vulcan the night before. He had been winding down for the night in his own apartment, when his PADD lit up with the words, “ I will be arriving in San Francisco at 0700 tomorrow morning. --First Officer Spock of the USS Enterprise”. (Bones had tried not to be surprised by how formally Spock signed his messages.)

That had led to a scramble of texts verifying that Bones would be there to meet him, and would take him to Jim’s after.

And now here he was. Waiting on the damned Vulcan to finally show his face again after weeks of being gone. 

He sighed and closed his eyes. It wasn’t Spock’s fault he had work to do. It was just… With the way the past few days had been going, Bones was desperate to put blame on someone, something. It was all just too much, and if there was someone to blame for everything—or some things—then he’d be able to reclaim some sense of order.

He knew all that blame ought to go to Khan. And he wasn’t sure to what extent yet, but Admiral Marcus as well. He wasn’t sure when he was going to talk to Jim or Spock about exactly what had been done to them. He didn’t want to… delve too deep into what they were recovering from.

That would make it all too real. Everything that was happening was already hard enough to deal with. 

The gentle rumble of a shuttle caught his attention, and McCoy straightened up at its approach. Once it landed, he held back from joining the small crowd of people meeting arriving passengers.

He’d had a hard time getting too physically close to other people lately, especially crowds. His hackles had been getting bristled more often than usual and he wasn’t entirely sure what to do about it, other than keep his distance.

Unfortunately, that seemed to be happening with Jim, too. Which was not... something he ever wanted. The distance between the two of them was starting to feel like a chasm that would never be crossed.

His heart squeezed painfully in his chest at the thought of Jim, and he forced his mind elsewhere. Like on keeping an eye out for Spock’s stupid bangs or pointed ears.

When the tall Vulcan finally exited from the shuttle, it was like his dark eyes immediately landed on Bones, like he knew exactly where the doctor was. It was weird, and it made Bones’s chest ache strangely, which was even weirder.

He ignored it in lieu of building up the courage to push through the crowd so he could get to Spock. Once they were toe to toe, neither really said anything and just held eye contact. Bones knew he was frowning, but he didn’t try to stop it. 

It was such a gray, pale morning, and the light wasn’t the best, but even if it was a beautiful day it wouldn’t change the fact that Spock looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes, marring his usually smooth complexion. Dealing with the other officers looked like it took a lot out of him. It made Bones feel a little worse, forcing Spock to go from one emotionally trying situation to another.

At least Spock liked Jim. Bones didn’t think the Vulcan liked most officers, including the higher-ranking ones, so he was a little glad to give Spock an excuse to get away from people who left him so visibly drained.

Bones held out the tea he got for Spock. “Welcome back,” he grumbled softly.

Spock blinked slowly, like he was mimicking a cat’s method of smiling. “Thank you, Doctor,” he replied just as softly, before taking the offered tea.

“Don’t mention it. That should you warm you up on our way over.” McCoy turned his back on the Vulcan to start heading to Jim’s, and trusted that Spock would follow. He sipped at his own cup, and noted the sense of relief at finally having someone else to be with he and Jim through all of this.

He had a feeling they were all going to fare better as a trio.

Bones gave Spock as much of a rundown as he could on their trek to Jim’s. Told him the details of Jim’s condition, the kid’s irritability, their own strained relationship. The lack of sleep, the lack of eating. 

“To be honest,” McCoy muttered as he started the lift, “I’m kind of hoping your being here will… I don’t know. Calm him, or something.” He paused, before adding quietly, “He’s different when he’s with you.”

Spock didn’t say anything, so McCoy glanced at him. Spock was watching him silently and McCoy realized he couldn’t read the Vulcan if his life depended on it. That was something only Jim could consistently do.

He sighed. “Thanks for coming back to town, Spock. I appreciate it. And I know Jim will, too.”

The lift doors opened onto Jim’s flat, and Spock said, “I am happy to be here, Doctor.”

Before McCoy could comment on Spock’s use of the word happy (despite the vulcan’s constant insistence that he didn’t feel anything) a loud thump caught his ears.

A thump from Jim’s room.

A frigid cascade of fear rushed down McCoy’s body and he shared the briefest wide-eyed gaze with Spock, before the two of them hurried to the back of the apartment.

Jim was on the floor beside his bed, twisted and tangled in his sheets, his face smothered into the carpet, and his body was caught in the throes of tremors and minor convulsions.

Oh fuck, shit, he was having a seizure.

McCoy threw himself beside Jim and as quickly and gently as he could manage, grabbed Jim to turn him onto his side to give him a chance to breathe. 

Jim’s face was red and splotchy, his eyelids lax, and quiet huffing sounds were rushing from his mouth. McCoy’s own body was nearly folded over Jim’s, and he ran the hand that wasn’t keeping Jim upright through the kid’s hair and across his brow. It was covered in sweat.

Spock had settled on Jim’s other side, watching grimly. “Doctor?” There was a hint of… quiet fear in his voice.

“It’s a seizure,” McCoy told him, and having to vocally confirm what was happening sent a wave of worry crashing through his lungs. Jim did not have a history of seizures. This was a new and wholly unwelcome development. “I don’t know how long he’s been in it, but if it goes on for more than five minutes we’ll have to take him to the hospital.”

Spock did not speak or move for a few long seconds, and the only sound was Jim’s strained gasps and his body scraping against the surrounding fabric with every twitch. Unable to bear seeing Jim in such a state, McCoy to turn his gaze elsewhere and settled for watching Spock.

There was a crease between the Vulcan’s brows, an undeniable show of his worry for Jim. Quietly, Spock shuffled a little bit closer, and slowly stretched his hands towards Jim’s face.

Without looking away from their captain, Spock muttered, “I am going to attempt a shallow meld. I believe… I may be able to help ease him out of this.” Only after revealing his plan did Spock flick his dark eyes to McCoy. The look was a definite plea for permission.

A want for Jim to come back to himself as soon as possible was headily overwhelming McCoy, so he quickly nodded. He trusted Spock. Especially with Jim.

And after the ramifications from when Spock Prime melded with Jim, back during the time of the Narada, McCoy knew their Spock wouldn’t dare press too deep in a meld with their captain. 

“All right,” McCoy whispered.

Without any further prompting, Spock pressed his fingertips to where McCoy assumed the meld points were, and closed his eyes.

McCoy could feel Jim shiver, almost a tremor but a tad more gentle. Spock didn’t move, and McCoy wasn’t even entirely sure he was breathing, but… Whatever he was doing, it was helping.

Jim’s tense muscles relaxed marginally with every passing second, and his breaths evened steadily. He leaned into the parts of McCoy’s body that were pressed against him, like his arms and knees, and Jim’s full weight was so sudden that it was like he was a puppet whose strings were cut.

The tremors had almost completely stopped, until all that was left were the small trembles Jim had been dealing with since his resurrection. Spock opened his eyes and withdrew his fingertips, and as soon as he did, Jim drew up an unsteady hand to grasp Spock’s wrist. The vulcan froze.

Jim breathed slow and shallow, his face still slack and his cheeks reddened from exertion. His eyelids flickered open, and his blue eyes—normally so bright and clear—were faded and hazy as they landed on Spock.

He only stared at first, while he gasped softly on the ground in what had to be an uncomfortable position for his already weakened lungs. Eventually, Jim swallowed, and it seemed to push moisture to the edges of his bloodshot eyes. “Spock?”

It was subtle, and McCoy wasn’t entirely sure how he caught it, but Spock seemed to deflate at the sound of Jim’s voice. But whether it was in relief or concern, that he couldn’t tell.

“It is me, Jim,” Spock whispered.

Jim forced a few more breaths through his chest while Spock’s words settled. Then, delicate and gentle, a smile drew at Jim’s lips. “Hey,” he sighed.

Bones hadn’t seen a smile on him in weeks, and his chest ached at the sight of it. And he didn’t want to acknowledge it, but… a part of him was hurt that he wasn’t the one that put it there.

Now wasn’t the time for that. McCoy pushed that unnecessary thought aside, and instead focused on getting Jim comfortable. Their morning was already off to a rough start, so he was gonna do what he could to make the rest of it as painless as possible.

Chapter Text

It was not far past dawn. The weather was overcast, and so Jim’s apartment was lit only by the pale blues of a cold morning.

Spock did his utmost best not to stare at his captain in the dim atmosphere.

And he was… failing. Considerably so.

He simply couldn’t help but analyze the condition of his friend; the drastically pallid complexion, the deep bruises circling Jim’s eyes, the way every draw of breath seemed to cause him discomfort.

When they had been apart from each other, it had been easier for Spock to forget how badly Jim was faring. But to be back, and to once again be face to face with him… 

It made Spock wish he had never left.

The emotional and physical toll that Khan and Marcus had wrought was clearly too much for Jim to handle, even with Doctor McCoy’s assistance.

Jim was lying on his couch, his eyes closed and breaths shallow, his head cushioned on the multiple pillows that the doctor had laid out. He was not asleep, of that much Spock was sure. Even though… he more than likely required sleep above all else. 

Spock, sitting in the recliner closest to the couch, had his hands clasped together in his lap and was squeezing them softly to bring himself comfort. 

Seeing Jim caught in the throes of a seizure had unsettled Spock more than he dared acknowledge. 

When he thought of Jim Kirk, he thought of strength, recklessness and stubbornness, unyielding bravery, and golden light. But with the Jim he was looking at now, he saw…

Vulnerability. Frailty. Withered health, grief, sorrow. Exhaustion.

To see how severely Jim was being affected by everything filled Spock with a fury reminiscent to what he had felt when he had chased down Khan.

How dare they have harmed Jim so? How dare they have done this to him?

Illogically, Spock was overcome with a desire that Marcus and Khan were before him once more, so that he could be the one to kill them himself.

Spock squeezed his hands together tighter and conceded that the fact that one was dead and the other frozen would have to do. So long as neither could touch Jim again, it had to be good enough.

McCoy returned from the kitchen, a silhouette against the blues of the windows. He had a steaming mug in hand. “Jim, you awake?” 

Jim’s eyelids fluttered, though they didn’t open. The young captain gave an airy grunt in acknowledgment. 

The doctor brushed a hand across Jim’s forehead, and his fingers teased into his hair. “Think you can sit up for me?”

This time Jim’s eyes did open, though the action seemed to have been arduous to manage. Without a word, Jim drew an elbow beneath himself, and his face pinched in strain as he struggled upright. 

The doctor grabbed Jim’s upper arm to help ease him into a sitting position, and didn’t withdraw his hand until Jim was settled against the couch’s cushions. “Drink this, would you?” McCoy muttered, holding out the mug he had brought with him. 

Jim did as the doctor asked, and Spock was very unused to hearing so little backtalk from his captain. It was… unnatural. By all rights, it should have been a relief to receive so little fuss from Jim. But it wasn’t.

Spock did not realize how much he had come to treasure the banter Jim provided until it was no longer there.

A fiery ball of hatred for Khan flared up within Spock’s chest, a sensation that was becoming increasingly familiar with every passing day. He never should have let Jim leave his sight on that mission. Never should have left him alone with Khan.

“So, Spock,” Jim sighed into his cup, his voice low and posture hunched with weakness. He blinked sluggishly, before bringing his dulled blue eyes to lock with Spock’s gaze. “How have meetings with Starfleet been going?”

Before Spock could answer, the doctor held up a hand to keep him from talking. “Don’t answer,” McCoy whispered, his eyes never leaving Jim’s tired form. “And don’t you worry about that stuff right now, Jim. We need to talk about your seizure.”

Jim released a groaned sigh and looked away, the first Jim-like sound of annoyance that Spock had heard since arriving.

“What’s there to talk about?” Jim grumbled, setting his cup on the coffee table.

Spock did his best to act like he could not hear the way the mug rattled against the table’s surface, due to the tremors in Jim’s hands.

McCoy didn’t seem deterred by Jim’s standoff-ish attitude, and grabbed the tricorder he had left on the side table before he’d gone to get Jim something to drink. “You’ve never had one before, have you?”

Jim shook his head, barely.

“Right. So I don’t like that you’re starting a history now.” McCoy sat himself on the arm of the chair Spock was sitting in, and Spock stared in confusion at the doctor’s unexpected closeness. McCoy continued as though him being near wasn’t a strange thing. “I’ve gone over your readings, and my best guess is that it was stress induced. It’s rare, but seizures can have nothing to do with genetics and everything to do with stress.” The doctor paused, and averted his gaze to the floor. “I doubt anyone would disagree that coming back from death is stressful.”

Jim snorted, a humorless and empty sound. It didn’t suit him at all.

“So with that in mind,” McCoy continued, his tone stronger as though Jim hadn’t reacted at all. “I think it’ll be a good idea for either me or Spock to be with you at all times. I was happy to respect your wishes before and give you the space and privacy you wanted, but this changes things. If you get into another seizure while you’re on your own, or while you’re asleep…” He trailed off, before his lips tightened into something that could never be considered a smile. “Well. We can’t have that, now can we?”

Jim didn’t respond, and instead sat very still with his arms crossed tight against his chest. He was looking to the side, and every bit of his demeanor seemed to be sending the message that he didn’t want to talk.

McCoy watched him a moment longer, before sighing. “Jim, whether you like it or not, we’re gonna start staying nights here. You won’t be left alone anymore.” 

Still, Jim did not respond. Did not move. 

To see him so withdrawn… made Spock’s side ache.

And Jim’s lack of acknowledgment only seemed to agitate Doctor McCoy further. McCoy rubbed at his face, frustration clear on his features. He held up his hands in a gesture of defeat, before standing from his perch. “Ok. I’m getting your message loud and clear, Jim. Silent treatment it is.” He stepped away from the seating area and stalked towards the kitchen island, where he had left his things. “I don’t have the energy to be dealing with this right now. I’m outta here, you two are free to catch up and shit.” McCoy had his coat secured around himself, and what few things he’d brought with him back in his possession. He glanced at the back of Jim’s head, and a frown more akin to concern flit itself over his face. “Jim…”

Jim did not move, did not outwardly react whatsoever. He merely remained tight-lipped and tense. Spock was watching his face intently, but he could not tell if the shifting shine in Jim’s eyes was due to the poor light or not.

“Fine, fuck it,” McCoy muttered when it became apparent that Jim was not going to respond in the foreseeable future. 

As McCoy passed by them to head to the door, Jim’s eyes caught onto the doctor’s retreating figure. Almost imperceptibly, his gaze changed into one seeming… pained. Sorrowful.

As though… As though he did not want McCoy to leave, or was sad to see him go. But the doctor’s back was to them, and so he did not see the expression on Jim’s face.

Spock turned to watch Leonard unlock the door, as a sensation akin to sinking shivered down his skin. Jim’s relationship with the doctor really had become strained. Spock had not known either of them for very long, but he did know that they were close.

Closer to each other than anyone else. 

To see them so at odds with each other was…

It was not right. The distress festering in Spock’s lungs kindled into that same fury that was distinctly reserved for Khan and Marcus. 

Both men had manipulated Jim to the neutral zone, to the sole responsibility of countless lives, to the destruction of the Enterprise and of San Francisco, to his death. If they had never done such harm to him, if they had never burdened him with so much more weight than he already carried, if they had never left both Jim and McCoy so traumatized--

Spock drew in a deep breath as the door to the apartment closed, leaving he and Jim alone for the first time in nearly a month. To think about ifs would not be conducive to actively fixing the situation. Or, to at least alleviating  the situation.

Turning from the door, it became apparent to Spock that Jim’s expression remained locked in one of undeniable hurt. Spock weighed the option of trying to engage Jim in conversation, and ultimately decided that leaving him to himself would be the best course of action. 

If he had not been open with McCoy , chances were low that he would be open with Spock. 

A strip of sunlight appeared across the carpet for a moment, as the clouds parted outside and allowed for more gold than blue for the first time since Spock had arrived. 

It seemed he would be spending the rest of the day with Jim. He had had his luggage set to be brought to his apartment, but it occurred to him that it would be more reasonable to have it rerouted to Jim’s home. 

He had come back to San Francisco solely to spend time with Jim, after all. It would be wise to anticipate for himself to be around Jim more often than not in the coming days. 

Spock was tapping at his PADD, finalizing the steps to have his baggage rerouted, when a nearly inaudible, “I’m sorry,” reached his sensitive ears. He snapped his head up to look at Jim, his heart thudding frantically in his side.

The same expression of grief was contorting Jim’s face, and he was still staring at the door McCoy had exited out of. He blinked, then, and drew in a shallow breath. “I am sorry,” Jim whispered again. “I’m not gonna be a very good host anytime soon.”

The sincere regret in his voice made Spock’s chest squeeze, and it took an immense amount of control to keep from frowning in concern. “That is all right, Captain. I did not come here expecting anything from you. I am merely here to offer assistance where I can.”

Jim drew his gaze to Spock’s, and he… he really did look very tired. “That’s nice of you, Spock,” Jim mumbled. “But I’m gonna warn you, that-- That I’m not easy to deal with right now. I've been shit company. And there’s a good chance I’m gonna make you pissed with me, so--” The tone of his voice tightened, as though his emotions were trying to choke him, and Jim averted his gaze with a scowl. “I’m giving you an... anticipatory apology, is all. I’m sorry you’ll have to deal with me.”

Hearing Jim apologize for needing to heal, for being emotional, made Spock’s chest hurt. He was filled with regret that he could not immediately ease Jim of his pains and worries, that he could not protect his friend from all that was troubling him.

He knew that it was not McCoy’s fault for how things were faring between he and Jim, and he also knew that it wasn’t Jim’s fault.

It was Khan’s, and it was Marcus’s. 

Jim’s furious and visible self-hatred was the fault of the men that had wronged him.

“There is no need to apologize to me, Captain. I am happy to be here,” Spock assured quietly. “If you are having difficulty at this time, then it is my duty as your first officer to help you through it.”

Jim blinked at the floor a few times, before glancing at Spock. They held eye contact for a moment, until a small smile pulled at Jim’s lips. Nothing was said for a while, and another strip of sunlight traveled across the carpet and blanketed them in a soft glow of gold. 

“I’m glad you’re here, Spock,” Jim whispered.

“As am I, Captain.”

Chapter Text

Spock had not spent very much time in Jim’s apartment before. He had been there, once or twice, and always on business. 

Now, he’d spent an entire day in the man’s living space. Night had long fallen, and Jim managed to find sleep an hour or so back. 

Spock had been spending most of his time on his PADD, so as to give Jim the relative sense of privacy. But his captain had insisted that he get comfortable “while he could”. Spock was still not entirely sure what Jim had meant by that.

He was wandering through the apartment as unobtrusively as he could, so as to get an idea of the layout.

It became quickly apparent to him that Jim had very few personal items. A few decorative pieces, here or there, but nothing that really seemed to belong to Jim. There was no sense of the man’s character anywhere, which for a human was unusual. They had a tendency to turn their living spaces into reflections of themselves, but Jim, once again, was defying expectation.

Spock ran his fingers over the spine of one of the books on Jim’s shelf—the one thing in the apartment that felt well loved. He eyed the chess set sitting on the top of the shelf, and had the quiet thought that Jim’s appreciation of intellectual recreation was one of his favorite things about his captain. That was one interest the two of them had in common.

He pulled Ender’s Game from the shelf, a yellowed and worn paperback, and thumbed through the pages as carefully as though he were holding a frail flower. It appeared to be about a century old, at the least.

After a few seconds, he realized that some of the pages had been written on in pencil. The lead had grown soft and faded, its edges rounded, but it was still legible. The notes were mostly a commentary on the book’s story, and occasionally what appeared to be addresses or phone numbers. 

The handwriting… looked a little bit like Jim’s, but a tad less graceful than the man’s already wild and messy scrawl. Spock’s brows pinched together as he read a note saying “mom’s new ship = USS Nordstrom”, when it occurred to him that it really was Jim’s handwriting.

Just when he was much, much younger. A teenager, possibly. 

Spock read through some of the notes with a newfound reverence, but when his eyes glanced over what appeared to be the prices for certain drugs and where to find them, he was overcome with the sense that he was prying too deeply. He closed the pages carefully, not wanting to breach Jim’s privacy any further. 

However, as he closed it, his eyes caught on something that was written on the back of the front cover. This time it wasn’t Jim’s handwriting. He peeled the cover up slowly, tilting his head a little to read.

Keep reading, Jim. I promise it’s a good way to escape. Good stories are good for the soul.

If you ever need anything, you know where to find me. Mind your health or I’ll mind it for you.

--Christopher Pike

Spock’s heart slammed painfully in his side in a surprised stutter, and he hurriedly put the book back in its place on the shelf. His hands lingered on the book’s spine while his heart hammered away, and he had to swallow back an unexpected influx of saliva.

Pike…

Knowing the book was from Pike made it feel weighted and delicate, its value suddenly and infinitely precious. Spock felt guilty for having looked.

His lungs squeezed as he stared at the worn out book, his mind torn between focusing on Jim and focusing on Pike.

He missed Pike, almost as much as he missed his own mother. He had been fond of the man. Had trusted him and his judgment.

The warmth of Pike’s blood sticking to Spock’s hand reverberated through the Vulcan’s memory, and the skin of his palm itched as though it was still clinging to the last of the man’s soul. Spock clenched his fist, in an illogical attempt to rid himself of the memory of Pike’s dying feelings. 

The fear, the pain, the shock, the overwhelming undercurrent of love.

Pike was a good man, who had cared about others unerringly. That included Spock, when so few had ever included Spock before.

Spock squeezed his hands together tighter.

Sometimes… he felt as though Pike was still with him. As though a part of the man’s very being never left him, as though the connection was never broken, as though… as though it were possible for him to hold the man’s katra. But he knew that that was not the case, being that Pike was only human. It was just… wishful thinking on Spock’s part.

Illogical and useless. 

It accomplished nothing, aside from leaving him feeling hollow and hopeful and resoundingly sad. 

Spock closed his eyes, focused on evening his breaths and emptying his mind. If this was how Pike’s death affected him, he could only imagine how Jim was feeling.

A soft whine reached Spock’s ear, and he perked up immediately. He turned to the direction of Jim’s bedroom with bated breath, straining to listen for any worrying sounds.

A whimper, barely squeezed out of a strained throat.

He strode to his captain’s room without a second thought, afraid that, perhaps, he was falling into another seizure. He opened the door without preamble, took stock of the surroundings—floor to ceiling windows, bed with its headboard against the wall, nightstands, a reading chair in the corner—and Jim writhing in jerked movements within his sheets.

Spock rushed over, his heart pounding in his side, and it was only once he reached Jim that he realized his captain wasn’t caught in the throes of a seizure—but a nightmare.

He didn’t know what to do.

Jim’s face was contorted in blatant distress, sweat was dotted across his skin, and the breathy keening sounds coming from his lips filled Spock with a desperate tension. A strained sob was wrung from Jim’s throat, and it was what finally prompted Spock to grip his captain by the shoulders.

Perhaps physical stimuli could rouse him from sleep. Spock squeezed gently, mindful not to hurt but hoping to give enough pressure to pull him from his dream. 

Jim struggled against his hold, apparently vaguely aware of being touched but still not being able to wake.

“Jim,” Spock called, resorting to auditory stimuli. He did not know what the protocol for nightmares was. “Jim, you are asleep and dreaming. It is not real.”

Jim sobbed again, as one of his arms clumsily swung up to grip Spock by the elbow, the movement so unlike Jim’s flawless body control that was usually apparent whenever the two of them sparred. He squeezed Spock’s sleeve, the grip strong even with his lack of consciousness. 

“Jim,” Spock tried again, but his captain only rolled away from his voice, his eyes squeezed shut and teeth clenched.

“Stop,” Jim whimpered, the word barely discernible among his wheezed breaths. “Stop, stop it.”

He was begging.

A shivering cascade of horror and fear crashed through Spock’s veins, as a mounting desperation to rid Jim of his troubles gripped him hard in the chest. What could he do to wake him? 

He shook Jim carefully, but even that did not seem to work. What could he do?

The memory from that morning flitted through Spock’s head, of melding shallowly with Jim’s seizing mind. It had been like trying to wade through thick fog, faintly crackling as though laced with electricity, and he had projected the thought of his own presence being a beacon—a guide—back to consciousness. It had worked then.

It should work again.

Spock crawled atop the bed to better situate himself beside his captain, and was momentarily grateful that Jim had such an unreasonably large bed. It would easily be able to fit three full grown adults.

He braced one hand against Jim’s shoulder, and carefully pressed the fingertips of his other against Jim’s meld points. He was not sure how deep into sleep Jim was, and he had no intention of going too deep himself. He just needed to go in enough to draw Jim back to himself.

“My mind to your mind,” he whispered, as Jim’s hand swung up to grip his thigh in a tight grip. “My thoughts to your thoughts.”

Unlike last time, there was no fog. There was no electricity. 

There was nothing.

No sense of life, no sense of thoughts, no stray feelings or emotions were reaching him. 

Spock envisioned himself in the space of Jim’s mind, but all he was met with was a vast darkness that seemed endless and closed all at once. He had never encountered anything like it.

Granted, he had not melded with too many when he was not merely gathering information—his most recent legitimate mind meld being that with the gorn from a few months prior. Even with that gorn unconscious, he had at least been able to retrieve some memories, some stray thoughts and emotions.

But here, with Jim… he could not feel anything. Could not even feel a trace of what would distress Jim so much in his sleep. He was vaguely aware of the warm human hand gripping his thigh, but it was distant, as though his body was currently totally separate from himself.

Spock frowned within the mind, unable to hold back such a blatant show of emotion. It did not matter. It was not as though anyone were there to see it.

Spock, acquiescing that he did not have as much experience or knowledge regarding mind melds as some other vulcans he had known, decided to think back on other accounts he had heard of.

The memory of an elder discussing mental protection, mental walls, slowly returned to him. Mental walls manifested themselves in numerous ways, and depending on the severity of the mental defenses, that would affect how a mind showed itself in a mind meld.

Occasionally, Spock recalled Jim mentioning his own mental defenses in the past. Spock did not realize that Jim had been undermining the intensity of what he was talking about.

Spock refocused his efforts in the meld, now that he knew what to look for. He had to find the walls themselves. He had to find where Jim was hiding if he wanted to wake his captain. He could not stay trapped in here forever.

There.

Spock was standing before the manifestation of an actual mental wall, so high that he could not see the top and so far across on either side that he could not see the end. It was as though it went on forever. The thought bothered him in a way he could not explain.

Jim’s mental wall manifested itself as something made out of bricks so dark in hue they were almost black. Their visual appearance was the complete opposite of “welcoming”, and Spock couldn’t help but wonder what had driven Jim to build such tight, cold, lonely defenses.

Spock envisioned himself raising a hand to the bricks slowly. Jim, he thought aloud, hoping to pull Jim towards his own mind’s voice. 

His fingers neared the wall slowly, his movements dragging as though being pulled through a current of water. His fingertips grazed the rough, freezing bricks before him and he was taken aback by the continued lack of Jim’s presence that he could feel. He rubbed his palm across the bricks, his mind somehow perceiving a scratching sensation from them. 

How could he not sense Jim yet? 

He believed that one was supposed to be able to sense an individual even from behind their mental defenses, and the sensation of presence was supposed to increase when coming into contact with the defenses themselves. But, still, even with his mental projection of his hand pressing against Jim’s walls, Spock felt completely alone.

Jim was deeper in than he thought.

He paused to ponder. He did not want to breach Jim’s privacy, had no intention of ever doing so. If he was careful enough with his mental control, then he would conceivably be able to push a little into the defenses, just barely, to better let Jim become aware of him. To better help him.

He just had to be careful about it.

Spock laid his palm flat, and focused on the point that he touched, and pressed in just barely— and was immediately rushed by a directionless wave of Jim.

The back of his mother’s head, her blonde locks glistening in the early morning sunlight, shining around her like a halo as she stepped out the door with suitcases in both hands—

His knees scraping across the gravel driveway of their house, blood caking into the dust and tears making his hands wet, he had to find the band-aids himself because his uncle wouldn’t help him, but he was too small to reach the first aid kit without having to climb the counters and he was falling towards the hard tiles—

A stinging slap cracking across his cheek, it made him feel dizzy, and like a bad kid, like he deserved it, and his uncle was yelling and his breath smelled bad—

A teacher yelling at him for starting a fight, but he had only been defending the other kid, he wasn’t the one that started it—

His aunt, smiling at him, the light around her orange and soft and she was thanking him for helping with the dishes, his uncle never thanked him, his mom never smiled at him like that—

There were large hands raking across his body, their grip rough and unapologetic, and it hurt what they were doing to him but he told them they could, he had to let them, he needed to let them—

Chains were biting into his skin, his stomach burned, his throat was raw from screaming so much and his muscles were spasming, he was shouting as much as he could but they wouldn’t stop doing what they were doing to him, his head hurt, there was blood everywhere, some of the blood was his but some of it wasn’t, the room was dark aside from the yellowed light in the corner, there were puddles everywhere, of blood and spit and urine and someone was bringing a knife to his back, and they were pressing, digging, scraping into his body—

A loud, choked scream burst from Spock’s throat just before Jim’s fist struck him in the chest, the force of it knocking them both to the ground in a heap of blankets and limbs.

“What the fuck were you doing?!”

Spock only sat on Jim’s carpet for a few moments, unable to answer Jim’s question as reverberations of horror ricocheted within his body and mind. He was vaguely aware that he was shaking, and he brought an unsteady hand towards his side where he could still feel a knife digging, as acutely as though one were stuck in his flesh. He struggled to breathe around the ghost of pain.

He brought his eyes up to Jim’s, and he was caught off guard by how wide and vulnerable Jim’s were. Tears were brimming at the edges, threatening to fall at any moment.

Spock was overcome with a need to help Jim, to ascertain his exact current state, but he could not do so unless he talked to him. Despite how tight his own throat was, Spock forced shaken words through. “Was that all memory?”

Jim only stared at him, his entire body trembling and his fists clenched around the sheets, his posture simultaneously defensive and ready to attack. Jim’s chest was heaving with labored breaths, his complexion unnervingly pale, his irises glistening cold in the moonlight.

Spock had difficulty maintaining his own breathing through the building concern he had for his friend, and was barely keeping himself from drowning under the information he had inadvertently received. He did not understand what any of it meant, other than that it all told him Jim had been wronged.

He was not sure how old those memories were, but regardless of Jim’s age, the sort of treatment he had undergone was unacceptable. Fury was warring with sadness in Spock’s whole body, and he was doing his best to suffocate the unwarranted want to hold Jim close, to reassure him with physical contact. “Jim?”

Somehow, Jim’s face paled further, and his lips thinned together.

Was it… Was it really all memory, none of it mere dreams at all?

Did Jim only see memories when he slept?

Before he could question further, Jim suddenly shot to his feet and darted past Spock, with more fervor than Spock had seen of him since before he’d died.

Spock hurried to follow, but Jim slammed and locked the bathroom door as soon as he entered.

Spock hesitated on the other side, pressed his hand against the closed door, and was struck by the sense memory of being in the same position on the other side of Jim’s defenses. To have what was happening in real life mirror what had happened in their minds left Spock feeling uneasy and dizzy, but he kept his hand pressed to the closed door that was keeping him from Jim.

It was just like the radiation chamber.

Spock’s face distorted in distress against his meaning it to, and he quickly schooled it back into place. It would not do to lose control, not now, not as things were. He pressed his forehead to the closed door, ignored the ripples of his and Jim’s interwoven feelings of fear that were still racing through his veins.

“I am sorry,” Spock said, his own throat tightening once again. He focused on steadying his breaths. “I am sorry, Jim. I did not intend to see anything. I only wanted to wake you.”

“Oh, and you sure were fucking successful with that, weren’t you?!” Jim screamed through the door, his voice laden with barely restrained emotion.

Spock did not blame him. He had every right to be angry.

He should have anticipated for Jim’s mind to work differently than a vulcan’s—than anyone else’s. He was Jim. It should not have surprised him that Jim’s mind had been able to rush him and overtake his own defenses so quickly and efficiently. He should have been better guarded. He shouldn’t have underestimated what his captain’s mind was capable of.

“You were having a nightmare,” Spock explained. Not to defend himself, but in an attempt to help Jim understand what had happened. “I tried to release you from it.”

“All you fucking did was bring me from one to another!” Jim shouted, his voice cracking. “It doesn’t end when I wake up! The nightmare never fucking ends!” There was a pound on the other side of the door, as Jim apparently punched at it. “I mean, Jesus, what gave you the fucking right to meld with me, Spock?! What’d you think was gonna happen? Do all Spocks do this? Are you all gonna dive into someone else’s mind without any kind of warning or anything?!”

Spock pressed his other hand to the door, as guilt bloomed into a suffocating mass of frigid petals within his lungs. “It was not supposed to be a legitimate meld. I was only trying to pull you from unconsciousness.”

Spock kept from adding that it was Jim’s subconscious that had lashed out and found him, feeling unwilling to make Jim feel responsible for any of what happened. Jim could not control what his unconscious mind did, he could not help that it grabbed onto Spock’s own psyche with an intensity that left them both susceptible to a tangling of memories.

It had the ferocity of a starved animal lunging at long overdue food, desperate and scared and unyielding.

A softer thump sounded from the door, and Spock wondered if it was Jim resting his own head in the same way that Spock was. “Fuck you, Spock,” he said, voice unsteady and broken. “You fucking bastard. Fuck you for being here. I fucking hate you.”

Spock refrained from apologizing further, as he knew that Jim was unlikely to hear it in his current state. He did not take Jim’s anger personally.

Trauma had just been dragged out and intensified between their two minds, and though he was not positive, he suspected that Jim had received some of his own emotionally charged recollections. To be confronted with such emotionally trying material would leave anyone strung up, but especially someone who was already physically weak and emotionally tired.

And, based on what he had seen…

Spock believed that Jim had every reason to be upset from the yanking of memories. It was as though the clash of their minds pulled memories from deep within, like a spring of water exploding from disturbed earth—completely out of control and leaving everything drenched in its wake.

It was nobody’s fault, not really, and Spock knew that. His intentions and actions had been logical as far as helping his friend, and there was no reason for him to have anticipated the result. 

It was not his fault. But that did not mean Jim could not be mad at him. He understood why Jim was lashing out, why he was talking to him so viciously. And though it hurt, he would not let himself become defensive or upset.

“I only want to help you, Jim,” Spock told the door.

“You’ve done enough!” Jim shouted. “I want you to get the fuck out of my house!”

Hurt squeezed his heart, but Spock brushed the feeling away. “You know I cannot do that.”

