In the Dark I'll Find You
Title: In the Dark I’ll Find You
Author: Caera1996
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: R
Disclaimer: None of it, not even the premise, is mine.
Summary/Explanation: So, a very, very long time ago, a request was made in part 9 of the original kink meme for Kirk to open up to a lover about long-term abuse he suffered as a child. I think this was the first thing I’ve ever written for ST XI and I filled it, mostly. But then (and I’m ashamed to admit it) kinda forgot about it and it ended in a way that was sort of incomplete. So, here it is; cleaned up, filled out, and more complete.
I don’t think I’ll be able to post another part of TBoPE till Monday or Tuesday, cause I’m going home to visit with the parents for Father’s Day, but I wanted to get this squared away.
WARNING: This story deals with past child sexual abuse. It is not graphically described, but please do not read it if you think it will bother you.
It was quiet now. Jim’s breath was still shuddering a little, the tremors that had wracked his frame as he catapulted out of a nightmare and into the waking world subsiding until Bones could only feel the lightest of shivers passing through him. Bones wrapped his arm around Jim, and he pillowed his head on Bones’ shoulder.
That had been a bad one.
Nightmares are never fun, but whatever horror show Jim’s mind had been intent on playing out this evening was not the standard fare. Nightmares like this one happened far less often, but still, damnit, still happened. Bones could tell the difference between the two types. He could tell in the wild-eyed way Jim struggled against him when he first woke up. He could tell in the way he cried out, sounding terrified and desperate and angry all at once. He could tell in the way it took Bones turning on the lights so that Jim could see, really see, that whatever it was, it was over; and that he really was okay, and safe. And, most heartbreakingly, he could tell in the way Jim seemed unable to look him in the eye, and the next morning when Jim would get dressed in the bathroom after a shower behind a locked door, and leave with a tight smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes, and just wasn’t Jim. He was always back to normal by the next time Bones saw him, and he never, ever wanted to talk about it.
McCoy was a medical doctor, yes. But, he also held a degree in psychology, and unlike some people, he wasn’t blind to what was right in front of him.
Bones dropped a kiss to the top of Jim’s head and listened as his breath evened out, Jim finally dropping back off to sleep. Bones lay awake, contemplating.
“Why don’t you trust me enough to tell me?” he whispered, and jumped slightly when he felt Jim’s hand clench into a fist around Bones’ t-shirt. Shit. He thought Jim was asleep.
“Jim?” he said cautiously, still barely a whisper. He closed his eyes when Jim whispered back.
“I do trust you. I just….can’t.” He sounded so damn young. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t a child, and coddling him like a child wasn’t going to help. Thoughtfully, he trailed his hand gently up and down Jim’s arm.
“Nothing you tell me would change the way I feel about you, or what I think of you. Everything that happens to us - all the good and all the bad - it all makes us who we are. I love you, just the way you are, no matter what happened along your way.”
Jim is quiet for a long time, and only the fact that he is still fisting Bones’ shirt gives any indication that he’s still awake.
“Everyone always says that it won’t change anything, but how could it not?” Jim finally asks quietly, his voice hoarse with sleep and emotion. “How could you not think of me differently if you knew…” He trailed off, the unspoken ‘what happened to me’ hovering in the air between them. Bones thinks carefully about what he says next.
“When…when I told you about my father, about what I did, and what happened after, you - who never had the benefit of your own father, who had never taken--” He has to clear his throat. “--taken a life like that…you didn’t blame me. As a matter of fact, you said, and I quote, ‘Don’t be an ass. There was no way for you to know. It wasn’t your fault, and it doesn’t change anything.’”
Bones practically holds his breath, hoping the words have their intended effect. He’s afraid that if he moves an inch whatever fragile thread that is being created here between the two of them will be broken.
“It’s not the same," Jim said. Bones thought he felt his shirt dampening, and craned his neck as far as he could to try to get a glimpse of Jim’s face. With lights down to 10% it was too dark so see much of anything. It was probably better that way.
“Why not?” he asked quietly. Jim heaved a sigh, and let go of Bones’ shirt, his hand smoothing the material over with little strokes. “Because…because it just isn’t. Because I could have run away…I could have told someone.” Jim’s hand clenches again, and this time, Bones reaches with his other one to hold on to him. Jim holds him tightly, pressing his face against his shoulder, conflicted between needing to hide and needing comfort, and Bones holds him just as tightly back. And, oh, god. Even though he’d guessed, it doesn’t make it any easier to hear. Anger and sadness builds in his chest for what the child had gone through, and spilled over into grief for this man who he loves, who drives him crazy with recklessness he maybe understands a little better now, and whose exuberance and passion for life had survived, proving that the influence of the good outweighed that of the bad.
