Work Text:
The red alert cutout too abruptly.
One second the Enterprise was vibrating with power fluctuations, the next -silence. No hum of the engines. No voices over the comm. Just the hollow echo of your own breathing inside a section of alien ruins that definitely had not been on the original scan.
“Kirk?” you’d said then. Calm. Professional.
That had been before the spores.
Before the air turned sweet and wrong, clinging to your lungs like it wanted to stay.
Now, you’re backed against a cold stone wall, fingers numb, heart trying to claw its way out of your chest.
And James T. Kirk is standing ten feet away from you.
“Easy,” he says softly, hands raised, palms out. No phaser. No sudden movements. “It’s just me.”
Just me.
Your mind twists the words until they snap.
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head hard. “No, you- you’re lying.”
Kirk freezes.
Not the tactical freeze of a captain assessing a threat. This is different. This is the stillness of someone who realizes every step forward might make things worse.
“You’re scared,” he says, carefully. “That’s okay. We’ve both been through worse than this.”
“You hurt people,” you blurt out.
The words spill out before you can stop them, jagged and ugly. Your chest tightens as the fear spikes, hot and choking.
Kirk flinches like you’ve struck him.
“I protect my crew,” he says immediately, voice firm but not sharp. “You know that.”
You shake your head again, harder. Images flash behind your eyes -him shouting orders, phasers firing, bodies falling. Your mind stitches them together wrong, warping memories into something monstrous.
“You’re going to lock me up,” you say. “Or leave me. Or- or kill me if I don’t listen.”
There it is. The real fear.
Kirk swallows. You see his throat bob, his jaw tighten.
“That’s not who I am,” he says, quietly now. “And it’s not what’s happening.”
You slide sideways along the wall, trying to put more distance between you and him even though there’s nowhere left to go. The stone is damp, alien, breathing faintly under your palm.
“Don’t come closer,” you warn, voice breaking. “Please.”
He stops immediately.
The silence stretches, thick and heavy. Somewhere deep in the ruins, something clicks and whirs -alien machinery still alive, still watching.
Kirk lowers himself slowly until he’s sitting on the floor.
Not crouching. Not ready to spring.
Sitting.
“I’m staying right here,” he says. “You’re in control.”
Your breathing stutters. Your mind screams that this is a trick, that predators know how to look harmless.
But another part of you -small, tired, stubborn -registers the ache in his voice.
“I think the atmosphere’s doing something to you,” Kirk continues. “Spock warned us the spores could cause paranoia. Heightened fear responses. False associations.”
“You’re just saying that,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” he admits. “I am. Because it’s my job to talk you through this.”
That… doesn’t sound like a threat.
Your knees give a little, and you slide down the wall until you’re sitting, too, arms wrapped tight around yourself. The stone leeches heat from your body.
Kirk notices.
He always notices.
“You’re cold,” he says.
“Don’t-” You choke on the word, panic flaring again.
He doesn’t move.
“Okay,” he says. “Then I won’t fix it. I’ll just… tell you what I’d do. If you wanted.”
Your fingers dig into your sleeves.
“…Tell me.”
His shoulders ease a fraction.
“I’d take off my jacket,” he says slowly, narrating every word like it matters -like you matter. “I’d set it on the ground. Not toss it. Not slide it toward you. Just… leave it where it is.”
He shrugs out of his jacket and places it carefully on the floor between you, then leans back again, hands visible.
“There,” he says. “You decide.”
Your eyes lock onto the jacket.
It’s ridiculous, but it feels like a test. Like crossing that small distance means trusting him -and trust feels dangerous.
Minutes pass. Maybe more.
Finally, with shaking hands, you lean forward and grab the jacket, dragging it back to you like it might bite. You pull it around your shoulders, breathing in the familiar scent of ship-clean fabric and Kirk’s faint soap and metal smell.
Your chest loosens by a hair.
Kirk exhales, long and quiet.
“Good,” he says. Not good job. Not see, I told you.
Just… good.
The fear doesn’t vanish. It lingers, buzzing under your skin, whispering that this peace is temporary.
“I don’t want to be scared of you,” you say, voice small.
“I know,” Kirk replies. “And I don’t need you to trust me right now. I just need you to stay.”
You glance up at him, wary.
“Stay…?”
“Stay alive. Stay here with me. Let the spores burn themselves out.” His eyes soften. “I’ve got the time.”
Something in your chest cracks -not painfully, but enough to let air in.
You huddle into the jacket, trembling, exhaustion finally overtaking adrenaline. Your head dips forward.
Kirk doesn’t move closer.
But he talks.
He tells you about the Enterprise. About Spock’s inevitable lecture. About McCoy complaining while saving both your lives. He keeps his voice steady, human, real -an anchor in the fog clawing at your mind.
Eventually, your breathing evens out.
When the fear ebbs enough for you to look at him again, he’s still there. Still sitting on the floor. Still waiting.
“You didn’t leave,” you murmur.
Kirk offers a tired, gentle smile.
“I told you,” he says. “You’re my crew.”
And this time, the spores don’t manage to twist that into something terrifying.
They just… let it be true.