“I don’t want you here,” Jim sobbed. “Leave me alone.”

“Jim…”

“Fuck,” Jim whispered against the door, when there was another thunk—one Spock could not identify. “Fuck, it… it hurts.”

Spock’s mounting sadness quickly morphed into alert concern. He was in pain? “Are you hurt, Captain?”

Another thunk, louder this time—from the bottom of the door, as though Jim had fallen to the ground.

“Jim?” There was no response, and with his heart tightening in his side, Spock rapped a fist against the door. “Captain!”

A strained, “I’m fine, I— fuck, I’m okay,” came from the bathroom, but Jim’s voice was blatantly pained. He sounded very far from okay. Perhaps the sudden onslaught of unbidden emotional trauma was affecting his already weakened physical state worse than assumed.

With reluctant steps, Spock abandoned the locked bathroom door and instead went to find his communicator.

Jim was likely going to become more frustrated with him for this, become less likely to forgive him anytime soon, but… Spock believed that it would be in Jim’s best interest for Doctor McCoy to come back and check on his condition.

He hoped Jim would understand. Eventually.

Chapter Text

Spock’s thumb hovered over Leonard McCoy’s name on his communicator. He knew it would be best for him to call the doctor, but...

His heart was still pounding hard in his side, his head reeling from all of the information it had inadvertently absorbed from Jim during the meld. So many pieces regarding the man’s character had clicked into a place of unanticipated understanding.

He couldn’t help it, but Jim was suddenly bathed in a new light in his consciousness. And this bright, burning light was blinding him from the task at hand. His mind had decided that it would start to address the information it had received, the few minutes he’d tried to keep from thinking about the meld apparently having expired.

Jim was…

Jim had been abused.

In the brief year Spock had spent in Jim Kirk’s company, the possibility had never fully crossed his mind. That his captain, his friend, had been abused throughout his life. 

Jim’s experiences had no doubt colored his approach to the world as a whole. Spock was seeing the man’s drive, his interactions with others, and his unique way of thinking in an entirely new context. 

It was no wonder why he always put others first. No wonder that he had such an aversion to authority, often to the detriment of himself or reputation. 

It explained Jim’s complete and utter lack of fear when it came to his own life being in danger.

If he had never been taught to value his own well-being— and those abusing him had definitely not valued him— then he would never be one to choose himself first. 

That must have been why… why it had been so easy for him to enter the warp core chamber. Why he had been so ready to die for the ship.

For the crew.

An unexpected ghost of pain bloomed across Spock’s back, as his brain replayed the memory of Jim being carved in that dark, filthy, lonely place. His hand reached for his shoulder, as though he could somehow brush away the pain that was haunting his skin, and he wondered desperately what that memory had been.

Where had Jim been in that memory? How much time had he spent in that awful place? How old was he, how long ago did that happen?

Why did that happen? To his captain?

To Jim?

No matter the length of time spent in that place of death and danger, or how long ago it had happened, Spock realized that traces of that memory had always been visible in Jim’s eyes. Every time he or others of the crew were put in danger, Jim’s eyes always ignited with a defiant and fierce fury, purely primal and absolutely dangerous.

It was as though the driving force to fight for survival had been laced into the deepest part of Jim’s core. 

Spock recalled a moment from a year ago, after Jim had woken up in the sickbay following Nero’s defeat. It made so much more sense. It was no wonder he had reverted to a state of defensive aggression when he had woken up and had not known where he was, no wonder he had attacked the nurses.

It was no wonder he only trusted McCoy to treat him, as after having been abused so severely and so frequently in his earlier years, building trust with others would be difficult to accomplish.

And though part of Spock wanted to ponder how he had been so fortunate as to warrant Jim’s trust, his thoughts festered to focus on Jim and McCoy’s relationship.

Or rather, their current lack of one. 

Spock squeezed his communicator a little tighter. McCoy, like Jim, was not in a good emotional state at the moment. The trauma of their confrontation with Khan and the continuing fallout of Jim’s death was still affecting the both of them, in such a way that their interactions with each other had apparently grown volatile. 

In the weeks immediately following Jim’s death, Spock had not paid much mind to McCoy’s fixation on Jim’s health and the dismissal of his own. Spock himself had been in a similar state in the time before Jim awoke, his worry for his captain’s well-being having overshadowed any concerns he had had for himself.

However, it seemed that… Doctor McCoy still had yet to address his own mental and emotional state. As much as Spock knew McCoy to care for Jim, the state that he had worked himself into was obviously not befitting either him or Jim in getting better.

McCoy had clearly become more depressive and more irritable, and was not reading Jim nearly as well as he had always been able to. It was as though a wall that was as out of place and upsetting as the one in Jim’s mind had sprung up between the captain and doctor in the time since Jim’s resurrection.

With that in mind…

Would it really be wise for Spock to call the doctor at a time like this?

As much as the two surely still cared for each other, Spock suspected that introducing McCoy into the situation would be more detrimental for Jim than not. His captain had already been through enough stressors throughout the night as it was, to Spock’s ever mounting shame.

Spock continued to stare at his communicator and still could not bring himself to press the call button.

Jim gasped unevenly on the floor, his ribs crackling with each strained breath. His nose was bleeding, damn it all, coating his fingers in warm blood as he tried futilely to catch the drops that fell. 

Fuck Spock. What the fuck was he doing?! What had he been thinking?!

Why in the fuck did he try to meld with Jim?!

The very thought of someone being anywhere near his head sent a crashing wave of terror through Jim’s whole body, and he shuddered hard against the door. A groan squeezed from his throat without him meaning to.

“Captain—”

“Shut up, Spock, I’m fine,” Jim bit out, as fire burned through his throat and his lungs. He couldn’t fucking think. And he couldn’t fucking stop shaking.

He shouldn’t have run so fast to the bathroom. He hadn’t moved like that since before he died, and it was becoming abundantly clear that he hadn’t been ready for it. His body was hurting like hell. Like cement was pounding its way through his veins, like his bones were twisting in on themselves, splintering and stabbing into his flesh.

He wrapped his arms around his middle and squeezed, hoping that the pressure would distract him from the pain. He couldn’t even bring himself to care about the blood flowing freely from his nose.

What had Spock been thinking?

Forced melds were messy enough as it was—his meld with Ambassador Spock was plenty testament to that fact—but for Spock to initiate one with him, without warning, was fucking stupid.

Clenching his eyes shut and with tears finally overflowing down his cheeks, Jim tried to will away the voices of young Vulcan children, taunting Spock’s inferior heritage and hurtling him towards an emotional outburst more painful than any physical blow. Memories of Spock’s mother, aching and sweet and so, so sad. Vulcan horizons crumbling and imploding right before his eyes, the last time he would ever see his home planet for the rest of his life. Nero’s face, sneering and snarling and as frightening as it was in Jim’s own mind. 

Jim, gasping and sweating, painted in the lights of the radiation chamber, eyes watering and red, his lips quivering, his body dying, withering right in front of him, just beyond the glass, just out of reach—

A choking moan erupted from Jim’s throat, the unfiltered raw fear that was laced through it startling even him. He clamped his hands over his mouth. He didn’t want to give Spock any reason to come in just yet, and if he thought Jim was hurt in some way then he would probably break the door down.

Part of him felt like he ought to be touched by the sentiment, but he was mostly overcome with a skin crawling need to be alone. Just a few more minutes, he just needed a few more minutes to himself.

Just a few more minutes to cry and shake and bleed by himself.

A stuttering breath caught in Jim’s throat, and he blinked through a wall of tears at the floor of his bathroom, his hand still pressed tight against his lips.

He wondered… what information had Spock gotten through the meld? Which of Jim’s memories did he see?

Could he— could he have seen any of Tarsus?

Cascades of horror washed down Jim’s whole body and he shuddered hard against the door. Jesus, what if Spock saw— saw any of the shit that Jim had been trying to keep hidden for his whole life?

So many of his Tarsus memories had bubbled to the surface since his death, and Jim still hadn’t managed to lock invasive recollections back into the craggy, dark hollows of his mind. So what if— what if Spock got one of those? What if he saw something he would recognize from records of the Tarsus Massacre?

What if he saw any one of Jim’s memories of Kodos, bathed in shadows and blood and looking at Jim with such hatred that it had rippled into every fiber of his being?

Jim carried that hatred with him every day. Would it be possible for Spock to be infected by Kodos’s hatred by melding with Jim?

“Captain?”

Jim’s heart beat painfully against his chest in one hard thunk, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the sensation. Fuck, that hurt. A dizziness flowed up the back of his neck and he rested his head against the door, grunting quietly to let Spock know he could continue.

“I… do not want to cause you discomfort. I apologize for my actions and understand if you do not wish to be around others at this time. However, I...” Spock trailed off, and it kind of sounded like he was leaning right up against the door. “It is time for your next dose to be administered.”

Fuck. Right.

His medicine.

Jim sniffed and rubbed his hand against his face, before pulling it back to stare at the blood and tears smeared across his skin. His breaths were still shaking, and a buzzing unpleasantness was spreading down his arms. 

Bones’s medicine wasn’t gonna make him feel any better. Sometimes he wondered if it was even accomplishing anything, or if Bones had finally devised something that couldn’t cure Jim. 

He closed his eyes against that thought. Regardless of everything, he knew that Bones’s prowess as a pathologist was a universal constant. If Bones was confident that his medicine worked, then it worked.

Still, even if it was healing Jim’s body, it was almost more painful than dying itself had been. 

Jesus, dealing with a dose now of all times was the least appealing thing conceivable. There were still bursts of fury and hurt lapping at Jim’s lungs, his whole body wrought with emotional distress and an all consuming revulsion at the idea of being around anyone else at the moment.

To get the medicine administered, he would have to be touched and talked to and he— he didn’t want to do it.

But, he… he also knew he couldn’t miss a dose. 

Fuck. Why was his life so fucking difficult? It made him feel like a petulant child to think such a thing, but sometimes he just got so fed up with every last goddamn obstacle thrown in his path.

“I understand if you would not want me to touch you at this time,” Spock muttered, his deep voice low and clear from the other side of the door. “If you would prefer, I can summon Doctor McCoy, but I will not do so without your permission.”

The mere idea of Bones entering the situation filled Jim with such immediate shame and gut-wrenching horror that he was slamming the button to the bathroom door before he could even think about it.

The door snapped open, revealing a wide eyed Spock on the other side.

“Don’t call Bones,” Jim hurried to say in a gasp, gaze honing in on the communicator in Spock’s hand. “Don’t call him,” he said again, weaker.

Spock snapped his communicator shut before he’d even started to crouch in front of Jim. “If that is what you wish,” he said, his perfect fucking eyebrows scrunching together as he frowned.

“It is.” He couldn’t bring himself to look Spock in the eye. He didn’t know what information Spock had received in the meld, but he had a feeling that if he searched for it, the traces of new knowledge would be visible in Spock’s face.

The very idea shook Jim to his core. 

Nobody who had grown to know Jim had ever been able to stand him. None had stayed for him.

Even Bones, who had gotten closer than so many had in years, was surely getting fed up with Jim. Their interactions over the past few weeks was proof enough of that fact. 

Knowing Jim always, inevitably, led to rejecting him.

Spock would not be an exception. If he had learned too much about Jim in that meld…

Another shock of pain stabbed through Jim’s heart and he winced, bringing a hand up to his chest. 

Spock’s hands flinched out of the corner of his eye, as though Spock had almost reached out to touch— comfort?— him.

“If you are in pain,” Spock whispered, voice steady, “I believe we should waste no further time in treating you. We can move to your bedroom or living quarters, if either of those would be more comfortable for you.”

Jim swallowed around his throat, noted the feeling of blood and tears drying on his face, and whispered, “Living room works fine.”

It had been a number of hours since Spock’s ill advised attempt at a meld.

Administering Jim’s medicine had not taken too much time, as McCoy had left him very clear and direct instructions on what to do.

Still…

It had not been… easy to slide a needle into Jim’s veins, to grip his warm arm while the medicine took effect and to maintain a mental wall between them all the while. They did not speak nor look at each other, but Jim allowed him to sit beside him while the treatment took its course.

They watched an old Terran television show while they waited. It was something meant to document Terra’s different plants and animals in different regions. It was an interesting and calming presentation overall, although Spock did not pay it much attention—too preoccupied was he with his concern for Jim and still reeling from all that had transpired throughout the night.

But, over the course of the past few hours, an almost calm seemed to have descended over Jim’s home. 

Spock was sitting on the couch and Jim was curled up on the recliner beside it. He’d washed his face hours ago, but there was still a redness that lingered around his eyes. The emotional distress he had been put through was surely to blame, though Spock was sure that exhaustion had played a hand in his sallow appearance as well. He was watching the television with such reserved body language.

And despite how tired he so clearly was, Spock suspected that Jim would not find sleep again any time soon. 

A soft, gentle chime sounded through the apartment. The clock had just struck 6 in the morning.

“Bones will be here in a bit,” Jim whispered, his voice quiet and raw. He didn’t take his eyes from the television as he spoke. “He’s gotta help me bathe and get ready for the day.”

Spock did not reply. He was not sure what he could say, or if Jim was expecting anything from him in particular. It was unlikely he was remarking on these facts solely as a means to initiate conversation, but rather that these words were simply a precursor to whatever point Jim was truly meaning to make.

Spock remained silent so Jim could continue, and kept his own eyes affixed to the footage of Terran migratory birds washing the horizon in swathes of pink.

“Spock, can you…” 

At this direct addressal, Spock glanced at his captain. He was ready to do anything Jim asked of him. It was the least that he owed him.

Jim was frowning at the television, his brows bunching together just slightly. “Spock. I don’t know what you saw in the meld. But, please… don’t ask me any questions. Don’t ask for clarification. And…” Slowly, he met Spock’s gaze, and Spock’s heart fluttered nervously in his side. “Don’t tell Bones.” 

Spock breathed evenly through his nose. “It had never been my intention to. Your memories are private, they are your own. It had never been my intention to expose myself to any degree of your history, and I do not ever intend to share it with others.” Jim’s shoulders seemed to relax, just barely, and Spock did his best to soften his own features. “I am aware that there is the possibility of you having received some of my own memories. I apologize for burdening you with them. And I apologize for initiating the meld. We do not have to discuss the meld further, but if we ever do, I will leave it at your discretion.”

Jim continued to stare at him, eyes partially lidded and muscles loose with exhaustion, but the weariness of emotional distress no longer seemed to be clawing at his features. After a moment, he snorted softly. “All right. If you’re saying that, then I’ve gotta assume you didn’t see anything too bad in my head.” He redirected his gaze to the television, his expression unreadable. “You wouldn’t be able to handle sitting here now if you had.”

Jim’s demeanor suggested that he had more or less begun to forgive Spock for initiating the meld, but his words chilled Spock.

What he had seen in the meld had been disconcerting and upsetting. But he did not ever plan to bring it up, as speaking on memories of a trauma was worse than to let them lie. But… Jim knew this of Spock. 

After having been in each other’s company for over a year, Jim had surely learned by now that Spock was not one to discuss personal matters—least of all ones that were distressing. So Jim, knowing this, would know that Spock would not ever bring up the memories he had received of Jim being abused by guardians.

So then why…

Why would Jim say that there were certain memories of his that would cause Spock to address them directly? Could they be more memories of that grimy, dark place Jim had been trapped in? Memories worse than the one Spock had received?

Memories that no one should be forced to carry alone?

As a dim, hazy blue filled the apartment, the sun rising slowly and sending its early morning rays into the city, Spock sat on Jim’s couch in silence. Protective fury, reminiscent of the force that drove him to hunt Khan, boiled quietly in the roots of Spock’s veins. 

He would not investigate further into Jim’s past, would not force him to speak of his history. But neither was he going to leave Jim to bear the burden alone. 

Spock decided that he did not have to know what Jim was dealing with to help him deal with it.

Chapter Text

Bones wasn’t entirely sure when it happened, but something had changed with Jim.

Jim and Spock.

Sure, they’d always been close, but… They were even closer than they’d been before Khan, if that were even possible.

McCoy was in Jim’s kitchen, preparing lunch for the three of them, and Jim and Spock were in the living room playing chess. They were conversing quietly, apparently about something inane and inconsequential, but they were conversing.

Bones couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an honest to God conversation with Jim, and that thought just made his chest ache painfully.

What had Spock done to bring himself closer to Jim? What had happened that made Jim relaxed around Spock and no one else?

He didn’t want to be jealous, he really didn’t. But Jim had been the closest person to him for the past five years, and now there was a chasm between them that he couldn’t cross. But Spock could.

He should’ve expected it, really. He’d seen how close the two of them had been getting to each other over the past two years. But, the way they were now…

Spock was always sticking close to him. Like a guard dog, or something. Like Jim needed protecting, which— he kind of did, but Spock was almost acting like he’d seen something of Jim that made him hesitant to leave him on his own.

It made him wonder…

Had Jim told him something? Shared something with him that he hadn’t shared with McCoy? Had Spock learned something about Jim that made him feel like he needed to be there for Jim more than before?

Jim suddenly smiled at something Spock had said, as he moved a piece across his 3D chess board.

The sight of his smile made something twist in McCoy’s gut, but he couldn’t figure out if it was a good feeling or not. He leaned towards no.

A sigh drew itself from his lungs and he rubbed at his eyes. He was so tired lately. And the message he got that morning made him feel even worse…

Fuck. And Spock had mentioned to him earlier that he was going to have to head back to New Vulcan soon.

Fuck, he probably hadn’t told Jim that yet. He doubted he’d enjoy being separated from Spock, especially after finally having him back after so long. Damn it. 

His bad news and Spock’s bad news were definitely going to ruin Jim’s day.

McCoy placed the assortment of small sandwiches he’d made onto a plate with a heavy heart, and brought it over to the pair huddled over the chess set. “Lunch,” he announced, and even he could hear how downtrodden he sounded.

No wonder Jim was always so depressed around him. He was making himself feel depressed.

“Thanks, Bones,” Jim muttered, taking one of the sandwiches and taking a tiny bite. He chewed on it slowly, before he brought his eyes up to McCoy and paused. “What’s wrong?”

Even as exhausted as he was, Jim was still so goddamn intuitive. McCoy shook his head, frowning. “We gotta discuss something real quick,” he muttered. “It concerns the coming weeks.” He paused to run a hand over his face. “Months, maybe.”

Jim put his sandwich down, sending a quick glance at Spock. 

McCoy turned his gaze to the Vulcan, too. “Did you tell him about your thing yet?”

Spock stared up at him unmoving, looking every bit like the Vulcan equivalent of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Not yet, Doctor. I have not… found the right time to broach the subject.”

McCoy nodded, scratching at his hair in exasperation. “I’ll just say it for you, then.” He did his best to meet Jim’s eyes. “I’ve gotta head back to Atlanta, and Spock’s gotta get to New Vulcan. Now, we could leave you with one of the nurses—who are more than capable—but… I think I’d rather you be with one of us right now. So.” He sighed low, searching Jim’s eyes in question as a heavy feeling of hopelessness settled in his chest. “Do you wanna come with me, or do you wanna go with Spock?”

Wait, what? 

Bones was asking him to choose between him and Spock?

He floundered for a moment, blinking at the chess board in consternation. How was he… How was he supposed to choose?

His immediate thought was to go with Spock, because after that whole debacle with the mind meld, he somehow felt closer to Spock than he had before. 

He suspected it had something to do with someone learning things about him, uncomfortable things that he never wanted to share, and them still choosing him regardless. He hadn’t expected it, but… His trust in Spock had definitely grown.

He felt safe with the Vulcan in a way that he hadn’t felt with anyone else since dying, and he felt seen, and… and connected. Similar to the way that he felt an inescapable connection with Ambassador Spock. It seemed that having his brain or soul or something imprint itself on anyone who melded with him was par for the course.

But, as much as he deeply wanted to stay close to Spock, as much as he didn’t want to be separated from him again, he was also aware of his own health. Aware of the fact that there was very little that he could physically handle for the foreseeable future.

He picked at the hem of the loose sweater he had on, frowning. He opened his mouth, but it took him a few long seconds to find the energy to speak. “I don’t think I ought to travel off planet right now,” he finally responded quietly.

McCoy nodded, his hand resting against his own nape after taking another drag through his hair. “That was my same thought.” He paused, apparently thinking hard about what he had to say next. “All right,” he finally sighed. “Then do you want to come with me to Georgia?”

Jim released a snort almost automatically. “Do I have a choice?” 

McCoy didn’t say anything at first, before he quietly responded, “You always have a choice, Jim.”

Jim paused, taken aback by how soft Bones’s tone was. He looked up at his friend, really looked at him for the first time in too long, and saw a hollow sadness in McCoy’s eyes that had no right being there. A deep, sallow weariness painted the entirety of Bones’s face, and Jim realized that the last time he saw Bones looking like this, it had been during the first few years in the Academy.

Back when McCoy was his most depressed and had felt like no one had wanted him.

A quiet horror rumbled inside of Jim to see such sadness ruminating in his doctor’s eyes, and he couldn’t believe that he hadn’t yet noticed how badly McCoy had been doing lately. 

When had he slipped so far into this depression? How had he not walked out on Jim yet?

Was he feeling sincerely unwanted again? Because of Jim?

Without a second thought, Jim said, “Yeah, Bones, I’ll go with you. Of course I will.”

McCoy’s shoulders drooped just slightly, like a weight had been lifted off of them. He nodded, his every movement imbued with emotional exhaustion. “All right. I’m leaving in three days, so I can help you get packed and ready to go until then.” He motioned at the lunch he’d made. “Eat up. I’ll go get a list made of what we need.” 

He wandered back to the kitchen without another word, and Jim stared at the space he vacated for a while.

His and McCoy’s relationship was still rocky, but… Maybe this time alone together, out of San Francisco, would help them figure their shit out. Jim would make an effort. As much as he could.

He owed Bones that much.

Chewing on the nail of his thumb, Jim went back to glaring at the chess board. He wondered when McCoy had started slipping. Did it start when Jim had died? Was it after Jim had snapped at him? Earlier, later? How had he not noticed?

What the fuck kind of friend was he?

He continued to glower at the chess board, before he realized it was his turn.

Ah, right. His turn in the game he was playing with Spock.

Spock, who was apparently leaving for New Vulcan in a few days.

“What’s in New Vulcan?” Jim blurted out, bringing his gaze up to Spock.

Spock was sitting stock still in his seat, his turtle neck looking pitch black in the dim light of Jim’s living room. Jim’s eyes had been too sensitive lately for the lights to be any brighter. 

Spock kind of looked like he’d been waiting for Jim to ask, because he only blinked once before responding. “They require assistance with some of the technical issues with the planet’s interface. And, since I was there before the colony’s official establishment and had seen it in its earliest stages, in addition to the fact that I have considerable acumen in regards to what Starfleet officers are taught as far as setting up a colony properly, I have been selected as an optimal resource to help them establish a stronger foundation than they have already laid out. I will need to help them make adjustments for some time, and so…” he paused in his tirade long enough to bring his eyes up to Jim’s. “I will need to be on New Vulcan for at least three months.”

Three months. Jesus.

The idea of spending three whole months away from Spock sent ice shooting down his veins, and a part of him was suddenly wanting to choose to go to New Vulcan instead. He didn’t want to spend so much time away from his first officer.

But… 

He needed to spend time with Bones, too. And he really did think that his body wouldn’t be able to handle a trip off planet.

Jim eyed his pieces on the board and picked one up at random, just to give himself something to fiddle with in his sudden flare of agitation. “You can still take calls and stuff, though, right?” Jim asked, not looking up.

“Of course. It was already my intention to make frequent calls to you and the doctor, as I would like to be kept up to date as to your recovery process.” Spock’s hands were curled into fists atop his thighs. He seemed nervous.

He seemed like he didn’t wanna go.

Jim sighed and slumped against his seat, squinting up at Spock. “You sure you really gotta go?”

Spock paused, before he lowered his gaze and nodded slightly. “I am afraid I must. As there are so few of my kind left, it is my duty to offer my assistance to my own species where I can. Though, I… I do not want—”

Jim cut him off with a wave of his hand. “It’s all right, Spock, I understand. I do.” He watched his face and waited for Spock to meet his eyes, before giving him a smile. “I’ll see you when you get back, yeah? We’ll take care of ourselves until then.”

Chapter Text

Jim slept through their whole journey to Georgia. 

He and Bones had parted ways with Spock early in the morning, just before they had to catch their shuttle ride out of San Francisco. Jim had been too tired to be as upset as he otherwise should have been. 

He would’ve liked to have said a real proper goodbye to Spock before losing him for three months (that amount still stung), but he had barely been able to keep his eyes open before their departure. After their fucking messy mind meld, Jim had hardly been sleeping. He hadn’t been getting much rest as it was, but it had somehow gotten even worse. 

Which sucked for a number of reasons. The worst of which being the fact that he needed to rest in order to heal. 

Instead, it was like his health was stagnating. He could tell it was worrying Bones. The whole time they were on the shuttle, Bones kept his hand somewhere on Jim’s person. And while some of that was likely due to Bones’s need for comfort while in the air, Jim also noticed that Bones’s fingers were usually on one of Jim’s pulse points--like on his wrist or neck. Like he was trying to keep tabs on his heart rate, or oxygen levels, or some shit like that.

In all honesty, though, the constant contact… It did help Jim fall asleep on the ride.

Bones’s fingers were broad, and warm, and the pressure on his skin was a welcome sensation. It was soothing. Tethering.

Jim had missed Bones’s hands.

After they had landed, he had managed to stay awake long enough for Bones to get them saddled up with a rental car so they could drive to Atlanta. One of the fancier hovering vehicles. It hummed softly while they drove, and Jim was out like a light almost as soon as they left the station.

Even as he drifted off, the sun not even halfway up the sky, he could feel Bones’s fingers on his wrist.

“Hey, Jim. We’re here.”

Jim inhaled sharply as his eyes opened, and blinked hard as his gaze settled on Bones’ face. Their car was no longer moving and Bones was standing next to Jim, apparently after having already opened his door for him.

“We’re here?” he repeated, his voice groggy from underuse.

“Yeah. Home sweet home.” Bones gave Jim his hand to help him upright, and took most of his weight for him. A soreness rippled down his body, accompanied by a weird, tingling weariness. He was exhausted through and through. It felt like hands were pressing down on his shoulders.

But the sunlight felt nice.

He leaned a little heavier into Bones and looked around the place.

It was a wide open piece of property, with a green lawn that wrapped around it for at least half an acre before being met by a lush treeline on either side. The grass stretched behind the house, and got longer the farther away from the front it was, until it met the shore of a large pond. It even had a little dock. The driveway was lined with old oaks that flowed all the way to the main road, a long and healthy walk from the front door to the mailbox. Jim found himself matching his breaths to the way the breeze flowed between the leaves, scattering flashes of light between the boughs.

Everything was so healthy. And green.

Even the house itself. 

It was a large two-story, with a little windowed attic sitting at the top. There was a coating of pale green paint covering the walls of the house, contrasting nicely with the untouched wood of the porch and the dark black shingles of the roof. There were pots of flowers hanging from the porch’s awning, adding a splash of pink and blue to the whole sight.

It was all so… homey. Peaceful. It reminded Jim of the home he’d yearned to know as a child, something clean and big and welcoming. Full of sunlight and growth. 

Images of his own childhood home flashed through his mind--darkness, dust, mold, grief and hatred clinging to the corners like cobwebs--and Jim couldn’t help but feel a little resentment towards McCoy. 

They were from such different worlds.

“Now, I know you slept practically the whole way here,” Bones said, glancing at Jim, “but why don’t we get you inside so you can really rest.” He carefully led Jim through the white picket fence dividing the driveway from the lawn, and they carefully went up the porch one step at a time. 

Even with his cane and with Bones’s help, Jim found himself winded by the time they reached the front door.

Jim shut his eyes to better focus on breathing, but the images of his childhood home were still fluttering at the edges of his thoughts, making his chest feel tighter than normal. Warm fingers grazed his cheek in a touch of comfort, but the image of Frank’s hand shot through his head at the same time, and without meaning to Jim flinched away.

He blinked his eyes open unsteadily, the tightness in his chest contorting into a vice. After a moment’s hesitation he raised his gaze.

Bones’s hand was still up, just a little, but Bones was quickly clenching his fist and bringing it back to his side. There was a clear sheen of hurt in his eyes and he was clenching his jaw hard, but he didn’t say anything. In silence he moved to unlock the door.

Guilt mixed evenly into the anxiety cloying at Jim’s lungs, but he didn’t have the energy to try to comfort Bones. He barely had the energy to keep himself upright.

He hated being so fucking weak. So helpless, so useless.

It was with a heavy heart that he followed Bones into the house.

The door opened into a large living room that smelled of maple and firewood, the left half of it dipping down into a seating area facing a large tv and fireplace, and Jim ignored his own shaking as he crossed the threshold.

If he thought the house looked big outside, it was even more spacious on the inside. 

There was the large living room to the left of the front door, a staircase that led up to a second floor that overlooked the first, and on the right was a doorway leading into a brightly sunlit dining room and kitchen.

The house smelled good, and it was all so clean, and Jim was still getting used to the idea that he was allowed to exist in places that were so nice. It had been a shock to him back when he had first joined the academy, having only really known a life of grime and blood and filth, and even still… He would never get used to staying in places that were well cared for. Places that made him feel well cared for.

He didn’t deserve to live in comfort. Not when he’d let so many people die.

If living was to be his punishment, what gave him the right to really enjoy it?

McCoy got Jim settled in the guest bedroom not an hour ago. He was hoping he was sleeping, and considering how quiet the house had been since they arrived, chances were good that Jim was out like a light.

He sighed low, stirring the vegetable stew on the stove lazily. The weather was almost too warm for such a hearty dish, but the house had smelled like nothing when they got in and that just… didn’t sit right with McCoy.

He was used to his family’s homes always smelling of good food, and to be confronted with the lack of it really made him aware of how much his own family had changed over the years.

His father’s death really took a toll on the lot of them. Enough so that his ma had bought this house to be away from the life she’d built with her husband. But even after buying it, she hardly spent any time in the place at all. 

After she saw the whole Khan incident on the news, she had offered the ranch to Bones if he needed to get away for a while. And now he was glad she had, considering all this shit with Jocelyn was forcing him to stay in Georgia indefinitely. 

Well…

McCoy sighed again, head tilting in the direction of the guest bedroom, though there was a wall separating the kitchen from the rest of the house. 

Indefinitely was more like, “until Jim is better again and we can all get back to our jobs on the Enterprise.”

A huff escaped him. To think that he was actually longing for the medbay on a spaceship. It had somehow become so familiar to him over the past two years. He had never thought he’d work off planet, but now he was at a point where the idea of not being on the ship, not being in the stars, made him feel unbelievably uneasy.

Well, all right. It wasn’t the stars so much that were keeping him tethered. More like one ornery and foolish captain that was gonna make him go gray before forty.

One stupid, selfless captain that McCoy couldn’t imagine living without anymore.

Jim was exhausted. Keeping his eyes open was a struggle, but he had honed the ability to fight off sleep throughout multiple times of his life. And he was damn sick of always being unconscious.

Bones had made them some sort of stew for dinner, and while it had tasted pretty good, Jim was still having trouble keeping food down.

Fuck, when wasn’t he?

Jim poked at a potato sitting in his bowl of stew, dragging the edge of his spoon against the root until there were grooves scored into its soft flesh, the skin pushing into the thick broth as it separated into little bits. Flashes of the Enterprise’s walls tearing in horrible screeches, amidst the cacophony of alarms and screams careened through Jim’s head. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, unable to muster up any other reaction to the memory.

How many members of his crew had their flesh torn apart before they died? How many of them had thought he would save them? How many of them burned, or suffocated, or fell under his command?

A loud clunk from the sink snapped Jim from his thoughts.

He glanced up from his bowl of food and stared at Bones, who was busy hand washing some dishes. There was a dishwasher, but Bones had apparently gotten so used to not having one at the academy that he was doing it the hard way when he didn’t have to.

McCoy blinked for a second before glancing over at Jim, apparently having felt his gaze. 

“What’s up?” Bones continued to scrub at the dishes, eyes briefly flicking to Jim’s half eaten bowl. “Are you done for now?”

Jim let his spoon rest on the edge of the dish and nodded softly. He was still a bit too tired to vocalize. He was too tired for anything , really, but he hated being left alone with his mind. His dreams, even when he couldn’t remember them, had been wringing him of his mental stability.

Sadness and exhaustion had long been replacing the air in his lungs, and he hoped that the pain would lessen some if he could focus on anything other than himself. Bones seemed like a fine alternative.

Bones stepped from the sink and came to the table. “If you get hungry later, just let me know. We’ve got leftovers.” 

As Bones reached for the mostly still full bowl, Jim’s eyes settled on Bones’ arms of their own free will. The sleeves were rolled up, leaving the doctor’s usually covered forearms bare, glistening with soap and water and highlighting the muscles corded just under his skin.

Jim’s eyes traveled to take in more of his friend. He really was a handsome man, especially when he was wearing the relaxed attire of a henley and sweats, his normally carefully groomed hair a little unkempt and flopping on his forehead.

He looked healthy. Jim was glad that between the two of them, at least one of them had a working body. At least as far as he was aware. “Have you been okay lately, Bones?” Jim asked, his voice croaking embarrassingly.

Bones looked up at him from the sink, pausing before he shrugged. “More or less. As okay as I can be, considering everything right now.”

Jim hummed in response. They hadn’t had an honest to God conversation in so long. He’d kind of forgotten how to do it. “This is your mom’s house, right? Where is she?”

Bones sighed low and long. “I think she’s staying with some friends. She doesn’t come here that often, she hardly likes to stay in one place.” He paused, the dimly lit kitchen comfortably silent other than the sound of Bones scrubbing hard at a pot. “Ever since my dad died, she’s been pretty restless. Is always going to different places. It’s like…” Bones stopped again to drain the sink, and only spoke up when the draining water stopped sputtering. “It’s like if she stays here too long, then the absence of my dad will catch up to her, and she’ll have to face the fact that she’s living without him.” A sigh drifted past his lips. “My mom’s not usually one to avoid problems, and I certainly have no place to judge her, but… I do worry about her.” He dried his hands on a nearby towel, not quite looking at Jim. “Don’t expect to see her while we’re here.”

There was a silence that settled over the space previously occupied by the sounds of dish washing. Not quite comfortable, because nothing seemed to be really comfortable between Jim and McCoy yet, but it wasn’t bad.