“Jim, anything that happened to you as a child was the fault of the adult. Nothing, none of it, was your fault. A child shouldn’t have to run away to be safe. And if you never felt safe enough to tell someone, that wasn’t your fault either.”
“I know. I know what happened wasn’t my fault. But I still should have done something.”
McCoy clenched his jaw for a second, taking a deep breath. The anger he was feeling wasn’t directed at Jim, and took a second to reign it in.
“Damnit Jim, you should never have had to ‘do something.’ You should have been safe and loved and cared for without ever having to worry about it.” He paused. “You’re safe and loved and cared for now. You never, never have to worry about that.” Jim reacted to McCoy’s fervent tone. He lifted his head and craned his neck slightly to look him in the eye.
“I know,” he said. McCoy held his gaze in the dim lighting.
“Will you tell me?” he asked finally. Jim returned his head to its resting place on McCoy’s shoulder and sighed.
“I’ll try.”
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The next morning Jim was gone before McCoy is awake. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he runs a hand over his face and stares at the wall, wondering what this meant. Jim said he’d try to open up, but then he’s gone two hours before his shift even starts. Going through the motions of beginning his own day, McCoy decided he was going to play it cool. Jim had to be willing to talk, and before that could happen, he’d have to live with that decision.
That might take a while. Holding that much inside for as long as he did had become a way of life for Jim. It’s only natural that it would take some time to change the way he thought of his past - not as something to be shoved aside, ignored or buried; but as something that could be brought out in the open, examined, dismantled, and then put away neatly.
Their paths don’t cross that day, which, as far as McCoy is concerned, was not necessarily a bad thing. If there’s a day Jim doesn’t end up occupying one the sickbay beds, then it’s been a pretty good day. But Jim doesn’t comm him for no reason other than to annoy him (like usual), and they don’t grab lunch together, either in McCoy’s office or the Mess. Again, not completely unheard of, but far from common, especially when there’s not some kind of crisis going on.
That night, McCoy eats dinner alone, and when he gets to their room, he’s the only one there. This, too, might not mean anything - it wasn’t unusual for Jim to spend time with crewmembers after hours…he could be with Spock playing chess for all McCoy knew - and usually he didn’t mind the occasion to relax by himself. But this was different, and McCoy recognized it for what it was.
Jim was avoiding him. This was annoyingly disheartening, because although Jim says he trusts him, may even intellectually mean it, on another level there’s hesitancy and reticence. Annoying and disheartening, but also not a huge surprise. For a man who wore his devil-may-care attitude like a shield, having anyone…even McCoy, maybe especially McCoy…seeing him as vulnerable as he was last night must have been a little disconcerting. Jim didn’t do vulnerable. He was the strong one, providing comfort and leadership, and not believing in no-wins in a way that makes you not believe too - and all that other crap that’s rolled up into a person who never admits when he’s hurt, physically, or otherwise.
Finally, when his eyes are so tired the words on the PADD he’s reading blurs, McCoy goes to bed alone.
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Hours later McCoy is woken by the feeling of the bed dipping and the blankets being lifted. He lay still, giving Jim no reason to believe he was still awake. He waited until Jim arranged himself comfortably and stopped squirming around.
“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with hoarse with weariness. He felt Jim give a little start beside him.
“Sorry to wake you,” Jim said quickly. “I was just…”
"‘S okay,” McCoy said. He didn’t want him to feel like he had to explain -- he thought he kind of understood already. McCoy turned so they were lying face to face. Jim’s head was down slightly, not meeting his eyes. McCoy didn’t try to make him. He simply put his arm around him, waiting out the automatic tensing until Jim was relaxed once again. He tightened his hold, pulling Jim closer to him and letting him hide his face against his chest. “It’s okay,” he said again, and this time he wasn’t talking about the fact that Jim had woken him.
They lay in silence for a while, taking comfort from each other’s presence. Jim, because McCoy was the only one who really knew him…and that was a confusing mix of both terrifying and reassuring, and McCoy because Jim was simply there. Eventually, Jim sighed and looked up, meeting McCoy’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and they both knew what he was talking about. He was sorry about this morning, and today, and the implications behind it.
“Nothin’ to be sorry about,” McCoy said. Jim held his gaze a couple of seconds longer, then tucked his head back down.
“I don’t know why it’s so hard.” Jim’s voice was small and muffled. “It shouldn’t still be this hard.”
“You wouldn’t be human if it wasn’t hard, Jim,” McCoy said gently. Jim didn’t reply and McCoy thought that might be it…that it might be another night of Jim struggling with the memories that still had him tangled in fear and silence. He wasn’t okay with that, not really, except…he had to be. He’d just closed his eyes when Jim surprised him by speaking again.
