run, don't walk - "fingerprints of forgotten memories"

Title: fingerprints of forgotten memories [4/4]
Fandom: Star Trek XI.
Characters: everyone, with focus on Kirk and McCoy.
Word Count: 7674 (overall: 27164 :D)
Rating: 12(ish)
Summary: “Jim presses his palm to his forehead, because suddenly there’s just a big fuzzy blip where the name of the planet used to be.” Mistakes that aren’t mistakes can snowball into something else entirely. Kirk/Bones.
Warnings: referenced date rape, language, some half-graphic descriptions of violence
Notes: written for this prompt on st_xi_kink. Sequel(ish) to sealed by a fragile touch. Wow. It's done. Also, this is very much over 25k, and I wrote it in about a fortnight, so that makes me hopeful for startrekbigbang. XD

previous: [“Doctor?”]

fingerprints of forgotten memories

The padd sits at the corner of his desk for four days.

It would be easier, Jim knows, if he just left it in his ready room and never went in there – but he can’t help it. He’ll be in the command chair, legs crossed and gazing out at the bright streaks of warp, and he’ll listen as Uhura mutters under her breath in another language—sometimes multiple languages at once—and watch as Sulu calculates pitch and yaw and roll—which are purely theoretical in space, but still affect the crew and the ship, as Scotty so often points out whilst off-duty and slightly inebriated and running an affectionate hand along the nearest bulkhead—and the bridge will be contented and calm – and then he’ll just have to go, because it’s too goddamn much.

He picks up the padd, and scrolls through, and reads Bones’ logical, reasoned, rational explanations, and then places it down again at the edge of his desk, delicately, with fingers brushing lightly across the smooth surface, and then he returns to the bridge.

Spock watches him warily.

But still.

Bones doesn’t come to the bridge anymore, which isn’t surprising. If he needs to get something to the Captain, he sends a junior medic. If he needs to pass on information on a crewmember’s status, he’ll comm up, and it’ll be brief and perfunctory and leave Jim feeling strangely blank inside.

Four days after Bones came to his ready room in the middle of alpha shift and turned his life upside down, Jim goes to the bridge, goes to the ready room, and signs the goddamn padd.

§§§
Jim’s halfway through a lengthy status report for Starfleet Command when there’s a soft chime at the door. He glances up at the door, and then back down at the padd in his hands. If it’s urgent, they’ll try again, he reasons with himself, so there’s no need to get up just yet.

A second chime sounds in the emptiness of his quarters, and his fingers tighten around the padd in his grasp. He still doesn’t move.

Precisely fifty-six seconds later (Jim knows, he counted), the door slides open and Spock steps gingerly into his quarters. “Captain,” he says, and his gaze is placid and fixed on Jim, “internal sensors determined that you were in your quarters, yet you did not open the door. I thought it prudent to—”

“What is it, Spock?” Jim interrupts, because he’s tired and this report is... Well, now he thinks about it, it’s a weekly status report that’s not due to Command for another week, but still. It’s a head start, because anything could happen in the next few days – something could leave him unable to complete the damn thing, and then he’d be fucked, wouldn’t he?

Spock barely seems ruffled at being spoken over, and the door slides shut behind him with a soft hiss. “I wish to query a communiqué Lieutenant Uhura discovered,” he says calmly, “one which was queued for transmission to Starfleet Command.”

Jim knows where this is going. He suppresses a sigh, and drops his padd onto the coffee table. “Spock, don’t—”

“Doctor McCoy has requested a transfer to the position of Chief Medical Officer on the Valiant, Captain,” Spock says smoothly, and Jim swears he can hear a strange sort of victory in the Vulcan’s voice at for once being the one to interrupt. Jim rubs at his eyes. “In addition, Captain,” Spock continues, “it appears that you yourself have approved this transfer request.”

Jim drops his hands to the desk. “So what if I have?” he snaps, and he doesn’t mean it to come out quite as harsh as it does – but hey, he’s not complaining. “What business is it of yours if McCoy wants to further his career in other avenues than those provided by the Enterprise? He’s a doctor, not an explorer: he has no obligation to be here – in fact, it’s probably detrimental to his career and his personal life.” Jim’s breath is suddenly tight in his chest.

Spock doesn’t move. Jim fights the urge to drop his head onto his hands, because all he wanted to do tonight was write a report, take a shower, plough through a bottle of whisky that’s not even technically his and hit the sack. He doesn’t want to think about Bones and transfers and Risa, because, fuck, things are painful enough. “Your logic is flawed, Captain,” Spock counters firmly. “Through exploration, Doctor McCoy encounters the potential to further medical knowledge—surely the aim of any good doctor—and the pressures inherent in being Chief Medical Officer of Starfleet’s flagship ensure that he... remains sharp.” Jim doesn’t miss the pause. Uhura’s been teaching him idioms again. Spock regards Jim with unreadable eyes, and then says, “In requesting a transfer to the Valiant, Doctor McCoy is decreasing the quality of his career path and his job conditions. This is an illogical move. Therefore, it can be deduced that the doctor seeks to leave the ship due to personal reasons. I believe this is something that should be rectified before Enterprise loses a valuable member of her crew.”