“It’s okay,” Jim said softly, waiting for Bones to look at him. “My mom was the same way.” He blinked at the tabletop a few times, clinging onto the edge of his sleeve. “I think it’s kind of normal for people to try to run away from their grief. Sometimes that means running away from places, because they can’t run away from the loss itself. And when that doesn’t work, then distractions do.” He chewed on his lip a moment, bringing his gaze back to Bones’. “Is she retired?”

Bones nodded. “She retired not long after my dad died. That was when she stopped spending a lot of time in Georgia.” He huffed and shook his head, a little smile tugging at his mouth. “She even goes off planet sometimes, to my absolute horror. Just because I have to go into space, that doesn’t mean anyone else in my family should.”

Jim smiled back at him, just a bit. “You can be such a hypocrite sometimes,” he said, consciously keeping his tone light and teasing.

Bones chuckled under his breath, smiling at Jim. It was such a nice sight. It made Jim’s stomach swoop strangely.

“Yeah, well.” Bones scratched at his eyebrow, looking away. “Speaking of retiring… My mom is hoping that I will soon. Especially after this most recent debacle.”

Jim’s stomach completely dropped this time. A queasy ice rose up in his chest, and he did his best to stay still and not react badly. The idea of Bones leaving the Enterprise, leaving him , had haunted him more often than he’d like to admit, but-- But he’d never thought that Bones would voice such a possibility.

Did he… Did he want to leave?

It would make sense. Working on the Enterprise was unbelievably dangerous, and the encounter with Khan and Marcus made it clear that Jim really couldn’t keep anyone safe, regardless of how much he wanted to. It would be reasonable for him to leave after it became clear that Jim couldn’t be trusted to keep them safe.

It would be… better if Bones wasn’t on board. He would be safer.

But Jim would be without him.

With his heart pounding painfully in his chest, Jim swallowed hard and couldn’t quite bring his eyes to McCoy. “Are you retiring?”

Bones scoffed immediately. “Are you kidding me? After all that shit at the Academy, retire after only two years in service?” He shook his head, expression disbelieving, and Jim was indescribably soothed by it. “Hate to break it to you, Jim, but you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Good. Good.

Jim drew in the easiest breath he had all night, and smiled at Bones. “Damn. I’ll have to try harder.”

Chapter Text

They hadn’t even been in Georgia for a full week, and already Bones could see improvement in Jim’s condition. It wasn’t substantial, necessarily, and more often than not Bones had the thought that Jim looked like he was still sitting at death’s door, but there was improvement nonetheless.

Jim was awake more often. Rather than only being able to keep his eyes open on an average of five hours a day, that number had risen to nine. And his hands shook less. He seemed more alert when spoken to. 

And… his mood was less irritable than it had been.

Bones understood why Jim had had a short temper ever since his resurrection, he did. But that didn’t make it any easier to stomach the almost relentless sour mood that clung to his captain. He’d grown used to a boisterous, loud, pain-in-the-ass friendly Jim Kirk. That was what he’d known for the past few years.

When he thought of Jim Kirk, more often than not the image that would come to mind would be of Jim, laughing with his head thrown back, surrounded by sunlight.

It was such a nice image to dwell on, that sometimes Bones let himself forget that someone happy and jovial, bright and grinning, wasn’t the only person that Jim could be.

Sometimes he’d rather not think about the profound, welling sadness that settled in the deepest blue of Jim’s eyes, would rather not think about how quiet and pensive and cold he could get on the rare moments that his mask fell away. 

But he knew that it was unfair of him to always expect Jim to be the “fun guy to be around”. He could never really fault Jim for his anger, or his hatred, or his sorrow. The dark, dangerous, hurt part of Jim—that was so often buried so deep—was as much a part of him as his broad smile and outstretched hand. 

Sometimes Bones wondered if the person that Jim tried to keep caged within himself was the real Jim Kirk. If that pained animal, that damaged child, was the core of the person that was his closest friend.

The idea had flitted through McCoy’s mind multiple times over the years. And every time, he settled on the decision that even if that were the case, so what? It didn’t mean Jim was any less great. It didn’t mean he was any less deserving of affection and attention.

Jim deserved to be loved. He deserved it when he was wonderful, and he deserved it when he was horrible. Jim was a man of multitudes. It was one of the things that was so appealing about him. He kept the people around him on their toes, often for the better. And usually, he would only ever be amiable. 

There were times that McCoy didn’t properly appreciate how lucky he was to see Jim in all of his different versions of self. Sometimes, it was hard to have to deal with Jim. He was like the definition of a wild card on his best days.

But Jim hadn’t had one of his best days—or even a good day, for that matter—since well before he’d died.

And so, for weeks on end, McCoy hadn’t seen the man he knew to be his friend.

There were no smiles. There was no laughter. There was no sunlight reflected in his eyes, no color to his skin, no warmth to his presence.

Jim was a shell of the man he had been before Pike died.

McCoy knew that the light of Jim’s soul was still there, but wherever it was, it had been drowned out. 

He missed its spark.

He missed seeing Jim happy.

Shit, he missed seeing him comfortable.

When he’d made the decision to bring Jim back to life, to rip him out of death’s clutches, he hadn’t paid any thought to the consequences. Least of all what the experience was going to do to Jim’s body.

Being a doctor, he really, really should have.

Now, as he gently massaged his thumbs into the joint of Jim’s ankle, he wished he’d had a moment to fucking think on that day the Enterprise fell.

They were on the couch, Jim’s head cushioned on a couple of pillows and his feet in McCoy’s lap. The kid was being assaulted by a migraine, and so the lights had been turned low and a cooling sleep mask had been placed on his face.

Before, back in San Francisco, McCoy would have been afraid of Jim snapping at him for the pain that was rippling through his body. Or worse yet, he’d have feared the possibility of Jim confiscating their usual companionship and instead opting for that dreaded silence.

He wished he’d have thought about the consequences of his actions on that day. He wished he could’ve foreseen all of the complications of bringing—no, forcing someone back to life. He should’ve known that bringing anyone back would have its issues, but with Jim…

As if the kid’s life wasn’t fucked up enough, now McCoy had forced him to experience death and now try to live past it. 

What a thing to ask of anybody. Guilt thudded where McCoy’s heart should have been. 

Jim’s breaths were shallow and a little bit wheezy as they passed through his slightly parted lips. McCoy was massaging his legs, and had been for the past few minutes. The body aches had been endless since his resurrection, but it took Jim a few weeks to actually tell McCoy about them.

It bothered Bones, mostly just because he hated the idea of Jim thinking he had to suffer alone. Didn’t he trust McCoy to take care of him? Didn’t he know that his doctor would do anything to make him feel better?

Bones sighed low as he wrapped a palm over Jim’s calf and worked on kneading the muscles. Since Jim couldn’t quite walk yet, Bones was hoping to help the muscles get some movement regardless. And hopefully it would lessen the pain some, too. 

The silence continued for a long while, nothing but the sound of their own quiet breathing and the occasional shuffle of fabric as Bones worked. 

It wasn’t until the room had turned a deep blue, heralding a calm dusk, that McCoy realized Jim had fallen asleep. 

He paused. The cooling mask had slipped off Jim’s face, enough to expose one of his closed eyes. 

Even in sleep, Jim looked exhausted. Such dark circles surrounded his eyelids, and burst capillaries from strain, stress, and tears had seemingly taken up permanent residence on Jim’s cheeks. 

Before he’d thought about it, McCoy had leaned over with Jim’s legs still thrown across his lap, and was stroking a thumb across Jim’s cheekbone, just below his eye. 

His captain didn’t stir, and in fact a furrow that had been pulling at his brow all but disappeared. 

McCoy’s hand froze in place, his thumb still resting on Jim’s skin. 

He was so warm. Even as unwell as he was, Jim seemed to practically glow with a deep, unattainable beauty in the hues of the setting sun. His breaths puffed softly across McCoy’s wrist, steady and cool. 

Slowly, McCoy’s fingers unfurled, slipping into Jim’s hair and across his ear. McCoy’s fingertips slid between golden strands, and the side of Jim’s face settled easily in McCoy’s palm. Like it belonged there. 

His hair was soft. 

In this position, with Bones leaning over him and cradling his face, with Jim’s legs draped across his thighs, McCoy realized how close they were. He wasn’t sure when, but at some point McCoy’s other hand had settled on Jim’s far knee, and was keeping him in place on his lap. 

It was such an— such an intimate position.

If Jim was awake, surely he would’ve been teasing him.

A sudden heat rushed McCoy’s face, and he carefully extracted his fingers from Jim’s hair. He didn’t mean to, but his fingertips kept contact the whole time, so he ended up petting Jim’s hair and face as he pulled away.

An incessant tingling sensation buzzed across McCoy’s hand, and his heart beat hard in his chest. It almost made him dizzy.

An awkwardness was building up in his lungs as he continued to sit there, staring at his captain’s sleeping face in silence, the warmth of Jim’s skin embedded across Bones’s palms.

He knew he should get up.

Give the kid space, let him rest on his own, take a breather. Something. Something other than memorizing the way Jim’s face looked in sleep, the way his breaths sounded in the silence between them, the wonderful weight of his warm, heavy, living body practically draped across his own.

McCoy closed his eyes and thunked his head on the back of the couch. He groaned as quietly as he could manage.

No matter how guilty he would always feel for making Jim experience such horrible pains upon his resurrection, he wasn’t entirely sure he could fault himself for keeping Jim alive. 

He couldn’t imagine Jim gone. Didn’t dare to. 

There had never been any choice but to keep Jim alive.

Alive, warm, and breathing beside him.

As Jim opened his eyes, the sound of a thousand screams becoming abruptly silent reverberated in his ears. 

He’d had another nightmare. A bad one.

Cold sweat clung to his skin, his body stiff and filled with needles. 

Jim had been resurrected about two months prior. And even after all of that time, he still had yet to look up anything regarding the Khan incident. Or, the San Francisco Impact, as the news was calling it.

But whether he studied the facts or not, the incident was still living inside of him, continuing in his nightmares and carving its memory into the pain of his body. He hadn’t looked anything up yet. He didn’t know how much of his crew was dead.

He didn’t know how much of San Francisco was dead.

But the amount of blood on his hands was practically tangible. It was so unbearably selfish of him, but he had been afraid to know how many deaths he was responsible for. 

But he couldn’t run forever. He needed to own up to all of the death he had caused.

He needed to know how many people he had failed to save.

Because, if his nightmares were any indication, running away from what happened wasn’t an option. It was like the more time passed, the more intense and visceral his dreams became. Like the longer he took to face the facts, the more the flesh of the truth was going to press on his psyche, until it would be permanently imprinted on his eyeballs and mind.

It almost felt like the ghosts of everybody he had allowed to be killed were grabbing him, strangling him, begging him to just face them already. 

To look at what he had let happen.

He knew Bones didn’t want him to look anything up. Didn’t want him to know how bad all of it was when he was already so fragile.

But ignorance had never been a luxury that Jim could afford.

Heralded by the gentle creak of the door opening, warm light spilled over the bed before settling on the wall Jim had been staring at for the past few minutes. 

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Bones said, his voice carrying into the guest room like a balm. “It’s time to get up.”

That meant it was time for his morning dose.

Jim willed away the unease that fettered in his lungs at the thought, and carefully rolled over so he could face the doorway.

Bones had his medkit in one hand and a tray of food—and steaming mugs, good Lord—balanced on the other. There was a pinch between McCoy’s brows as the doctor clearly struggled to bring himself and all of his accoutrement into the room without spilling anything, and the sight tugged a small smile to Jim’s lips.  

“You could’ve made two trips, you know,” Jim said, unable to keep the fondness from coloring his tone.

McCoy huffed. “This was faster. Besides, at least this way you can sip on something while the medicine settles.”

Bones set the tray on the bedside table, somehow managing to keep all of the hot liquid within their cups, and placed his medkit beside the bed. Without needing to ask, McCoy stacked pillows behind Jim, to help get him upright and comfortable.

“How’d you sleep?” McCoy asked as he pulled a chair to the bedside, before he started getting his hypos put together. “This room isn’t too cold, is it?”

“Nah, it’s just fine,” Jim sighed. He took the stab of a hypo with a grimace, but he didn’t have the energy for much else. Most of his attention was on the heavy thudding of his own heart, as he tried to find the courage to voice his impending request.

Bones hadn’t been wanting him to look up the news. There was probably a very, very good reason for that. Jim feared that, maybe, the statistics of destruction and carnage were going to be so much worse than anything he had imagined.

And, fuck, had he been imagining it.

He knew the Vengeance plowed through the city. He knew people had been crushed in their workplaces, in their homes, ground into dust and bone and blood alongside their friends and loved ones, nothing left but ashes that floated through the city for days on end as their remains burned and burned in rubble that no one could reach—

His thoughts stuttered in his head as gentle fingers caressed through his hair.

Jim blinked at McCoy, who was glaring down at the tricorder in his lap. The doctor had one hand carding softly over Jim’s scalp, and the other getting Jim’s next hypospray ready.

“You okay, kid?” McCoy asked, using a term of endearment that Jim felt like he hadn’t heard in ages. “Your heart’s beating a mile a minute.” He glanced up, piercing Jim with his concerned gaze.

“I want to look up the San Francisco Impact,” Jim blurted out, all preamble escaping him. “I’m going to.”

An expression of pain flitted across Bones’s face, his mouth falling open just slightly as he sat up straighter. His hand disappeared from Jim's hair as he moved. “Jim, are you sure you—”

“Yes,” Jim interrupted, though he’d grown quieter. Not because he was unsure about his decision, but because he still felt some fear as to what he was going to learn. “I have to.”

Bones continued to eye Jim, his face twitching like it was torn between objecting and bursting into tears. Finally, he relented with a deep sigh. “All right. If you think it’s time. Just… take it slow, all right? It’s not… It’s not easy.”

McCoy wiped his hands on a dish rag, taking a little bit longer with the action than he really needed to. He just couldn’t keep his mind from wandering.

When Jim had asked to look up the info that morning, it had filled McCoy with a tingling, constant feeling of anxiety that he still couldn’t shake.

He was just… He was just so fucking worried about Jim.

The Khan Incident was horrible. It was so, so awful. 

The amount of people that had died—and the manner in which they had died—was nearly impossible to stomach. Especially with how recent it was, and…

Especially with the role their ship played in the disaster.

It wasn’t the Enterprise’s fault. That much was obvious. But… but the city’s destruction was directly tied to them and the choices they had made as a crew.

McCoy knew, of course, that he was in no way responsible for the casualties in San Francisco. But the guilt was still there.

He was sure that every member of the Enterprise felt it. They hadn't been able to completely stop The Vengeance before they reached Earth.

But no matter how horribly anyone else on the crew was affected, no matter how guilty, no matter how haunted they were…

None of it could compare to any sense of guilt or responsibility that McCoy knew Jim was going to shoulder. 

He was the captain of the Enterprise. It had been his decision to hunt down Khan. It had been his decisions that dictated how those days had played out, and it was Jim Kirk’s decisions that had saved countless lives.

But McCoy had known Jim long enough to know that his captain wasn’t going to focus on any of the good he had done. 

Jim had a tendency to get tunnel vision when it came to bad things, and would be so quick to only see the role he had played as a potential perpetrator rather than acknowledge his own status as a savior or victim.

It was as though Jim could not accept the fact that he was capable of good.

McCoy chewed on his nail and leaned against the kitchen counter. Dinner was already underway, the rice was cooking and the curry would be ready soon. 

Jim had been quiet all day. He’d just been looking at his PADD in silence, and every time McCoy caught a glimpse of his face, it was completely passive. He couldn’t glean Jim’s emotional state at all, but he had a feeling it wasn’t good.

He sighed low, rubbing his fingers against his eyes. 

It was probably rude of him to decide what Jim should or shouldn’t be doing, but Jim had been going over the facts all day. He needed a break. Nobody could live with that sort of misery forever, and McCoy simply wasn’t going to allow Jim to try.

He stepped away from the counter and stomped into the living room, and walked right over to Jim on the couch, whose back was turned to him. McCoy opened his mouth to let his captain know that reading time was done, but the words died in his mouth as soon as he got a good look at Jim.

Tears were streaming down Jim’s face. His expression hadn’t changed at all, he still looked statuesque and borderline bored, but there were tears dripping down his cheeks in slow trails.

Heartbreak seized McCoy’s chest instantaneously, and before he’d thought about it, he had closed the distance between them and was pressing his palm to Jim’s cheek.

Jim startled at the touch, and looked up at McCoy with wide, blinking eyes. 

“Jim, darlin’,” McCoy gasped, catching a stray tear with his thumb, “that’s enough readin’ for now, please stop torturing yourself.”

After a few more blinks, Jim seemed to come back to himself and brought a pale hand up to rub at his eyes. He must not have realized he was crying. “Shit,” Jim croaked, pulling back just slightly. 

McCoy let him go, his fingers instantly feeling cold from the absence of Jim.

“Sorry,” Jim sniffled. He set the PADD aside and McCoy picked it up, glancing at the screen. Jim had been reading an article about the families’ first hand accounts of their lost loved ones.

Fuck… 

“Don’t apologize,” McCoy muttered, setting the PADD on a side table, and refocusing on Jim. “It’s okay. I know it’s hard.”

Jim released a single wet laugh, though he continued to hide his eyes behind a hand. He didn’t reply though, and McCoy knew better than to expect him to.

McCoy placed a heavy hand on Jim’s back, half anticipating him to shrug it off. But when Jim didn’t do anything beyond taking deep breaths, McCoy figured he was allowed to start rubbing soothing circles between Jim’s shoulder blades.

He was still kind of leaning over the couch awkwardly, turned so that he could access Jim better, but he also didn’t feel like sitting and cuddling would be what Jim would want at the moment. The best he could offer to his recently-so-reclusive captain was comfort, but at a distance.

“I’m gonna get you something warm to drink, okay, Jim? Just take deep breaths.” He let his hand wander to the nape of Jim’s neck, and gave a brief squeeze before pulling away completely. “I’ll be right back.”

He was falling again.

Why was he always, always falling?

Sparks were flying around him, providing flashes of light in the otherwise pitch black that he was tumbling through. He was trying to grab hold of something, anything to stop his descent. Droplets of something wet were splashing across his exposed skin, leaving dark trails across what little of himself he could see.

There was a constant, whistling howl in his ears, similar to the sound of wind whizzing past but… something was wrong.

He wasn’t falling anymore. He was on his back, and the sparks were no longer flashing white, but there were red alarms blinking on and off all around him. 

And the howls still hadn’t stopped, they had instead grown louder, clearer, worse, and as they continued it became obvious that they were the howls of people falling. Crying, screaming, ghastly wails careening through his ears, the horror building up within himself mirroring the vocalizations surrounding him.

He twisted in place, trying to find the sources of the screams, and finally wound up on his stomach.

 At first he thought he was floating in midair, before he realized that he was laying atop a sheet of glass —the glass of the radiation chamber —and was staring down the bowels of his own ship as people fell around him, into the abyss.

They were all looking at him as they fell. Reaching for him. Not understanding why he couldn’t save them.

Why he got to live, and not them.

He pounded his weak, sluggish fists against the glass of the chamber door. He screamed, but no sound came from his burning throat. He couldn’t help them.

He couldn’t help them.

His back began to burn, the pain heavy and all encompassing, and he knew that it was the radiation pressing down onto him, pressing him harder into the glass.

He struggled against it, sobbing in his own silence, his body burning burning burning as his eyes remained fixed on the bodies that were starting to pile beneath him. He felt like his raw insides were being flayed from the inside out, like the seams of his body were unspooling, and there was nothing he could do but take it.

As always, he was nothing but helpless. Useless.

The bodies beneath him grew, until he was sure the number had exceeded the amount of his dead crew.

But, that made sense—

His crew weren’t the only people he had allowed to die.

As soon as that realization struck him, the darkness was abruptly pierced by the crumbling, roaring figure of a skyscraper as it was being crashed into, and flame filled the chamber that Jim was trapped in, all sound and feeling drowned out by the screaming of metal and people—

McCoy was sitting in his bed, going over a few reports from Starfleet Hospital by the light of his bedside lamp. Even though he was on leave, they still required his expertise on a near daily basis, although they usually just requested his professional consultation.

He’d always had a feeling that being one of the top doctors in their galaxy would be a busy job, but God, he hardly had the energy for it in recent days. So lately, he’d only been finding the time to work on medical reports at night, after Jim had gone to bed. 

Because, for fuck’s sake, he was going to devote his days to caring for his captain. He wanted to focus on Jim as much as he could. 

Kirk was his top priority. Probably always would be.

And Starfleet was just gonna have to accept that. What with his most recent stunt of resurrecting Jim, he had a feeling that they were getting a pretty clear idea on where he stood. Either he had Jim Kirk, or Starfleet didn’t get access to Doctor McCoy.

He sighed low, scratching his hair. With everything going on, he was probably going to have to actually voice that thought in the near future…

Fuck. Everything was so much.

He was glad that they weren’t in the city anymore, but he sincerely wished he could just get a break. Maybe when Jim was feeling a little better, they could take a trip or something. Maybe try to reenact that one summer in their academy days and rent a beach house for a weekend.

That had been such a nice little trip…

McCoy’s mind started to wander away from him, to warm evenings spent beside Jim, the sea air washing over them as they drank in comfort, back when they weren’t carrying the literal weight of the world on their shoulders.

What he wouldn’t give for the train wrecks of their lives to just slow down, just for a moment.

McCoy was in the middle of typing up a reply to one of the surgeons in San Francisco’s Hospital, when he heard a loud thump from down the hall.

From the direction of Jim’s room.

The image of Jim crying earlier that day flashed through McCoy’s head, and he was at the door to his room in an instant. He swung out into the hallway and all but ran the few feet to the guest bedroom, wrenching the door open as soon as the sound of dry sobs reached his ears. 

Jim was on the floor, blankets twisted around his legs from when he had apparently fallen out of the bed. He was on his hands and knees, his head hung and his shoulders shaking with every strained moan that squeezed from his throat.

“Jim!” Bones hurried to Jim’s side, and had barely managed to place a hand on Jim’s back before the kid started thrashing weakly, his fists coming up to swipe at McCoy while the rest of him cowered against the side of the bed. 

“Hey, hey, easy, Jim, easy!” 

With a bit of difficulty, McCoy grabbed a hold of Jim’s wrists. He maneuvered them carefully, mindful of the way Jim continued to buck weakly, until he managed to place his chest flush against Jim’s back while wrapping their entwined arms around Jim’s middle. It was a tight hug, basically a human straight jacket, and McCoy hoped that the combination of Jim’s arms and his own pressing the captain into McCoy’s chest would help him calm down. 

“Easy, Jimmy,” McCoy repeated, hooking his chin over Jim’s shoulder, and carefully pulling Jim more into his own lap than on the floor as he leaned against the side of the bed. “Just calm down, darlin’.”

Jim continued to gasp and heave against, and McCoy could feel Jim's ribs expanding against his own chest. Slowly, his dry, wheezing gasps bled into softer whimpers, and Jim let his head fall forward limply. 

McCoy’s heart thudded against Jim’s back, his lungs squeezing in pain, and McCoy rested his forehead to the back of Jim’s neck. “Just take deep breaths, all right? Try to match mine. Breathe with me, Jim.”

McCoy exaggerated the slow, even breaths he was taking, and only felt some of the tension start to leave his muscles once Jim began to make a noticeable effort to match his breaths to McCoy’s. That meant he was coming back to himself. He was waking from his nightmare.

“There you go, sweetheart,” McCoy sighed, before continuing the breathing cadence he had started.

He wove his fingers between Jim’s, to better secure his hold on his captain, and his heart fluttered uncomfortably when Jim squeezed his fingers around McCoy’s. Jim leaned heavier into him, allowing the back of his head to rest against the front of McCoy’s shoulder, and his breaths were occasionally interrupted by the hitch of a sob.

McCoy glanced at what little he could see of Jim’s face in the darkness, and the tears were a wholly unwelcome sight on his captain’s cheeks. Overcome with the need to provide comfort, McCoy pressed his lips to the side of Jim’s head and closed his eyes. “It’s okay,” he whispered, and slowly began to rock them back and forth. “It’s okay, honey. You can cry if you need to. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He had a feeling he knew what got Jim in such a state. Jim had bad luck when it came to dreams already, but if he’d spent the whole day looking at the San Francisco Impact… God.

It was such a heavy burden.

Too, too heavy.

McCoy held Jim as tightly against his own chest as was humanly possible, until he had difficulty differentiating his own breaths from Jim’s, until he was sure the beat of their pulses were one and the same. 

He couldn’t protect Jim from everything. He couldn’t take the weight of the world unto himself. He couldn’t spare Jim from near as much pain as he wished he could.

The very least he could do was hold him through it all. As Jim sobbed against him quietly in the darkness, the two of them sprawled on the floor, McCoy held Jim to his chest and whispered hushed words of comfort to him until the tears stopped flowing.

Chapter Text

For the third time in as many nights, Bones had once again found himself in Jim’s bed, cradling the young captain as he sobbed and shook.

Jim had been having non stop nightmares. The silence of the house would be torn apart by broken screams, well after the two of them had settled for the night, and Bones would run to Jim’s room to find him either trying to fight his way from sleep, or sitting stiffly in his sheets as tears carved paths down his cheeks.

Every night had followed the same formula, ever since Jim had finally read the incident reports.

As McCoy squeezed his arms around Jim’s middle, carefully rocking them back and forth as Jim cried into his shoulder, he regretted ever letting Jim read up on the San Francisco Impact.

No…

No, it wasn’t that he wished Jim hadn’t read up on the incident.

He just wished none of this had happened.

McCoy squeezed his eyes shut in dismay, hyper aware of the growing dampness on his shoulder, and combed his fingers through the hair at the back of Jim’s head. 

None of this should have happened. Their ship never should have been attacked the way it had, they never should’ve been forced to the neutral zone, they never should have met Khan, San Francisco never should have been touched, Pike shouldn’t have died, Jim shouldn’t have died.

McCoy’s fist tightened around the loose fabric of Jim’s shirt, and he tried to draw him closer than he already was. There was no space left between them. Jim was curled between McCoy’s legs, the two of them leaning up against the headboard, and the hold that they had on each other would have been suffocating if it were anyone else. If the situation was different.

If the physical pressure wasn’t the exact kind of reassurance that McCoy seemed to constantly need ever since the day their ship fell.

As close as they were, McCoy could feel every hitch of Jim’s breath, every sob he tried to smother, every quiver of his lungs. 

He wanted to soothe the hurt so badly. He wanted to heal Jim. He wanted to help him.

But Jim had begun to slip back into the silence, and would only give murmured responses whenever Bones tried to engage him. 

Because of how nonverbal Jim had been the past few days, McCoy hadn’t been trying to press him. He didn’t want to be—

He didn’t want to be rejected again. Not again, not like in San Francisco. He’d pushed Jim too hard before, he couldn’t bear the thought of Jim avoiding him —hating him —when it was just the two of them on the property. When there was nowhere either of them could run.

But, because of that desire to avoid a repeat of pain, McCoy hadn’t been trying to get Jim to open up, or let loose what was troubling him.

But this was the third night in a row that they had wound up in this position. Jim, crying himself weak, while McCoy felt like he was drowning under the suffocation of absolute helplessness.

Something had to change.

For God’s sake, the whole reason McCoy was with him was to try to help him heal.

If they couldn’t start tackling what was so clearly wrong, how could McCoy ever call himself a competent doctor ever again? Or a decent friend, for that matter?

Pressing his lips to the side of Jim’s head, McCoy gently rubbed a hand up and down Jim’s back, and waited to speak before he could feel Jim’s breaths starting to even out.

“I think we should head downstairs,” McCoy muttered, moving his hand to Jim’s shoulder blades, still petting with broad strokes in the hopes that it would help ground him. “I’m gonna whip us up something warm to drink, and then we need to talk, all right?”

Jim hiccuped a few more times, his face still buried in the tear-soaked fabric of McCoy’s shirt. With his voice audibly catching on a saliva bubble in his throat, Jim managed a strangled, “Ok.”

“Ok,” Bones returned. He swiped his hand through Jim’s hair again, ruffling softly, before starting to extract himself. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been sitting like that, exactly, but his knees ached as he straightened them back out. “Do you want your cane?”

Jim sniffled a few times, looking small and sullen and so horribly tired where he sat in the bed. He rubbed at his puffy eyes and grunted softly. “No, we can just… I’ll just lean on you.”

Something leaped strangely in McCoy’s chest. He figured it was probably relief. Lately he’d been anticipating Jim to pull away at every turn. Which was unfair of him, he supposed. If Jim ever wanted space, then he deserved to have it, and McCoy had no right to feel entitled to Jim’s company or hurt by the lack of it.

Still, it… it felt nice to have Jim choose him.

Without another word, McCoy held his hand out to Jim, and the ease with which their palms fit together made him feel soothed through and through.

Bones handed Jim his cup of tea as he sat on the couch across from him. If he were being honest, he’d been getting used to always being plastered to Jim’s side, but… He felt like it’d be easier to talk if they could look at each other. Plus, he didn’t want to make Jim feel smothered or anything.

As far as Bones was concerned, being vulnerable always made him claustrophobic and less inclined to speak up, so he had a feeling that Jim was much the same. After all, it wasn’t their differences that made them quite so close to each other.

McCoy sighed long and low, and wrapped his hands around his own mug of tea. “Jim,” he muttered, bringing his eyes up to his captain’s. “Do you wanna talk about your dreams? Or do you wanna tell me what’s been on your mind lately?”

Jim exhaled with enough force to puff out his cheeks. He scratched at his brow and grimaced, his eyes still red from his crying session only minutes before. “Don’t you have anything easier to start off with?”

With a snort, McCoy shrugged. “Wish I did, but nothing’s been easy lately.”

A small groan rumbled from Jim and he leaned his head against the back of the couch. “Tell me about it,” he croaked. He sighed softly through his nose, blinking at the ceiling. He looked so pale. With a sharp inhale he parted his lips, but he didn’t say anything for a few long seconds. Just continued to stare at the rafters. “I keep thinking about… About the deaths.”

McCoy figured as much. 

Shit, when it came to the Impact, the death was the first thing that came to mind. There was just so much of it.

“I keep thinking about the last moments of the civilians. The ones who were going about their business one second, and then within a blink, it was lights out forever.” Jim swallowed roughly, his eyes never straying from right above McCoy’s head. “Or worse yet, the ones who had a few seconds warning. The ones who saw what was about to happen to them. The ones who-- who had a moment to feel horror, and sadness, and fear. ” His lip wobbled on the last word, and as his expression tightened, he added, “Everyone who got caught under the Vengeance was ground into dust, their skin and flesh shoved into their splitting bones in an instant , their bodies burning with the citywide explosions, until what little was left of them turned into a blanket of ash that would fallen on anyone left in the city who had once known them--”

“Jim,” McCoy interrupted, his throat squeezing.

Jesus.

He… He hadn’t even dared think some of those things. He hadn’t considered the details. 

There was the innate knowledge that what had happened was bad, but his brain wasn’t the type to dissect what made it bad.

Clearly, Jim’s was.

The young captain swallowed again, his expression having smoothed out after the interruption. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling. “The survivors have been inhaling the victims’ ash.”

Christ.

Despite himself, McCoy sighed and brought his hands to his face. He rubbed at the exhaustion settling in his skin, set his elbows on his knees, and just held his head for a moment. “These are the things you’ve been thinking about?”

“Mm.” 

From behind his fingers, McCoy could see Jim’s hands. He was squeezing his left hand. The sight triggered a small memory for McCoy, of all the times he’d seen Jim squeezing his left hand when it had been broken right after the Narada Incident.

He hadn’t realized Jim still did that.

Was it going to be a lifelong, stress-induced tic?

Was Jim even aware that he was still chasing that physical pain that the action used to bring him?

“I don’t know who had it worse,” Jim whispered. “The people of San Francisco, or our crew.”

McCoy’s heart thunked against his chest, the clench of muscle shooting crystals of ice through his whole body. He’d been trying not to think about their crewmates, the gutting of the Enterprise. Nothing but pain lied in that direction.

McCoy blinked against his hands, before bringing his eyes back to Jim.

There was nothing but pain in these thoughts, and that was where Jim had been sitting for days.  

No wonder he was having nightmares every night, bad enough to make him scream.

Jim’s brows furrowed, and his reddened eyes seemed to grow glassy. “I watched some of them fall, you know. I’m sure you had a bunch of people die on you in the medbay during that, but I was watching the people that were being killed by the ship. ” He closed his eyes. “The Enterprise was supposed to be safe for them. Home. But instead her crew was splattered against her walls, burned in her own bays. Sucked into the stars.” 

Jim’s next inhale shook, and the sound seemed to shake all the stability from McCoy’s bones. It broke his fucking heart.

“If I hadn’t--”

“Stop.” McCoy’s voice clung to his esophagus, and he swallowed to clear the way some. He squeezed his hands in his lap, staring hard at his captain across from him. “Jim, look at me.”

With a pained frown, Jim finally brought his gaze forward. Moisture was building in the corners of his eyes.

“Whatever you’re about to say,” McCoy muttered, “just nix it right now. You are not responsible for anything that happened because of Khan’s and Marcus’s decisions. Those deaths are not on your hands. Do you understand?”

Jim’s eyelids fluttered, just before he averted his gaze. His expression had grown a little more slack, a little more distant. “I’m the captain, Bones. I’m the only one responsible.”

“No, you’re not. It’s not your fault.” McCoy’s heart beat frantically in his chest, as he watched Jim’s continued lack of response. “It’s not your fault.” The young captain was hidden behind a sudden wall of tears that assaulted McCoy’s own eyes. He needed Jim to understand. “It’s not your fault.” 

A breathless snort came from Jim, and as he began to blink and look around himself, small droplets rolled down Jim’s cheeks. “Why do you sound so sure?”

“Because I am sure.” 

Jim didn’t look at him, he just continued to stare off to the side. His jaw worked slowly as he clearly tried to bite back more tears. The sight was killing Bones.

“You are not responsible for their deaths, Jim. What happened was horrible and it’s going to haunt us for the rest of our lives. The burden of knowledge is going to be heavy enough, you must not bear the weight of their deaths as well.” McCoy got to his feet as tears spilled down his own face. He carefully maneuvered his way to Jim’s seat, and sat slow enough to give Jim the option to move away from him, or show some other sign that McCoy’s proximity wasn’t welcome.

But Jim didn’t move, and neither did he recoil when Bones took his hand in his.