“I think the hardest thing…” his throat closed, trying to strangle the words back. Bones rubbed his back, just waiting him out, feeling the way Jim’s hands tightened convulsively in the fabric of his shirt. Jim swallowed hard and tried again. “The hardest part, the worst part, was feeling so weak and helpless. I couldn’t…couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t move. Sometimes I couldn’t even breathe. I-I hated the way he made me feel.” As Jim said this, he tensed and it felt as if he would actually pull away. McCoy could just imagine the ‘I can’t believe I just said that’ screaming through Jim’s brain right now.
Jim was shaking slightly, and Bones found he was grateful for the darkness - it allowed Jim to hide. He sincerely doubted the confession would’ve come any other way. Not yet, at least. McCoy rubbed soothing circles on Jim’s back, wondering at the best way to proceed. He wanted to take advantage of the momentum of the conversation, but he didn’t want to push. This had to come at Jim’s pace.
“How old were you?” McCoy asked finally. An easy question that could be answered in many ways, depending on what Jim felt comfortable with.
“Eight, when it started.” McCoy closed his eyes and felt his heart clench. Just a baby. The same age as his own daughter. He huffed a breath out over Jim’s head and gave him a little squeeze. Deciding that questions might be the way to go, he figured to give it a try.
Jim knew what Bones was doing, and he was grateful for it. He wanted to talk about it. Well, no, he didn’t want to talk about it. But he did want to tell Bones about what had happened to him - wanted to let him in. He knew he could tell Bones anything. He knew that. He did. He didn’t know why he just…couldn’t. And how ridiculously stupid was that? It was enough to make him angry at himself, that he could still feel such paralyzing shame…even though it wasn’t his fault. But somehow, Bones seemed to understand. He was asking questions, giving Jim something to respond to…because for some reason answering was easier than offering information. Not much, but enough that he could get started.
How old were you?
Eight.
Where was your mom?
Off-planet. Always.
Did you ever tell her?
…Yes. Eventually. Not everything. Nobody knows everything.
Where is Frank now?
Dead. Shuttle accident.
Jim felt Bones pause, considering that answer.
Really?
Yeah.
Hm. Good.
…Yeah.
How did it start?
That one was harder.
Jim sighed and pulled away. Reluctantly, McCoy let him go. To his surprise, Jim didn’t leave the bed, or even sit up. He simply turned on his other side and settled himself again, back pressed to McCoy’s chest. McCoy wrapped his arms around Jim, and he smiled slightly when he felt Jim fold his own arms and grasp McCoy’s hands. Jim’s head was tucked just under McCoy’s chin, and they fit together comfortably.
“I was eight,” Jim said again. He stared hard at the wall, unconsciously grasping Bones’ arms tighter to his chest. “It was really hot that day and I was done playing outside, so I came in. I wanted to play in the bathtub.” He stopped, pausing to take a deep breath. He was certain Bones could feel his heart knocking in his chest, and he tried to get his suddenly rapid breathing under control.
Bones listened as Jim struggled to keep his composure. He wished he wouldn’t, that he would just let go, but that was a long time coming, if it ever did, and McCoy knew and accepted that. Didn’t mean he liked it.
Jim seemed stuck, unable to continue on his own. Bones freed his left arm and moved his hand up to Jim’s face, gently stroking, feeling Jim’s eyelashes flutter.
“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “Tell me whatever you want.”
“I didn’t lock the door and he just...came in.”
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That was pretty much the end of the conversation that night. Jim had tried, a couple of times, to continue. Feeling his face heat with shame from the memory alone had been enough to choke off any further confession. Jim didn’t think it was ever going to be any other way, and though Bones assured him that no matter what nothing between them would change, Jim couldn’t help but wonder if that would always be true. How long would Bones be able to stay with someone who had a wall as impenetrable as ancient China’s before becoming frustrated with the situation? How long could Jim, if the situation was reversed?
But to share those details of that first frightening, confusing experience…that still seemed impossible. It had left the unsuspecting eight year old physically unhurt, but feeling vaguely sick, and dirty, and wrong in a way that he couldn’t shake off…because it hadn’t hurt. Frank didn’t yell at him, or hit him, or do anything that actually hurt him. Jim thought that it would be easier if he had been hurt…been injured in some way. But he hadn’t been, and the greatest shame he harbored had less to do with what had been done to him, and more to do with how it had felt.
Bones didn’t push him though. He’d just said that one time “Tell me whatever you want,” and when Jim had failed to make it past the fact that he’d been playing in the tub, Bones simply pressed a kiss to the top of his head, tighten his arms around him in a comforting hug, and whispered “I love you.”
Jim lay awake a long time that night, feeling safe in Bones’ arms, and wondering how much longer he would have this gift in his life.
They didn’t talk again about it for a while. McCoy used their nights together to make damn sure that Jim’s fear of things not being the same remained unfounded. He showed Jim with his hands and mouth and body that Jim - all of him - was his, and that McCoy was Jim’s. He sometimes initiated sex, and sometimes Jim did…just the way it was before that first conversation. And on the nights they were content to simply lay together, McCoy never asked. If they were going to talk about it, it would be Jim’s choice.