There’s a short pause, in which Jim tries not to gape – and then he huffs a short laugh. “Spock, I think you’re the last person who should be giving me relationship advice.”

Spock’s eyebrow quirks upwards. Jim thinks that may be an early-warning sign that he’s pissed. “On the contrary, Captain,” he says, and there’s just enough stress on Jim’s rank that the scathing tone is crystal clear. “I am perhaps the most qualified to advise you in this matter, seeing as I am both an objective observer and fully aware of the background information pertaining to the doctor’s illogical decision.”

Jim can’t help the shiver of stiffness that grips his spine. The mind meld, he thinks. “Spock, what you saw—”

“My personal experiences are irrelevant,” Spock interrupts calmly, and he pointedly lowers himself into the chair opposite Jim. “They have little to do with yourself and Doctor McCoy, which is the issue at hand.”

But Jim’s learned to read Spock—well, sort of, because he’s never going to have it down to the art Uhura does, but she’s Uhura and she can hear you breathing, damnit—and he can tell by the faintest resettling of a hand and the angry green line faintly traced across one cheek that Spock is angry. But not angry at him, because that results in a lot less quiet stoicism and a lot more strangling. Angry for him; angry on his behalf. And that stirs something in Jim – something warm and grateful and broken. “Spock,” he says, and it’s a prompt and an invitation all at once.

Spock sits ramrod straight, hands neatly folded in his lap, but he turns his dark gaze to Jim, and there’s such blankness in that expression – and that says so much. “What you underwent at the hands of those creatures,” Spock begins, his voice tight, “was something degrading and dehumanising, and something that no sentient being should ever have to endure. There can be no doubt that this incident will have a lasting effect on your psyche, but I find it highly admirable that you have chosen to testify against the ones who did this.” Spock pauses, and Jim realises that his throat is dry and locked, because, wrapped up in himself and his own selfishness, he’d never quite realised before just how deeply Spock had been affected by the mind meld. And this sort of reaction—with words like degrading and dehumanising, and the telling blankness—is something extreme, and something painful.

He wants to say something—to try and express his gratitude and friendship and astonishment—but his lips won’t move.

“Nevertheless,” Spock continues, and his voice is closer to its usual Vulcan calm now, “I cannot help but feel that you are allowing the trauma of these experiences to adversely affect your relationship with Doctor McCoy, something which has resulted in his ill-advised wish to leave the Enterprise. I wish to express to you that I feel this to be a series of events which should be immediately rectified.”

Jim is grateful to Spock—really, he is, because the man (Vulcan, whatever) saved his life and his mind—but thinking about him and Bones just makes him want to curl up inside. “Spock,” he says, and there’s just a brush of steel in his tone. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but this is his decision. He has his reasons; they’re valid ones. And my—” He breaks off, just briefly, because he doesn’t know how to phrase it: my rape, my violation, my mistake. “My situation,” he continues, “may well have exacerbated McCoy’s concerns and prompted his transfer request, but that doesn’t mean that his logic was unsound.”

Spock’s eyebrow quirks a handful of millimetres upwards. “May I enquire as to the nature of such impeccable logic?”

Vulcan sarcasm, Jim thinks, and he’s too tired to play Spock’s games. “Scoropa,” he says, because the name seems to fit – it’s hard and harsh and dry on the tongue. “The desert planet. Whatever.” He rubs at his eyes. “I risked Enterprise—I risked my crew—to get him back, Spock. He emotionally compromises me, and you should know that that’s unacceptable in a captain.”

Spock’s expression is unchanged. “I must disagree with you, Jim,” he says levelly, and Jim glances up at him. “I personally ascertained that the EM effects of the time dilation field would not affect the Enterprise, and Mr Sulu and the navigation department were continually alert to ensure that Enterprise remained at a safe distance. And yes, your actions were perhaps more devoid of logic than usual in your depriving yourself of the proper amount of sleep and nourishment, but myself and Mr Scott underwent similar deprivation in our efforts to regain the doctor.” Spock shifts in his chair, and Jim wonders if the Vulcan is going to offer him a companionable pat on the shoulder – but his companion settles, and Jim is oddly disappointed at that. “Doctor McCoy’s absence emotionally compromised you, correct, but it was not lacking in effect on the remainder of the crew.”

Jim can’t listen to this. He can’t, because can’t Spock see that it fucking hurts? “Spock—” he tries.

“Furthermore,” Spock interrupts, and there’s that strange not-anger back in the faint tension in his jaw, “I believe that if you allow the doctor to leave the Enterprise without fighting for him to stay, then you will have—” And he pauses, and seems to fumble with his words. “Then you will have let them win,” Spock finishes.