“Jim,” McCoy forced out, as images of his own destroyed sickbay flashed through his head, “this tragedy is not our fault. None of us are the cause of it. No matter what part we played in the events that unfolded, none of us are responsible for it happening.”

Jim was no longer frowning. He was blinking sluggishly at the rug as his hand shook almost imperceptibly in McCoy’s grip. The tears continued to flow down his face.

“You didn’t kill them, Jim.”

A silent hiccup visibly punched Jim in the chest.

As his chest squeezed in hot, horrible heartache, McCoy wrapped his other hand over their joined fingers. “You didn’t kill them. You were never supposed to be responsible for the people of San Francisco. It’s not your fault that the San Francisco Impact happened, and it’s not your fault that Khan killed so many members of our crew. It’s not possible to keep everybody alive. I wish it was.”

Jim’s eyes had closed. His lip shook as much as his hand, and he made no move to stem the flow of tears.

McCoy studied his face with fluctuating visibility, as the tears in his own eyes kept coming and going in oscillating walls of moisture. “It’s not your fault.”

An awfully quiet whimper was the herald of Jim’s breakdown. Silent sobs tore out of him, shaking his shoulders, and Jim used his free hand to cover his face. 

A sense of gratitude for having moved closer swept through McCoy, before he pulled Jim into his chest. 

Jim clung to him like a drowning man drawn from water. He buried his face into McCoy’s shoulder, his breaths high and keening, and McCoy squeezed his eyes shut against his own slew of crying. 

It was all so unfair. It was all so hard.

They held each other for a long number of minutes. They’d been winding up in similar positions so often as of late, a distant part of McCoy was starting to wonder if his hands were molding to Jim’s body. If his palms were remembering the shape of his ribs. 

Jim sniffled noisily, raising his face from McCoy’s shirt. “Bones,” he croaked.

Bones was a little surprised that Jim was the first to break the silence, but it was wholly welcome. His voice was always like a balm to Bones’s constant inner torment.

“Bones,” Jim repeated, a little quieter. “I’m sorry I’ve been so short with you lately. Especially in San Francisco.” Jim’s hands tightened on the places of McCoy’s body they were pressed against. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m sorry for how I treated you. Bones, you didn’t deserve that.”

Jim’s apology made McCoy feel like he was going to melt into a puddle of tears. He struggled to pull in a few thin breaths, as impending heavy sobs threatened his lungs. 

He hadn’t been expecting an apology. Hadn’t been blaming Jim for his behavior. But to receive one made him feel off balance, like he’d been struck, like he could fall apart in Jim’s arms right there.

McCoy sniffled a few times in a desperate attempt to clear himself for a response. He felt thin, and he couldn’t seem to stop the litany of small sobs that punched his chest. He hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed recognition from Jim. 

How much he’d needed an apology.

“I…” Bones choked on his words for a moment. He blinked frantically at the ceiling, and the streams of tears felt endless. He carded his fingers through the hairs at the back of Jim’s head as he struggled to regain control of his voice. “It’s all right. I didn’t blame you.” McCoy lowered his head to Jim’s shoulder. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been going through. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have to come back to life.” His hold on Jim tightened, as he feebly attempted to ground himself. “I was selfish. I only thought of myself when I brought you back. I’m sorry I was selfish.”

Jim drew in a few deep breaths, the sensation of his lungs expanding against McCoy’s chest both a blessing and a reminder. “I don’t feel like I deserved it, Bones,” he whispered. The fragility of his voice and his words clawed through McCoy’s heart. “I don’t feel like I deserved to live. Not when so many others have died.”

Bones pulled back, bracing his hands on Jim’s upper arms. He met Jim’s tear stained gaze with his own, their faces equally blotchy and flushed. “Don’t say that, Jim. It’s not true. You do deserve a second chance. Of course you do.”

Jim sucked in a gasp, the muscles in his neck visibly working to choke back sobs. Blessedly, Jim didn’t turn away, and neither did he pull back. He continued to meet Bones’s gaze, before he shook his head slowly. He released a wet chuckle, and brought his hands up to hold Bones’s forearms, though he didn’t dislodge the grip Bones still had on him. “When I died…”

Bones’s heart nearly stopped pumping.

He would never, ever get used to the fact that Jim had died. No matter how many times it was brought up, no matter how many years would pass, he would always struggle to accept that such a thing had happened.

“When I was coming back to life,” Jim said, a little stronger, “I heard Pike’s voice again. He was repeating something he had said to me the night he’d died. He had said…” Slowly, Jim drew in a breath. “‘If anyone deserves a second chance, it’s Jim Kirk.’”

McCoy had a moment to flounder at the fact that he had inadvertently quoted something Chris had said. As soon as that thought processed, it was followed by a wave of anguish. 

Jim’s lip began to wobble and the kid bit down on it. “I think he really believed that.” His voice had dropped to a whisper as he admitted that thought, and almost immediately, his face contorted into one of pure sorrow. Jim clenched his eyes shut, and he openly sobbed, leaning forward until McCoy was able to once again draw him to his chest.

As McCoy wrapped his arms around Jim, it occurred to him that this time… This time, Jim had really lost his dad.

The only dad he’d ever known, and he had lost him. 

McCoy pressed his lips to the side of Jim’s head, just above his reddened ear. “He was right, Jim,” he said, caressing a hand over Jim’s back. “You deserve every chance you get. I promise.”

Chapter Text

Their talk the other night had been a good thing. 

Bones decided that it had definitely, definitely been good for them. 

Jim was no longer screaming himself hoarse every night, and Bones had a feeling that even the nightmares had lessened some. Or at the very least, they weren’t as severe as they had been before. Jim didn’t look nearly as exhausted ever since their talk. And, yeah, the man was good at burying his troubles, but he hadn’t been so good about it since getting resurrected.

Not that McCoy was complaining about Jim’s heart being on his sleeve. He appreciated being able to actually gauge how Jim was faring. Unfortunately, in recent months he’d only been faring badly.

But in addition to the nights calming down, their own interactions had become more relaxed. The most relaxed they had been ever since Jim died.

A few mourning doves cooed quietly outside, their humming trills soothing in the early morning air. Bones watched the dawn’s rays filter through the mist over the lawn, sparkling in orange hues that reminded him of city lights at night.

He’d had the long-standing routine of getting up at around 7 am on the weekdays, one he’d developed when he’d been a student at Ole Miss. Even though he wasn’t technically on duty, he was still getting up at his usual time. Punctuality was a habit he could never quite break. It had its benefits, in his opinion, in that it had made sure he never missed a class or shift.

And he did like having the early morning largely to himself. 

He especially liked the smell of fresh coffee or tea brewing.

Bones leaned against the kitchen counter, sighing low while the coffee maker bubbled quietly beside him. God, he’d really missed real coffee. Enterprise never could perfectly replicate the taste of rich, freshly ground coffee beans, so he usually tended to completely forgo the warm drink in lieu of tea while he was in space. 

But they’d been on Earth for about three months already, and in that time, one of the only good things going on was coffee in the morning.

As it brewed, he supposed he ought to figure out what to make for breakfast. Jim hadn’t been a morning person lately, which was fine. The young captain needed all of the rest he could get. McCoy couldn’t begrudge him sleeping in or turning in early, as he knew no one could better track Jim’s limits than Jim himself.

But since Jim hadn’t been getting up in time to have breakfast with McCoy, the doctor had been either cooking two different meals or prepping something that could keep until Jim got to it.

McCoy twirled the ring on his pinky finger idly, running breakfast options through his head, when the soft thumping sound of slow feet on stairs reached his ears.

He stood from the counter instantly, and took quick strides to the doorway. He braced himself on the wall while he peered at the stairs that ran adjacent to the wall of the kitchen, blinking up at Jim in surprise. 

“You’re up early,” he commented, noting the tentative blossom of hope unfurling in his chest. Any sign of Jim’s health improving was like a legitimate blessing. “Feeling okay?”

Jim was still pretty much at the top of the stairs, one hand braced on the railing, the other gripping his cane, and he was only taking one step at a time.

Stepping down with one foot, bringing the other one alongside the first, pausing to breathe, repeating the process.

Jim blew out a gust of air, nodding at Bones. “Yeah, I’m all right. Didn’t feel like sleeping anymore.”

McCoy watched Jim’s slow and steady descent, and did his best to quell the urge to help Jim down. Jim needed all of the exercise he could get, and the stairs were a pretty good method for his body to recalibrate balance and gravity and muscle exertion. “Need any help?” McCoy asked anyway.

He really wasn’t trying to coddle Jim or anything, but he just… He just still felt a little overprotective.

A tiny smile teased the corner of Jim’s mouth, a contrast to the furrow of his brows. “Nah. But that coffee smells good.” Jim met Bones’s gaze, and McCoy hadn’t realized how long it’d been since he last looked directly into those bright blue eyes devoid of tears until his heart jumped like a firecracker in his chest. “Can you pour me a mug?”

“‘Course,” he huffed, self conscious of the breathless quality to his own voice. What was his deal? It was just Jim’s eyes, he’d looked into them plenty of times before. “I think it’s just about done brewing.”

Jim hummed appreciatively in his throat, now only three steps from the bottom floor.

Now that he was within arm’s reach, McCoy couldn’t help but hold a hand out to his captain. 

Jim glanced at him, his expression open with mild surprise, before he released the railing and accepted McCoy’s offered hand.

His palm was delightfully warm in McCoy’s own, his calluses so underused that they had faded away to much softer skin. With the abrupt change in balance, McCoy anticipated that Jim might become unsteady and took a step up the stairs to brace his free hand on Jim’s waist. Jim’s other fist, still clutching his cane, came up to rest on McCoy’s shoulder, and the position almost made it seem as though they were about to start dancing.

McCoy huffed in amusement at the thought, smiling carefully up at Jim as he helped him the rest of the way down.

A pretty shade of pink was dusting Jim’s cheeks, different from the flush of exhaustion that McCoy had gotten used to seeing on him. Jim gave him a playful, but still hesitant smirk, before stepping back carefully. “Thanks for the assistance, Prince Charming,” Jim snorted. “Always so quick with the rescue.”

Ignoring the twinkling sensation in his chest, McCoy tilted his head at Jim. “Learned from the best,” he teased, squeezing Jim’s waist gently before removing his hands entirely. “Now, do you want cream or sugar?”

McCoy was watching Jim with a pleased smile, but he was trying not to be too obvious about it. He’d made them salmon, rice, and asparagus for dinner, and Jim had almost entirely cleared his plate.

Bones couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Jim with such a healthy appetite. Well before his death, he was pretty sure. It had been literal months since Jim had last eaten a full meal, as far as Bones was aware.

This was good.

If Jim was getting his already meager appetite back, this was a good sign.

He was hiding his mouth behind his hand as he listened to Jim go on and on about some of the dissertations he’d read back when they were still cadets. He was only half listening, since he was too busy trying not to grin like an idiot. Didn’t wanna make Jim self conscious.

“So I made it a habit to read all of the journals that the commanders had published after reading Nolan’s thesis on the justification of xenophobia, which was a bullshit essay, by the way.” Jim was resting his face in his hand while he talked, gesturing with his fork for occasional emphasis. Nevermind the bite of salmon that was speared on the tines. “Every semester after figuring out who my professors were gonna be, I read their writing ahead of time so I could figure out whether or not they were actually qualified to teach me. I’ll give you a hint, most of them weren’t.”

Oh, Jim. Always so condescending of his superiors.

“Why didn’t you just become a teacher yourself then, if you knew so much more than everyone else?” McCoy asked, smiling as Jim finally ate his salmon. “Smart ass.”

Jim raised his brows in apparent agreement, the crease to his eyes denoting his mirth. “Not only is my ass smarter than theirs, but better looking, too.” Jim shook his head, scooping the last of his rice up. “No, I couldn’t teach at the academy. I’ve always known my destiny was to gift the rest of the galaxy with my genius.”

“Always known, huh?” McCoy knew he was grinning like an idiot. He hadn’t heard Jim speak so casually in such a long time. Not since the early summer, long before their rendezvous with death and disaster. Considering the fact that they were already in autumn, he was so relieved to hear Jim talking like this. 

It was a minor step in the grand scheme of things, but the healing process for Jim had had such a slow start that every piece of the old Jim Kirk that returned felt like a gift from the heavens.

McCoy just wanted to scoop Jim up in a bear hug and swing him around, plant kisses all over his cheeks--

With a startled cough, McCoy strangled that thought out of existence. Jesus, what was wrong with him? Maybe he’d had too much coffee that morning. Having Jim talking to him was no reason to get that excited.

McCoy hastened to his feet, grabbing his own empty plate. “I think I’ll grab some seconds,” he muttered. “You want any more?”

Jim paused, glancing between Bones and the table. “Uh… sure. Some more asparagus?”

McCoy took Jim’s plate and actively bit down the urge to whoop and holler like he’d just won the Kentucky derby. Jim was asking for seconds! He could probably count on one hand the amount of times he’d ever heard Jim ask for seconds. 

Instead of doing something as damning as commenting on it, McCoy just scooped some more food onto their plates, and just about returned to the table with a goddamn skip in his step. 

Jim was laying on the couch for what felt like the millionth time since he’d died. His breaths were slow in his lungs as he stared up at the ceiling, counting the holographic stars he was projecting into the room. It was a starmap of their galaxy, and though he’d seen it plenty of times before, there was an aching in his chest that seemed heavier the longer he stayed planetside.

Shit, his chest was constantly aching in one way or another. Sometimes he wondered if it would ever stop hurting.

Flashes of Khan’s and Marcus’s victims shot through Jim’s head in an instantaneous reel of faces and smiles and tears and bodies. Jim’s heart clenched painfully. 

Right. He didn’t deserve for the pain to end.

Not this time. Not ever.

His own suffering had to continue for the sole fact that theirs no longer could. If he ever stopped hurting, it would be a disservice to their memory and all that had been lost. Someone needed to remember the pain. Always. 

And it was only right for Jim to shoulder the burden of what little he could. 

The holographic stars twinkled faintly across the ceiling, as they floated over the wooden boards like petals atop a stream. Jim gulped, and the ache in his chest increased momentarily. 

Although he would never, ever forget the devastation that he’d had a hand in wreaking, he could feel that he was already walling it away. Just like Tarsus.

No matter how much he deserved to be burdened by the overwhelming grief of the San Francisco Impact, the stars above him were a constant reminder that he couldn’t afford to succumb to his emotions. 

He needed to remain strong despite whatever was going on inside of him. Too many people relied on him, the luxury of emotional turmoil was not an option. He had to wall it away. 

The Enterprise and her crew needed him, and so he needed to get himself back in working order. He’d been away from active duty for nearly three months already. It was September, and the Impact had happened in June.

Shutting his eyes for a moment, Jim sighed, and let the imprinting memory of the holographic stars float over his closed eyelids.

He could picture in his mind a young version of himself, similar to how he looked after Tarsus, adding brick after brick to his mental walls. 

The young bricklayer looked tired. Beaten. 

Drying, glistening blood coated his fingers, and the face was wet with tears and sweat.

Jim was momentarily amused by how his own internal self looked. Well, amused wasn’t quite the right word. It was more like… If he didn’t laugh, then he would cry. And he’d already cried more than enough in his short lifetime.

How pitiful, how sad, that his years had played out so miserably.

He knew he was abnormal, extraordinary, and incapable of having a regular life, but did it have to be so fraught with agony?

Jim wasn’t even trying to be self-pitying, but he was smart enough to acknowledge that he’d gone through more shit than any one person would normally have to.

Brick after brick was being laid. The wall was growing, far out of sight, deep into the darkness. Death was right behind him, practically embracing, always there.

Always there.

“What’s this?”

Jim blinked his eyes open, and his gaze wandered over to Bones, who was standing at the foot of the couch and watching the stars with a notably peaceful expression.

“Are these real solar systems?” Bones added on to his previous question, wiping his hands idly on a dish rag he’d brought from the kitchen.

Jim realized how good dinner was smelling. Bones had been cooking away for a while, which was why Jim had been occupying himself on the couch with the starmap. Roast beef stew, Bones had said. 

The ache in Jim’s chest was momentarily soothed. “Mm-hmm,” Jim hummed. “It’s our galaxy.”

Bones set his rag on a side table, still watching the stars flowing through the room at a relaxed pace. “It’s nice.” With a few blinks, Bones brought his gaze from the stars to Jim’s face. 

Once they made eye contact, Jim’s heart squeezed strangely, and his fingers twitched around the small metallic orb that was projecting the starmap into the room.

“How are you feeling?” Bones asked, his heavy voice as comforting as a warm blanket. The doctor stepped forward and grazed his fingers over Jim’s forehead, and Jim’s heart clenched again.

Some inexplicable part of him yearned to reach up his arms, to open himself up for an embrace from his doctor, to be held close and comforted, for the brick worker in his mind to be able to rest for a moment.

What a stupid urge. It was just Bones.

Jim’s voice caught in his throat, and Bones removed his fingers. 

“I’m okay,” Jim muttered, ignoring the desire for McCoy’s hand to return.

God. Why was he feeling so fucking needy lately?

Sometimes he almost wished he would fall down the stairs, or hurt himself in some other way, just so he could be cradled by McCoy, doted on, held and comforted and loved--

Jim’s whole body jolted in shock at that thought, and Bones blinked at him in concerned surprise.

Grunting, Jim furrowed his brows and said, “Sorry, I’m-- I guess I’m a little cold.”

“Yeah?” McCoy’s visible concern didn’t disappear entirely, but he rubbed his large, wonderful hand over Jim’s shoulder. “I’ll fix that right up for you, all right?”

While the doctor went to the fireplace and started getting a fire going, Jim’s heart pumped mercilessly in his chest, practically shaking his entire nervous system with every beat. His eyes roamed over McCoy’s crouched form, a distant acknowledgment of his friend’s attractiveness brewing at the back of his mind, while disbelief and horror clouded at the front.

What the fuck was Jim’s issue?

With a silent grumble building in his chest, Jim closed his eyes again and turned off the starmap. He was probably feeling extra sensitive about Bones because he was the only person he'd been interacting with lately. That had to be it.

As he remembered how long it had been since he'd seen anyone else, the starmap felt heavier in his palm. It had been a gift to him from Chekhov. 

He missed his bridge crew. He missed the entirety of his crew, of course, but his senior officers admittedly held a special place in his heart.

But as much as he missed them, he didn’t feel like he could bear to see them any time soon. Even reaching out to them sounded like an impossible task. 

There was just… Every time Jim thought of his crew, especially his senior officers, there was a fist of guilt as heavy as a lead weight that wedged itself between his organs. He knew that his death had stressed out his crew, and he knew that they missed him, but…

But he hadn’t actually seen any of them since before he had died.

And now there was some irrational part of him that was afraid they’d see something different in Jim, see the haze of darkness that clung to his whole body, see Khan’s blood pulsing through his skin, see all of the deaths that Jim was responsible for floating above him like a halo.

He was monstrous, and he knew it, and he hated it.

Jim couldn’t bear for them to see him. He’d never had many people that he both liked and respected, and never before had the pressure of shame seemed so tangible. 

No, he… he definitely wasn’t ready to interact with his bridge crew yet. He knew he was going to have to get over himself soon if he ever wanted to be a captain again, but...

It was a miracle that he allowed Bones and Spock near him as it was. Rather, what was miraculous was the fact that despite everything, he wanted them near.

A soft crackling sound started to float through the room, accompanied soon after by the pleasant smell of firewood. It seemed Bones had got the fire going. The sounds of the doctor’s shuffling went from the fireplace to elsewhere in the room, like he was still messing with stuff.

Jim sighed through his nose and rolled the starmap between his hands, still keeping his eyes shut.

He hoped he’d be able to put his mask of captaincy back on before the Enterprise was fixed. He needed to get better. Fuck. He just wished he could get his body to move the way it was supposed to. He wondered how long it was going to take for him to reclaim full mobility.

Jim was shaken from his thoughts when ancient sounding music blasted through the room. Just as quickly, it decreased in volume, and Jim craned his neck to look over at Bones in confusion.

The doctor was standing at a speaker system against the wall, and it was playing romantic sounding jazz at a comfortable volume, with the occasional crackle in the audio denoting its age as a recording that was a few centuries old.

Bones glanced at him over his shoulder sheepishly. “Sorry, that was louder than I was expecting it to be.” 

A huff of amusement escaped Jim’s lips. “What are you doing?”

Bones kept fiddling with something for a moment more, before he turned towards Jim and began to approach with a purposeful stride. There was an expression of determination on his face, jaw set and eyes heady, and the fierceness of the look made something flip and thunk strangely in Jim’s chest.

The doctor came to a stop beside where Jim was laying on the couch, staring down at him with that honed gaze, before he held out a hand. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, “about alternative ways to help with your physical therapy.”

Jim watched him in confusion, as soft jazz mixed with the smell of firewood in the air, before he took the offered hand.

Bones wrapped his warm, broad fingers around Jim’s, and carefully pulled him upright. 

Jim did his best to help him, but his coordination and strength was still practically nonexistent, and so Bones ended up taking most of his weight. As usual. He drew Jim up from the couch, his hands pressed tight against Jim’s back and waist, keeping the two of them practically chest to chest while Jim got to his feet.

After his legs had straightened out, Jim was expecting Bones to let go and put distance between them, but instead he kept his palms flush against Jim’s flank. 

Jim’s heart thudded heavily and insistently against his ribs. With Bones pressed so close against him, some distant part of his brain realized how long it had been since he’d last had sex. An uncomfortable heat rushed down his torso, and Jim swallowed, bitterly ignoring the warmth blooming across his cheeks.

He tried to pull back, but Bones just so slightly increased his grip on Jim’s waist.

“Hold on there,” the doctor drawled, almost as though he were reining in some sort of horse. “I got you upright for a reason, Jim.” He huffed quietly, cool air blowing as soft as a kiss against Jim’s face, before he pouted just slightly. “As I’d been saying, I’d been thinking about ways to help your mobility.”

Here, he averted his eyes to the side; his expression almost sheepish, if not for the hard set of his jaw. 

The heat hadn’t abated any within Jim, and he barely tamped down a nervous giggle, as enamored amusement slowly pooled in his stomach. He refrained from squeezing his fingers on the cloth covering Bones’s shoulder, and instead just savored the warmth seeping through where his hands rested. “What, are you gonna start spinning me around or something?”

Bones laughed, barely, and cocked a brow up. “That’s not too far from what I had in mind.”

The romantic music drifting through the room suddenly became so much more tangible, and with a confused smirk pulling at this mouth, Jim tilted his head in question.

Bones rolled his eyes, just barely, and nodded as though in acquiescence. “Dancing with someone can help with balance and coordination, and if I’m holding onto ya the whole time, there’s no worry about you falling over.”

The amusement transformed into inexplicable giddiness, and Jim couldn’t stop his smirk from changing into a downright smitten grin if he’d tried. “Bones, what--”

Before he could question the doctor further, McCoy took a step back and carefully pulled Jim with him, gliding his hand into Jim's with a smooth motion, and settling the two of them into slow steps in time with the music. “You know how to waltz, don’t you?”

This time Jim did giggle, as bubbles of undeserved happiness fizzled through his lungs. He rested his forehead on McCoy’s shoulder, too embarrassed to keep dancing with him while looking into his eyes. 

God, it’d been so long since he’d really been close to someone. Not counting his sob sessions with Bones. He figured that was why he was feeling jittery and fluttery, hot and tight, and hyper aware of how Bones’s hand felt on his waist.

Bones used his other hand to squeeze Jim’s, as he led them steadily through the small space between the fireplace and couches. 

“Why am I in the girl position?” Jim ground out, his grin still refusing to calm.

Bones rested his cheek in Jim’s hair, inhaling deep enough that his pecs lifted into Jim’s chest. “Because until you’re healed enough to keep your feet under you, I’ll lead.” Almost as if to further his point, Bones tightened the grip he had on Jim’s waist, drawing his broad fingers closer to the small of Jim’s back.

Something jerked in Jim’s chest, reacting to the doctor’s touch unlike ever before, and he tried to swallow it back. The giddiness was still twisting his features, and his brows were drawn tight as he struggled not to keep giggling into McCoy’s shoulder. 

“Bones, this is kind of ridiculous,” Jim chuckled. Despite his words, he let the doctor guide him through the slow waltz, and felt no inclination to lessen any of the contact between them. Shit, he had to practically refrain from leaning into it further.

“Suits you just fine, then,” Bones muttered, audibly smiling. “You’re just about the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Jim turned his head to bury his closed eyes further against Bones’s shoulder. “Mr. Deathly-Afraid-of-Space-and-Flying-in-Ships-but-Lives-On-a-Spaceship.”

Bones didn’t respond right away, just waltzed them a bit closer to the warmth of the fire. “You wouldn’t believe how long it takes me to sign off on any reports requiring a signature.”

Jim barked a laugh. “Yeah, I know. I’ve had to forge your signature plenty of times.”

Bones started chuckling softly, nearly burying his nose in Jim’s short hair. His thumb caressed the edge of Jim’s hand while he continued to lead them, and he replied in a low rumble. “You’re such a little shit.”

Jim smiled, hot all through his blood, pleasantly so. Licks of excitement continued to nip at his veins like sparks, and the sensation was so vastly different from the misery that had been cloying at him for the past few months that he tried to savor it while he could.

It almost seemed like as long as his CMO held him, the feeling would be difficult to lose.

Chapter Text

Guilt was gnawing at Jim’s gut constantly. Had been for months. He was starting to wonder if the feeling would ever go away, or if it was part of the cost for coming back to life when he didn’t deserve it.

He chewed on his nail while he watched sparrows flit between the trees in the front yard. He was sitting on the porch, a cup of tea beside him, and he was just trying to focus on breathing fresh air.

Every now and then the sense memory of smoke would fill his lungs. Other times he was smelling fried electrical wires, melting metal, burning bodies.

Sometimes he could smell his own body cooking in the radiation. Nothing else smelled like it.

He wished he could forget it.

The steam was drifting from his mug lazily, calmly, its movements so unlike the way the smoke rose into the sky on the day he fell. He’d been watching videos of the San Francisco Impact. Some news reels, some personal recordings. There was an abundance of material to find. And with his status as the Flagship Captain, he had access to even more material.

The guilt and shame that flowed alongside his blood had been making it difficult to actually address any of his Starfleet duties. He’d hardly accessed his account. So far the only thing he had done as an officer was find more information—none of it easy to stomach.

But he felt like he had to.

Distantly he considered the possibility that he was just punishing himself. Even if that were true, he didn’t necessarily think he was in the wrong to treat himself a little harshly. He deserved much worse than everything he had so far been allowed.

Jim was safe, and warm, and fed, and kept in caring company. His surroundings were clean and healthy.

He could feel the sunlight. He could listen to birds. Wind combed through his hair and caressed his face, and all he could think was that he didn’t deserve it.

Sometimes he was afraid to look at his hands. Just in case the blood he could feel on them was actually visible.

Jim sighed low, and reached for his tea without looking. His fingers instead grazed the edge of the PADD that he brought out with him.

He glanced at it, his throat tightening. 

He hadn’t looked at any of his messages. It had been three months since he’d died. Three months worth of messages.

He knew the most important Starfleet matters were being dealt with by Spock and his other core officers, so he doubted that anything particularly pressing was actually waiting for him.

But there was a gravitational pull to his PADD, judging and disappointed, heavy with the amount of issues he was just ignoring. 

Did he have any personal messages waiting for him? From his friends? From Spock?

From his mom?

That thought nearly made him sick, and he took a quick swig of his briefly abandoned tea to rid his mouth of sour saliva. 

His fingers trembled slightly around the ceramic of his mug, and he scowled at the birds twittering about, his heart hammering into his chest. It made him feel tight.

For being so hellbent on continually punishing himself, he sure was being a goddamn coward about addressing his inbox. Fuck it. What better way to punish himself than to look at all of the things he’d been leaving unanswered?

Setting his tea down, Jim replaced it with his neglected PADD, and accessed his inbox. 

He was met with a glaring 312 messages.

An instantaneous headache began to press at his temples, but he drew in a slow inhale, closed his eyes to steel himself, and set to scrolling. 

Most of the messages, as he’d expected, were from various Starfleet officers. Some were purely business oriented, others subtly scathing or accusatory in one way or another, but most of all seemed to be messages of gratitude.

Nausea rolled in a hot wave up his entire chest, the words “thank you” battering against his eyes in an unwelcome flurry, like hands reaching out of a fog as if to touch him. He nearly threw his PADD across the porch, but he instead opted to just shut it off.

The tremble in his fingers intensified. Worse than it had been in days.

He kept swallowing in a desperate attempt to force away the heavy weight of nausea, as misery squeezed his heart with every pump of blood. 

How could anybody thank him?

What had he done?

Jim hadn’t done enough. He hadn’t saved enough. He wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t smart enough. 

How could anybody stomach the thought of thanking him?

He was such a coward. Any acknowledgment of the part he played in the San Francisco impact made him feel like tucking tail and running. He didn’t want to face it. He didn’t want to be tied to it at all.

But the Enterprise’s fall was on his shoulders. He was the one that chased after Khan. He was the one that had dropped his entire ship into Marcus’s lap. He was the one that hit the first domino, let them all fall until the last one crushed San Francisco.

He wished he could be a coward. He wished he could hide. He wished he could just disappear.

He wished his goddamn sense of duty wasn’t so suffocating. 

With a clammy palm, Jim wiped at his face and focused on the early autumn breeze soothing against his skin. 

Fucking relax, Jim. Get it together. Just read the fucking messages already.

He’d always been good at ripping off the bandaid. Why was it so hard this time?

It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d let people die. Wasn’t even the first time he was brought back to life while others around him drew their last breaths. 

As his hand passed over his mouth, he bit down on the meat of his palm to try to snap himself out of whatever was trying to drag him under. He needed to do his fucking job.

Get it together! Face it! Face all of it!

A sharp pain flashed through his hand and he released it from his teeth. He’d almost broken the skin. 

Clenching his hand into a fist, Jim steadied the PADD in his lap and sat up straighter. He was just glad Bones was busy with something in the house. This would’ve been too hard if anyone was nearby.

He needed to face the consequences of his actions on his own.

The PADD flashed back to life, and this time he didn’t allow his eyes to absorb any of the messages that weren’t purely orders of business. It was easy to skim through the messages about updated officer reports, requests for his own reports, messages from admiralty regarding his compensation for what was done to him by Starfleet’s Fleet Admiral. All a bunch of shit that wasn’t catching his attention.

At least, not until he came across a message from Uhura.

His heart clenched unexpectedly, and at the thought of his friend, he couldn’t bring himself to ignore any of her words.

Jim, 

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write you. I couldn’t find the words for what I wanted to say. 

I hope you’re doing all right. I know you’re in good hands with McCoy. Nobody has told me anything, so I have to assume that you’re doing better. I was planning to send you flowers when you were in the hospital, but I was told nothing could be in your room. They weren’t allowing visitors, either. I would have liked to see you. Hopefully I can see you soon? The crew is on indefinite leave, as I’m sure you know. It’s strange to not be seeing each other every day. I hope you’ll reach out to me when you can. We all miss you.

I also wanted to say that I’m sorry, Jim. I’m so sorry. For all of this. I hate to think how much you’re going through after you saved all of us. I don’t care if you think I’m childish for saying so, but it’s not fair. I don’t know how much you’ve been able to recover, but I know you’re awake. I hope you’re not in too much pain. Tell McCoy to give me updates if he can. If it’s not classified, at least.

Write back to me soon. 

P.S. Don’t ever do something like that again. And thank you.

Jim couldn’t decide if Uhura’s thank you hurt less or worse than the gratitude from other people. His eyes were brimming with tears, and he rubbed at his face slowly. He still wasn’t used to people caring about him.

Friends were a foreign concept.

But he had to concede that he had them now. 

He swallowed roughly, re-read her message two more times, and marked it as important. He couldn’t write her back yet.

But he would. 

He missed her too. He wanted to see her, to talk to her.

But he just… he wasn’t ready for that yet.

A warmer than usual breeze blew across the porch, soothing and calming his eternally tensed muscles. His hands were still shaking, but it had lessened considerably. Hopefully they wouldn’t shake so much by the time he had his ship back.

What a sobering thought that was.

Closing his eyes, Jim drew in a slow inhale, consciously replacing the scent of phantom smoke with that of fresh grass and distant pond water. 

He was going to get his ship back. 

As soon as the Enterprise was ready to go back to the stars, Jim was going to be prepared to captain her. He wasn’t sure how long she was still going to be under construction, but he had a feeling it would still be a few more months. A few more months to get himself back in working order.

He could do it.

He had to do it.

This was his second chance to be the captain of the USS Enterprise, and he wasn’t going to let it pass him by.

He wouldn’t fail Pike again.

They’d already finished dinner for the night, but the house still smelled like rosemary and butter. Warm and comforting. Bones had made them potatoes and chicken, easy to keep down, a pleasant meal even if Jim hadn’t been able to finish off his plate.

That wasn’t abnormal for him, anyway.

Now they were in the living room, and there was something on the tv but Jim wasn’t paying attention to it.

He and Bones were sitting beside each other, closer than they had been in a long time—not counting all the times Bones had been holding Jim when he was crying or screaming himself hoarse. Those instances didn’t count, in Jim’s opinion, mostly because he hadn’t been in his right mind to be able to enjoy McCoy’s touch.

But now, they were pressed against each other on the couch, their thighs and flanks practically flush. Bones had one arm resting along the back of the couch and Jim was using it to cushion his head. If he wanted to, only the slightest turn would end up with his whole front tucked safely against the doctor’s chest, his face nudged under Bones’s jaw.

It was a tempting thought, but Jim also didn’t feel much like moving. He was just enjoying the proximity. The heat. His joints had been aching a lot recently, and Bones’s warmth was like a balm. Almost made Jim wanna snake his hands under the doctor’s shirt like a moth seeking light.

God. He needed to relax. Now that he wasn’t suffering touch aversion as much as he had when he’d first come back to life, he was starting to feel almost needy for physicality. And it was just him and Bones out here at this ranch house. And it didn’t help that McCoy was attractive.

Jim closed his eyes. That thought was getting shut down ASAP.

He instead focused on his own breathing, the nondescript sounds of whatever was on tv, and the faint sizzling of the ginger ale McCoy was holding in his free hand. There was a cricket chirping outside. The dishwasher was quietly chugging in the kitchen. Bones’s breaths were slow and even.

And Jim’s PADD just rumbled from a notification.

Jim sat up blearily, eyes landing on his PADD at the far end of the coffee table, right next to where Bones had his feet propped up.