Their days remained unchanged. McCoy grumped about away teams, and space, and flying in a tin can, and tasteless food, and captains with the energy and attention span of hyperactive puppies - and Jim was unfailingly Jim, meeting each day and whatever challenge it brought with all of what made him the captain McCoy was willing to follow anywhere. They remained the same Captain and Chief Medical Officer the crew was accustomed to, and they remained the same best friends and lovers they were accustomed to.
And after a couple of months, Jim had an epiphany.
Despite everything he worried about, nothing had changed.
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They were off-duty, relaxing in Jim’s quarters. McCoy was going through various status reports on crewmembers who’d been in and out of his medbay over the last month, and Jim was working on one of the several reports he always seemed to have a stack of. Or, that was what he was supposed to be doing. He was actually spending the majority of his time trying to get up the nerve to talk. The other couple of times he’d discussed what had happened to him as a child, he’d had the cover of darkness to make it easier. Sitting at opposite ends of the couch with the lights fully bright was a totally different situation.
He fidgeted nervously, swallowing around a dry mouth.
“Jim,” McCoy said, glancing at him. He noted the bouncing knee and the lines of tension around his eyes. He was so wrapped up in whatever he was thinking about - whatever was making him nervous - that he register that McCoy had spoken to him. McCoy put his PADD down and reached over, settling a hand on his knee, gently stilling its movement.
“Jim…what’re you thinking?” he asked, meeting his blue eyes. Jim stared at him for a moment, surprised that he’d been noticed. He looked away and dropped the things he’d been working on to the ground. Sensing that something was up, McCoy did the same and Jim moved so that they were sitting together, slumping down on the couch so that he could rest his head on McCoy’s shoulder. McCoy took Jim’s hand, threading their fingers together. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Jim replied. “I was just realizing that, well, you were right.”
“Of course I was,” McCoy replied. He paused a second. “Right about what?” Jim chuckled and knocked his knee against the doctor’s.
“About what you said, a while ago…about nothing changing between us. Even though you - you know about…me,” Jim said. McCoy didn’t reply, gently rubbing his thumb over his hand. He knew exactly what Jim was referring to, and McCoy was surprised that he was bringing it up here, like this. Jim took a deep breath, his hand tightening in McCoy’s.
“So, I was eight. I was in the tub. Frank insisted on washing me. I was confused, at first, because I’d been giving myself baths since I was, like four, but it didn’t even occur to me to say no. And at first, it was fine…not weird or anything. He washed my hair, my body…” Jim trailed off, and bit his lip. McCoy thought back to a few months ago, before they’d started this aspect of their relationship, to how Jim had reacted to accepting a sponge bath when his arm and leg were severely injured and immobilized as a result of an accident during an away mission. His extreme reluctance and painful embarrassment hadn’t made sense to McCoy then. It did now.
“He used his position in your life, your trust in him as a caretaker, to take advantage of you. There was no reason for you not to trust him,” McCoy said quietly. Jim sighed.
“Yeah…I know,” he swallowed, and after a moment tried to force himself to continue. McCoy could feel that he was struggling, could hear it in his breathing, and nudged Jim to scoot back. McCoy turned on the couch, bringing his legs up while leaning his back against the armrest. Jim shifted to accommodate the new position, and lay down beside him, his body half on McCoy’s, his head resting on the doctor’s chest. McCoy wrapped his arms around Jim and held him securely. “I…it went on for, well, for a long time. The things he did were - he never hurt me. He did things to my body I hadn’t done to myself…made me feel things I didn’t know how to handle.” He was shaking. And he could feel that he was blushing to the roots of his hair. Fuck, this was embarrassing. “I remember I always felt so…so sick and wrong…after. But during - it felt good. And…and I don’t think I - I ever told him to stop.”
And there it was…there was the real issue that haunted Jim. The confused, frightened child he’d been blamed himself. Because of the way his body responded. Because of the way Frank had manipulated him into responding.
“Jim - it’s not your fault. You were a child. Just because he didn’t do anything that physically hurt you doesn’t change the fact that he abused you. You couldn’t control your body’s responses, and you were too young to fully understand what was happening to you, or to stand up for yourself,” McCoy said, holding Jim tightly. Jim lowered his head and squeezed his eyes closed, his stomach clenching. “Hey, you okay?” McCoy asked, feeling a tremor pass over him.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just…I don’t think I want to talk about it anymore for now.” McCoy gave him a squeeze and bent to kiss his head.
“That’s fine, Jim. You say just what you want to say whenever you want. It’ll come out when you’re ready for it to…and I’ll always be here for you - in every way you want me to be. That will never change either.”