Jim doesn’t know what to say. He licks his lips. “It’s besides the point, anyway,” he says, and he’s vaguely surprised at the scratchiness in his voice. “The request’s been sent – the data packet to Starfleet went this morning, and I got the verification it was received just before my shift ended. Bates will be after Bones in an instant, because he’s the best doctor in the fleet, and he’s requested the transfer. Doesn’t matter.”

Spock is silent just that fraction longer than usual.

Jim’s head shoots up. “Spock, what did you do?”

Spock’s expression is gloriously blank. “Neither myself nor any other member of the command crew has done anything untoward, Captain,” he says. “The data packet to Starfleet was sent as per the weekly schedule. However, due to our wish to consult you concerning the matter of Doctor McCoy’s transfer, his request regrettably missed the deadline for non-essential communications. It will be delayed until the next data packet.”

They’re giving you a second chance.

Something euphoric twists itself through Jim’s mind. Maybe he can make this work.

Spock rises from his chair, and gives Jim a brief nod. “I will take my leave, Jim,” he says smoothly, but there’s the faintest flicker of consternation in his gaze. “I will see you at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow, in Conference Room A.”

The euphoria blackens as suddenly as it appears.

“Yeah,” Jim manages.

Spock leaves, with one last look that Jim thinks is the Vulcan version of concern, but he’s too wrapped up in the fact that he suddenly feels sick to the stomach. The door to their-his quarters hisses shut behind Spock – and Jim lurches out of his chair.

He barely makes it to the bathroom before he loses his lunch – his lunch, and everything else he’s eaten today.

Jim sits on the bathroom floor, the taste of vomit scoured into the inside of his mouth, and his breath comes in panting sobs. He won’t break. Not now. Not yet.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

The trial. The trial is tomorrow.

§§§
Bones takes gamma shift.

Well, really, it’s not so much that he works gamma shift, per se, because according to the duty roster he’s assigned to alpha today, but he’s going to be in Sickbay anyway, so he sent the on-duty medic back to his quarters when he’d started falling asleep on a medbed. Bones sets himself up on the cot in his office with a padd in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other—no alcohol, thank you very much, because he’s not about to get drunk while he’s the only one in Sickbay: that’d look good for his new commanding officer, wouldn’t it?—and catches up on his paperwork.

He wouldn’t say he’s engrossed—because it’s paperwork, damnit, and no one gets engrossed in paperwork—but he’s certainly surprised when he glances up to reach for his coffee and finds Spock standing in the door to his office, silent as a ghost.

Bones jumps, and the padd goes clattering out of his hand. “Good God, man!” he exclaims. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

On a normal day, Spock would quirk an eyebrow and they’d bicker for a minute or two before getting down to business: it’s a routine. Not that Bones would admit to having routines with a Vulcan – that’s far too domestic for his liking, and Leonard McCoy doesn’t do domestic. Especially not with Spock. But that’s beside the point – because today, the eyebrow stays in place. “Doctor,” Spock says, “I feel it is necessary that I speak with you.”

Bones retrieves the padd from the floor and tosses it over to his desk. “Okay,” he says grudgingly, because it might be three in the morning, but he knows what this is about. He’s not stupid.

Spock contemplates him levelly. Spock does that a lot. “Your request for a transfer to the Valiant has been provoked by recent developments in your relationship with the captain, has it not?”

“Don’t see how that’s any of your business, Spock,” Bones answers, and retrieves the coffee mug. He pointedly doesn’t look at Spock. He’s not taking part in this conversation. He’s just not.

“Have you spoken to him recently?”

“Not since I gave him the form to sign, no.” Bones looks up at Spock, and he knows that his exasperation and annoyance and grief are blazing in his face. “Spock, don’t meddle in this, okay? It’s between me and Jim – and it’s better this way.”

Spock doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. “Are you aware,” he says, and Bones swears that his tone is icy, “that the captain is testifying in the trial of the two individuals who assaulted him? And that this trial takes place tomorrow?”

Bones is not aware of that.

The coffee mug slips in his grasp, and he has to fumble with it to stop it going the same way as the padd. His fingers are clammy.

Spock nods, just slightly. “The captain has no shifts tomorrow, Doctor. No matter how the situation stands between yourself and him, I feel that he will... require your presence.”

Bones shifts in his chair. “Spock,” he says, and his voice is thick, “I don’t think I can—”

“Doctor,” Spock interrupts. “I am not attempting to pressure you into reuniting with the captain, or into reconsidering your transfer request. I am merely giving you my opinion: I believe that Jim will need you.”

It’s the ‘Jim’ that does it.

Bones barely notices as Spock turns and leaves. He stares at the coffee mug in his hands, still with cooling caffeine inside, and there’s a buzzing in his ears – because he’s not thinking about the captain any more: not thinking about some distant, remote figure with no name but Captain James T. Kirk. His mind is wrapped up in Jim.

Bones thinks about bruises, and scarred bite marks.

He’s glad it’s gamma shift. That way there’s no one around to see when the mug slips from his numb fingers to shatter on the floor.