Bones took a quick swig from his ginger ale, while the arm practically draped across Jim’s shoulders twitched. “Need me to grab that, darlin’?”

Jim’s heart thunked. Bones had been a lot more loose with terms of endearment lately. “If you wouldn’t mind,” Jim conceded.

Bones set his feet on the floor before grabbing it, which forced him to draw his arm away from Jim’s shoulders. He handed it over right as it buzzed again. 

Scowling, Bones looked from the PADD to Jim. “Is something important happening?”

Jim’s brows knit together as he checked over the screen, when he saw who the notifications were from.

Scotty.

He’d hardly thought of the other man recently, but a muddled heat exploded in Jim’s chest when he saw his chief engineer’s name. 

Alarms were blaring in his head again, accompanied by red flashes behind his eyes, sparks swirling underfoot and through his hair, while Scotty’s presence remained a constant at his side. 

Jim forgot how to breathe for a moment.

Scotty experienced the death of the Enterprise with Jim, the two of them tangled in her guts while the rest of the crew was splattered across her bowels.

He’d always liked Scotty. But now, after everything, Jim felt almost the same way about the Scot as he did Kevin Riley. 

A brother in shared experience. 

“I don’t know, it… it’s from Scotty,” Jim finally said to Bones. 

The doctor settled back into his previous position on the couch while Jim accessed his messages, and he resisted the temptation to snuggle against McCoy’s chest. He sucked it up, despite how his heart pounded, and read through what Scotty sent.

Or at least, he tried.

But the messages Scotty sent weren’t in the least bit coherent, and Jim was pretty sure he wasn’t sending him some sort of code or cypher.

It just looked like heavily inebriated text.

Eyebrows shooting up, Jim huffed, “I think he’s drunk.”

Bones paused with the ginger ale just at his mouth, leaning over to peer at Jim’s screen. “Oh, yeah.” He nodded, mouth of his bottle still cushioned on his lips. “That looks like the kind of shit I used to send.”

“What’s he trying to say?” If Jim were a little more energetic, he’d make an attempt at deciphering the messages, but he was barely keeping himself upright as it was. “I hope he’s not trying to message any other officers tonight.”

“Probably just you,” Bones said, pointing at a portion of the screen. “Pretty sure that’s supposed to be your full name and title, mixed in with a couple of swears that may or may not be real. Whatever’s got him all in a twist tonight, it specifically has to do with you.”

Jim grimaced. He wasn’t surprised Scotty was upset with him.

Hell, after… after everything, he’d be more surprised if Scotty wasn’t still mad. After all, Jim had… 

Jim had died in front of him.

That wasn’t something he could just expect Scotty to forget.

To say nothing of how badly Jim had been treating him leading up to their encounter with Marcus. Scotty had such a solid head on his shoulders, and he’d tried to warn Jim, he’d been right, and Jim had ignored him. Worse, he let him leave the ship.

If Scotty hadn’t come back, they would all be dead. The engineer was as instrumental to everyone’s survival as he had been during the Narada Incident.

Jim knew he should reach out to the man, to apologize and to thank him, or something. Anything. It was the very least he owed him. 

But Jim just couldn’t do it yet. Talking to anyone but Bones or Spock sounded like an impossible task. He was afraid he’d choke up, or go numb, or just become a shameful sobbing mess.

A sharp pain shot from Jim’s wrist joint to his knuckles, and he clenched his fingers into a fist to try to force the ache away. That had been happening a lot more often recently. Pain flickering to life throughout his body, usually dismissable, but sometimes it would completely snap him out of his thoughts.

He set the PADD aside. He wasn’t going to be answering any messages tonight, especially not Scotty’s drunken codes. 

His heart hammered sluggishly against his ribs, uncomfortable and persistent, the sensation similar to days when he’d run on nothing but coffee and adrenaline. He could feel his face tightening in discomfort, hyper aware of the doctor he was leaning against.

If Bones were to glance over at him, he’d probably see a pinched expression of barely tamped down pain. 

He wished his body wasn’t always hurting so fucking much. It was never ending.

Almost as if to mock him, another heady ache roped between his joints, heavy and demanding and sharp, squeezing his lungs. It nearly forced a groan that time.

He winced and shifted just slightly, feeling his arm scraping against the cloth of Bones’s shirt. The heat dissipated some, but moving didn’t make the ache stop like he’d hoped. It was like steel nails were rippling down his bones and protruding from his joints. It was hurting so fucking much.

Subtly, so as not to catch the doctor’s attention, he started trying to change his breaths. Make them slower and shallower. Maybe if he focused hard enough on breathing, his body would forget that it was experiencing pain.

Bones was calmly taking another sip from his drink, and his hand slowly moved from around Jim’s shoulder to instead gently brush through his hair.

It made Jim’s heart pound harder than before, like his blood got electrocuted, and suddenly the pain in Jim’s whole body became impossible to ignore or hide. He squeezed his eyes shut as an explosion of white hot pressure tore across his limbs, and he grit his teeth as a brief, choked whimper squeezed from his throat.

“Jim?” Bones was shifting entirely in his seat to face him, and his hand had gone from Jim’s hair to his forehead. “What’s wrong?”

He felt like he was being gripped by frozen claws, the pain in his bones similar to the sensation of holding ice against bare skin for too long. He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to dissipate the feeling, but it didn’t help. Another wave of unfettered discomfort washed over him, and he blinked hazy eyes at his hands as his joints seemed to splinter into his veins, filling his body with magma. His mouth was hanging open slightly, his throat constricting and damming up all of the groans building in his chest. “Hurts,” he breathed, as another ripple forced him to shut his eyes and tense all of his muscles. “Ah,” he managed out, instead of the intended “ow”.

Bones’s thumb was rubbing against his temple, while his other broad hand was cupping Jim’s ribs. “Where does it hurt?”

Jim’s head pulled to the side, the most he could manage as a headshake. He needed to fucking talk so Bones could fucking fix this.

Jesus. This pain came out of nowhere.

In an attempt to force his lungs and throat back under control, Jim tried to jumpstart the airflow with quick breaths, but it was making him sound like he was about to hyperventilate. Maybe he was. This didn’t fucking feel good. “E-everywhere,” he keened in a croak. He was still clenching his eyes shut. 

Bones’s warm hands rubbed at his neck and shoulder, soothing the aches just slightly. “I’m gonna get the medkit. Lay back.”

Once Bones’s weight disappeared from the couch, Jim obeyed as best he could and let his body slump over where the doctor had been. Even that little movement hurt like a motherfucker. He pressed his head and shoulders into the cushions, his jaw straining with tension, ice and fire lacing over his skin.

Jim focused on forcing his lungs to pump, and bursts of air were hissing through his teeth, the pace once again nearing hyperventilation. He wanted to think it was helping. At the very least, he wanted to convince himself that it was distracting from some of the pain gnawing through his bones. It was like tree roots were branching into his body, splintering and cracking his limbs as though he were concrete.

This all came on so fucking fast.

He felt like maybe the aches had been around for days—weeks?—but normally he’d been able to ignore it. More pressing things had been on his mind lately. More real, horrible, depressing things than his body hurting.

He registered the sound of a tricorder beeping over his head. He unclenched his jaw and continued to release rapid puffs of air, open-mouthed. “What?” he managed to groan, the following words of “ is it” not quite making it out.

The tricorder beeped for a few seconds longer, before Bones finally said, “I need to draw your blood.”

The fuck? Jim squinted one eye open and peeked out of the cushions enough to vaguely make out the doctor’s silhouette. That didn’t sound good. “Why?”

McCoy was scowling down at a hypo he was preparing, his hands fast and sure, the swiftness of a doctor on duty. He pressed it to Jim’s neck and it activated, the bite of it a stark contrast to the doctor’s otherwise gentle movements. 

Jim whined anyway.

Bones caressed Jim’s face briefly, not quite looking at him. “I think your blood is doing something,” he said. “Or rather, Khan’s is.”

Khan’s blood.

Jim had hardly had the brain power to ruminate on the fact that he had that murderer’s blood flowing in his veins. As another rush of hair raising pain spread from his joints and chest, Jim wondered if his body was suddenly fighting the transfusion. 

Bones was sitting on the coffee table, his compact medical computer open beside him. It was connected to the hypo he’d used to draw Jim’s blood, and Bones was typing away furiously. He was already preparing another hypo without taking his eyes off of the screen.

“It’s like it’s reactivating itself,” Bones said. “Like it’s trying to heal you again.”

Heal?

This felt so fucking far from healing. It felt like it was trying to kill him from the inside out.

Bones pressed the new hypo to Jim’s neck, and he’d been stuck by so many goddamn hypos over the years that Jim no longer questioned what McCoy was giving him. “Hurts,” Jim reiterated, the most he could say to try to convey just how fucking bad he was doing, how much Khan’s blood was beating the shit out of him.

“I know, baby,” McCoy said soothingly, distractedly, his eyes still glued to the computer. It was like he hadn’t even realized what he’d just called Jim.

But Jim sure fucking noticed, and it made his heart squeeze and pound and take off to the races, which made an explosion of pain crack through his whole ribcage. “Fuck,” he yelped, his voice cracking embarrassingly.

“Oh, honey.” McCoy’s hands were suddenly bracketing Jim’s ribs, rubbing up and down his flank with broad, warm strokes. “Try to calm down, Jim, okay?” One of his hands moved to stroke Jim’s cheek, the fingers hot against clammy skin. “It’s your heart rate. I don’t know why the blood started doing this now, but when your heart rate increased, it sent Khan’s blood into overdrive.”

Jim squinted blurry eyes open, focused on Bones’s worried face. He had left the coffee table and was instead kneeling beside the couch, leaning over Jim. 

He wished the doctor would hold him.

“What made your heart rate pick up?” Bones asked, his fingers now carding through Jim’s hair while the other continued to massage Jim’s chest.

Jim nearly scoffed.

Being around you has been making my heart beat more than it should and I guess you called me something sweet just one too many times now. And I’ve been noticing that you’re handsome. 

Like fuck he was gonna admit something like that.

Instead he just shook his head minutely and muttered a strained, “Don’t know.”

McCoy’s expression pinched while he just kept petting Jim. “Unfortunately, since this is Khan’s metabolism we’re dealing with, I can’t really give you anesthetic.”

Fucking of course.

“And I don’t know how long this’ll last,” McCoy added. He sounded frustrated, which made sense. He was a man who could always find an answer. “Probably as long as your heart rate is elevated. But we can’t force it to calm down. It’s all you.” Searching between Jim’s eyes while another squeeze of searing pain spread through Jim’s bones, McCoy muttered, “Is there anything I can do to help, Jim?”

McCoy watched as Jim worked his throat, his whole body visibly tense with pain. He was grimacing, with either discomfort or effort, and his teeth were clenched together. His eyes were nearly watering. 

Sympathy swelled in Bones’s chest, once again desperate and helpless to help Jim as he suffered. Why did this always happen?

Bones rubbed his thumb over Jim’s ribs, hoping to soothe him however much, when Jim’s fingers weakly grabbed his sleeve. 

Jim was swallowing, prolonging clear hesitation, but he eventually brought his wet eyes to McCoy’s, and through a wince he whispered, “Hold me?”

The thing McCoy’s heart did was like an eruption and a squeeze all at once. “Of course, darlin’. Of course.” He moved slow and careful, working his hands under Jim’s torso and lifting him up. He had to lean over Jim uncomfortably for a moment, his knee buried beside his captain on the couch, and with jerked motions he managed to get himself under Jim.

It was a position similar to how they’d been back at Jim’s apartment, months ago, when he’d had a panic attack. Jim was laying on top of him, their legs interlocking, McCoy’s hands bracing Jim’s waist while his captain’s fists were balled on the doctor’s pecs.

Bones couldn’t see much of Jim’s face, but he was making these quiet, quick whimpering sounds. They were laced under his fast breaths, the effort involved with getting into position apparently having exacerbated his pain. Bones rubbed his hands over Jim’s back and massaged carefully.

“This okay?” he asked, his own heart picking up a bit. It squeezed strangely while he felt Jim’s chest moving atop his own.

Jim grunted softly, his fingers clawing into McCoy’s shirt. “Helps.” His hands moved from McCoy’s to chest and instead started digging their way under his back, so McCoy’s full weight was just about on top of them. “You’re warm,” Jim slurred.

Oh, poor thing… The weight of his back was probably helping to heat up Jim’s wrists. His readings showed that a lot of the blood around Jim’s joints was active, most likely it was trying to strengthen connections that had weakened over the months. Bones rubbed his hands over Jim’s shoulders before moving to his elbows, trying to warm the areas that seemed to have been most affected. “Just relax, darlin’. I’m sorry it hurts.”

Jim whimpered again in response, shifting his head until his hot puffs of air were being breathed against Bones’s neck. They were too quick for comfort, each accompanied by a strained whine. Like he was on the verge of crying but was too dried up.

Bones went back to running his hands in long, calming strokes down Jim’s body. “It’s okay, honey. You’re okay.” 

A choked keen squeezed out of Jim’s throat, and his fingers abruptly dug into McCoy’s back. Jim’s whole body clenched so tight that his muscles shook. 

Fuck, he must’ve been hit by another wave of pain.

McCoy shushed him softly, one of his hands going to the back of Jim’s head to scratch lightly at the short hairs there.

Jim, meanwhile, continued to pant against him, his body clenching in bursts. His whimpering moans a constant. He shifted again, and suddenly his lips were pressed to McCoy’s neck, and like a bolt of lightning McCoy wondered if this was what Jim sounded like in sexual situations. 

As quick as that thought came, there was a whole body recoil to the very idea, and McCoy was hit with an aversion to intimacy he hadn’t felt since the early days at the academy. 

Jesus.

He had to fight not to throw Jim off of himself.

Instead he focused on his own breathing, did his best to keep himself calm and level, and staunchly reminded himself that Jim was in pain.  

Nevermind that Jim’s entire weight was pressing him into the couch, and that Jim’s thigh was settled against McCoy’s groin, and that his fucking pink lips were resting on the skin of his throat. Fire licked from McCoy’s face down his chest, and before he’d realized it, his fingers had clenched and pulled on Jim’s hair, and Jim released this tight moan against McCoy’s throat that sent an electrifying heat all through his body.

Christ.

The shock of it all caused McCoy to clench his fingers again and he hurried to release Jim’s head. “Sorry,” McCoy gasped, immediately smoothing his fingers over the hairs he’d just inadvertently yanked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that, baby.”

What the fuck had he just called Jim?

Where the fuck was this coming from?

His hands stilled against Jim’s back and head, while he tried to blink himself back into working order. 

This was just because he’d been away from other people too long. It’d just been him and Jim for weeks now, and it was practically just the two of them in San Francisco as well. And it’d just been a… long time since he’d had a moaning, writhing body against him, was all. The exact details irrelevant, apparently.

It probably didn’t help that this situation was technically easing some of Jim’s pain. Or that he was heavy and warm. And undeniably handsome. All McCoy ever wanted was to soothe Jim’s hurts like he currently was, to bring him comfort, to hold him close—

Jim grunted quietly and shifted again, his face burying into McCoy’s shirt while his body shivered. 

Practically on reflex, McCoy went back to rubbing his hands carefully over Jim’s joints and ribs. Whatever inner turmoil he was dealing with, it wasn’t the time for it. Now was just for taking care of Jim. His own thoughts or feelings be damned, he just needed to suck up whatever his bodily reactions were gonna be and just focus on the task at hand.

And right now, Jim needed his care.

Mindful of his movements, McCoy carefully dragged his legs together, until Jim’s thigh had been shifted off of his groin. Jim was kind of straddling McCoy’s hips now, but the lack of pressure was a significant relief. 

He wasn’t gonna get a fucking boner while Jim was on him. The very idea was just mortifying.

Sighing, McCoy closed his eyes and let his hands settle over Jim’s waist. They slotted into place easily. “How’s the pain, Jim?”

With a low grunt, Jim’s hands pulled out from under McCoy’s back, and he pushed himself up enough to look McCoy in the eye. It brought their faces incredibly close together. 

Heart pounding, McCoy couldn’t help but notice the dusting of pink all over Jim's cheeks, or how his lips had reddened slightly, or how his long eyelashes caught the light. And his pupils were blown.  

McCoy swallowed thickly at the sight.

“It’s better,” Jim mumbled. “This is helping.”

Well, if Jim was using more than one word a sentence, then it had to be true. 

Jim suddenly flopped against Bones’s chest like a puppet whose strings were cut. “It’s making me warm. And tired.”

Huffing in endearment, Bones wrapped his arms around his captain, enveloping him in even more warmth. He was glad this was helping Jim.

Jim’s breaths were starting to even out some, and the whimpers were almost completely gone. One would squeeze out occasionally, but the frequency was dropping. And he was feeling heavier, like his muscles weren’t so tight, and were actually starting to relax. The shivers were even starting to go away.

The flickers of heat and lightning were calming in McCoy’s own chest, his reaction to Jim’s closeness dissipating with the overwhelming relief at Jim’s condition seeing improvement. 

“Well,” Bones said, closing his eyes again, “you go ahead and sleep then, all right? The lights are on a timer, they’ll turn themselves off. We can stay here if you’d like.” To his annoyance, a flare of shimmering heat sparked through his chest at the thought of snuggling with Jim all night. It wasn’t like they’d never done that before.

Hell, after the Narada Incident, they’d shared a bed the whole way home. This wasn’t gonna be any different.

Though, the couch was a lot smaller than his bed on the Enterprise was… 

Jim hummed, sending vibrations between the press of their chests. “I would,” Jim muttered. After a few short, but not quite so quick breaths, he added, “Like that.”

Sentence fragments. Not as good as full speech, but they’d do. Still a sign that Jim was recovering, if not that he was more exhausted than before.

“Okay,” McCoy said, letting one of his hands go back to petting Jim. “Just keep breathing. I’ll stay right here.”

Jim didn’t respond for a good long while, but he eventually said in a heavy slur, “If I get too heavy, shove me off.” He sounded like he was mere moments from sleep.

McCoy laughed softly, an odd sort of heat smoothing through his lungs. “Not happening.” For good measure, he tightened his hold on Jim for a moment, until he could feel their unsteady hearts beating next to each other. 

Chapter Text

Jim awoke in the dark.

The pain was gone.

He was warm, and he was comfortable, and he was exhausted.

He’d slid off of McCoy’s chest at some point in the night, and was now tucked between the couch and McCoy’s side, his face nearly smothered in the doctor’s armpit. He shifted enough to instead have his face resting on Bones’s chest, but even that little movement made some aches flare up. He breathed slow, cautious about filling his lungs in case it hurt. 

While he continued to carefully inhale and exhale, Jim took stock of his situation. They were wedged together on the couch, the points of contact flush down their whole bodies, and McCoy’s arms were wrapped around Jim. One hand was braced on Jim’s waist while the other was laying atop his back. They were still chest to chest, more or less, if not a little more awkward than they were before.

Not that Jim was complaining.

He was savoring the feeling of being squeezed against McCoy. 

With his heart picking up in speed, Jim blinked his eyes open, and attempted to search out what he could see of Bones’s face in the dark. The lights had turned themselves off, as Bones had promised. The faint glow of nearby appliances illuminated the room just enough that Jim’s eyes could adjust. 

Bones was deep in sleep, his chest rising and falling sedately, occasionally accompanied by the faintest snore. 

Jim watched him breathe for a moment before tilting his head a bit, so he could see McCoy’s profile—map out his nose, his slightly parted lips, his twitching eyelashes resting over his cheeks. 

He looked so handsome when he was relaxed.

Jim’s heart stuttered and he clenched his jaw. 

Calm down, he chided. It’s just Bones.

It was like he was trying to get a repeat of the night before. Work himself up enough to make his own heart try to kill him.

He nudged his face into Bones’s shoulder and hoped the action wouldn’t wake the doctor. But he just needed to stop analyzing Bones’s features in sleep.

His heart pumped heavy against his ribs and Jim held himself there, breathing in McCoy’s scent and hyper-aware of how strong and comforting McCoy’s fingers felt on his waist. 

Despite how much pain Jim had been in, and how much he wanted to avoid it ever happening again…

He had enjoyed the night before.

Not the part with his heart squeezing the wrath of Khan into his whole body, but… But McCoy’s attention. He liked being held.

He’d been craving it for weeks. He wanted the closeness, wanted the comfort, wanted to feel like he was still worthwhile even when he was weak. Especially when he was weak.

It felt good to be cared for. Jim was borderline desperate for it.

And McCoy had been caring for him ever since his resurrection. But it was a little bit different, somehow. 

Not… sweet like Jim wanted. 

Or, maybe, Jim just hadn’t been ready for sweet before. Hadn’t been able to notice sweet before.

But the more he was recovering (however glacially slow it was), the more he was feeling like a kid again. Neglected and needy and scared.

And for as long as he and McCoy had known each other, Jim just didn’t know how to ask for-- for anything.

He knew he was a burden, had been and would be, and part of him knew he didn’t deserve to ask for things in the first place.

But last night he’d managed to choke out the request to be held. He'd thought he was gonna cry when he’d voiced those words. He almost did when Bones actually obliged.

It didn’t help that he was enjoying Bones’s terms of endearment more, as rare as they were. Each one made his breath catch. 

And the night before, even though Jim had been in complete and total agony, part of him had… had relished being able to shudder and writhe against McCoy, and be comforted in kind.

Christ.

What the hell was going on with him?

It was like he’d used his own suffering as an excuse to finally initiate touch. More than that, he’d let himself lean into the urges to nuzzle into McCoy, get as close as he could, just feel him while his own body was unspooling between his tendons. 

The night before had hurt. And, at the same time, it had felt so fucking good to be so close to someone.

Fucking hell.

He just needed to get laid or something.

Things with McCoy were starting to get a little too muddled. It didn’t help that there had been one point where McCoy had pulled Jim’s hair, and Jim nearly got a goddamn boner. He’d fucking moaned.  

Fuck. He seriously had to get himself under control.

He just hoped McCoy couldn’t discern his noises of pain from those of pleasure.

Did not help that Jim liked things rough. Not so much when he was the one topping, of which he did plenty. But he honestly preferred to bottom, and when he did, rough was what he liked the most. 

Jim liked getting manhandled, and he liked when things felt just shy of too much, and more than anything he liked when his partner was the one in control. 

All behaviors that McCoy had at one point or another displayed with Jim.

He manhandled Jim often, guiding his body this way or that, and sometimes his medical treatments were on the verge of overstimulating. Not that Jim was a masochist, but he always found it kind of exciting that Bones could get so determined to heal him that he’d be rougher with Jim than any other patient. Sometimes Jim pushed him on purpose. He liked when Bones would take the reins from him. 

McCoy was so good at being in control in general. Either in control of his station, or in control of a situation, or in control of Jim himself.

Jim’s thoughts were interrupted when Bones suddenly shifted in his sleep. He inhaled deep and his grip on Jim’s waist tightened, causing Jim’s heart to stutter painfully.

Everything was getting too fucking confusing. Too much pain and pleasure happening at the same time.

With Bones of all people.

Jim suddenly wished that he could see Spock again.

His heart stuttered hard. He hadn’t been thinking about Spock very much. It would likely be another two months before they were to see each other again, after all. Spock was supposed to stay at New Vulcan until November, and they were only in September.

His absence was palpable. 

Sometimes Jim felt like they were two halves of the same coin. Cut from the same cloth. So often they could communicate without having to say a thing. They could exchange a glance when some admiral was being stupid, and Jim knew that Spock was just as fed up as him. Or they could get tasks done without having to discuss what was expected or required of them—both were smart enough that they already knew. They were so often on the same page. He was a perfect second in command.

Jim could rely on Spock in a crisis like no one else, he could trust Spock to make hard decisions and do whatever was necessary to keep their ship safe. Always.

He made Jim feel steady. Like as long as he was there, things would work out because the two of them would make sure everything would work out.

But right now, it was just Jim and Bones. Alone.

Sighing, Jim forced himself to stop thinking about his first officer for the time being. He briefly considered sending him a call or a message soon, but it would only make Spock feel farther away. Make it more obvious that they were separated.

Besides, Jim was grateful to have the time with McCoy. 

When they were on the ship, there would be periods when they wouldn’t even get to see each other. Sometimes for multiple days at a time, with nothing more than professional messages passed between them. They could both get so busy. Their jobs didn’t always let them overlap, which was likely for the best. It would not be good if Jim was having to contact medical every day.

But, this was almost too much time with Bones, if Jim’s stupid and ridiculous reactions he’d been having were any indication. 

Even now he was conscious of Bones’s breath in his hair, of his pulse beating under his ear, of his arm wrapped protectively around his middle. 

Jim wished they could lay like this forever. Wished that they could always sleep beside each other.

For the first time in a long time, he yearned for the immediate weeks following the Narada Incident. The nights when he and Bones had shared a bed their whole way home. That arrangement had ended as soon as they’d returned, and there’d been no repeat of anything like it in the year since. 

Jim hadn’t realized how badly he wanted it until now. How much he missed it.

How much he missed having Bones near.

He just… He just wanted to stay close to him.

But this was temporary.

As soon as Jim was recovered, he was getting his ship back. They were going to return to the stars, to their jobs. And Jim and Bones would go back to sleeping in their respective quarters. And that was how it would always be.

Jim had long accepted that he was going to live his life unattached. He would stay single, distant, and he would never have a family of his own. Jim was always going to be alone.

But, recently, this thing he had with Bones… It was still a friendship. And he didn’t want to say that it was more.

And yet it was like he was being torn in two. He was still on his own, still unattached in any meaningful way, and yet he and Bones and Spock were-- were intertwined.

Jim had somehow gotten to a point of being as alone as ever and yet irrevocably connected. It was a horrible limbo, and he didn’t know how to stop it, how to protect them, how to get back to the isolation he'd had his whole life.

It was the worst of both worlds.

Once he got his ship back, they were going to step right into the same dance they’d been doing. Seeing each other nearly every day, their time spent with each other more than anyone else, their living quarters only a few doors down from each other in the hall, and knowing that every night for the rest of his life would be spent alone in a cold bed. 

It didn't help that he knew he was going to eventually outlive everyone. He always had. He always would.

That... that was going to include Bones.

Hell, he'd almost lost Bones just before their ship fell. When that missile had clamped down on Bones's arm, Jim's entire world got so small and so cold, he hadn't been able to breathe, and he...

It... it was the first time he'd had to confront McCoy's mortality. But it wouldn't be the last. Fuck, if only he could keep Bones alive forever. If only he could keep him.

Jim’s fist clenched around the fabric of Bones’s shirt. Heat flooded his eyes and he stared at Bones in the dark, while an uncomfortable warmth spread from his chest.

He was going to lose this.

And he didn’t deserve it in the first place.

How many other people in San Francisco were sleeping in beds that were once warm? How many households had had their numbers cut down? How many people were having to sleep with empty arms, where someone was supposed to be?

He was lucky enough to be holding onto a living, breathing body when so many others didn’t even have a cold body to hold. There was nothing left. 

He hadn’t done enough. He hadn’t saved enough. 

And despite how terribly he failed, somehow he had the privilege to be laying in the arms of someone he cared about, no matter how temporary it was.

His fingers wrung Bones’s shirt, and he desperately wanted to hold him tighter. The heat in his eyes was turning to moisture.

Flashes of San Francisco’s destruction exploded through his head, mixed with glimpses of his crew falling, dying, of Vulcan imploding under his feet, of the dust of Tarsus filling his lungs while blood caked on his hands.

There was a reason he wasn’t allowed to be close to Bones beyond this. The comfort was temporary. He didn’t deserve to have attachments when he personally severed so many others. 

He didn’t deserve it, but he still wanted it, and that was most despicable of all.

McCoy was tightening his hold around Jim before his brain had finished waking up completely. 

He processed a couple of things at once.

Jim was shaking. His face was buried in McCoy’s shoulder. McCoy’s shirt was wet from tears. It was still dark, they were still on the couch, and Jim was silently sobbing against him.

“Hey,” McCoy whispered, his voice heavy with lingering sleep, “hey, honey, what’s wrong?”

His concern was bringing him to full lucidity quickly, and McCoy sat up enough to turn on the lamp on the table behind them. He blinked the light out of his eyes and twisted in place, his hands immediately finding their way on Jim’s trembling body once more.

“Jim, are you okay? Is the pain back?” 

Jim was starting to push himself up, but he was hiding his face in one of his hands and was turned away from McCoy. He shook his head, but didn’t say anything. 

“Was it a bad dream?” McCoy rubbed his hand down Jim’s back carefully, just in case Jim was lying about a lack of pain. 

Again, Jim shook his head, and unsteadily got himself sitting up. He was facing the back of the couch, twisted away from McCoy, most of his face shielded behind his fingers. “N-no,” he said, voice strangled. “Nothing. It’s-- nothing.”

“Bullshit,” McCoy huffed on reflex. He brought one knee to his chest and set his other foot on the floor, so as to give Jim more space on the couch. He kept one hand on Jim’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Jim sobbed wetly into his palms. With both of his hands covering his mouth, his glistening blue eyes were visible through a stream of tears. He was scowling like he was angry. Or pained. “I--” His voice caught, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s n-nothing. I have-- I have no--” His lungs were still caught in the rhythm of his sobs, and had not yet calmed enough to let him speak clearly.

It was breaking McCoy’s heart to listen to, but like hell was he gonna rush him.

Jim’s hands moved from his mouth to his eyes, his fingers snaking into his hairline, his red cheeks wet with tears. “I have n-no right to be crying right now.”

“Jim,” Bones sighed, scooting closer, “yes, you do.” He placed his free hand on one of Jim’s knees, which was tucked into his chest like he was about to curl into a fetal position. McCoy long ago noticed that Jim tended to make himself physically smaller the worse off he was doing mentally. “You have plenty reason to be crying. Don’t feel bad about it.”

Jim shook his head again like he wasn’t justified for being upset. McCoy wasn't entirely sure what had set Jim off, but there was an awful lot of things that could have been the culprit. He was actively living through the grief of survivor’s guilt, damn it. Nevermind that, McCoy knew how heavy the grief of losing their crew was. McCoy’d seen plenty of their dead in his own medbay, but he knew that Jim had watched a lot of the deaths happen. 

His own subordinates, chewed up by the ship itself. Right in front of him.

“You have every right to be crying,” McCoy reiterated, squeezing Jim’s knee.

Jim placed his elbow on the top of the couch, his eyes still buried behind his palm, while his other hand rested limply in his lap. He was biting on his lip, clearly trying to keep his face from contorting in sorrow. His lips parted, his chin was trembling, and his voice came out quiet and hollow. “The loss is so much, Bones.” He inhaled shakily, like his whole body was trying to pull itself into full body sobs. “I keep losing.”

Bones wasn’t sure how to respond. How to comfort. But he desperately wanted to try. “Don’t shoulder San Francisco by yourself, Jim,” Bones whispered, carefully taking Jim’s abandoned hand in his. “And don’t feel bad when it gets to be too much. You are dealing with a lot of loss. San Francisco’s destruction was a huge loss. You’re not in the wrong for being affected by it.” 

Jim’s hand smeared from his eyes, down the side of his face, before his fingers curled beside his mouth. Jim stared at the top of the couch, his head slightly bowed like he was ashamed. “It’s not just San Francisco,” Jim croaked, his words barely audible. Tear tracks shone across his face. Without looking up, he added, “Not just our crew.” With another shaking inhale, and with his brows pinching, Jim whispered, “It’s Vulcan, too.”

Fuck. With everything going on in the past few months, McCoy had hardly thought about Vulcan. But its destruction was only a year ago, of course… Of course Jim hadn’t let it go yet.

“I keep failing,” Jim said. His voice cracked.

“You didn’t fail,” Bones rushed in. “Vulcan wasn’t your responsibility, either. There was nothing you could’ve--”

“I could’ve,” Jim interrupted, a tear dropping down his cheek. “I should have. If I’d been faster, if I’d been better, I could’ve turned off the drill in time. I could’ve stopped it from happening.” He covered his eyes again, his shoulders hunching until he was tucked against the couch. Like he was trying to hide away from it all. His shoulders were back to shaking. “I c-could’ve saved Vulcan.”

“Oh, Jim.” McCoy closed the distance between them, and worked one of his arms between Jim and the couch, until he could pull him against himself. “Come here.”

Jim collapsed against Bones’s chest, his head dropping to his shoulder, and Jim wrung his fingers into McCoy’s shirt. He was crying again.

McCoy ran his hand up Jim’s back, his own throat growing tight. “You know there’s nothing you could’ve done. The drill had done enough damage to the planet by the time we got there. Even if you’d managed to turn it off right away, the black hole was gonna happen no matter what. You know that, right?”

McCoy’s shirt was starting to get damp. Jim didn’t say anything at first.

When he finally spoke, it was around labored breaths. “I was one of the last people that was ever on that planet.” His arms tightened around McCoy’s middle. “I was on Vulcan. I saw it, and I felt it, and I can-- I can still feel it.” His breaths cut off into gasps. “I failed Vulcan. I was there. And I c-couldn’t save it!”

McCoy reeled. It hadn’t occurred to him how personal the loss of Vulcan could still be for Jim. Whatever it was about Vulcan that was haunting him, it had surely been made infinitely worse by the San Francisco Impact.

He was dealing with so much. He was dealing with too much.

“It’s Vulcan,” Jim sobbed. “And it’s San Francisco, and it’s our crew, and it’s Pike, and it’s T--” Jim suddenly cut himself off with a noisy inhale, clenched through his chest like a painful hiccup. 

His gasps increased, indiscernible from his sobs, and McCoy ran his hands over Jim’s ribs soothingly. 

So much. Too much.

Jim sniffed and pressed himself to McCoy tighter, his breaths uneven. “It’s too much,” he whispered, apparently finishing his last sentence. “And s-some day, I’m gonna lose you, too.”

Oh, Jim… 

Was that what this was about? Was that the thought that made him wake up crying?

McCoy understood the fear—it was the same one he had about Jim. It was that thought that plagued him more than any other. He continued rubbing Jim’s back and said, “Not gonna happen. I’m not that easy to get rid of.” He pulled away until he could see Jim’s face.

It was splotchy with a mix of tears and blushed skin, and there were burst capillaries all around Jim’s eyelids. He still wouldn’t make eye contact, but McCoy wasn’t gonna force him. He wiped his thumb gently over Jim’s cheekbone, catching a tear, brushing his swollen eyelid. 

“Jim,” Bones whispered, “you got me to go to space with you. For you. After that, there’s no way you’re gonna lose me. I promise.”

