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No matter how many times Jim says it, he’s sure that Khan doesn’t really believe him. It’s not a problem. Jim’s more than happy to help with the healing process, to be there for the man he loves. If anything, he feels partially responsible, simply for being a member of Starfleet. (Even though this isn’t Starfleet’s fault—it’s Marcus’, and that’s precisely the reason Jim never mourns the Admiral’s death.)
He slips out of bed at four in the morning, noticing instantly the empty space beside him. He whispers an order to the computer, setting the lights to fifteen percent—enough to see by. He pads over to the washroom of his Earth apartment, where the lights are at fifty percent past the doors.
And Khan’s standing next to the toilet, his hands shaking at his side, his face caught somewhere between a wince and a scowl. Sometimes, he can’t stop shaking. It’s the stress; it’s the trauma. He says he’s an augment, and it doesn’t affect him, but Jim’s served with Spock long enough to know an emotional lie when he sees one.
Augments may stand stronger, but that doesn’t make them fall any less far. Khan’s all power on the outside but cracks and damage on the inside, and the look he shoots Jim is so utterly pathetic that Jim’s heart clenches in his chest.
Khan’s trying to force his hands still with sheer willpower. His lips are slightly parted, trembling with the rest of him. His eyebrows are knit together, both determined and pained. A bit of his dark hair is in his face, ruffled from being in bed. He’s sweating.
Jim doesn’t drink in that pretty face. He doesn’t admire Khan’s striking body. He doesn’t look at the taut curve of Khan’s ass or the defined shape of Khan’s pecs; he keeps himself focused and steps up to the near-naked Adonis before him, whispering discretely, “Do you need to go?”
“I need to regain control of myself,” Khan hisses, voice so deep and full of anguish. Jim lives for that voice. He wants to tell Khan to relax, to accept this for what it is. Healing will take time. Nightmares and breakdowns are par for the course. But he knows it won’t be any use; Khan doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t want to admit it. (Maybe he’ll never heal, that way.)
Jim steps closer, slipping one hand comfortingly around Khan’s back, lightly holding Khan’s waist. The other hand crawls into the front of Khan’s boxers, pulling them down enough to pull out Khan’s cock. It’s not hard in his hands like he’s used to, and he tries not to think of that. Touching Khan always sets his skin on fire, but this isn’t about sex. It’s Jim’s first relationship where he can fathom so much more. It’s about him being there for someone he loves, even if that someone is a sexgod and a work of art and always trying to distract him with more sex. Khan’s head tilts to press a hard kiss into the side of Jim’s face, but Jim mumbles, “No.” It’s sort of like swatting a puppy. They’re not going to do this while Khan’s uncomfortable. Khan looks away with a frustrated draw of breath. Jim leans into his face, sighing and pressing close, just to let Khan know he’s there.
Then he lifts Khan’s cock to point at the toilet, the lid already open. He almost makes a joke about thanking Khan for holding back rather than making a mess, but then he thinks better and keeps quiet. He gently rubs his thumb across the soft skin of the shaft, purring in Khan’s ear, “Go.”
Khan shivers but obeys.
He knows his limits, even if he won’t admit them. His pretty, ever-changing eyes stay closed while Jim aims Khan properly, the steady stream pouring right into its target. A wince, and Khan looks away. Jim nuzzles into his face and kisses him chastely, trying to be soothing. It’s okay. Jim needed recovery, too. He was also a mess, back when he nearly died. And Khan held him, was there for him. If anything, these roadblocks make the two of them stronger. Jim lightly squeezes Khan’s hip.
When the stream begins to falter, Jim lightly squeezes Khan’s cock, milking it all out. He even nudges Khan to bring him closer at the end, and then he shakes the last drops out. Khan’s still trembling in Jim’s arms.
As soon as he’s done pissing, his knees seem to give way, and Jim lets him slowly sink to the floor. Jim follows, still holding him tight. Jim tucks Khan back into his boxers, and the toilet automatically flushes. The bathroom tile’s cold against Jim’s bare legs, and he pulls Khan into him, not wanting Khan to be cold too.
Khan doesn’t curl into Jim like the shivering, strained wreck he is. He lunges into Jim’s arms like a wounded, feral animal, wrapping so thickly around Jim that it’s a struggle to not fall onto his back. Khan’s face buries in the crook of Jim’s neck, Khan’s legs tangled with Jim’s, Khan’s arms around Jim’s body, clutching at his skin and probably leaving finger marks.
“I’ll heal,” Khan hisses, and Jim’s not sure which one of them he’s talking to.
So Jim just pets his hair and breathes, “I know. And I’ll be here until you do.” And after that, and for as long as he can.
Khan doesn’t stop shaking until he falls asleep like that, nestled up against Jim’s chest, a dozen minutes later, and Jim caries him back to bed, knowing the morning will be better.