§§§
Jim’s perched on a chair in Conference Room A, done up to the nines in his dress blues, and there is absolutely no emotion on his face. It’s oh-eight-fifty, and engineering has set up a fair sized vidscreen along one wall, and Uhura’s already confirmed—with the faintest brush of confusion in her voice, because she doesn’t know: hell, Jim only told Spock because some stupid twist of Federation law requires there to be another person present—that the link with Federation space is up and running.

Jim sits, and gazes at the blank vidscreen, and waits.

At oh-eight-fifty-three, Spock arrives. “Captain,” he says quietly.

Jim nods his acknowledgement.

Spock hesitates, just a little. “Captain, should I activate the communications link with the Federation Courts?”

There are other questions there, Jim knows, hidden beneath the blandness – are you okay?; do you want to go through with this?; what do you need? So many questions, but he only answers one. He forces a slight smile, and answers, “Yeah, Spock. That’d be good.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim can see Spock study him briefly, and then pad to the vidscreen controls. There’s a flick of fingers, and the soft murmur of Spock conversing with a court official. By oh-eight-fifty-seven, there’s a courtroom displayed on the vidscreen – a courtroom with a gallery packed to the rafters, an empty witness box, a jury quietly talking among themselves and a pair of orange-skinned criminals seated silently in the dock.

Jim stiffens, and his fingers ball in his dress blues.

Spock moves across the room to stand beside him. “Proceedings are not due to start for another three minutes,” he says softly, “and I am informed that you are the last witness that will be called by the prosecution. Is this satisfactory?”

Jim snorts slightly, because there is no part of this situation that is satisfactory. “I understand, Spock,” he answers, and flashes his First Officer the faintest trace of a smile. “Thanks for agreeing to be here,” he says, and he means it, because he doesn’t know if he can do this, let alone do it on his own.

“You are welcome,” Spock answers soberly, and moves to stand a few paces behind Jim’s chair, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

Jim watches the criminals. He’d never asked their names, because he doesn’t want to know – if they’re just criminals, if they have no identity, then it makes them that bit easier to deal with. Their orange skin is bright against the sober uniforms of the court officials. The male’s face is expressionless—as expressionless as Jim’s own, he thinks with a twist of irony—but the female is sneering – sneering at the gallery and the lawyers and the guards on either side of her.

Jim remembers sneering lips and fingernails rending deep into the flesh of his back.

On the screen, as if she can hear his thoughts, the female’s lips twist that bit higher.

Bones, Jim thinks – because that helps. Because he suffered this so Bones didn’t have to. Because Bones is safe. Because Bones doesn’t have the scars. Because it’s him who’s sitting here with memories dancing before his eyes, not Bones. Because. Because.

Jim just breathes.

The chronometer ticks over to oh-nine-hundred.

“All rise.”

Jim pushes himself up from his seat, and his hands are straightening his uniform even as his mind is wrapped up in the courtroom in front of him. The judge enters—Judge Keyes, a human male in his mid-forties: the traditional judge, down to the archaic wig and the serious slant to his eyes, which Jim thinks is probably slightly ironic, somehow—and takes his seat, and everyone else does so too.

Jim glances to the orange skinned pair, and the female still has that sneer fixed to her lips.

Time passes, and the chronometer ticks in metronomic precision. Jim thinks he probably should be focusing on the proceedings—listening to the nitty-gritty of arguments and counter-arguments and orange-lipped sneers—but all the witness accounts just blur into one, after a while. Women speak of being befriended in bars and then led out into alleys; men recount seduction and intoxication. They all have fear and pain in their voices, and all their eyes are dark and brimming with emotion.

Jim feels sick, but he just presses a hand to his stomach and ignores it.

“This court calls James Tiberius Kirk, Captain of the USS Enterprise, as a witness for the prosecution.”

Show time, Jim thinks flatly, and he stands. He settles into parade rest, and clasps his hands behind his back – hands that are damp with sweat. Suck it up, Kirk, he tells himself, and his breath shakes.

He doesn’t miss the shocked ripple that flickers around the courtroom and comes over the commlink, and he doesn’t think anything of it, to be honest. He doesn’t deserve it, he knows, but he’s a household name, now – James Kirk, the cadet who saved the earth. Household names don’t tend to be subject to sexual assault, though – and the ink-black humour in that thought makes his lips twitch, just slightly.

“Captain Kirk,” the lawyer for the prosecution says, and Jim has to fight the urge to blurt out, Call me Jim. That’d go down well, he figures, so he keeps his mouth shut. And waits. “Could you please tell the court your whereabouts on the night of stardate two-two-five-nine point twenty-three?”

Two-two-five-nine point twenty-three. A night and a day and so much more reduced to mere numbers. Jim licks his lips. “My crew were on shore leave on the planet Risa,” he answers curtly, shortly, sharply. He can do this. “Two-two-five-nine point twenty-three was the last day we spent there – we were due to break orbit at oh-eight-hundred the next morning. In the evening, I was located in a bar on the planet’s southern hemisphere, in recreational node eight-eight-one, along with several other members of my crew.” His hands are shaking. He clenches his fists, because it’s just a report, damnit – just like a report to the Admirals, albeit with a lot less eyerolling and tsking.