He knew, realistically, it wasn’t a promise he could make. They were all going to die some day. It was inevitable.

But he was gonna fight tooth and nail to keep them together for as long as possible.

For god’s sake, he brought Jim back from the dead.

Pressing their foreheads together, Bones kept cradling Jim’s face, and was mindful to keep his own breaths calm and slow. He could see that Jim was trying to match him. “There’s nothing I won’t do to keep us together, all right? You won’t lose me, and I’m not gonna lose you.”

Jim’s eyes had closed, but the crying had all but stopped. His breaths were a little stilted even still.

McCoy massaged the tips of his fingers into the back of Jim’s neck, at the base of his skull. “Do you believe me, darlin’?” 

Jim’s closed eyelids squeezed tighter, and he looked like he was holding back physical pain. He sighed shakily. “I want to, Bones,” he mumbled, voice worn and small. “I want to.”

That was probably the best he would get out of Jim at the moment. Chest aching in sympathy, Bones pressed his lips to Jim’s temple. “Then do.” He planted a few soft kisses into Jim’s hairline, wanting so badly to soothe. “We’re not gonna lose each other, okay? I’ll be right here with you.”

Jim didn’t respond. He pulled Bones into a tight embrace and buried his face in McCoy’s shoulder, and slowly the tears returned.

Bones kept his mouth shut and held Jim just as tight. He opted to hold him until the tears ran dry.

No matter how long it took.

Chapter Text

After Jim had stopped crying, they went upstairs to finish sleeping. But that meant that they went their separate ways into their separate rooms, exactly as Jim had feared. He’d wished he could have stayed with Bones all night, but the argument had been that it would be better for them to sleep on mattresses instead of cushions. 

Jim hadn’t had the strength to ask for McCoy to stay with him. But he wished he had.

His bed had been so empty. 

Jim hadn’t been able to sleep at all, and he instead watched the room slowly turn to faded blues, before eventually blooming into the golds of sunrise. He laid there, unmoving, for a long time.

Exhaustion pressed heavy on his bones. His whole body ached, and his heart wouldn’t stop feeling like it was getting strangled. His fingers skirted over his throat, and the image of Nero bearing down on him surfaced to his mind. 

Closing his eyes, Jim remembered what it felt like when Khan assaulted him. The strength of Khan’s hands, the weight of them, the heat of them, the pain of Khan manhandling him into view of his crew like a beaten dog.

He remembered Spock’s expression. That concern. That anger. 

Khan’s grip on his neck and shoulder had been so painful, and Jim had clung to the emotion he’d seen on Spock’s face through that viewscreen, knowing and hoping that Spock was going to get him back to their ship no matter what.

He hadn’t realized that would be the last time he would see Spock before his own death. 

A spike of fear shot through Jim’s chest, unbridled and uncontainable, raw in its animalistic sincerity. He gasped against it and clenched a fist around his sheets. Fuck. No matter how many times he died, it would never stop being so fucking scary.

And every time Jim’s heart stopped it was never the actual end. He was always brought back. Every death made the next one worse. 

Cool beads of sweat covered his palms at the thought. Death was so painful. He hated… hated feeling his own body shut down. It was so cold. Agonizing. Lonely. Too slow and too soon. 

Just… terrifying.

A creak sounded through the hallway, careful and calm. Bones must have just gotten up.

Jim listened to his doctor languidly make his way downstairs, and his heart fluttered with lingering fear all the while. 

Thank fuck Bones hadn’t been there to watch him die. That would have destroyed some part of Jim, and it definitely would have destroyed something deep inside of Bones.

Not that McCoy was a stranger to death, but… He was so protective of Jim.

What… what had it been like for Bones to see Jim’s body? 

He was never going to ask. He didn’t want to make Bones think about it. It wasn’t like it mattered anymore, anyway. 

Bones brought him back. Jim wasn’t dead.

But he… but he had been. 

Fuck. His body would have made it to the medbay eventually. To Bones’s care. 

Bones would have been with Jim’s body for some time in order to resurrect him. How cold had he been under Bones’s hands? Did Bones sit with him alone for a while? Did he pet his hair, stroke his face, like he would while Jim was alive?

And who brought him there? Who had been the first to touch his corpse after the radiation chamber was opened? Had it been Spock?

What had Spock done after he’d died?

Jim hadn’t asked what had happened in the immediate hours following his death. Didn’t know how they’d captured Khan, didn’t even know what the process was like when they brought Jim back to life.

He didn’t know who had handled his body.

Had anybody held him?

Heat flooded Jim’s throat and he bit on his lip.

Fuck. No point in thinking about that.

He was so tired of crying. He was so tired of being afraid, of being sad, of being in pain, of being exhausted.

He didn’t want to think about his death anymore, or how it affected his friends. He didn’t want to think about them having to see him like that. He didn’t… want any of it.

Jim inhaled slowly and pressed his hands over his eyes, turning onto his side. Everything hurt.

He wasn’t going to find rest. 

So it would be best for him to get up.

It took Jim a long time to get down the stairs. The events from the night before were still tangible in every ache across his body. It was a pain that distantly reminded him of the days following the Narada. His body had just about been destroyed during that incident.

God… that had only been a year ago.

He wished things could slow down.

He wished he could relax.

Actually, that was something he needed to do immediately. 

Jim had reached the bottom of the stairs, and the short trek had weakened him so badly that he needed to sit on the last step. He folded himself up slowly, and placed his hands on his bent knees while he leaned against the banister. 

As he caught his breath, Jim leaned forward enough to look into the dining room from the stairs.

Bones was sitting at the table, his head resting in one hand while he scrolled through a PADD. Whatever he was looking at must have been really important, if it was taking up enough of his attention that he hadn’t heard Jim come down.

It didn’t even seem like he realized Jim was sitting there. His focus was totally absorbed in the PADD.

Jim watched him a moment, analyzed the heavy frown pulling at his face, the way he was hardly blinking as he read. He looked… really troubled.

“What’re you reading?” Jim asked.

Bones instantly jolted in his seat and nearly knocked over the hot cup of coffee that was sitting next to his PADD. “Jesus,” he hissed, turning to glance over at Jim. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Jim huffed and gave a small smile, but still looked at the PADD pointedly. “What’ve you got there?”

Bones cast a sidelong glare at his PADD before rising from the table. “It’s not important. What’re you doing sitting there?”

Jim watched him approach, his heart stuttering. “Catching my breath.”

Bones stopped in front of him and leaned against the doorway, his expression having shifted from a frown to one of tender concern. 

God. It always killed Jim when he looked at him like that.

“I’m sorry I didn’t help you come down,” Bones said, offering his hand. “I didn’t know you were up.”

Jim let his hand slide into Bones’s, savored the warmth that seeped between their palms, and wished he wouldn’t have to ever let go. He let Bones heave him to his feet, and appreciated how Bones’s other hand supported his waist. Bones was always so warm.

Jim’s dead body must have been so cold in his medbay.

“It’s okay,” Jim sighed, smothering that thought before it could explode into something ugly. He nodded at the table, where McCoy’s abandoned PADD sat. “You seem pretty busy. What’re you dealing with?”

Bones groaned softly in his throat, releasing Jim’s hand and slumping against the doorway. “Bullshit,” he mumbled. “Lots and lots of bullshit.”

That didn’t sound good. Jim hoped, maybe selfishly, that it wasn’t anything to do with the aftermath of his death. “What, exactly?” He didn’t mean to, but he accidentally slipped some of his commanding captain’s tone into the request. He just really wanted Bones to tell him.

Bones had straightened up, seemingly without realizing that he had reacted to Jim’s command. He glanced over at the table, not quite frowning, but definitely disquieted. “I… I haven’t told you yet why we’re in Georgia.”

“No,” Jim muttered, his interest instantly piqued. He hadn’t even been wondering for himself why they were there, too focused on his own shit to even question what business Bones had in his birth state. “You haven’t.”

Jim reflected on just how exhausted, angry and sad McCoy had been for the past few months. He had been assuming that it was because of him, but maybe that had been too self-important an assumption. 

What were they doing in Georgia?

McCoy sighed, resigned and tired, and he placed his hand on the small of Jim’s back. “Let’s go sit you down.”

Jim let himself be led to the table, and figured that whatever Bones was dealing with, it was bad enough that he wanted to sit to talk about it. Not a good sign.

Jim settled into one of the seats at the table, and McCoy returned to his. 

A coil of steam from McCoy’s coffee swirled between them while Bones stared at his PADD. He wouldn’t look Jim in the eye. “I know I should’ve told you sooner, but you’re already dealing with so much. I’m, uh…” He dragged a hand down his face. “I’m in the middle of two different trials right now.”

Trials?

“You’re being tried?” Jim’s voice came out hotter than he expected, but Jesus Christ. Who the fuck was bringing Bones to court, and for what?  

“Well…” McCoy winced, his gaze averting to the window beside them. “One is a custody battle.”

The flush of anger through Jim’s chest was instantaneous. “You’re fucking shitting me.”

What the fuck was McCoy’s ex doing? Why the hell would she be making him fight for custody now, after everything McCoy and the rest of the Enterprise had just gone through?

“Mm,” McCoy hummed. “Jocelyn says that someone who could die at any time in space shouldn’t have custody of a kid that would be left behind.”

“That is bullshit,” Jim huffed, balling his hands into fists. “What, does a lack of custody suddenly sever your ties with your own kid? Doesn’t matter if you have active custody or not, if you died then it would affect your kid. Space or no space. The fuck kind of argument is that?”

McCoy cocked his head, one eyebrow raising in agreement. “Not a good one, and I think she knows it. I think she just wants any excuse to rake me over the coals, and with what our ship just went through, it gave her fuel for the idea that I could die out there and leave Joanna partially orphaned.”

Fire was building in Jim’s lungs. “How is separating you guys gonna protect Joanna from the possibility of eventually losing you? I mean, that’s what this argument is about, right? That your death, your loss, would affect her?”

Bones nodded, conceding quietly. 

“God,” Jim huffed, glaring at the table. “A fucking custody battle. Poor Joanna. Why would Jocelyn do this to her?”

Exhaling slowly, McCoy ran a hand through his hair. “I think when Jocelyn gets so focused on ‘getting back at me’, she forgets that it affects Joanna, too. I know she cares about Jo, but… Sometimes I think she hates me more.”

Jim glanced outside. The trees were swaying in the breeze, tranquil with a calm that Jim certainly wasn’t feeling in himself. “So is that why we’re in Georgia? For an in person custody battle?”

“Yeah.” McCoy sipped on his mug, still not looking at Jim. “We got here a few weeks earlier than we really needed to. I’ll be going in tomorrow.”

“I’ll go with you,” Jim said, determination building behind his ribs. Like hell was he gonna leave McCoy to defend himself alone.

McCoy looked at him with wide eyes, blinking in blatant disbelief. “What?”

“I’ll go with you,” Jim repeated. 

“Jim, I…” McCoy smiled at him, but shook his head. “You won’t be able to go in. Family only.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Jim shrugged. “I can go there with you, I’ll just wait outside the courtroom. If you want, I mean.”

McCoy didn’t say anything right away. He just held his mug close and watched the birds outside, his brows slightly upturned. “That…” He glanced up to finally catch Jim’s eye. “That would actually be a huge relief. I would appreciate you being there, Jim. Thank you.”

Jim’s heart fluttered uncomfortably. “I’m happy to.” 

He realized that this would be his first time leaving the ranch in weeks. He wasn’t entirely… certain that his body was ready to be moving around, but he’d made up his mind. He was going to support Bones through this.

He was really, really glad that he had decided to join Bones in Georgia. Thank God he wasn’t gonna be abandoning him to Jocelyn.

“You said you were going through two trials,” Jim muttered, picking at the tablecloth. “What’s the other one?”

Any relaxation that had started to settle in McCoy instantly disappeared. He slumped against the table, placing his head in his hands. “Fuck,” he sighed. “I haven’t wanted to tell you about this.”

Jim watched McCoy, honed in like a hawk. It wasn’t often McCoy would keep things from him. “Tell me about what?”

McCoy didn’t move, and agony seeped off of him like a physical thing. He finally muttered, “I’m on trial for my medical license.”

“What?!” Jim sat up in his seat, all the heat in his chest suddenly erupting into unfettered rage. “You?!”

McCoy’s hands slid into his hair, his face hidden from Jim. “Yeah. Starfleet is… understandably… unhappy with my resurrecting you.” He sat up and scowled out the window, one of his hands scrubbing over his scalp. “Well, they’re not mad that I resurrected you, but it’s… It’s not good that I brought you back the way I did. My methods violated my medical license. Especially because I didn’t even consult anyone before I started working to bring you back. I didn’t ask anyone. I just did it.”

Jim’s lungs squeezed, the thought that Bones had jeopardized so much—just for him—leaving him breathless. He hadn’t realized McCoy had put his whole career on the line. 

All to bring Jim back.

“Does that mean your license is suspended right now?” Jim asked, clenching his fists. If that were the case, it must have been a recent change.

After all, McCoy had been Jim’s primary caretaker for the past few months. He would have had to have been authorized for that. 

McCoy shook his head, his hand resting on the back of his neck. “They haven’t suspended it yet because they know I'm their best bet at getting you back in working order. As pissed as they are at me, I think that they want you around even more. You’re good at cleaning up their fucking messes for them.” 

Nero and Khan’s faces flashed through Jim’s head, before Marcus’s icy gaze pulsed into his vision. Such hateful eyes they all had. Such dangerous men. 

Vulcan imploded in Jim’s mind, the screams of Ambassador Spock’s memories tangible in his ears. He could see his crew falling. The countless pictures and videos of San Francisco’s destruction reeled behind his eyes like a picture show, incessant and merciless.

Even if Jim had managed to eventually stop Starfleet’s most dangerous adversaries, he hadn’t been able to keep any meaningful damage from being done. So many people had died, every time, because he wasn’t fast enough. Or smart enough, or strong enough, or good enough. 

“I wouldn’t say I’ve cleaned anything up,” Jim muttered, wallowing in the knowledge that he was the one that dragged the Enterprise into the neutral zone. He forced them to be there. He forced them to their deaths. He hadn’t even done a single thing to help in the aftermath of any event that he ‘stopped’. Quietly, he added, “I think I just make things worse.”

“That’s not true.” Bones leveled Jim with a hard stare. “Trust me, Jim. They know that you’re good at keeping things from getting worse. You stop bad guys for them. Even their own.”  

Marcus reappeared in Jim’s head, his starfleet insignia shining brightly on his Fleet Admiral coat.

Starfleet’s own. Just like Kodos. 

Bones sighed low, and held his hand out to Jim across the table.

Jim stared at it for a moment, hyper-aware of how clammy his palms were, but eventually gave in. He placed his cold fingers in McCoy’s rough, hot palm, and the doctor shifted to comfortably squeeze Jim’s hand in his.

“You don’t make things worse,” McCoy said. “You’ve never made anything worse. You’ve always done the best you could do, and you should be proud of yourself. I’m proud of you.” 

God. How could he just say things like that? 

Jim swallowed roughly, scowling against a sudden pain that raked down his body. His throat tightened. 

He stared at their joined hands, aware of how hot his cheeks were getting. He didn’t deserve Bones’s care. Didn’t deserve his high regard. “I’ve put your medical license in jeopardy,” Jim quietly reminded him. 

McCoy scoffed, the sound a terrible comfort. “You certainly did not. I’ve jeopardized it all on my own. This isn’t your fault nor is it your responsibility.” His thumb rubbed the back of Jim’s knuckles. “Understand? I don’t regret a single choice I made. I’d jeopardize my license a hundred times over if it meant getting you back.”

Too much.

This was too much. Jim’s heart squeezed painfully, and his whole esophagus clogged up, and his eyes burned like he hadn’t blinked in a hundred years.

With his brows drawing together, Jim pulled his hand from McCoy’s. “Why do you gotta say things like that, man?”

“Because I mean it.” McCoy was still staring at him, his expression earnest and determined. 

It was the same expression he got when he was in control of his medbay. So resolute and purposeful, so admirable. Jim always appreciated how unyielding Bones was.

He couldn’t find the words for a response, so he just held his hands close to himself and looked away.

McCoy stood from the table.

Jim’s blood pounded as he approached, but he couldn’t look up at Bones. He was afraid it would make his heart stop.

Bones dragged one of his strong hands over Jim’s head, his calloused fingers carding through blond hair. Jim closed his eyes, his body instantly calming at the touch. His head rolled into McCoy’s hold and he was happy to let it. He loved when Bones handled him like this. Loved when he manhandled him, or maneuvered him, or just... held him.

Sometimes Jim just wanted to let go. Wanted someone else to take control. Wanted to…

Wanted to stop.

McCoy’s thumb stroked Jim’s temple while his fingers cradled Jim’s skull, and he said, “Let me go grab you some coffee.” He pulled away, his fingers brushing Jim’s chin before disappearing completely. 

Jim didn’t open his eyes until Bones was halfway across the kitchen, and focused on the uncomfortable beating in his chest. He didn’t deserve McCoy.

And McCoy didn't deserve to be forced into a custody battle.

Meeting the man's ex-wife for the first time was going to be... interesting. Difficult.

As Jim watched McCoy's back, watched him pour the coffee and stir in creamer, Jim made the quiet decision that he would do his best to hold his tongue. No matter what Jocelyn threw their way, he was going to try to stay on his best behavior. He didn't want to do anything that could potentially jeopardize Bones's chances in court.

He'd already jeopardized enough.

Chapter Text

Bones looked handsome.

He was standing in the foyer, dressed in a nice, dark blue suit, while he messed with his hair in the mirror above the coat rack. Dust motes swirled in sunbeams around his legs, while morning birds sang outside. 

Jim leaned his head against the wall running beside the stairs, his eyes roaming over Bones’s form. His cane rested in his lap.

Bones had freshened up. He’d had a bit of stubble growing the past few days (he’d been more diligent about keeping Jim’s face shaved than his own), and while part of Jim was going to miss the slightly more rugged appearance, he really did appreciate it when McCoy was clean shaven. Bones also wasn’t wearing a tie, and instead had the collar of his white shirt open just enough to give a slight peek of his chest. The look was extremely flattering for McCoy, Jim thought.

With something like amusement curling in his gut, Jim gingerly rolled his cane between his palms, and watched his doctor. Bones kept messing with his hair, kept ruffling his fingers through it before patting it back down again.

After what felt like the hundredth time of Bones repeating the process, Jim laughed softly. “Bones, you look fine. I promise.”

Sighing, McCoy glanced over, his hand flopping dejectedly to his side. “I’m just nervous.”

Jim gave him a small smile. “I know.” He set the butt of his cane on the floor, but didn’t make any move to stand from the bottom of the stairs. “It’ll be okay.”

McCoy glanced at a watch Jim had never seen him wear before. Must’ve been reserved for special occasions.

Like fighting for custody of your only child.

“We should head out,” McCoy muttered. He turned to Jim, sunlight highlighting the tips of his styled hair. Without waiting for Jim to ask, McCoy stepped forward to help him get to his feet. His broad hands supported Jim’s waist and under his arm, and he hoisted him up carefully, keeping their bodies close together.

For reasons beyond him, Jim whispered, “You look handsome,” once he was standing toe to toe to McCoy.

Bones paused with their faces mere inches apart, before he gave a pleased smirk. He looked Jim up and down, just for a millisecond, but it made Jim’s heart pound. “So do you,” Bones said, guiding the two of them to the door. “I’d bet you’d even woo the judge looking the way you do.”

Bones’s hand was warm through the waist of Jim’s gray suit jacket. His heart kicked up in speed, the rough surgeon’s hands tethering like a weight. Why did Bones say things like that?

Jim knew he was handsome, that people liked how he looked, but for some reason whenever McCoy was the one commenting on it, he just… It just made him feel raw.

He sucked in a sharp breath once they started shuffling down the porch steps, the muscles of his legs aching from exertion. His body still wasn’t used to moving around. And it still wasn’t used to pain, however slight.

Bones’s hold around his waist tightened, and he quietly muttered, “Easy, there.” His other hand came around to support Jim’s hip, steadying him until they reached the driveway. McCoy glanced over. “You sure you can do this today, Jim? It’s all right if this is too much.”

Jim released a hot huff while McCoy got the car door for him. “I can handle it,” Jim said. “I want to be there.”

Bones stared at him, his expression unbearably tender. It made Jim feel like cowering. While his heart beat against his ribs, Bones reached forward and cupped Jim’s cheek, stroked his thumb across his skin.

He pulled back like he hadn’t just tried to draw up Jim’s very soul through that facial caress, and instead helped Jim get situated in the passenger side. “I appreciate it, Jim. I’m glad you’ll be there.”

Jim’s cane was sitting on his knees. It used to belong to Pike, but after his death, Jim inherited it. Pure coincidence that he would actually need it. He rolled it across his thigh lazily, back and forth, while he watched birds flutter between the trees lining the courthouse lawn. Every now and then, one would land on the edge of the needlessly extravagant fountain that bisected the front promenade.

Jim would watch it bathe itself, watch the little sparrow fluff up its damp wings and preen its feathers, and had vague memories of one of the Starfleet Academy fountains. He and Bones had gone gallivanting through one of them, one hot and drunken night, years ago.

He hadn’t thought about that in a long time. 

This whole scenario never would have crossed his mind as a possibility back then.

Even when he’d started getting really close with Bones, Jim never thought he’d actually accompany him to something like this one day. 

He was glad he could. 

Even though Jim was just sitting on a bench in the hall, positioned in front of the courthouse’s large windows, and couldn’t actually be with Bones while he dealt with Jocelyn… Jim was glad he was there to take Bones home after. 

They’d already been there for a while. In all honesty, Jim’s ass was starting to hurt from sitting down for so long. The benches in the courthouse were made of real hardwood. Nice to look at, not so nice to sit on for extended periods of time.

Jim planted his cane on the floor and stretched his back, grimacing. He hoped it wouldn’t be too much longer.

The large courtroom door opened, just enough to let Joanna out into the rest of the hall. Just her alone.

Jim sat up, rising carefully from the bench. “Joanna?”

She’d been staring despondently at the tiled floor, her dirty blonde hair done up in a french braid, and her obviously new shoes glistening in the afternoon light. She glanced up at Jim’s call, and her face broke out into a relieved smile. “Jim!”

Joanna ran forward, and Jim barely had enough time to brace himself for a full bodied hug from a ten year old slamming right into his middle. 

“Oof!” He placed his hand on her shoulder, the best he could do for a hug while focusing on keeping himself upright. “Hey, kid! I didn’t know you’d be here.”

She stepped back, smiling at him and glancing at his cane in a way she must have thought was inconspicuous. “I didn’t know you would be here, either!”

He gave her a smile, sympathetic to the fact that she’d actually been dragged out here to witness this shit show. He pointed at the courtroom. “They sent you out?”

Joanna sighed, tapping her palms to her thighs. “I don’t think the judge likes that I’m here. It’s not good for kids, he said. So they made me leave.”

“Well, we can sit out here together, then.” Jim shrugged. “It’ll be less lonely that way?”

She shifted her feet, glancing at the windows. “Could we actually go for a walk, instead?”

Poor kid. Sitting cooped up was bad enough, but in such a sterile and uncomfortable environment… She was probably getting restless. Probably needed to walk off some of the emotional stress of the whole situation.

Jim squeezed the head of his cane, noted the ache in his hips and knees. A small walk probably wouldn’t hurt him any worse than sitting had. He nodded at Joanna with a smile. “Sure, we can take a walk. Should we check out the fountain?”

They spent some time on the promenade, watching birds and talking about Joanna’s school. Jim listened intently to all of her stories about her classwork, her friends. He noted that she never spoke about family. 

It took a few minutes for her to relax into conversation, but by the time they were walking away from the fountain, she was flinging her arms about in animated gestures while she spoke. It was heartening to see, and when she laughed brightly at her own jokes, it made Jim hope to hell that Bones wouldn’t lose custody. She was such a spark. 

She had McCoy’s eyes.

Jim’s hips were killing him by the time they made it back to the courthouse, and he’d been limping ever since they left the fountain. Joanna obviously noticed. She insisted on opening every door for him.

But he didn’t have any time to focus on the pain in his body. 

Not when he realized Jocelyn was waiting for them beside the courtroom. He briefly wondered how long she’d been watching them. Maybe since they’d been at the fountain.

This was the first time Jim had ever seen McCoy’s ex-wife, but he knew it was her.

She was only a little shorter than Bones. Lithe. Mid length blonde hair woven into a braid. Stern blue eyes. Firm lips. She was in a blue pantsuit, almost the same color that McCoy was wearing. 

What a bizarre coincidence that was. 

Joanna noticed her mom and ran over right away. “Hi, mom!” 

Jim caught himself honing in on Joanna’s tone of voice, dissecting the sound of it. She seemed fine—happy, even—to see her mom. That was good. After everything Jocelyn had done to Bones, Jim had been a little afraid that she'd be abusive to Joanna, too. But it didn't seem that way. At least Joanna got along with her primary caretaker. Especially if she couldn’t have Bones in her daily life.

Jocelyn smiled down at Joanna, tucking her own blonde braid over her shoulder. “Have a nice walk?”

“Yeah!” Joanna pointed at Jim, beaming. “Jim is here too! We were talking about what Kimberly did last week at recess.”

Jocelyn laughed lightly, a kind of airy sound to Jim’s ears. “That’s been your favorite story lately,” Jocelyn said, adjusting Joanna’s braid. She was not looking at Jim at all. 

He kept himself still once he reached the bench he’d been at before, and resolutely ignored how badly his joints were hurting. It was like blue flames from an old stove were trying to ignite between his bones.

“Are we done yet?” Joanna asked, looking around. “Where’s dad?”

Jocelyn tucked a strand behind Joanna’s ear. “Your father needs to finish talking to some lawyers. He’ll be out here soon.” She glanced at Jim, making eye contact with him for the first time. Her gaze was like an arrow.

A strange sort of indignance boiled up in Jim’s lungs, imagining Bones having to be looked at by this person on a regular basis. He hurriedly reminded himself about his resolve to mind his tongue.

“I’m gonna go back outside for a bit,” Joanna announced, already inching towards the front doors. 

“Just a few minutes. And stay out front where I can see you, like where you were before.” Jocelyn’s whole posture was stiff and her eyes glued to Joanna while she skipped down the hall—before she suddenly once again swung that icy gaze on Jim.

The front doors of the courthouse closed with a resounding thud through the hall, leaving Jim alone with Jocelyn’s glare. 

He didn’t say anything. He just held her gaze, felt a calm that he usually only got when facing an adversary. 

Jocelyn’s expression pinched, like she was trying to peel him apart with her mind or something. “Why are you here?” She scoffed before he could even open his mouth. “I shouldn’t be surprised Len would stoop so low as to bring his boytoy here. And around my daughter.”

The resolve to hold his tongue writhed in on itself. Jim held his lips together, as a disbelieving heat swirled through his chest. He didn’t mind being called a boytoy, he’d been called worse things, but the implication there was against Bones.  

He wasn’t gonna let Bones’s reputation get tarnished on his behalf. “Not his boytoy. I’m Captain James T. Kirk.” He didn’t often like pulling the captaincy card, but in this instance, he felt it couldn’t hurt to remind this person that he was one of the top commanders of the planet. 

If he was giving her the courtesy of minding his tongue, maybe she could do the same. Maybe his title could convince her to back off.

While her eyes stayed tight and piercing, Jocelyn’s lips curled up just slightly. “So, you’re the captain that let all those people die.”

Jesus.

Jim could swear there was a knife twisting in his heart. A physical pain spread from the center of his chest, reverberated into all of his already agonized joints. Fuck.

What the fuck gave her the right to pull that card? 

The hurt was so much that he couldn’t even think of a rebuttal.

Jocelyn cocked her hip and her smile turned into a sneer. “Why did Len bring you here? To try to flaunt his job in my face? Are you going to use your authority to meddle in my family matters?”

“They’re my friend’s family matters,” Jim said, finally finding his voice. She could needle Jim as much as she wanted, but he just could not let her badmouth Bones at all. “I don’t care about you. I’m just here to support, not to ‘meddle’.”

She huffed, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Apparently she couldn’t think of a counter to that. Instead, she said, “Why did you and Joanna leave the courtroom?”

“She asked.” Jim glanced out the windows, to where Joanna was sitting beside the fountain and running her hand through the water. She was just a kid. He wished this wasn’t happening to her home life. The anger Jim felt on her behalf, and on McCoy’s behalf, reared itself up through his throat. “It’s obvious she didn’t want to sit cooped up while her mother tries to take her away from her dad again . Especially when he is a much more caring and responsible person than I could ever imagine you being.”

So much for holding his tongue.

But how could he after getting a clearer idea of who Jocelyn was? This was the person that made his doctor feel like shit for the past twelve years.

The anger was heavy on his tongue, Joanna’s downtrodden expression after leaving the courtroom still fresh in his mind. “Do you ever even ask Joanna what she wants, who she wants to be with?” Jim tightened his grip on his cane. “How could you bring a kid into an environment like this? She’s not three, she’s not stupid. This sort of thing takes an emotional toll on the kid more than the parents. Do you not even have her well-being in mind?”

Jocelyn’s expression turned to one of disgust. “Of course I do, that’s why I’m trying to limit the contact between her and Leonard.”

Jim huffed a laugh in disbelief. “Is that what she wants? Did she ask you to do that? Has she given you any reason to believe she didn't want to spend time with her dad?” Shaking his head, he added, “How dare you limit the contact between her and her father, who loves her more than anything?”

“More than even you?”

Jim’s heart stuttered painfully in his chest. “Of course more than me! I’m just his captain, I’m not his family!”

She scoffed, and rolled her eyes to the side. “Could have fooled me, with how he looks at you.”

Ice breathed through Jim’s bones. He hadn’t even realized she’d been watching them when they’d arrived, but he… He’d been trying not to think about what his heart was doing anytime Bones looked at him. Didn’t wanna think about his eyes. Or his touch.

“He doesn’t look at me as anything other than a patient,” Jim forced out, and refused to let his voice tremble.

She glared at him like he was stupid. “You really expect me to believe that? The two of you shared his one-person dorm, didn’t you? He even went to space because of you. You really expect me to believe he’s not sleeping with you?”

Something horribly, painfully tight twisted between Jim’s lungs, nearly stealing his breath. The physical agony that time was substantial. Sweat pricked at his temple, the amount of pain he was trying to tamp down finally starting to manifest on his skin. “He’s not.” 

The smile fit itself back onto Jocelyn’s face. Self-righteous and smug. “It’s just the two of you up there at that house. I know Len is a sick person, I wouldn't put it past him to sleep his way up the ranks. I always thought it was fishy how quickly he became the CMO of the flagship. He was never that good of a doctor.”

Jim couldn’t believe how angry he was getting. How the fuck could she imply something like that of McCoy? How dare she imply he had more worth in bed than for everything he had to contribute to the world? 

She kept smiling. “I'm right, aren't I? You’re starting to sweat, Captain James T. Kirk. He must be a better fuck than I remember.”

He was so mad. He was so fucking mad.

Heat spread across Jim’s whole body, accompanied by a faint dizziness. He just gripped his cane tighter. “He is the best doctor in the galaxy. Just because you are too blinded by your own petty, unreasonable hatred of him, that does not negate all of the good that he has done with his life. He will always be so much more than a ‘good fuck’, and just because you never amounted to anything in your own life, that does not mean you can even suggest that he is anywhere close to your level.” The fire in Jim’s muscles spurred him forward, and he took a few careful steps closer, his cane supporting him more than before. “Doctor McCoy is going to go down in history as one of Starfleet’s finest, and none of your vicious, groundless, and frankly embarrassing bad mouthing of him will ever change that. Just because you let him slip through your fingers, that does not mean you can take your frustrations out on everyone else around you.”

Jocelyn blinked owlishly at him, her mouth parted as though she were trying to find a response, but Jim didn’t give her the chance.

“Do you really think your daughter will never notice the poison that’s inside you?” Jim hissed. “Do you think she’s blind to how you treat others? When she’s older, and has the choice to make lasting relationships with her parents, who do you think she’ll favor? The one that split her family apart on a selfish whim, who kept her from the father that clearly loved her as much as she did him? Or the parent that has adored her and revered her, has always done his best to make time for her despite his own growing career as one of the best doctors in earth history? Do you really think that she will willingly want to spend her time around someone who makes others around her miserable?”

Jocelyn continued to flounder. She wasn’t making a sound, and her hands were balled into fists atop her crossed arms. Her scowl was relentless. 

“You never deserved Leonard,” Jim bit out. “The best choice you have ever made in your life was freeing him from the miserable marriage he would have had at your side. Just because your own life has shaped up to be a blatant disappointment, that in no way makes anything that McCoy has done with himself worthless. I will not stand for any slander regarding my CMO. Not as the fleet’s flagship captain, and not as Leonard’s friend. He is the best person I have ever known. I doubt anyone would say the same about you.”

Jim had barely finished his sentence when the courtroom doors opened, and Bones stepped out with what must have been lawyers close behind. 

Bones faltered for a moment, the afternoon sun highlighting the fine contours of his visible collarbone, and he glanced between Jim and Jocelyn. “What’s going on here?”

Jim approached McCoy, his cane heavy at his side with every step. “Your ex is a lovely woman,” Jim muttered, before he stomped past McCoy and opted to continue down the hall.

He could hear Bones take steps towards where Jim had abandoned Jocelyn, before the doctor ground out, “What did you say to him?”

Jim didn’t have the energy to listen in. It was a brief confrontation, but it drained everything out of him. He just kept walking further down the hall, trusting that Bones could hold his own against Jocelyn this once.

Jim was just too tired to stick around. 

He turned a corner down the hall, and found an outdoor patio area. He briefly registered that someone was sitting at a bench, but focused more on getting to the railing beside some flower bushes. He needed a bit of help staying upright, more than what his cane could provide.

Once he reached the stone railing, he leaned against it and exhaled slowly, the pain and the anger rippling through his limbs. His body felt hot.

“Are you Captain Kirk? Of the USS Enterprise?”

In the span of a millisecond, Jim internally steeled himself for another interaction with a stranger, specifically one who was expecting his captain’s persona. He had time to focus on his exhaustion later.

Jim leaned up from the rail and turned to the person on the bench, who he quickly realized was the judge. Or a judge, at least. He was wearing the black robed uniform that Jim could vaguely remember from when he was a kid, back when he drove his dad’s car off a cliff and had to be taken in. 

Jim strangled the pain back and smiled amiably. “Yes, I am.”