“I know,” Jim replied. And he really believed it.
Author: Caera1996
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: R
Disclaimer: None of it, not even the premise, is mine.
Summary/Explanation: So, a very, very long time ago, a request was made in part 9 of the original kink meme for Kirk to open up to a lover about long-term abuse he suffered as a child. I think this was the first thing I’ve ever written for ST XI and I filled it, mostly. But then (and I’m ashamed to admit it) kinda forgot about it and it ended in a way that was sort of incomplete. So, here it is; cleaned up, filled out, and more complete.
I don’t think I’ll be able to post another part of TBoPE till Monday or Tuesday, cause I’m going home to visit with the parents for Father’s Day, but I wanted to get this squared away.
WARNING: This story deals with past child sexual abuse. It is not graphically described, but please do not read it if you think it will bother you.
It was quiet now. Jim’s breath was still shuddering a little, the tremors that had wracked his frame as he catapulted out of a nightmare and into the waking world subsiding until Bones could only feel the lightest of shivers passing through him. Bones wrapped his arm around Jim, and he pillowed his head on Bones’ shoulder.
That had been a bad one.
Nightmares are never fun, but whatever horror show Jim’s mind had been intent on playing out this evening was not the standard fare. Nightmares like this one happened far less often, but still, damnit, still happened. Bones could tell the difference between the two types. He could tell in the wild-eyed way Jim struggled against him when he first woke up. He could tell in the way he cried out, sounding terrified and desperate and angry all at once. He could tell in the way it took Bones turning on the lights so that Jim could see, really see, that whatever it was, it was over; and that he really was okay, and safe. And, most heartbreakingly, he could tell in the way Jim seemed unable to look him in the eye, and the next morning when Jim would get dressed in the bathroom after a shower behind a locked door, and leave with a tight smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes, and just wasn’t Jim. He was always back to normal by the next time Bones saw him, and he never, ever wanted to talk about it.
McCoy was a medical doctor, yes. But, he also held a degree in psychology, and unlike some people, he wasn’t blind to what was right in front of him.
Bones dropped a kiss to the top of Jim’s head and listened as his breath evened out, Jim finally dropping back off to sleep. Bones lay awake, contemplating.
“Why don’t you trust me enough to tell me?” he whispered, and jumped slightly when he felt Jim’s hand clench into a fist around Bones’ t-shirt. Shit. He thought Jim was asleep.
“Jim?” he said cautiously, still barely a whisper. He closed his eyes when Jim whispered back.
“I do trust you. I just….can’t.” He sounded so damn young. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t a child, and coddling him like a child wasn’t going to help. Thoughtfully, he trailed his hand gently up and down Jim’s arm.
“Nothing you tell me would change the way I feel about you, or what I think of you. Everything that happens to us - all the good and all the bad - it all makes us who we are. I love you, just the way you are, no matter what happened along your way.”
Jim is quiet for a long time, and only the fact that he is still fisting Bones’ shirt gives any indication that he’s still awake.
“Everyone always says that it won’t change anything, but how could it not?” Jim finally asks quietly, his voice hoarse with sleep and emotion. “How could you not think of me differently if you knew…” He trailed off, the unspoken ‘what happened to me’ hovering in the air between them. Bones thinks carefully about what he says next.
“When…when I told you about my father, about what I did, and what happened after, you - who never had the benefit of your own father, who had never taken--” He has to clear his throat. “--taken a life like that…you didn’t blame me. As a matter of fact, you said, and I quote, ‘Don’t be an ass. There was no way for you to know. It wasn’t your fault, and it doesn’t change anything.’”
Bones practically holds his breath, hoping the words have their intended effect. He’s afraid that if he moves an inch whatever fragile thread that is being created here between the two of them will be broken.
“It’s not the same," Jim said. Bones thought he felt his shirt dampening, and craned his neck as far as he could to try to get a glimpse of Jim’s face. With lights down to 10% it was too dark so see much of anything. It was probably better that way.
“Why not?” he asked quietly. Jim heaved a sigh, and let go of Bones’ shirt, his hand smoothing the material over with little strokes. “Because…because it just isn’t. Because I could have run away…I could have told someone.” Jim’s hand clenches again, and this time, Bones reaches with his other one to hold on to him. Jim holds him tightly, pressing his face against his shoulder, conflicted between needing to hide and needing comfort, and Bones holds him just as tightly back. And, oh, god. Even though he’d guessed, it doesn’t make it any easier to hear. Anger and sadness builds in his chest for what the child had gone through, and spilled over into grief for this man who he loves, who drives him crazy with recklessness he maybe understands a little better now, and whose exuberance and passion for life had survived, proving that the influence of the good outweighed that of the bad.
“Jim, anything that happened to you as a child was the fault of the adult. Nothing, none of it, was your fault. A child shouldn’t have to run away to be safe. And if you never felt safe enough to tell someone, that wasn’t your fault either.”