The lawyer nods. Forde, Jim remembers his name was: Finnegan Forde. “Why this particular bar?”

It’s evidence of character, Jim knows—proving that he’s a good captain to the judge and jury, and therefore ensuring that they’re more likely to trust him and rule in the prosecution’s favour: politics, he thinks, somewhat wryly—because he’s already told Forde the answer. “I knew a fair amount of my crew were spending their last night of shore leave there,” he answers. “I wanted to keep an eye on them – try and keep them out of trouble.”

He’s well aware of the biting irony.

There’s a snicker from the dock.

Forde blinks catlike eyes at him. “You were drugged while at this bar, correct?”

“I was,” Jim confirms, and can’t help but think of confusion and forgetting and Bones’ angry eyes.

“How?”

Bones, Jim thinks absently, and a curl of affection and grief grips his heart. “I was with Leonard McCoy, Enterprise’s Chief Medical Officer, at the time,” he answers, “and we both drank from the same glass. Afterwards, we both exhibited symptoms of the drug, although his were far less pronounced than mine. It seems likely that that was the cause.”

The lawyer nods, and glances to Keyes. “If I may refer your honour to exhibit twenty-six A, the medical reports for James Kirk and Leonard McCoy. These reports clearly state that both parties were affected by the drug – in addition, exhibit twenty-six B is an extract from the statement of James Kirk, in which it is stated that the drink which the drug can reasonably be assumed to have originated from belonged initially to Leonard McCoy – not James Kirk.”

Consolation prize. Jim’s lips twist at the thought.

Forde’s still speaking though, with tenseness and pointedness thrumming in his voice. “It has already been shown to this court that this pair bribed bar staff in order to gain access to victims’ drinks – therefore, it can reasonably be assumed that their initial target in this incident was not, in fact, James Kirk.” And Forde looks to Jim, and there’s a flush in his cheeks that Jim assumes is the flush of a barrister mid-argument. “Can you confirm this, Captain?”

Jim forces himself to nod, even if it’s a jerky, half-absent movement. “I can,” he answers quietly. “They said as much to me.”

—you’re not the one we wanted but you’re pretty so you’ll do—

He wants to throw up again, but he hasn’t eaten since he chucked up his lunch last night.

“I put it to you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Forde says, and he stands and faces the jury with his expression animated and shoulders tense, “that not only are these two completely devoid of any semblance of common decency, not only are they willing to abuse and assault victims who are unable to defend themselves in any way, but they are also so wholly wrapped up in their need to inflict suffering on other beings that, if their original goal is thwarted, they will snatch the next best thing just to slake their lust for savagery and indecency.”

The next best thing.

Jim readjusts the clasp of his hands, and he can feel his own nails digging into his wrist.

Forde turns back to Jim. “Captain,” he says, and the fervour and rhetoric of a moment ago thrums behind his careful-controlled tones, “while there is no medical report for this due to the defendants’ penchant for rudimentary medical attention, could you please detail the injuries you received on stardate two-two-five-nine point twenty-three?”

Jim knew this question was coming. Forde had warned him about it when they last spoke—told him that it was necessary to demonstrate the brutality of the attack; necessary to demonise the fuckers who assaulted him and get them convicted and sent to the worst-maintained prison the Federation sanctions—but that doesn’t make it any easier. He licks his lips, because they patched him up after, but only to cover their tracks. He remembers, and he might not be a doctor but he can still remember where the pain was and what it was caused by. “Broken ribs,” he begins, voice soft. “I’m not sure about the number. More than one, definitely.” His breath shakes when he breathes out, and his fingers flex around one another. “Too many cuts and bruises to count. The worst ones, though—” He cuts himself off, and swears inside his head. He’s a Starfleet Captain, damnit – he shouldn’t be this weak, this pathetic. “One, on my right thigh. Went down to the bone. One, across my chest. That one’s scarred. I was bitten, too – sometimes just leaving bruises, sometimes breaking the skin.” He wants to mention the circle of white scar-tissue dashes on his hip, but it doesn’t seem relevant. Injuries, not scars. “A concussion, I think. Had a hell of a headache when I woke up. And—” He cuts himself off, now, because he remembers big hands holding his hips in a painful grip and the burn and tear and pain in tandem with grunts and moans and appellations of whore and pretty and fucksogood – but yeah, he’s a captain, not a doctor: he doesn’t know how to put that into words.

“Captain Kirk?” Forde prompts, and there is sympathy in his eyes.

Jim hates sympathy. He straightens. “The sex wasn’t exactly gentle,” he says flatly, and leaves it at that.

He glances to the dock—he can’t help it, his gaze is drawn to the two who fucked him seven ways from Sunday, in more than one sense of the word—and the female is grinning. Her teeth are white and bright and there is sick, twisted glee in her eyes.