The judge grinned at him, rocking back to slap his hands on his thighs. “Well! What brings such a prestigious captain like yourself to my courthouse?”

Jim straightened up. “Well, sir, my CMO is currently on trial in your courtroom. I'm simply here to offer him support.” He folded his hands over his cane, maintaining his smile. “I like to be there for my crew, when I can.”

“Oh, yes!” The judge briefly placed his hand over his mouth, nodding with clear recognition. “Yes, I recall now. Which ship he serves hasn’t been discussed much, just the fact that he’s on a starship.” Leaning back, the judge nodded a bit more. “I’m very sorry about your ship, Captain. It’s good to see that you’re on your feet. The news said you were put in a coma.”

The screeching metal of the Enterprise’s walls tearing around him—flooding with lights and sparks and screams—contorted in on itself until the damaged warp core was burning bright behind Jim’s eyes, and the heat plaguing his body suddenly became almost unbearable, the phantom agony of radiation still palpable just beneath his skin. He continued to smile. “Yes, I was.” Tapping his cane to the floor, he glanced at the hall where he’d abandoned McCoy. “But I am doing a lot better. And it’s because of my doctor.”

Folding his hands in his lap, the judge prompted, “Doctor McCoy?”

Jim’s heart squeezed. “Yeah. CMO of the Enterprise. In all honesty, he is one of the most essential members of my crew. He and I spent a lot of time together at the academy, and have spent even more time serving on the Enterprise together. I can honestly say that he is one of the most trustworthy people I know.” Jocelyn’s hateful eyes pierced through his mind. “His ex-wife, on the other hand…” Jim stopped himself before he said too much. “Now, I admittedly don’t know much about her, she and I have only shared a few words. But I’ve found that her character is a little…” Mind your tongue, Jim. “Well. Let’s just say that I vastly prefer McCoy’s company to hers.”

The judge chuckled, accepting the companionable tone Jim was using. “So, I take it you’ve met Joanna?”

Jim was grinning instantly. “Oh, yeah. She’s a great kid. I wish McCoy could spend more time with her, but… He admittedly is not available often enough to be her sole caretaker, so Jocelyn really is her best option for full time guardian.”

The judge nodded in apparent agreement.

Jim wasn’t sure how uncouth it would be for him to talk to the judge about this case, but he was hoping that the power of his title would allow him some leverage. If he could help Bones’s chances at all, he felt like he had to try.

“If I may, sir,” Jim said, “it is my avid belief that Doctor McCoy should not be taken out of her life. His behavior and care for others is stable and reliable, and more than anything… Sir, he loves her. And she loves him just as much. The two of them should not be separated. It would emotionally compromise my CMO if his rights to contact her were taken away, and I can’t have him be compromised. We are Starfleet's flagship, after all, and he is Starfleet's best doctor. I have known many doctors in my lifetime, and I can say without a doubt in my heart that he is the best among them. He is one of the most caring and genuine people I know. It would be a tragedy for him to be removed from Joanna's life, especially for her." He hoped, briefly, that this judge was aware of his status as the Kelvin Baby. "If her father is alive and available, there should be no reason for them to be separated. Please, take my word for it.” Jim paused to breathe, and stared at the head of his cane just under his hand. “I would give up my captaincy if it meant I could spend just one day with a father like McCoy.”

There was a thoughtful sort of frown pulling at the judge’s face. His hands were folded in his lap, and he inclined his head in the ghost of a nod. “Thank you for your input, Captain. It’s nice to hear from someone who knows the doctor well.”

That… sounded promising. Jim inhaled, and gave the judge one last smile while he situated his cane at his side. “It’s my privilege entirely.”

Chapter Text

“What did you say to him?” Bones ground out, stalking closer to Jocelyn.

Her icy gaze turned from Jim’s retreating back to McCoy, and he was caught under the same mean glare he’d spent years married to. “Nothing. He was being rude to me.”

“He’s never rude unprompted,” McCoy insisted. “What did you say to him?”

Jocelyn’s glare hardened. “Why do you always assume the worst of me, Leonard?”

“Because I know you. I know how you can be to me.” It occurred to McCoy, belatedly, that he couldn’t remember the last time he stood up to Jocelyn. Or if he ever really had. “You better not have pulled your usual bullshit on Captain Kirk.”

Figured that he’d find a backbone against her when it came to Jim.

“What gives you the right to talk to me like this?” she hissed. “Both of you making such vicious, groundless accusations. I can't believe you would bring someone like that around my daughter. Captain or not, he has no right butting into our affairs. Or criticizing me when he doesn’t even understand anything. He’s not even good at his job! He’s supposed to be Starfleet’s best captain? What a fucking joke he is, he let that whole city get crushed--”

“Jocelyn. Don’t you dare talk about him like that.” He’d been on the receiving end of Jocelyn’s cruel tongue endlessly over the years, but for her to turn her abusive words towards Jim? What gave her the right to talk about Jim in such a way? 

Her nose scrunched in contempt. “So you are fucking him, huh? Why else would you be so defensive of him? You never defended me like that when we were married.” She scoffed, looking him up and down. “I’m guessing he was the student you were always rushing to California for. And how fucking old is he, anyway? He’s too young for you. Too young for his job. If he’s anything like you, then maybe Jim Kirk had to fuck his way up the ranks, too--”

“Jocelyn!” Disbelief warred with fury in McCoy’s chest; hot, encompassing, nauseating. He couldn’t believe she’d just said that. “Would you SHUT your fucking mouth, for fucking once?!”

Her jaw snapped shut, her eyes wide with obvious shock. He had never talked back to her, not like that.

“What is wrong with you?” he spat out. “You don’t even know him! Or me! You never bothered to ever really know me, and now you’re lashing out at someone else just because they care for me?!” With his heart pounding with rage, McCoy ground out, “You need to get a fucking grip. He’s Starfleet’s top captain. That’s not an empty title.” McCoy’s hands clenched into shaking fists, and he scowled down at her. “You have no idea what he’s been through. He’s a great man and you will never comprehend how many times over he’s saved earth. Saved you. You can be as callous to me as you fucking want, but him you leave alone. Don’t you ever, ever imply that he slept around to get his position. Your vile accusations have no place going anywhere near him. I don’t even want his name leaving your mouth. Ever.”

She met his gaze, silent and fuming, her nostrils flaring as she breathed unsteadily. “I should’ve brought you to court a long time ago. You’re worse than I realized. He’s made you worse.”

“He’s made me better. ” McCoy’s heart continued to pound, Jim’s bright and smiling face from before his death flashing through his mind. “I’m healthier because of him. I’m happier because of him. He’s given me purpose to my life again, and just because you wanted me to suffer and wallow for the rest of my years, that doesn’t mean you can villainize him for pulling me out of the shithole you put me in.”

Her arms were crossed. She was squeezing her sleeves so firmly that her hands were white. She was still glaring, but there was a slightly more thoughtful look behind her eyes. Her lips parted. “Are you in love with him?”

The heat in McCoy’s chest was instantly replaced with ice. She was asking him that genuinely. “No,” he breathed, speaking before he could allow himself even a second to dwell on the possibility. “He’s my friend. Just because I’m not gonna let you badmouth him, that doesn’t have to mean I'm in love with him.”

She looked him up and down, her brows furrowed in thought, a tight twist to her mouth. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

His hands were still in fists, but he released a strained sigh. “Forgive me if I’ve had enough of you pushing me around.” Anger was still sitting snug in his chest, but almost all of it was on Jim’s behalf. “I’m not gonna let you say whatever you want anymore. Not to me, and not to Kirk.”

A door behind him opened, echoing through the hall, and McCoy glanced behind himself to see that Jim had returned from his brief walk outside.

Kirk was flushed, and pale, and there was a limp that hadn’t been so pronounced only a few hours ago. 

Concern gripped McCoy, and he turned to approach Jim, not bothering to grace Jocelyn with another word before leaving her behind. He hurried to meet Jim halfway, focusing on the perspiration collecting at Jim’s hairline. Was he sick?

Once Bones was close enough to Jim, he reached forward to touch his captain’s forehead, to try to check his temperature. But Jim flinched back almost instantly, with a quiet admonishment of, “Bones,” as he pulled away, and his gaze briefly flicked to Jocelyn somewhere behind McCoy.

Right. No weakness in front of others.

Or… maybe it was because of Jocelyn’s presence specifically? 

Had she also accused Jim of being in love with McCoy? Or had she told Jim that Bones was in love with him, and it made him uncomfortable?

It didn’t matter what Jocelyn may or may not have said.

All that mattered was that Jim didn’t wanna be touched at the moment, and McCoy was gonna respect that. Although, he was itching to help support him... The young captain was leaning too heavily on his cane.

Still glancing at Jocelyn, Jim whispered, “Can we go home yet?”

McCoy’s chest squeezed. Maybe he should’ve tried to have Jim stay at the house, maybe the day’s activities had pushed Jim way harder than anything he was ready for. He hoped he wasn’t hurting too bad…

“Yeah, of course.” McCoy’s hand brushed the small of Jim’s back, a reflexive move to start ushering him to the exit. He let his hand hover near Jim’s waist as they shuffled forward, mindful not to touch Jim if he didn’t want it, but unable to keep from staying close just in case.

Joanna returned to the hall, her pretty new shoes sparkling in the sunlight as she ran forward. “Daddy!”

Bones smiled, stepping away from Jim enough to take Joanna up in a hug. God, she was getting big. “Hey, baby.” He held her close, rocking them side to side. “I have to head out, honey.”

Her hold tightened. “Already?” She didn’t look at him.

He hated, hated whenever he had to leave her. It wasn’t right.

“Yeah, already,” he sighed. He rubbed his palm down her back. “But I’ll see you soon, all right, sweetheart?” He chanced a quick glance at Jocelyn, took in her scowl and her rigid posture.

Fuck, hopefully he wasn’t lying to Joanna. If this court case didn’t wind up in his favor… 

No point worrying. It was out of his hands now.

Joanna squeezed him. “All right,” she mumbled.

Jim watched McCoy and Joanna, his hackles rising just from being back in Jocelyn’s presence. Vitriol was oozing off of her like a miasma.

He really, really did not like her.

He refused to even look at her. If he did, there was a chance he’d start mouthing off again. He couldn’t do that in front of Joanna, not to her mom.  

So instead he stood there, leaning on his cane, and focusing on how badly his joints were burning. His chest had gotten painfully tight, from adrenaline and anxiety and pure stress, and he hoped it wasn’t obvious how difficult breathing was becoming.

“Bye bye, Jo,” McCoy said, planting a kiss on Joanna's head. He stood, turning to Jim. “Ready?”

He was more than ready. He needed to sit down, badly. They couldn’t return to the car soon enough.

“Yeah,” Jim replied. He took only one step forward, before Joanna was lunging forward to give him a hug, too. He stumbled, biting back the sound of pain that tried to escape, and relied on his cane to stay upright. Inhaling unsteadily, Jim placed a hand on her shoulder while her arms squeezed his aching middle. He forced himself to smile, even if she couldn’t see it. “Be good, kid.”

“I will,” she said, clinging for a second longer before she finally released him.

He knew he was supposed to be touched that she liked him enough to hug him goodbye, and he was, but he was so exhausted. His skin was tingling with a horrid clamminess, cold like frost crackling across a window, and his feet were starting to feel far away. They needed to leave.

McCoy’s fingers pressed Jim’s back, prompting them forward. Jim’s eyes were glued to the exit. He started his careful trek towards the car, and belatedly realized McCoy wasn’t right beside him and had instead fallen back a bit.

“The lawyers will contact us about the court’s decision,” McCoy was saying. Probably to Jocelyn. “We’ll just… wait until then.”

She harrumphed quietly. 

Worst conversationalist Jim had met in a long time.

Whatever. He was done with her. Done with all of this.

Air was tangling in his chest. His hands were shaking. His skin was feeling chilled, but his joints were still too, too hot. Everything was hurting. His hips were killing him most of all. 

Too much walking. Too much sitting. Too much talking.

He was so exhausted.

And he was limping, getting worse with every step. He hoped Bones wouldn’t say anything until they were in the car.

Bones opened the door for Jim, and a late September breeze blew over them. It made his already sensitive skin crawl, the sensation too disorienting to be a relief.

But he was breathing easier outside.

Jim let Bones take his elbow when they reached the steps, and he was more concerned about getting out of there than being careful, so he stumbled his way down too quickly if his agonized hips had anything to say about it. A strained, small grunt of pain escaped him when they reached the car.

McCoy was still holding Jim’s elbow, and his grip tightened ever so slightly once Jim made that noise—but he didn’t say anything yet.

He just opened Jim’s door and helped him in.

Jim all but collapsed in the passenger seat. His head landed against the headrest, and he realized with a start that his eyes had closed. He couldn’t breathe. 

The door slammed shut beside him, rocking the car just enough to make him feel like he was trying to keep himself upright on a boat lost at sea. 

He felt like he was slipping under a body of water.

A memory of the doctors on Tarsus tying a stone to his ankles surfaced relentlessly to his mind, their rough hands depositing him in a pool, then the struggle to keep himself afloat until he got so weak he drowned.

He winced, whimpering at that memory. 

That had been his first death.

He was trembling. His ears were ringing.

The car rocked again, as McCoy sidled into the driver’s seat. “Jim? Are you okay?” 

Jim’s voice was buried in his gut. Thin, thin air was sitting in his throat, his lungs too tired to properly draw breath. His joints were on fire. His pelvis hurt nearly as bad as when he’d battered it during the Narada Incident.

His heart was pounding frantically behind his ribs.

Warm, rough fingers settled over his forehead, immediately followed by a sharp hiss. “Holy shit, Jim, you’ve got a raging fever!”

Jim couldn’t even bring himself to grunt in acknowledgment. He was freezing cold.

He was so tired. 

His muscles became heavier, weaker, as uncontrollable as molasses, and he listed to the side while his head hung toward his chest. 

Jim was dropped into a pool of black and ice, his body limp and as good as dead.

Jim came to slowly.

He was cold again, fucking freezing, but it was different from how he’d felt at the courthouse.

Unsteadily, his eyes fluttered open, and he took stock of the situation.

Lights were on low. He was in the tub, sitting in shallow, lukewarm water that only went as high as his hips. A small towel was draped over his lap, soaked through and plastered over his groin, and he was otherwise completely naked. His head was being propped up on some kind of pillow.

Breathing was easy again.

His eyelids slid shut, and he just sat there and focused on letting his lungs take air. He was a little light-headed.

The pain in his body had lessened considerably.

Bones was a miracle worker.

Jim’s heart thudded heavy at that thought, and he opened his eyes again, wondering where his doctor was.

He didn’t wonder for long. 

Bones was right there, sitting on top of the closed toilet beside the bathtub. His elbows were planted on his knees and he was scrolling through his PADD with a frown. He’d lost the suit jacket, but he still had on his nice slacks, and the sleeves of his white button up were rolled up, revealing the shifting muscles of his forearms while he scrolled. His collar was even more open than it was before, the top portion of his pectorals visible in a way that could only be described as tantalizing.

Heat spread through Jim’s cheeks. He was suddenly aware of just how naked he was in comparison to McCoy.

It wasn’t like he’d never been naked around the doctor, of course.

He was sure he’d sauntered around Bones once or twice during the Academy days without clothes on, and had been walked in on by the doctor when fresh out of the shower on the ship sometimes, so being naked around Bones wasn't new.

Hell, Bones had been the one to clean and bathe him ever since his resurrection, after all. But… things had been different in those first few months. Jim had been so worn, so destroyed, that he didn’t care how often he had to be manhandled while nude back then. Physical contact had hurt when he'd first started healing, so there had certainly been no time for shame.

And Jim wasn’t ashamed now.

But things with Bones had been getting… kind of weird lately.

For starters, Jim couldn’t stop thinking how handsome Bones looked.

He’d always known his friend was attractive. In the very beginning, when they’d first met, that was one of the things that had drawn Jim to him first. But his respect and care for the doctor put the acknowledgment of his attractiveness on the back-burner. His friendship took center stage.

That hadn’t changed.

But now, Jim was noticing it a lot more often than he ever had before. It was probably just because he was the only person he’d been around for months. His already intense attachment to the doctor was just getting worse, was all.

And now Jim was feeling shy.

Which was not something that was supposed to happen around Bones.

With his fists bunching around the towel over his lap, Jim shifted in discomfort, causing the water to splash ever so slightly. 

McCoy’s head snapped up. “Hey,” he said, once he saw Jim was awake. He pressed his hand to Jim’s forehead and kept it there, his thumb brushing Jim’s brow gently.

It made Jim’s heart spasm. Which hurt.

McCoy set his PADD on the sink counter without looking at it, his eyes glued to Jim’s face. “Doing okay?”

Part of Jim was disappointed that Bones hadn’t tacked on some term of endearment on the end of that question. He needed to get it together. Jim’s face tightened with continued discomfort while his treacherous heart hammered away. “Did I pass out?”

McCoy’s fingers scrubbed into Jim’s hair. “Yeah, you did. You were running a high fever.” He pet Jim for a second, his palm pausing over his forehead again. “Feels like it’s gone down.”

Jim closed his eyes and let himself lean into Bones’s hand. He grunted softly. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to add to your stress.”

“You didn’t.” He smoothed his hand over Jim’s head, causing Jim to bare his neck just a bit. The doctor placed two fingers over Jim’s pulse with his other hand. “Taking care of you helps me take my mind off of other things, anyway.” He paused. “Your heart’s racing.”

Fucking duh.

McCoy’s hot fingers were pressed to the taut skin of Jim’s neck, which had always been a sensitive area for him. He’d never tell Bones—and he’d certainly NEVER tell Spock—but getting choked always kind of turned him on.

McCoy’s other hand was gently tangled in Jim’s hair, keeping Jim’s head pulled back and his neck on display, and his thumb was braced at the base of Jim’s throat. Having even just three of the doctor’s fingers on his neck was… a little exciting.

He liked feeling helpless under Bones’s hands.

Fuck. And he was still naked.

Jim blinked up into Bones’s hazel eyes frantically, but didn’t move out of the doctor’s grasp. “Today was hard,” he offered as an excuse.

Bones snorted. “You’re telling me.” He withdrew his hands, and turned to pull a towel from the counter. “Jim, I… Thank you for coming with me today. It helped a lot to know you were there.”

A tranquil warmth spread from Jim’s chest. Part of him worried he hadn’t been able to do enough. Jim and Bones hardly saw each other the whole time they were at the courthouse. “I was happy to be there for you.” Huffing lightly, he added, “Jocelyn was worse than I’d expected.”

McCoy hesitated, and carefully pulled the dry towel into his own lap. He wrung it between his hands. With his brows furrowed, his lips parted. “What did she say to you?”

Her grating voice rang out between Jim’s ears. You really expect me to believe he’s not sleeping with you?

Jim swallowed. “Nothing worth repeating.”

McCoy shifted on the toilet lid, draping the towel over his knee as he faced Jim more fully. “I’m sorry you had to deal with her,” he said.

A scoff punched itself out of Jim’s chest. “I’m sorry you had to deal with her. I can’t believe you guys were married.”

“Yeah, well. I wasn’t happy when I was with her.” McCoy leaned forward, cupping Jim’s cheek and sending his heart into overdrive once again. Bones gently pulled down on Jim’s eyelid with a thumb, gazing into his pupils. In a whisper, McCoy added, “But I thought I was.”

Jim let the doctor manhandle him, and hesitated to respond while McCoy checked his eyes. “Are you happier now?” Jim asked, his worn voice barely louder than a whisper.

McCoy’s responding smile was so tender. “Of course I am.” He released Jim’s face and leaned back, unraveling the towel he’d grabbed. “Your pupils are dilated. How much pain are you in?”

A low thrum of an ache was threaded through Jim’s muscles and joints. But it was dismissable. “Was worse earlier,” he admitted.

McCoy froze, meeting his gaze solemnly. “I’m sorry I didn’t get you out of there sooner. I’d hoped today wouldn’t be so hard on you.” He shook his head minutely. “You had a fever of 104 by the time we got back.”

Jesus, that was high. No wonder he’d felt like shit. Jim wondered if the pain had been from the fever, or the other way around. Agitated his weak body bad enough that he made himself sick.

Sighing, he glanced down at his naked form barely covered under a damp towel. Why exactly was he in the bath? "Did we run out of medicine for fevers?”

McCoy grimaced, looking away. “Kind of,” he said softly. “Khan’s blood has made it so that almost all of the medicine I’ve designed for you over the years is virtually ineffective. Metabolizes everything too fast. I need to…” McCoy sighed, covering his eyes with a hand. “I need to remake them all so that your new metabolism can take them. Didn’t realize this was going on ‘til now. Figured it out when your fever wouldn’t budge.”

Oh… 

That wasn’t good.

“So.” McCoy sat up and motioned at the tub. “Brought your fever down the old fashioned way. There’d been ice in there earlier, believe it or not.”

Jim analyzed the tub and was met with the sight of that wet towel again, the only thing keeping him decent. He wondered, distantly, if Bones had panicked at all in his attempts to bring down Jim’s temperature. He realized that his clothes were riddled across the bathroom floor. How frantically had Bones undressed him?

Before he'd let himself ruminate on the thought of Bones undoing all of his clothing, Jim’s gaze flicked back to McCoy. “Well… thank you. I’m feeling a lot better.”

McCoy watched him a moment. “No, you’re not. Your eyes are blown.” He stood, holding the new, dry towel open. “Let’s get you out of there so you can actually relax.”

With one hand braced on the edge, and the other holding the small towel on his lap in place, Jim carefully started to push himself to his feet. The distant ache suddenly surfaced into a stab through his hips and knees, and he released a breathy grunt.

“Easy, honey,” McCoy whispered, his hands bracing Jim by the ribs to help lift him upright. 

Jim straightened out and the small towel slipped back into the water, but he didn’t care about that while his body flared with agony. Jim threw an arm around McCoy’s shoulder, and wrung his fingers into the fancy white shirt. 

McCoy took Jim’s weight against his own chest, his arms wrapping around Jim’s waist and securing the new, dry towel at the same time. McCoy tied a knot at Jim’s side, so that the towel would sit in place without having to be held up anymore. His palms found their place over Jim’s ribs again, and he kept them there while he helped Jim step slowly out of the tub. “Careful. I’ve got you.”

Jim needed McCoy to help him get dressed, which they hadn’t had to do for a few weeks. Jim had been improving enough to dress himself lately, but it seemed the day had worn him down more than he’d realized.

He was lying in McCoy’s bed on top of the sheets, a fresh set of soft pajamas on, and he was panting quietly from the exertion of everything. He was watching Bones, his eyes half lidded while he caught his breath.

McCoy was on the other side of the room, by his wardrobe. He was finally taking off the rest of his own suit. The sun had long set.

The doctor was facing his wardrobe, so Jim couldn’t see his face or anything, but he was obviously unbuttoning the crisp dress shirt. With a roll of his shoulders, McCoy peeled the shirt off, revealing the flexing muscles of his back. He had small moles across his skin, usually hidden under his uniform.

McCoy turned to the side as he bunched up the nice shirt, before tossing it into the corner. 

Jim had seen him shirtless before.

But this time, with the suit slacks snug around McCoy’s waist and ass, his skin glowing in the soft lamplight of the bedroom, and the doctor’s swift fingers undoing the belt…

He looked gorgeous.

Jim’s heart squeezed hard enough that he stopped breathing for a second. His eyes slid closed and his head rolled until he was facing the ceiling instead of Bones. He wasn’t gonna watch the doctor undress.

No more than he already had, at least.

He instead focused on the thumping of blood through his limbs, the splintering feeling in his joints, the pain emanating from his ribs and hips. He hadn’t managed to stop gasping for air, though the pace of his lungs wasn’t desperate. Just uncomfortable.

At least he wasn’t standing up anymore, or sitting in cold water, or struggling into a set of pajamas.

Why was everything still so exhausting?

In some ways, the day had been a disappointment. He’d been improving significantly since his resurrection, but apparently not enough for him to be out and about. He was hoping he'd at least be able to handle a day out.

Would he… Would he be able to recover enough to be captain again? 

Star travel was a dangerous occupation. If he wanted to be good at his job, he was going to need to be able to keep others safe. As was made apparent by the Narada Incident, and the Khan and Marcus altercation, Jim needed to be physically capable of pushing himself to whatever impossible limit was necessary to save his ship.

If he couldn’t even fucking walk, how was he going to manage as the flagship’s captain? How was he going to keep anyone safe?

A warm, calloused palm gently caressed down his face, cupping his cheek. 

Jim’s breath caught, and he savored the return of Bones’s hand on his skin. His eyes fluttered open, and his unsteady gasps started back up, quieter than before.

McCoy was sitting on the bed beside him, had on a form-fitting t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, and was looking at Jim with a horribly tender expression. “Tell me what’s hurting,” he whispered.

Bones was always so gentle. Sometimes it was unbearable.

Jim grimaced and clenched a fist around his shirt, while his heart pounded sluggishly in his throat. His face was hot, and there was a pressure building up in his eyes. Sometimes getting McCoy’s attention really made him feel like crying. “My hips hurt.” He inhaled shakily. “So do my knees.”

Bones made a soft sound at the back of his throat, like a sympathetic hum. With one hand still cupping Jim’s face, McCoy twisted and placed his free hand on one of Jim’s hips. He massaged at the joint carefully, the muscles in his arm flexing as he did. “Was it the walking that hurt?”

Jim huffed, his senses honed in on the feeling of Bones’s broad hand holding his hip. “And the sitting,” he muttered. 

Bones sighed low. “How’s that for a no-win scenario?”

That startled a laugh out of Jim, which quickly choked into a gasp of pain. Jim clenched his eyes shut and grabbed onto the wrist of the hand holding his face. McCoy released Jim’s cheek and instead took Jim’s hand in his, squeezing it hard. 

“I’m sorry,” McCoy said, his voice strained. “Your chest is hurting, isn't it?”

Jim let his lungs pump for a few seconds before he attempted a response. “Y-yeah. Joints, too.”

Bones groaned, as though Jim’s ailments were his own. “So just about everything.”

A smile pulled at Jim's lips, but he didn’t feel like wrestling words into existence. He just squeezed Bones’s hand again.

McCoy drew his other hand up from Jim’s hip, traced his thick fingers along Jim’s ribs, settled them near his collarbone and started to carefully knead at his chest. His touch was so warm.

So pleasant.

The urge to cry returned to Jim. His brows pulled up. “That feels nice,” he whispered, his voice so strangled that he sounded like he was crying.

“I’m so sorry you’re hurtin’, darlin’.” Bones brought Jim’s hand to his lips, where he pressed a kiss to Jim’s fingers.

That made Jim’s eyes fly open, and he met McCoy’s gaze.

The doctor's hazel irises were nearly golden in the soft light. 

Looking into them made Jim's merciless heart hammer away, heavier than a drum, and he had to focus not to let his hand shake in McCoy's hold.

McCoy pressed another kiss to Jim’s knuckles, before lowering their joined hands and instead rubbing his thumb over the fingers he’d just kissed. His other hand was curled protectively over Jim’s ribs. “I’m gonna go downstairs and get you some painkillers,” Bones said. “Even if they’re not as effective as they used to be, something will be better than nothing. I’ll also get some heating pads we can put on your hips and knees.” He caressed up and down Jim’s flank while he talked. “Or some ice. Your whole body was inflamed when we got home, you know.” He glanced down at Jim’s legs, hidden under silk pajama pants. “Your knees were swollen.”

Jim grunted breathlessly. “I’m not used to that. With as often as I’ve been on my knees,” he said weakly, “you’d think they’d have gotten more banged up over the years.”

Part of him suddenly flushed with disbelief.

He hadn’t talked so flippantly about his sex life in a long time.

McCoy smiled and watched his own hand caress Jim’s ribs. “I haven’t heard an innuendo joke from you in a while.”

Well, at least it didn’t seem to bother Bones any. Hell, he actually seemed relieved.

Wanting to see the doctor smile more, Jim added, “Who said I was joking?”

That actually got McCoy to grin. Good. It had been too long since he’d even laughed.

Huffing with audible mirth, Bones paused in his caresses and said, “All right, rabbit.”

Jim’s heart kicked up into an uneven rhythm. He hadn’t heard that nickname since their academy days. Bones would on very rare occasion call him ‘rabbit’ as an allusion to both how little he ate, and how much he fucked.

With how things had been going between them, having even that little reminder that McCoy was conscious of Jim’s sexual proclivity made him feel hot and exhilarated.

McCoy’s hand stroked Jim’s chest and settled over his heart. “Your heartbeat’s racing again,” he commented quietly. He sighed. “Probably because I haven’t actually given you any painkillers yet. I’m gonna get those things from downstairs, like I said, and then we can set you up for the night in your room.”

Jim imagined his room—dark, cold, lonely, the place he woke up to every time he escaped one of his nightmares—and he placed his free hand over the one McCoy was holding over his heart. “Bones, can I… sleep in here tonight?”

Bones paused. “You wanna switch rooms?”

“Dumbass,” Jim sighed fondly. He wasn’t asking to trade. Bones could be so dense sometimes. “That’s not what I mean.”

Bones frowned at him, Jim’s meaning clearly escaping him, before his eyebrows rose. “Oh.” His expression gentled. “It won’t be uncomfortable to share the bed?”

Jim’s heart stuttered. He’d been wanting to share a bed with McCoy for a while. “No. I think it’ll help, actually.”

He wasn’t lying. Bones’s presence seemed to lessen the amount of bad dreams he had. And the doctor’s warmth always made his muscles relax, which Jim sorely needed for the night.

“Okay, but…” Bones glanced at his PADD on the side table. “I was gonna stay up for a while. I need to work on your medicine. I don’t want to keep you awake.”

“Bones.” Jim smiled and wove his fingers between McCoy’s over his chest. “I’ll sleep fine with you here, even if you’re doing stuff. I promise.”

Chapter Text

He was crawling through the guts of the warp core chamber. Crimson lights glowed under his hands, heat was engulfing him, and there seemed to be no end to the corridor he was pulling himself through. His skin was burning. His body was already starting to die. There was no end to the corridor.

And then he was climbing. Pressure was trying to drag him down, back into the electric entrails of the ship’s bowels, and every surface he touched was searing the flesh of his palms. He could feel the bottoms of his boots starting to melt under the heat.

Vision was blurring. Air was thin. His head hurt. An oppressive blanket of radiation continuously smothered him.

Something below him was muttering. Mumbling. 

His boots couldn’t find purchase on the tubing of the core, and he desperately clung to the overheated, humming reactor. He glanced over his shoulder, at the opening of the chamber he had crawled through. 

Someone was in there. Talking. A dark figure was shuffling inside the glowing red corridor, coming closer on their hands and knees. 

“...leaving me no choice...”

Jim’s already weakened heart hammered in his aching chest, his grip clenching around the wiring in fear. 

Alexander Marcus crawled out of the dark, his head smashed in on itself—one eye was still dangling from the shattered white bone poking beyond the cavity of his skull. His upper mandible had been crushed, and his jaw mostly hung open, but still his words came through loud and clear.

“...no choice but to hunt you down and destroy you.”

A choked cry of terror squeezed passed Jim’s teeth. He couldn’t get his limbs to move. They just shuddered and shook, and burned against the metal of the core’s body.

Fear was rushing up through his whole body, as hot and merciless as a torrent of magma.

He was going to kill them, kill all of them. He was going to destroy Jim and his crew, and there was nothing he could do!

Nothing he could do.

Jim was being strangled.

A hot, heavy, strong hand was wrapped around his throat, squeezing so tight that his eyes were spilling over with a frenzy of tears, a contrasting cold across his overheated cheeks. The hand crushing his esophagus lifted him up and off of the core, until he was face to face with Nero.

Jim’s lungs spasmed within his chest, desperate to gasp in fear and horror, but no matter how desperately he clawed at the fingers around his neck, he couldn’t draw a breath. Nero sneered at him—malicious, satisfied, righteous.

Nero drew him close, their faces mere inches apart, the glow of the warp core shining bright behind Nero like a devil’s halo. His eyes were so dark and reflective. So black. His grin split to allow a quiet laugh to rumble beyond his teeth, just as his grip tightened around Jim’s throat. 

“I’m going to make you watch.”

Everything happened so fast.

Vulcan was imploding in front of him, under his feet, on the viewscreen, in the sky above where he stood on Delta Vega. The enterprise was exploding, toppling in on itself, and her crew was falling, burning, dying, dying, dying. Screams filled his ears and his heart, and he still couldn’t breathe, and he could still feel the oppressive and impending presence of —Marcus, Khan, Nero —at his back.

He was reaching forward to make it stop, shield it from view, but his hands were meeting glass. 

Spock’s hand was visible on the other side. So close, but he couldn’t touch-- He couldn’t touch--!

Jim was dying again, burning, dying, his breaths coming in faster and hotter, but he couldn’t reach Spock, even as he was dying--

Spock was dying.

Spock was in the radiation chamber. His eyes were bloodshot and he was weak. Shaking. A tear was dripping down his cheek.

Spock was wearing a red admiral’s uniform, but he was himself, he was Jim’s Spock, and he was trapped on the other side of that fucking horrible, dreadful radiation chamber that sat in the belly of their ship.

Jim couldn’t reach him. He couldn’t touch him.

He couldn’t save him!

Lava was sputtering and roaring on either side of them, drawing closer and promising to swallow Spock whole, kill him, take him from Jim, and there was nothing he could fucking do to make it stop!

“Spock!” Words tore out of Jim’s beaten throat, just as Spock’s hand fell lifeless to the ground and the magma of Nibiru dragged him under. “Please, no, Spock!!”

McCoy hardly slept all night. He’d spent hours and hours working on Jim’s medicine, and had finally reached a point where he felt like he was allowed to rest. Just a few more tweaks should do it, and most of Jim’s medicine should be effective with his very particular biology again.

Most importantly, he’d almost fixed the fever reducers and the anesthetic. They were more than halfway done.

After he got those two nearly squared away, McCoy allowed himself to sleep a while beside Jim. It was more a nap than anything. Agitation was still humming quietly under his skin, everything at the courthouse and with Jim’s resulting fever leaving him with an unshakeable restlessness.

McCoy woke before the sun was up, with Jim pressed close against him—a sensation that he was loath to admit he’d missed. That was the one good thing immediately following the Narada Incident; a few weeks of being close to someone at night. Though he couldn’t articulate why, it was even better that it had been Jim.

He spent a few minutes staring at Jim’s face in the pre-dawn light. 

So tired. Jim looked so tired, and so fragile.

As soon as the desire to caress Jim’s face started to bubble up, McCoy forced himself to get up for the day.