“I know. I know what happened wasn’t my fault. But I still should have done something.”
McCoy clenched his jaw for a second, taking a deep breath. The anger he was feeling wasn’t directed at Jim, and took a second to reign it in.
“Damnit Jim, you should never have had to ‘do something.’ You should have been safe and loved and cared for without ever having to worry about it.” He paused. “You’re safe and loved and cared for now. You never, never have to worry about that.” Jim reacted to McCoy’s fervent tone. He lifted his head and craned his neck slightly to look him in the eye.
“I know,” he said. McCoy held his gaze in the dim lighting.
“Will you tell me?” he asked finally. Jim returned his head to its resting place on McCoy’s shoulder and sighed.
“I’ll try.”
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The next morning Jim was gone before McCoy is awake. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he runs a hand over his face and stares at the wall, wondering what this meant. Jim said he’d try to open up, but then he’s gone two hours before his shift even starts. Going through the motions of beginning his own day, McCoy decided he was going to play it cool. Jim had to be willing to talk, and before that could happen, he’d have to live with that decision.
That might take a while. Holding that much inside for as long as he did had become a way of life for Jim. It’s only natural that it would take some time to change the way he thought of his past - not as something to be shoved aside, ignored or buried; but as something that could be brought out in the open, examined, dismantled, and then put away neatly.
Their paths don’t cross that day, which, as far as McCoy is concerned, was not necessarily a bad thing. If there’s a day Jim doesn’t end up occupying one the sickbay beds, then it’s been a pretty good day. But Jim doesn’t comm him for no reason other than to annoy him (like usual), and they don’t grab lunch together, either in McCoy’s office or the Mess. Again, not completely unheard of, but far from common, especially when there’s not some kind of crisis going on.
That night, McCoy eats dinner alone, and when he gets to their room, he’s the only one there. This, too, might not mean anything - it wasn’t unusual for Jim to spend time with crewmembers after hours…he could be with Spock playing chess for all McCoy knew - and usually he didn’t mind the occasion to relax by himself. But this was different, and McCoy recognized it for what it was.
Jim was avoiding him. This was annoyingly disheartening, because although Jim says he trusts him, may even intellectually mean it, on another level there’s hesitancy and reticence. Annoying and disheartening, but also not a huge surprise. For a man who wore his devil-may-care attitude like a shield, having anyone…even McCoy, maybe especially McCoy…seeing him as vulnerable as he was last night must have been a little disconcerting. Jim didn’t do vulnerable. He was the strong one, providing comfort and leadership, and not believing in no-wins in a way that makes you not believe too - and all that other crap that’s rolled up into a person who never admits when he’s hurt, physically, or otherwise.
Finally, when his eyes are so tired the words on the PADD he’s reading blurs, McCoy goes to bed alone.
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Hours later McCoy is woken by the feeling of the bed dipping and the blankets being lifted. He lay still, giving Jim no reason to believe he was still awake. He waited until Jim arranged himself comfortably and stopped squirming around.
“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with hoarse with weariness. He felt Jim give a little start beside him.
“Sorry to wake you,” Jim said quickly. “I was just…”
"‘S okay,” McCoy said. He didn’t want him to feel like he had to explain -- he thought he kind of understood already. McCoy turned so they were lying face to face. Jim’s head was down slightly, not meeting his eyes. McCoy didn’t try to make him. He simply put his arm around him, waiting out the automatic tensing until Jim was relaxed once again. He tightened his hold, pulling Jim closer to him and letting him hide his face against his chest. “It’s okay,” he said again, and this time he wasn’t talking about the fact that Jim had woken him.
They lay in silence for a while, taking comfort from each other’s presence. Jim, because McCoy was the only one who really knew him…and that was a confusing mix of both terrifying and reassuring, and McCoy because Jim was simply there. Eventually, Jim sighed and looked up, meeting McCoy’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and they both knew what he was talking about. He was sorry about this morning, and today, and the implications behind it.
“Nothin’ to be sorry about,” McCoy said. Jim held his gaze a couple of seconds longer, then tucked his head back down.
“I don’t know why it’s so hard.” Jim’s voice was small and muffled. “It shouldn’t still be this hard.”
“You wouldn’t be human if it wasn’t hard, Jim,” McCoy said gently. Jim didn’t reply and McCoy thought that might be it…that it might be another night of Jim struggling with the memories that still had him tangled in fear and silence. He wasn’t okay with that, not really, except…he had to be. He’d just closed his eyes when Jim surprised him by speaking again.