God, Jim doesn’t want to do this anymore.

He thinks about the other witnesses—about men and women with brown hair and Bones’ eyes—and thinks about their tears and fear and pain. And he stands straighter, dress blues snug to his skin, because he will not be like them.

Forde nods to him, just a little. “Thank you, Captain,” he says, and turns to the lawyer for the defence. “Your witness.” And there’s a curl of victory and smugness and beat that, you bastard in his voice. Jim was the culmination of his argument, he knows, because the testimony of a Starfleet captain is always going to have an impact.

The lawyer for the defence is Andorian, and his antennae curl inwards. He rises briefly. “No questions.”

Jim wonders if the Andorian’s given up on his case. He thinks it’s a distinct possibility.

The quiet hums in Jim’s brain. He can feel himself wavering, shaking.

Judge Keyes turns his bright gaze to Jim – and, oh, Jim thinks, he can’t be fully human: purple eyes. “I won’t require you to remain a part of these proceedings any longer, Captain,” Keyes says, purple eyes wide and unblinking. “You have a ship to run. Thank you, Captain.” The courtroom moves on, away from the testimony of James T. Kirk, and onto the cross-examination of the defendants themselves.

Jim still stands, because he doesn’t think he can sit down.

Spock moves to the vidscreen and disconnects the link with Federation space, and Jim’s breathing is loud in his ears.

The Vulcan’s fingers are light against Jim’s shoulder. “I believe it would be prudent for you to return to your quarters, Jim,” Spock says. “If it would be easier, I can assist you.”

Jim thinks that if he moves unaided, he might collapse. He feels like he’s teetering on the precipice, ready to tumble down into the blackness beneath his feet. Damn poetic bullshit, he thinks absently, and then thinks: Bones.

He finds his voice. “Yeah,” he says, voice full of rasp. “That might be a good idea.”

§§§
When Bones glances up to the chronometer with a padd full of paperwork in his hands, he doesn’t expect to see Spock standing silently in the doorway to his office – but still, it’s not a surprise, more like déjà vu, because that happened last night, too. Bones puts the padd down on his desk; its soft click resounds in the enclosed space. “Spock,” he says.

“Doctor,” Spock answers.

Bones’ throat is dry. “Jim?” he asks, and he doesn’t care that there’s worry and fear and vulnerability in his voice.

Spock is quiet for a soft moment. “In his quarters,” he answers. He blinks, and there is a kind of weariness in the line of his shoulders. “If you wish, I will speak to Nurse Chapel on your behalf.”

Bones can do nothing but nod, even though he should be saying I can’t leave my post and he’ll be okay until I get to him, but then he’s on his feet, and he’s not quite running, but there’s a lick of speed and urgency and godjimi’msorry in his footsteps. No one pays him much heed, because, yeah, he’s fairly racing through the corridors, but people have their own lives and their own worries to attend to – and he’s just the CMO. He’s not the Captain.

He doesn’t wait to be invited into Jim’s quarters.

It’s dark, with the only light coming from the parade of stars past the windows. The door closes behind Bones with a soft hum, and then he’s shrouded in the dimness. He can make out the familiar outlines of furniture and captainly detritus—he did live here, so he knows where everything is—but he can’t see Jim.

For some reason, that doesn’t surprise him.

He licks his lips. “Jim?” he calls softly.

There’s a pause, and then, “In here, Bones.”

Bones follows the quiet voice through to the bedroom. In the doorway, his foot catches on the crumpled mess of a set of dress blues in command gold, and he feels his stomach lurch. “Jim?” he asks again, and spots a black undershirt clinging precariously to the edge of the bed.

“Bones,” Jim says, and it’s an exhalation of breath more than anything else.

Bones finally sees him – sees Jim, James Tiberius, Captain Kirk, except he’s not looking much like Captain Kirk at the moment. Jim’s naked and standing in front of the mirror, hands by his sides and a vacant expression on his features, and he doesn’t look at Bones, doesn’t move – just looks at himself. Any other day, Bones would laugh and mock and say, Hey, Narcissus, drowned yourself yet?, but not today – not today, because there’s a blankness in Jim’s eyes that scares him.

“Jim, what are you doing?” he asks, and his voice cracks and splits and shatters like dry grass.

“Looking,” Jim answers softly. His head tilts to one side, just slightly, and his fingertips come up to trace the white line scored across his chest. “Thinking,” he continues, quieter. There’s pain and denial in the undertones of that quiet voice. “I had to tell them about my injuries. Would’ve been easier to just show them.” And he sighs, and it’s tremulous and barely-there.

Somehow, Bones just knows what he has to do. Quickly, smoothly, he tugs his shirt over his head – his shirt, and then his undershirt, and then shoes and socks and pants and underwear. The air is warm against his skin – warm, but not so warm as to be cloying. The blue of his uniform mingles with the gold of Jim’s dress blues, and he steps forward, across the carpet that’s soft beneath his feet. He takes Jim’s hand—reaching out to lightly link their fingers in a way that’s tender and grounding all at once—and Jim’s vacant eyes watch him in the mirror. “Show me,” he says quietly.