He was in the shower now, leaning against the wall while hot water beat along his back. His eyes stayed closed while he appreciated the shower’s spray and the light massage it offered his sore muscles.

What a long and weird day they’d had only hours before.

McCoy couldn’t believe Jim and Jocelyn had actually met. More than that, he couldn’t believe he’d finally snapped at her. 

His stomach tingled strangely at the memory, like a mix of excitement and nervousness. He’d never before had the strength to stand up to her. Figured it was Jim that inspired him to finally find a backbone.

As usual.

Gratitude mixed with the butterflies in his gut, and McCoy only wished that their time at the courthouse hadn’t taken such an awful toll on Jim. 

He remembered how shocking it had been when Jim had passed out in the car. The anxiety that struck him when Jim became completely unresponsive. He’d damn near sped all the way back to the ranch.

His anxiety had quickly twisted into panic when he’d realized Jim’s fever didn’t react to the medicine.

McCoy scrubbed shampoo through his hair, and blinked at the tiles on the floor of the master shower.

Yesterday, Bones had turned on the bathtub and threw in multiple cups of ice before the bottom had even filled with water. Then he’d hurriedly undressed Jim right there on the bathroom floor. He’d held him close, his captain’s body worryingly hot against his own, and Jim’s skin had looked so flushed. McCoy had briefly straddled Jim while he undid the young captain’s shirt and pants.

McCoy slowly ran the memory back through his head, of undoing the tie at Jim’s neck, and nimbly popping open every button from his clavicle to his navel. 

McCoy had cradled Jim’s skull with one hand while the other pushed the shirt off of his shoulders and torso. He’d braced his hands under Jim’s ribs whenever he had to resituate him, and Jim had been so limp and pliant in McCoy’s hold.

Bones leaned his head under the water to rinse the soap from his hair.

When he’d undressed Jim, he’d been consumed with nothing but fear and determination. But, now… For some reason, he couldn’t help but replay it all in his mind. The feeling of undressing Jim. The heat of his skin. 

There had been a smattering of pink across Jim’s cheeks, nothing but the blush of fever, but it had brought out the attractiveness of his features. His plush lips had been open just slightly. Jim’s skin had been so warm. 

McCoy had removed Jim’s clothing with such urgency and intent that there wasn’t necessarily much to reminisce on, as everything he’d done had been for Jim’s health , but it was just…

Things with Jim had been feeling kind of strange as of late.

Not… bad.

But definitely different.

He’d ignored it at the time. When he was getting Jim in the bath.

When he had Jim draped over his shoulder, and had one hand braced on Jim’s bare upper thigh while the other held the back of his neck as he carefully maneuvered him into the water.

The memory of gripping Jim’s legs, his waist, his hips was returning to McCoy with unfiltered clarity and vividness. 

Jocelyn’s voice suddenly cut through his thoughts. So you are fucking him, huh?

A wince struck McCoy like a slap.

Fuck. He was not fucking his captain. His friend.

His patient.

The image of Jim’s bare chest visible beyond an open dress shirt flitted behind his eyelids once more, followed closely by the briefest sight of Jim’s slacks sliding down his thighs, before McCoy shut off the shower and decided that that was enough.

He needed to stop letting himself think about Jim like this.

As his friend, as his subordinate, as his doctor , McCoy could not let himself ruminate on Jim’s body when the circumstances of his lack of clothing had been that he was wracked with fever.

McCoy stepped out of the shower and scrubbed his towel over his head, before drying the rest of himself and wrapping the towel around his waist. He brought in some clothes with him—more pajamas, if he were being honest—to change into for the next few hours. It was easier to do demanding medicinal work when he was physically comfortable.

Bones had just managed to situate his sweatpants, his new clean shirt still sitting on the counter, when the strangled sounds of muffled, wordless yells carried from the bedroom.

Oh, fuck, Jim--!

Fuck, he’d completely lost track of time, he’d been in the shower for way too long!

Jim had told Bones that the dreams were better when he wasn’t alone, that the nightmares stayed away, and McCoy had abandoned him!

Bones rushed into the master bedroom from its adjoined bathroom, took in the sight of Jim curled and wrapped in the blankets, and realized that Jim was brokenly screaming Spock’s name.

As his heart clenched strangely and uncomfortably, McCoy all but leapt onto the bed and scooped Jim’s horribly tense body close to himself. 

“Jim, it’s all right, you’re all right,” Bones said, wrapping his arms around Jim’s waist and holding him against his own bare chest. “Come back, Jimmy, it’s just a dream! You’re okay, honey, you’re okay, it’s okay.”

Jim thrashed weakly, twisting in McCoy’s hold as his eyes flew open and a deflated shout of sorrow and fear clogged his throat. His bright blue eyes blinked up at McCoy wildly, stark in his reddened face, his chest heaving and one of his hands swinging up to claw at McCoy’s shoulder. 

Bones winced, barely, but focused on caressing Jim’s face and hair. “It’s okay, sweetheart, you’re all right.”

Jim continued blinking, his skin glistening with sweat and tears, and he was quietly whispering, “Spock, Spock,” between gasps. 

“Spock’s okay, darlin’. He’s safe. Everyone’s safe, okay, Jim? It’s okay. It’s okay.” Bones continued to pet Jim’s hair and hold him to his chest, the majority of Jim’s weight heavy on Bones’s lap. “Are you all right? Are you with me?”

Jim continued to quietly pant, and his nails suddenly withdrew from McCoy’s shoulder.

Felt like the skin had been broken, but that was fine. Just a scratch. Bones would take it if it was in the process of helping Jim.

“Jim?” McCoy prompted, as Jim twisted away and held his shaking hands over his eyes.

“F-fine,” Jim gasped, “I’m fine-- I’m fine, it was a bad dream-- Just a bad dream, a bad dream, just a bad dream--”

Oh, no. Jim was starting to panic. 

Bones shifted their positions carefully, got Jim off of his lap and gently gripped the back of Jim’s legs to better push his knees towards his chest. The fetal position sometimes helped with panic attacks, and McCoy wanted to help Jim get out of this as soon as possible.

“That’s right, kid, just a bad dream. Everything’s okay now. You’re safe.” Bones was half leaning, half laying behind Jim while he shifted his captain onto his side. He soothingly rubbed between Jim’s shoulder blades while his other hand continued to hold the back of Jim’s thigh. Jim’s words upon waking replayed in Bones’s head. “Spock’s safe too, I promise,” McCoy said.

Jim continued to suck in half formed breaths, quick and uncomfortable, while his fingers dug into his hair. He was starting to tremble. 

“Oh, darlin’, it’s all right,” McCoy whispered. “You don’t need to be scared. Just focus on breathing, okay? I know it hurts, honey, I know you’re scared. The dream is over now. You’re safe from it. It’s over.”

Some of Jim’s breaths were starting to sound like whimpers. His hands were covering his eyes again, and his knees were drawing tighter to his chest. He was breathing so fast. Jim’s lips kept twisting and pulling into a pained frown. Moisture was collecting around his palms as stray tears were caught by his hands. 

“It’s okay, Jim.” McCoy continued to drag his hand soothingly along Jim’s back, and pressed his lips to Jim’s head. “I’m right here. It’s okay. You’re safe. Everyone is safe.”

Jim was exhausted.

His skin was tingling and cold, and he vaguely felt like he was laying in the ocean. 

Lucidity had returned. 

His body wasn’t shaking anymore. His breaths had slowed to almost nothing, his overworked lungs now dragging instead of pumping. His skin felt like it was floating away from him.

He felt awful.

A warm, rough hand petted Jim’s hair away from his sweaty forehead. “How you doing, honey?” Bones asked softly.

Jim closed his eyes. He hadn’t even realized they’d been open. He grunted quietly in response, focused on getting the blood in his body to come back. He was still in a fetal position, with his hands now tucked under his chin. “Fine,” he breathed.

McCoy’s hand slid from Jim’s hair to his shoulders, where he massaged into Jim’s aching muscles. “I’m sorry I left you alone in here,” McCoy whispered. “I think that’s why you had your nightmare.”

That was probably true. Jim rarely had nightmares when Bones was near, so if he had one this fucking bad, Bones must have left him for quite some time.

The bed shifted as McCoy settled down at Jim’s back, and he carefully laid an arm over Jim’s waist as he spooned him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sometimes Jim wondered why Bones even bothered to ask those questions. He wasn’t sure he’d ever told Bones about a nightmare, or explained what had triggered him into an attack. 

Before he could respond, Bones added, “You were calling for Spock.”

The fear exploded immediately through Jim’s chest again. 

Spock’s dead body glowed clear behind his eyes, real in a way he couldn’t handle, his memories of his own death mixing with that of Ambassador Spock’s death, then mixing further with the memories he got from the meld with his Spock.

He and Spock hadn’t seen each other in nearly three whole months. Jim wasn’t sure he’d ever gone so long without Spock before, not since the destruction of Vulcan. Not since they’d met.

His body and his- his mind- were aching for Spock in a way he couldn’t articulate. 

Terror. He was terrified. 

Some irrational part of Jim’s brain seemed to be convinced that the reason he hadn’t been seeing Spock was because the commander was in danger, or hurt, or dead.

He must have flinched in reaction to that thought, because Bones whispered, “Jim?”

A sudden numbness washed over Jim and he felt his own face go slack. The fear was gone from his body, as was the shame from having panicked and cried in front of Bones yet again.

Emotions vacated from Jim’s whole being, leaving nothing but a tired mist in the hollow of his soul. He blinked slowly at the wall. “I’m fine,” he said, voice quiet but calm. “I don’t need to talk about it.”

“Hey.” McCoy’s hand gently gripped Jim’s elbow. “Look at me, Jim.”

For a half second, Jim wondered if he could just ignore the command, if Bones would even do anything if Jim refused to move or blink.

He definitely would. Bones had limits to what he would let lie. 

Hesitation bloomed slightly in Jim’s chest, but he rolled over regardless, until he was on his back and looking up at the doctor leaning over him.

Who was shirtless. 

Jim took in the sight, his eyes instantly latching onto the lazily bleeding claw marks on Bones’s shoulder.

“I scratched you,” Jim said, his emotions still withdrawn and out of reach. Something dark and unhappy writhed in his gut anyway.

“Doesnt matter,” Bones grumbled. He was frowning hard, and was glancing between Jim’s eyes. “You’re not ‘fine’, Jim. I recognize this quality to your voice. You’re starting to dissociate, aren’t you?”

Jim’s skin began to buzz. He had no other reaction to McCoy’s words, other than the vague thought that he shouldn’t lie to him. “Yes.”

McCoy’s expression pinched, but a familiar determination shone in his gaze. “Tell me five things you can see.”

The 5-4-3-2-1 technique? Something deep in Jim wanted to laugh. 

He hated this shit.

He just wanted to stay gone. He didn’t want to come back. 

It was always better when he couldn’t feel.

Jim maintained eye contact with Bones, breathed shallowly and slowly, and struggled to find the will to fulfill McCoy’s request. 

Briefly, McCoy’s expression changed into something more sad, more tender, before he stroked Jim’s cheek. “Come on, honey. Five things you can see.”

Jim blinked so softly that his eyelids didn’t even close all the way. “Your shoulder,” he said without any active conscious thought. “Scratches.”

“I know, I know,” Bones sighed, carding his fingers into Jim’s hair. “I’ll clean those up in a bit. Not right now.” 

“Two,” Jim said. 

Bones frowned in confusion, just for a moment, before his expression softened and he nodded with recognition. “You’re right, that’s two things you can see.” His fingers scrubbed against Jim’s scalp, likely as both reward and encouragement. “Good job, darlin’. You’re doing good. Tell me three more things you can see.”

The praise made something warm spark in Jim’s chest. He became vaguely aware of his hands resting on his stomach. His fingertips were cold.

“Your mouth,” Jim breathed. “Nose. Eyes.”

Bones nodded, stroking his fingers through Jim’s hair. “Good, Jim, very good. You’re doing great. Now tell me four things you can touch.”

That was a much more difficult request.

Jim continued to stare blankly up at McCoy, his veins flowing with water instead of blood, and he couldn’t tell if his lungs were still moving or not.

“You can do it,” Bones said gently. “Four things. Come back to your body, Jim. It’s okay. What can you feel?”

McCoy’s hand was petting Jim’s head. 

No sound wanted to leave Jim’s throat for a few long seconds. “You,” he finally breathed.

McCoy nodded, but this time he didn’t say anything, giving Jim the space to keep going.

“Pillow under my head,” Jim mumbled. “Sheets touching my skin. My hands on my stomach.”

Bones smiled at him, so sweet and so genuine that an ache lit up behind Jim’s ribs. Heat was building in his throat, and he focused on the stroke of McCoy’s hand over his hair.

“What are three things you can hear, darlin’?”

Jim almost smiled. “You again.” His eyes closed, and he breathed slowly while he tried to focus on the sounds beyond himself. “There are birds outside.” His mouth felt a little dry, so he licked his lips. “The dryer downstairs is running.”

“Good, that's good. You’re doing wonderful. You’re almost done, just a bit more. What are two things you can smell?”

Jim still had his eyes closed. He breathed deeper than he had in a while, focused on the sensation of air swirling in his lungs. “The laundry detergent,” he muttered. Bones had just cleaned the sheets. 

And…

Jim blinked his eyes open and analyzed Bones’s face, honing in on the scent of cucumber soap. “You showered,” he said, offering that as his second observation of smell.

Bones huffed softly. “Hope that means I smell good.” 

This time Jim’s lips did quirk up. “Good enough.”

Bones shrugged companionably. “I’ll take it.” His fingers moved from Jim’s scalp to the base of his skull, where he scratched lightly. “Just one more, Jim. Tell me something you can taste.”

Jim’s eyes wandered to the side, and all he could think was that his mouth tasted gross. He shifted his position into something more comfortable, less stiff, and his knee accidentally pressed into McCoy’s thigh. 

Sighing softly, Jim said, “I need to brush my teeth.”

That startled a small laugh out of McCoy. 

Jim smiled at him, and Bones grinned back. “How do you feel?” Bones asked.

A tightness squeezed Jim’s chest. He was back in his body. Whether he wanted it or not. Bones didn’t leave him to wallow in emptiness. 

“Better,” Jim muttered. This… was better. Even if it was more painful. He was going to have to learn how to be present again eventually. “I’m better.”

Chapter Text

Jim wasn’t better.

He wasn’t better. He wasn’t better.

There was a tremor in his hands that wasn’t going away, but it was faint enough that Bones hadn’t noticed yet. Jim would rather keep it that way. He’d been bothering Bones enough.

Shame and embarrassment were filling his gut. He couldn’t believe he’d had a nightmare, panic attack, and dissociative episode.

What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just fucking get it together already?

They were downstairs in the extra guest room, where McCoy was keeping both the exercise and medical equipment. The bed had been shoved into the corner, which was where Jim was sitting with an IV in his arm, his daily dose of medicinal cocktail already fed into his system.

Jim was half-heartedly scrolling through his inbox on his PADD, his eyes glazing over the screen while he mostly focused on concealing the way his hands shook. It wasn’t like Bones was paying enough attention to even notice any trembling, though.

Bones was exercising with the weightlifting machine on the other side of the room. Not long after the Narada Incident, Bones had picked up the habit of weightlifting semi-regularly. Reason being that he wanted to get better at lifting people without difficulty--specifically patients.

McCoy had once confessed to Jim that it had annoyed him how much he’d needed to rely on Spock in the weeks following Nero’s defeat. Bones didn’t like having to keep asking someone else to carry Jim just because his own muscles weren’t trained for it.

Jim carefully drew his knees up to balance his PADD on his lap, the sheets briefly catching on his bare feet, and he watched the muscles of McCoy’s arms flex as the doctor worked the machine.

Bones’s sweaty face was pulled into a grim frown while he focused, his eyes glistening with determination.

Endearment caressed inside Jim’s lungs, momentarily stilling the incessant trembles that had been cloying to him ever since that morning. 

Before his… death… he and Bones used to go to the gym together every now and then. While Jim would try to fit in as many different exercises as he could, keep his body primed and honed for anything he’d need to demand of it, McCoy always focused on weightlifting. 

Jim admired how when Bones committed to something, he really committed to it. 

Even with everything that had been going on since their ship fell, Bones had been keeping up on his exercises. 

Something quiet and hurting inside of Jim writhed in jealousy. He missed being able to exercise.

Spock used to accompany Kirk to the gym all the time. More than Bones would. Most humans couldn’t keep up with Spock, and most people couldn’t keep up with Jim, so they were often the best opponents and partners for each other. They were so well matched.

A flurry of tangled images of Spock on the other side of the radiation chamber--dying, crying, skin pale with grief and death--shot through Jim’s head like a bullet and he flinched so hard that he knocked the PADD off of his lap.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. 

He was trying not to think about Spock. It wasn’t like he’d be able to see him again any time soon.

Jim needed to stop thinking about him. He needed to strangle this fear out of his chest. He needed to smother it. He was feeling too much. He couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop thinking about dying.

Couldn’t stop thinking about Spock dying.

A slow, exhaling groan from Bones snapped Jim from his thoughts.

Jim blinked frantically and trained his eyes on the doctor, did his best to be present in the moment, bring himself back. 

Bones was sitting up from the machine, while thin trails of sweat traced paths down his face and neck. His black athletic shirt was snug across his chest, and Jim focused on getting his own breaths under control while the doctor shifted over to pick up a rag.

McCoy dragged the rag across his face before pausing with it held to the side of his neck. The doctor panted softly while he met Jim’s gaze. “How you doing over there, kid?”

“I’m fine,” Jim said, his mouth moving before his brain. Sometimes it felt like he was being operated by someone other than himself. Like his body was capable of running through the motions without him, so as to let his soul wither and cower and crawl into shadow without anyone ever noticing.

McCoy continued to frown at him, his pecs rising and falling with steady breaths. He hesitated. “Are you sure?”

Jim blinked and forced himself back into his limbs. He nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure, Bones.” He ducked his head while his cold fingers carefully found the IV in his arm. He gently removed it, years of needles and self-administered medical care making him nearly as skilled as McCoy with the task. “You forgot to get yourself water. Do you want me to get it for you?”

“Can you handle that right now?”

Irritation sparked hot through Jim’s ribs. He glared at Bones, frustration and annoyance winding through his veins. Was he seriously holding Jim’s nightmare against him as proof for being too weak for fucking anything? 

“ Yes, I can handle it,” Jim hissed. “It’s not like the kitchen’s on the other side of the ranch.” Jim kept from slipping any swears into his reply, but only barely. He figured Bones would consider “snapping at him” as further proof that he wasn’t doing well. 

Bones tilted his head in acquiescence and said, “Well, then, sure. I’d appreciate that, Jim. Thank you.”

As Jim carefully rose from the bed, the irritation changed into shame. He had no right to be getting mad at Bones just because the man was doing his job. He was supposed to be making sure Jim wasn’t overdoing it.

It wasn’t Bones’s fault that Jim was feeling almost as raw as he had in San Francisco.

That dream had fucked him up so bad. Maybe… maybe he’d been refusing to think about Spock for too long. Maybe his body was demanding he think about Spock, see him, hear him, go to him, but… But Jim couldn’t.

Spock was going to be on New Vulcan for the next few months. It wasn’t like Jim could go there to see him just because his brain couldn’t stop thinking about the Vulcan dying.

As Jim passed McCoy on his way out of the room, he dragged a few fingers through the doctor’s hair as a private apology. Bones didn’t know he was getting on Jim’s nerves. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. 

It was Jim that had something wrong with him.

The floor felt like it was slowly rippling with unseen waves as Jim made his way to the kitchen. His extremities were freezing. The tremors hadn’t abated at all. 

He drifted through the kitchen on auto-pilot, gathering a glass and filling it with water, his body almost completely detached from his mind. He paused and stared at what he’d grabbed for Bones.

The sight of his hand on the glass of the cup instantly reminded him of Spock.

Of Nero, of Vulcan, of Spock’s mother, Spock’s memories, Spock’s death in another timeline, Spock’s hands on Jim’s throat, on his face, their fingers brushing together by accident, Spock’s hands on the other side of that motherfucking glass door--

Jim was on the floor. He couldn’t breathe. Water and glass was splattered across the kitchen tiles. Blood was spreading from Jim’s hands and he couldn’t catch his breath and he couldn’t stop thinking about Spock on the other side of the radiation chamber. 

Air was pumping fast, way too fast through his lungs. He couldn’t stop breathing like an animal that was getting strangled. He felt like he was suffocating and he couldn’t get himself to fucking calm down.  

Glass was digging into his palms. Tremors were gripping his entire torso. His skin was buzzing, and he felt cold, and he couldn’t get his eyes to focus and he couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t get himself to get away from the shards of glass and he couldn’t stop shaking and he couldn’t fucking fucking fuck fuck fuck get himself to fucking breathe--

There were hands on his face. Warm, rough, steady hands. 

It reminded him of Spock’s hands, of the mind melds, the memories and the deaths and the nightmares and Nero and Khan and Marcus and Vulcan--

“Jim!”

Bones’s shout yanked Jim back into the kitchen, and he realized the doctor was knelt in front of him, cradling his face, and all the while Jim was breathing as fast as a frightened rabbit. 

He wasn’t getting enough oxygen. He was going to pass out. He was soaked in sweat.

“ Listen to me,” Bones said, his voice solid and demanding. “Jim, you need to breathe. You’re panicking. You need to breathe.”

Ice snaked down Jim’s shoulders. He leaned heavily into Bones’s hands, part of him tempted to just pass out right there. Just to make this stop. Just make it stop.

Jim’s eyelids were drooping, but his breaths weren’t slowing down at all and he felt so cold.

“Focus on me,” Bones commanded. “Pull air back into your lungs. Focus, Jim. Breathe with me.” The doctor took a visibly deep breath, before slowly releasing the exhale. McCoy’s thumbs stroked Jim’s cheekbones in sync with his own lungs.

How many fucking times were they going to have to go through this same shit? Why did it feel like Bones was constantly having to teach Jim how to fucking draw air in?

Jim’s arms were shaking, almost vibrating, and his whole body felt like it was encased in thawing ice. His gaze couldn’t focus on McCoy’s hazel eyes, but he was trying. He was trying so hard. 

He didn’t want to pass out. He didn’t want to lose control. 

He didn’t want to keep fucking everything up so much.

Jim’s eyes shut while he attempted to slow his frantic panting. 

“Breathe, darlin’, keep breathing,” McCoy muttered. “Stay with me.” The fingers cradling Jim’s head stroked his short hair gently without the grip lessening. “Come on, Captain.”

Hearing his title made Jim’s heart squeeze with pain. It was enough for him to regain just a little bit more control over his lungs, and Jim gulped in a greedy gasp of air.

“Keep going,” McCoy prompted. “Keep breathing.” 

Jim could hear that McCoy was still exaggerating his own breaths. He could match him, he could. He had to. He would.

Slowly, painfully slowly, Jim’s breaths began to even out. And as the pace lessened, Jim’s body was overcome with an overwhelming amount of exhaustion. 

It was dizzying. He could hardly stay upright.

He was listing forward ever so slightly, and when he pressed his hands to the ground to support himself further, a sharp pain shot up through his palms. 

Fucking glass.

Jim was breathing shallowly, sharp and short, but not nearly as rapid as before. His skin was covered in a thin layer of sweat. His limbs were heavy and devoid of tremors. He still felt like he was gonna pass out. He was so fucking lightheaded.

McCoy’s hands shifted from Jim’s face to his shoulders, and Jim let his head droop. 

“Jim, are you with me?” McCoy asked quietly, bringing one palm up to cup Jim’s cheek. “Can you hear me?”

Jim’s tongue was like a lead weight in his mouth. He grunted softly, the best response he could do at the moment.

“Can you hold yourself up at all?”

Jim barely managed to drudge up enough energy to shake his head. The movement was so slight that if he were with anyone but McCoy, it might not have even been seen.

“Okay,” McCoy said, while he adjusted to take more of Jim’s weight. He slipped his broad fingers under Jim’s arms and half lifted, half dragged Jim away from where he’d collapsed on the floor. “Let’s get you away from the glass.”

Jim let himself be propped up against the lower cabinets in the kitchen. His heart was hammering a rapid staccato against his ribcage, incessant and uncomfortable, and he still couldn’t get his eyes to focus. He was blinking so slowly. He was so tired. 

Bones ran a hot hand over Jim’s head. “I’ll be right back, I need to grab the medkit.”

Jim didn’t respond. Didn’t even move. He just focused on moving air in and out of his lungs, focused on keeping himself upright.

He was half aware of McCoy kneeling with the medkit beside him. A sudden sharp pain bit Jim in the neck, and he flinched as a small groan caught in his throat.

“I know,” McCoy soothed. “Just a hypo to help your breathing. Should help with some of the dizziness you probably have right now, too.”

Jim’s eyebrows ticked up in acknowledgement. He was still trying to come back, trying to exist in the same room as McCoy. 

McCoy gingerly took Jim’s hands in his, palm up, and Jim stared at their joined hands until his eyes finally came into focus.

About a dozen cuts varying in size and severity were scattered across his palms. His left hand had an especially deep gash that spanned almost the entire width of his palm, and his right hand had a few pieces of glass still embedded in the skin.

Hesitantly, Jim chanced a glance at McCoy’s face.

Bones was frowning hard, his jaw flexing and his nostrils flaring. His eyes were fixed on Jim’s hands, and it was only after a strange tugging sensation came from Jim’s palms that he realized Bones was carefully taking the glass out of his flesh.

The lack of pain probably meant that there had been anesthetic in that hypo.

Jim let his eyes slide shut while he deliberately breathed in and out. He was coming back into his body with the speed of a petal drifting onto a pond. The dizziness was starting to fade, as Bones had promised, and in its stead was an unbearable swell of shame.

Jim’s eyes fluttered open and he watched McCoy tend to his cuts, and all the while continued to draw in careful breaths through parted lips. 

Why was he like this?

Why couldn’t he just recover?

Pressure surrounded his left hand as Bones began to carefully bandage the gash there. Jim analyzed his doctor’s grim face. 

“I’m sorry,” Jim croaked, his words so bogged down by the knot in his throat that he was nearly inaudible. 

Bones’s eyes shot up, wide with shock. “For what?”

The sweat was starting to chill on Jim’s skin. “This.”

McCoy’s brows pinched, and he sighed through his nose. “You don’t have to apologize for anything. This wasn’t your fault.” 

That wasn’t true at all. But Jim didn’t have the energy to argue. 

Instead he sighed low, tired all through his bones, and his heart thunked heavy in his chest with every beat. 

McCoy silently tended to the wounds on Jim’s hands, wiped away the blood and secured all of the bandages. The cuts were too minor to need a regenerator. He was gently unfurling each of Jim’s individual fingers, checking them over with his own sturdy ones. McCoy stroked his thumb over an uninjured section of Jim’s palm and said, “What made you panic?”

“Spock,” Jim whispered.

Jim’s whole body went cold. Fuck. He hadn’t intended to say anything.

He couldn’t look at Bones when the doctor said, “ Spock? What about him?” His thumbs stroked towards Jim’s wrists. “Did he contact you recently?”

“No, he…” Jim’s tongue stilled. 

He what?

Had been dying in Jim’s dreams lately? Had been away for too long?

Jim had been missing him so bad that he was starting to have fucking panic attacks just at the thought of the Vulcan?

Jim pulled his hands out of Bones’s hold, grimacing in discomfort. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, “forget about it.”

McCoy sighed in that way he always did when Jim was frustrating him. 

He might as well have just scolded Jim. Or hit him.

Jim almost wished someone would hit him. He couldn’t look the doctor in the eye. He was so ashamed. So stupid. So cold.

One of McCoy’s hands braced the side of Jim’s head so tenderly that Jim was tempted to yank his whole body away, but he was still feeling so fucking weak. McCoy stroked Jim’s hair, his fingers strong and tethering, and some of the fire in Jim’s chest abated just slightly.

“It’s not nothing, Jim.” McCoy’s voice was soft with understanding.

It made Jim feel like his ribs were being split open. His eyes were glued to the floor and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d blinked.

“He’s your friend,” Bones said haltingly. “If you want, I can see about getting a call to him on New Vulcan. I’m sure he’d appreciate a break from whatever paperwork they’ve saddled him up with out there.” With a quiet scoff, Bones added, “Then again, knowing him, maybe he loves it.”

Jim honed in on the casual tone Bones was using.

McCoy was trying to lessen the tension in the situation. Trying to help Jim relax. Trying to help.

Jim’s gut wrung in on itself, and he wished he could just hide somewhere dark and forgotten, wished that he could just disappear and stop troubling everyone.

He desperately wished he could see Spock again, wished he could hear him, but he didn’t want to bother him at all. He was being enough of a child as it was. He needed to deal with his problems. He needed to get himself under control.

And he wished he could just go silent. But he didn’t want to worry Bones more than he already had. “I don’t…” Jim’s voice caught. He slowly brought his hazy eyes to Bones’s patient, caring face. With his throat filling with heat, Jim finished quietly, “I don’t know.”

Bones nodded slightly and stroked Jim’s hair, his face displaying pained concern.

Jim hated when he had that expression.

Hated that he was always the one to put it there.

A roar of rage echoed through Spock’s room as he sat up in bed, his sheets clenched between tight fists, his growls tangling into silence as he fully woke.

Spock sat there, panting, while sweat cooled across his skin. A bead of moisture dripped down the side of his face.

The ripples of his own fury reverberated in his pointed ears as an agitated quiet began to fill the stone walls of his home. 

He had dreamed of Jim once again.

Dreamed of his captain’s death.

Dreamed of Jim’s hand, on the other side of that glass, dreamed of his tears and his voice, dreamed of the life leaving his eyes.

Breath shuddering, Spock slowly uncurled his fists, and realized with a numbed sort of horror that he had torn his blanket nearly in half upon waking.

Spock’s hands sat limply on his lap, the palms tingling and aching from the amount of force that he had used on his blanket in his sleep. Khan’s face had appeared in his dream. 

It seemed his anger towards that man was still present in his mind. Dangerously so.

He had never… destroyed something in his sleep before.

Closing his eyes, Spock drew in a slow, deep breath, and forced his body to accept the feeling of calm that he was trying to summon within himself. He needed to be calm.

Once his breaths were steady and even, Spock carefully extracted himself from his bed and gathered his ruined blanket into his arms. The threads floated in open air, shredded by the brute force he had subjected them to.

This lapse in control was not the first since his planet’s death. Nightmares and emotional responses in sleep had been… almost commonplace for Spock in the months immediately following the destruction of Vulcan and the death of his mother. 

But there had been improvement. The lapses in control had lessened in frequency and severity.

Until Jim died.

Spock had not been sleeping more than necessary in recent months, due in large part to the fact that when he slept, he ran the risk of dreaming so deeply that his memories of Khan and Marcus and Jim resurfaced.

He had been too emotional as of late.

Far, far too emotional.

It was hindering the amount of rest he could find in sleep. And as he was struggling to rest fully, he feared that it could soon affect the work he was doing for the Vulcan Council. 

For the past two months, Spock had been working and existing alongside other Vulcans for the first time in years. It made it all the more apparent how inadequate his discipline was. 

After spending a decade within Starfleet’s ranks, Spock had become… complacent as far as his control was concerned. He had grown too comfortable with being perceived as emotionless by humans, while in actuality his control had become unacceptable by Vulcan standards.

Spock had been hoping that isolation away from humans might help him to recover some semblance of control.

He had not been in contact with any of his loved ones as of late, save for his father.

He knew that he had the option to message either Kirk or the doctor, or even call them, just to see how they were faring, but he also didn’t want to insert himself into Jim’s necessary healing. He had decided almost as soon as he had arrived on New Vulcan that it would be best if he did not reach out.

Spock had not seen Jim since July. October was already beginning.

And he had not even spoken to Nyota since June. His altercation with Khan had… frightened her. There was a strain that had manifested between the two of them, different from when she was angry with him after Nibiru, and somehow worse.

She had told Spock that she needed some time apart. Time at her home. 

And so he did the same.

Spock padded softly through his house. It had been given to him after the events with the Gorn only a few months prior, both as an appreciation for the role he played in securing the planet, and to give him more incentive to spend extended lengths of time on New Vulcan. 

The home was large, made of beige colored stone and clay walls, the floor of tile, with some carpet in the bedrooms. Its construction was such that the building stayed cool, even in the heat of the desert. 

At times he felt that it was too big for him alone. 

As Spock prepared his blanket for disposal, shame fluttered deep in his gut. His inability to fully address his emotions was starting to become more than a hindrance. It was becoming a risk.

One that he would need to address soon.

It was well past midnight. Bones was in his bed, faintly illuminated by his bedside lamp, staring hard at the correspondence on his PADD while not being able to read a single word. He’d been trying to catch up on messages from both Starfleet (largely the medical sector) and the courts, but his mind could not stop wandering to Jim.

Jim’s mental state, for whatever reason, seemed to have reached a breaking point in regards to his separation from Spock.

Spock, of all fucking people.

Bones couldn’t help the swell of bitterness pooling into his lungs. It seemed that no matter how much he tended to Jim, focused on him, cared for him, McCoy still couldn’t compete with Spock.

And how could he?

As soon as Jim had become captain, he and Spock did everything together. They went on every away mission together, dealt with bureaucracies in tandem, worked within each other’s vicinity every single day. They navigated every threat to the Enterprise side by side.

Hell, even when they weren’t on the clock, they’d seek each other out. McCoy knew that Jim and Spock would meet up in one of their quarters to play 3D chess and hang out at least once a week .  

Bones and Jim had never set up anything like that. They hung out when they could, but they never purposefully set aside time to be in each other’s company. They didn’t have a routine that involved each other.

With a deep sigh, Bones removed his reading glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

What was wrong with him? What was he doing wallowing in jealousy and self-pity?

It was good that Jim had another friend. Good that there was someone he could rely on while in the captain’s chair. 

God knew McCoy was almost always totally cut off from the rest of the senior officers, and had no way to be a source of support for Jim while multiple decks below the bridge. It was good Spock was there for Jim while Bones was tied down in the medbay.

He had no business being jealous that Jim was worrying himself sick over Spock’s wellbeing for almost a week now. Especially because he knew it was involuntary. 

It wasn’t Jim’s fault that his brain had practically imprinted on that Goddamned Vulcan.

But… Jim probably hadn’t even imprinted on McCoy, not even after four fucking years spent glued at the hip .

McCoy rubbed both hands down his face roughly.

What the fuck was he thinking?