“I think the hardest thing…” his throat closed, trying to strangle the words back. Bones rubbed his back, just waiting him out, feeling the way Jim’s hands tightened convulsively in the fabric of his shirt. Jim swallowed hard and tried again. “The hardest part, the worst part, was feeling so weak and helpless. I couldn’t…couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t move. Sometimes I couldn’t even breathe. I-I hated the way he made me feel.” As Jim said this, he tensed and it felt as if he would actually pull away. McCoy could just imagine the ‘I can’t believe I just said that’ screaming through Jim’s brain right now.
Jim was shaking slightly, and Bones found he was grateful for the darkness - it allowed Jim to hide. He sincerely doubted the confession would’ve come any other way. Not yet, at least. McCoy rubbed soothing circles on Jim’s back, wondering at the best way to proceed. He wanted to take advantage of the momentum of the conversation, but he didn’t want to push. This had to come at Jim’s pace.
“How old were you?” McCoy asked finally. An easy question that could be answered in many ways, depending on what Jim felt comfortable with.
“Eight, when it started.” McCoy closed his eyes and felt his heart clench. Just a baby. The same age as his own daughter. He huffed a breath out over Jim’s head and gave him a little squeeze. Deciding that questions might be the way to go, he figured to give it a try.
Jim knew what Bones was doing, and he was grateful for it. He wanted to talk about it. Well, no, he didn’t want to talk about it. But he did want to tell Bones about what had happened to him - wanted to let him in. He knew he could tell Bones anything. He knew that. He did. He didn’t know why he just…couldn’t. And how ridiculously stupid was that? It was enough to make him angry at himself, that he could still feel such paralyzing shame…even though it wasn’t his fault. But somehow, Bones seemed to understand. He was asking questions, giving Jim something to respond to…because for some reason answering was easier than offering information. Not much, but enough that he could get started.
How old were you?
Eight.
Where was your mom?
Off-planet. Always.
Did you ever tell her?
…Yes. Eventually. Not everything. Nobody knows everything.
Where is Frank now?
Dead. Shuttle accident.
Jim felt Bones pause, considering that answer.
Really?
Yeah.
Hm. Good.
…Yeah.
How did it start?
That one was harder.
Jim sighed and pulled away. Reluctantly, McCoy let him go. To his surprise, Jim didn’t leave the bed, or even sit up. He simply turned on his other side and settled himself again, back pressed to McCoy’s chest. McCoy wrapped his arms around Jim, and he smiled slightly when he felt Jim fold his own arms and grasp McCoy’s hands. Jim’s head was tucked just under McCoy’s chin, and they fit together comfortably.
“I was eight,” Jim said again. He stared hard at the wall, unconsciously grasping Bones’ arms tighter to his chest. “It was really hot that day and I was done playing outside, so I came in. I wanted to play in the bathtub.” He stopped, pausing to take a deep breath. He was certain Bones could feel his heart knocking in his chest, and he tried to get his suddenly rapid breathing under control.
Bones listened as Jim struggled to keep his composure. He wished he wouldn’t, that he would just let go, but that was a long time coming, if it ever did, and McCoy knew and accepted that. Didn’t mean he liked it.
Jim seemed stuck, unable to continue on his own. Bones freed his left arm and moved his hand up to Jim’s face, gently stroking, feeling Jim’s eyelashes flutter.
“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “Tell me whatever you want.”
“I didn’t lock the door and he just...came in.”
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That was pretty much the end of the conversation that night. Jim had tried, a couple of times, to continue. Feeling his face heat with shame from the memory alone had been enough to choke off any further confession. Jim didn’t think it was ever going to be any other way, and though Bones assured him that no matter what nothing between them would change, Jim couldn’t help but wonder if that would always be true. How long would Bones be able to stay with someone who had a wall as impenetrable as ancient China’s before becoming frustrated with the situation? How long could Jim, if the situation was reversed?
But to share those details of that first frightening, confusing experience…that still seemed impossible. It had left the unsuspecting eight year old physically unhurt, but feeling vaguely sick, and dirty, and wrong in a way that he couldn’t shake off…because it hadn’t hurt. Frank didn’t yell at him, or hit him, or do anything that actually hurt him. Jim thought that it would be easier if he had been hurt…been injured in some way. But he hadn’t been, and the greatest shame he harbored had less to do with what had been done to him, and more to do with how it had felt.
Bones didn’t push him though. He’d just said that one time “Tell me whatever you want,” and when Jim had failed to make it past the fact that he’d been playing in the tub, Bones simply pressed a kiss to the top of his head, tighten his arms around him in a comforting hug, and whispered “I love you.”
Jim lay awake a long time that night, feeling safe in Bones’ arms, and wondering how much longer he would have this gift in his life.
They didn’t talk again about it for a while. McCoy used their nights together to make damn sure that Jim’s fear of things not being the same remained unfounded. He showed Jim with his hands and mouth and body that Jim - all of him - was his, and that McCoy was Jim’s. He sometimes initiated sex, and sometimes Jim did…just the way it was before that first conversation. And on the nights they were content to simply lay together, McCoy never asked. If they were going to talk about it, it would be Jim’s choice.