Jim’s fingers squeeze his, just lightly. “Okay,” he says.

The most telling thing, Bones thinks, about just how twisted Jim’s head is right now, is how when Bones leads him to the bed, he lies down right in the centre, with one hand still tangled in Bones’ and the other winding into the sheets – and he looks so small against the dark blue covers. Jim doesn’t do small – he sprawls and rolls and hogs the covers, and this calmness and quietness and so-tight grip on Bones’ fingers just makes him want to run, because it terrifies him. But he doesn’t run. He stays, and he sits on the bed next to Jim, and Jim’s so-blue eyes watch him with pleading sincerity.

Bones doesn’t smile, because that would be lying – and there’s been enough confusion and not-lying between them the past month to last a lifetime. “Show me,” he repeats, and it might be phrased as a command but it’s a request that’s full of heartbreak.

Jim nods, blond hair messy. He tugs Bones’ hand closer to him, and he presses Bones’ fingertips to his thigh. Bones feels a ridge of scar tissue under his fingertips, and Jim’s grip slackens as he traces his fingers along the thick, jagged mark. “It was a punishment,” Jim says, and Bones’ fingers skitter just that little bit – he wasn’t expecting Jim to speak, because this must be hard enough as it is. “I couldn’t fight back,” Jim continues, still watching Bones’ face, “but I could still talk. I said she was a whore who was shit in bed. Her boyfriend ripped into my leg with his fingers.”

Bones’ scrutiny jerks away from the scar and up to Jim’s face. “What?” he asks, because he can’t’ve just heard that right – the thickness of the scar tissue just screams serious trauma, but—

Jim shrugs, the movement fluid against the pillow. “There was blood everywhere,” he says matter-of-factly. “Stained the sheets. They had to stop fucking me to get the dermal regenerator and patch it up before I bled out.” He blinks, and it’s slow and languid. “Didn’t do a good job, though, because whenever they got rough with me after that I started leaking blood everywhere. They didn’t seem to care. Probably weren’t their sheets anyway.”

“Jim—” Bones starts, but Jim just guides his hand up to his hip. Bones doesn’t even need to look to know what’s there – white, dashed in a circle, the perfect circumference for a female jaw.

“She was a biter,” Jim says flippantly. “Bit my hip so hard it bled with him holding my wrists behind my back, then she kissed me with my blood still on her teeth. Bit her lip, and the boyfriend punched me in the kidneys.” His head lolls against the pillows, and a smile tries to twitch his lips. It fails. “If that’s not a recipe for medical fuck-ups, I don’t know what is.”

The tone is flippant and ironic and cheerful. It’s a front, and one Bones knows so very well. “Jim,” he says softly.

Jim’s gaze flickers – flickers away from the blankness and the emptiness to something hollow and breaking and scared. “Yeah,” he answers, even though Bones didn’t ask a question. His hand settles over Bones’, pressing Bones’ hand flat to the skin of his hip, and then Jim gently slides Bones’ hand up his chest. It’s not a sexual gesture, even though they’re both bare-assed naked and Jim’s skin is warm and smooth under Bones’ touch – it’s not sexual in the slightest, because there’s still that shake to Jim’s hand and the emptiness in his eyes. “There were bruises,” Jim says quietly. “They were everywhere. Some were from his hands and boots – some were from her mouth.”

He doesn’t need to say any more.

Bones remembers a purpling bruise just peeking out above Jim’s collar.

Jim brings Bones’ hand to rest over the long, thin scar running horizontally across his chest. “She sat across my waist and did this with a knife,” he says quietly, and his hand falls away from Bones’ – falling to lie limp and forgotten against his side. Bones traces the scar—a mark left with accuracy and precision more befitting a surgeon than a rapist—and Jim’s eyes are hollow. “He had his hand over my mouth so I didn’t make a sound – they did that one outside, in the alleyway where they left me. He ended up with his fingers in my mouth, so I bit them.” Jim’s lips twist, just slightly, just a fraction. “Blood tasted so bad. Nearly threw up.”

Silence hangs between them.

There’s more to this white line against tanned skin, Bones can tell, but Jim’s frozen – frozen and locked in among his memories. Jim, he thinks, and he doesn’t know if he can fix this. He doesn’t speak, just lets his palm rest flat against Jim’s chest, covering the scar with warmth and comfort and feel me, I’m here.

Jim looks up at him, eyes wide and so-blue in the darkness. “She said—” His voice stops, and breaks, and he closes his eyes. “She said they were cutting in to get to my heart,” he continues, and the words are measured and level and full of memory. “Cutting to get it because it was theirs, and they were gonna keep it and—” He pauses, and breaks off, and his skin trembles “And you could never have it,” he finishes, and his eyelashes are long and delicate against his cheeks.

Bones’ tongue is thick and sluggish. “Me?” he asks.