Their days remained unchanged. McCoy grumped about away teams, and space, and flying in a tin can, and tasteless food, and captains with the energy and attention span of hyperactive puppies - and Jim was unfailingly Jim, meeting each day and whatever challenge it brought with all of what made him the captain McCoy was willing to follow anywhere. They remained the same Captain and Chief Medical Officer the crew was accustomed to, and they remained the same best friends and lovers they were accustomed to.
And after a couple of months, Jim had an epiphany.
Despite everything he worried about, nothing had changed.
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They were off-duty, relaxing in Jim’s quarters. McCoy was going through various status reports on crewmembers who’d been in and out of his medbay over the last month, and Jim was working on one of the several reports he always seemed to have a stack of. Or, that was what he was supposed to be doing. He was actually spending the majority of his time trying to get up the nerve to talk. The other couple of times he’d discussed what had happened to him as a child, he’d had the cover of darkness to make it easier. Sitting at opposite ends of the couch with the lights fully bright was a totally different situation.
He fidgeted nervously, swallowing around a dry mouth.
“Jim,” McCoy said, glancing at him. He noted the bouncing knee and the lines of tension around his eyes. He was so wrapped up in whatever he was thinking about - whatever was making him nervous - that he register that McCoy had spoken to him. McCoy put his PADD down and reached over, settling a hand on his knee, gently stilling its movement.
“Jim…what’re you thinking?” he asked, meeting his blue eyes. Jim stared at him for a moment, surprised that he’d been noticed. He looked away and dropped the things he’d been working on to the ground. Sensing that something was up, McCoy did the same and Jim moved so that they were sitting together, slumping down on the couch so that he could rest his head on McCoy’s shoulder. McCoy took Jim’s hand, threading their fingers together. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Jim replied. “I was just realizing that, well, you were right.”
“Of course I was,” McCoy replied. He paused a second. “Right about what?” Jim chuckled and knocked his knee against the doctor’s.
“About what you said, a while ago…about nothing changing between us. Even though you - you know about…me,” Jim said. McCoy didn’t reply, gently rubbing his thumb over his hand. He knew exactly what Jim was referring to, and McCoy was surprised that he was bringing it up here, like this. Jim took a deep breath, his hand tightening in McCoy’s.
“So, I was eight. I was in the tub. Frank insisted on washing me. I was confused, at first, because I’d been giving myself baths since I was, like four, but it didn’t even occur to me to say no. And at first, it was fine…not weird or anything. He washed my hair, my body…” Jim trailed off, and bit his lip. McCoy thought back to a few months ago, before they’d started this aspect of their relationship, to how Jim had reacted to accepting a sponge bath when his arm and leg were severely injured and immobilized as a result of an accident during an away mission. His extreme reluctance and painful embarrassment hadn’t made sense to McCoy then. It did now.
“He used his position in your life, your trust in him as a caretaker, to take advantage of you. There was no reason for you not to trust him,” McCoy said quietly. Jim sighed.
“Yeah…I know,” he swallowed, and after a moment tried to force himself to continue. McCoy could feel that he was struggling, could hear it in his breathing, and nudged Jim to scoot back. McCoy turned on the couch, bringing his legs up while leaning his back against the armrest. Jim shifted to accommodate the new position, and lay down beside him, his body half on McCoy’s, his head resting on the doctor’s chest. McCoy wrapped his arms around Jim and held him securely. “I…it went on for, well, for a long time. The things he did were - he never hurt me. He did things to my body I hadn’t done to myself…made me feel things I didn’t know how to handle.” He was shaking. And he could feel that he was blushing to the roots of his hair. Fuck, this was embarrassing. “I remember I always felt so…so sick and wrong…after. But during - it felt good. And…and I don’t think I - I ever told him to stop.”
And there it was…there was the real issue that haunted Jim. The confused, frightened child he’d been blamed himself. Because of the way his body responded. Because of the way Frank had manipulated him into responding.
“Jim - it’s not your fault. You were a child. Just because he didn’t do anything that physically hurt you doesn’t change the fact that he abused you. You couldn’t control your body’s responses, and you were too young to fully understand what was happening to you, or to stand up for yourself,” McCoy said, holding Jim tightly. Jim lowered his head and squeezed his eyes closed, his stomach clenching. “Hey, you okay?” McCoy asked, feeling a tremor pass over him.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just…I don’t think I want to talk about it anymore for now.” McCoy gave him a squeeze and bent to kiss his head.
“That’s fine, Jim. You say just what you want to say whenever you want. It’ll come out when you’re ready for it to…and I’ll always be here for you - in every way you want me to be. That will never change either.”
“I know,” Jim replied. And he really believed it.