Jim’s eyes flicker open, and his lips twist into a ghost of his brilliant smile. “Well, she said ‘your friend with the fuckable lips and gorgeous ass’, but I figure she meant you.” The smile holds for a second, maybe two, but then it’s slipping away again – slipping away to be consumed by the blankness in Jim’s eyes. “Bones,” he says, and the word is thick and dark and full of emotions that refuse to be expressed.

Bones says nothing. He just pulls Jim up, up and off the sheets, and holds him – holds him in his embrace with Jim’s skin hot against his. Jim is limp and pliable against him, but his arms go around Bones and his cheek rests against Bones’ shoulder, and he is warm and strong and falling apart all at once.

There are no tears—and Bones expected that—but Jim shakes, and his fingers scrabble for purchase against Bones’ bare back. Nails scrape and scratch against skin, and Bones knows that his shoulders with be littered with angry red lines come tomorrow – but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t give a flying fuck, because this is Jim reminding himself that this is real – that this is real and that Bones isn’t going to leave him to the tender mercies of orange-skinned criminals.

—“I am merely giving you my opinion: I believe that Jim will need you.”—

And Bones remembers his high-minded logic – the logic that’s only logical when taken in context with the fact that he was scared by Jim and for Jim, and they were fucked up by some alien couple who get their kicks by destroying other people’s lives. He remembers Scoropa, and deserts and dunes and the ever-present hum, and Jim’s risks and pressure and stress – but he also remembers the way Jim said I need you because I love you, Bones, okay? and the reverential touch of his hands and skin and lips.

Bones gets it, now, he does – Jim needs him because there’s no one else he can fall apart with, and there’s no one else who’ll keep him sane out in the black. And if some fucked up pair want to take that away from him, well, Bones isn’t going to let them. Because he’s not going to goddamn well let them win.

Jim’s breath gusts in shuddering gasps against Bones’ skin.

Bones hands map warm skin and stroke smooth hair. “I’m not leaving,” he says softly, fiercely, and the words are whispered into the shell of Jim’s ear. “I’m not leaving you. I won’t transfer. I’ll contact Starfleet right now – tell them it was a mistake, tell them it was a joke, tell them whatever. I don’t care. I’m not leaving you, Jim, okay?”

And Jim’s still shaking, just a little, just a tremble of a quaver in his limbs, but Bones doesn’t miss the unmistakeable ring of soft, genuine, breathless laughter that twists from between Jim’s lips. “The transfer never went through,” he says, and there’s laughter in his voice. “I signed off on it and sent it through to communications, but Spock and Uhura lifted it from the weekly data packet. It’s still sitting in the memory buffers.”

Bones can’t help but smile. “Your command crew are a bunch of sneaky bastards,” he says.

Jim’s lips curve against Bones’ skin. “They’ll do,” he agrees.

And then he’s pulling back, pulling away from the flush of skin against skin, and his eyes are bright and blue and there’s something there, now – something that’s not black and empty and hollow. Something that’s just Jim. And Jim kisses Bones – kisses him gently and softly, and it’s sexual and so very not all at once, and it’s thank you and I need you and I love you. They’re not sentiments that will be expressed aloud – not unless the universe is falling apart and there’s nothing left but them.

There’s something dark and broken that still nestles in Bones’ gut.

Bones rests his forehead against Jim’s, and their breaths mingle and twist and entwine. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, and it’s like the words fly straight from his lips to Jim’s.

Jim’s fingers smooth their way across Bones’ two-day stubble and brush his lips, sealing the apologies and explanations back inside, unsaid. “Don’t be,” he says softly, and his eyes are half-lidded. “Don’t be,” he repeats, and it’s like he’s trying to convince himself as well.

Bones closes his eyes. “Do you blame me?” he asks softly.

Jim’s muscles tense under his touch – tense, and then relax, and Jim’s fingers still stroke his skin. “Bones, it wasn’t your—”

“Jim,” Bones interrupts, hand slipping from a shoulder to curve against the back of Jim’s neck – and the stutter of Jim’s breath against his lips tells him that Jim feels it, and recognises it, and knows what that means. Please, don’t lie to me. “Don’t give me that bullshit,” he says, continues, and he can feel the words spilling over themselves. “If I hadn’t’ve been there, you would’ve been fine, and we wouldn’t’ve spent the last month acting like goddamn children. I just—” He doesn’t know what he was about to say. He opens his eyes. “I have to know,” Bones whispers, because he does, even if he doesn’t want to. “Do you blame me?”

Jim’s gaze is solemn and honest and dull and bright all at once. “Not enough to let you go,” he answers, and it’s whispered like it’s a secret that he’s keeping from himself.

They lie together, twisted around one another with hands wound into hair and bracketed over flesh, and there might be scars ravaging tanned skin, but still there’s the constancy of a hand curved around the back of a neck, and breaths whisper in unison against lips that have so much to say yet remain so very silent.

This is how they are.

Bones closes his eyes and presses his cheek to Jim’s hair, and hopes this is enough.

finis
sequel: [glass right down the middle]