Linger (1/3)
+
There’re strange noises - almost like laughter, with the occasional crash-thud of something hitting the floor or wall - coming from behind Mommy’s door. He goes to see if Sammy’s noticed, but his brother is staring determinedly at a PADD and when Jimmy tugs on his brother’s arm to get his attention, Sam shakes him off impatiently.
“Go ‘way, Jimmy. Y’made me mess up!” he scowls, jabbing at the device and turning away from Jimmy. Jim sits there for a little while longer, staring at the couch cushion and chewing on his lip, glancing up occasionally to see if Sam’s changed his mind. He hasn’t, so Jimmy climbs down off the couch and heads for the stairs.
Standing outside Mommy’s room, he scuffs his toe in the carpet a couple times, hoping maybe she’ll know he’s there and open the door. He’s not surprised when she doesn’t, looking up through his bangs at the knob like it’ll bite him or something. He’s not s’posed to bother Mommy when her door’s closed, that’s what Sammy always says, but he’s worried about Mommy so he reaches for the knob anyway.
“No, Jim, don’t do that.” A hand closes over Jimmy’s, keeping him from opening the door, but somethin’s weird - Jimmy can see the hand and his five-year-old mind tells him that if he can see it, it has to be there, but he can’t feel it. Eyes wide, chin trembling, he looks up.
There’s a man there, taller’n Mommy, with kind blue eyes that crinkle at the edges as he returns Jim’s stare. He’s familiar looking, Jim decides, someone nice that would always play games when Jim was bored and would never tell him to ‘shut up, Jimmy, I’m busy’. Besides, he reasons, he wouldn’t be in the house if he were a bad man; Mommy’s made sure of that, with doors that buzz until you push the buttons the right way and windows that don’t open unless Mommy does it, no matter how hard Jimmy pushes and pulls on ‘em.
“Who’re you?” Jimmy chirps, but another sound from behind the door distracts him. “Do you know what’s wrong with Mommy?”
The tall man hesitates, hand still around Jim’s, then crouches in front of him, his other hand coming to rest on Jim’s right shoulder (Jimmy’s eyes widen again when he does that - he still can’t feel it and it’s weird). “My name’s George, Jimmy, and your mommy’s very sad. Do you know what today is?”
Jim lights up at the question. “Yeah, it’s my birfday!” he all-but shouts, excited in the same way any five-year-old gets. Jim grins hugely, blue eyes shining over missing baby-teeth, glad someone’s finally remembered. “I’m five today,” he declares proudly, shoving his splayed fingers in George’s face.
“Yes, I know you are,” George smiles back, stroking the side of Jimmy’s face with a sad sort of fondness. “Do you know what else happened today?”
Jimmy frowns, looking down at the carpet between his feet. “Yeah, my daddy died,” he mumbles, peeking up through his bangs. “Izzat why Mommy’s sad?”
“Yeah, Jimmy,” George breathes, “that’s why your mommy’s sad.”
“Should I go give her a hug? Hugs always make me feel better when I’m sad,” Jimmy offers, mouth twisting in doubtful hope as he looks back up into George’s blue eyes. He starts to reach for the doorknob again, pulling his hand out of George’s despite the older man’s protests.
“No, Jimmy, that’s not-”
“Jim?” Winona asks, just before the door swings open. Jim looks up with a smile, all blue eyes and chubby cheeks as he rushes forward to wrap his arms around Mommy’s legs. “Baby, who were you talking to?”
“Just George, Mommy,” he answers guilelessly, chin on her thigh as he looks up at her. Glancing over his shoulder, he can still see George kneeling in the hallway, forehead wrinkled and face sad. Mommy makes a strange sound, not a laugh but kinda like it, and presses a hand to her mouth, red-rimmed eyes welling with tears. “Look, Mommy, he’s right there,” Jimmy points, scared he’s upset his mom again.
“She can’t see me, Jimmy,” George says, hands resting on his knee as he watches the two of them. “Oh, Winnie,” he sighs, pulling himself up to his feet, reaching out to cup Winona’s cheek in one hand. Winona jumps and pulls away from Jimmy, staring wildly around the hallway.
“There’s no one there, Jim, don’t tell stories like that. J-just stop it.” She’s backing away from the doorway, staring down at her son as he tries to figure out what he’s done wrong.
“But, Mommy, he’s really here,” Jim insists, stomping one small foot noiselessly on the carpet. “He’s gots crinkly blue eyes like Grampa Ti and he says his name is George.”
“Stop it!” Winona shrieks, hands against her ears and eyes screwed shut. Jim jumps back as she reaches for the door and slams it shut, the sound echoing through the hall until George places one hand against it. Turning quickly, he kneels in front of Jimmy again, hands on both slight shoulders gripping until his fingertips turn white and Jimmy can almost - almost - feel it.
“It’s okay, Jimmy. It’s not your fault, it’s mine, I shouldn’t have- You’re not in trouble, okay?” Jim nods, chin trembling, blue eyes luminescent with tears. George swipes his thumbs across Jim’s cheeks, though it does nothing for the tears that break free. Jim sniffles once and scrubs his sleeve across his face and nose, not even noticing that his arm moves right through George’s hands. When Jim looks up again, George has pulled his hands back, studying Jim’s face and eyes with another sad smile. He opens his mouth to say something when Sam comes thundering up the stairs.
“What’re you doing, Jimmy?” he hisses, grabbing hold of Jim’s arm and towing him roughly down the hall to their rooms. “I told you t’leave Mom alone. Why don’t you lissen t’me?” Jim babbles some protest, trying to shove his older brother off him.
“Lemme go, Sam!” he cries, pulling and tugging until they’re wrestling in the hallway, Sam trying to shut Jim up and Jim trying to get away from Sam. George watches them roll around in the floor until Jimmy manage to pull free of Sam’s hands and runs for the stairs, thundering haphazardly down them. George shadows him, making sure Jim makes it to the bottom unharmed, and Sam follows, hollering at his brother as he goes.
“I’ll see you later, Jimmy,” George sighs to the empty downstairs, the laughing shrieks of the boys wafting vaguely through the front door as they run around the front yard, throwing handfuls of snow at each other.
+
“Jim-mee, don’t bother me!” Sam groans, shoving Jim away from where he’s leaned against his older brother. Pouting, Jimmy trudges up the stairs, staring resolutely at his feet as he passes his mom’s open bedroom door. It’s been a month and she still won’t believe him when he tells her about George; worse, she won’t talk to him the same way anymore, especially if Sam isn’t in the room. Jimmy still doesn’t know what he did, but George promises him it’s not his fault, so Jimmy figures it really isn’t.
Bored, Jim heads to Sam’s room instead of his own, poking around his brother’s things for something interesting to do. Stacks of PADDs teeter on the bookcase, threatening to topple at any second so Jim steers away from those. The bright blue PADD on Sam’s bed is full of cool stories and Jimmy’s tempted to ‘borrow’ it for a while, but when he goes to climb up, he stubs his toe on a box peeking out from under the bed. Scowling, holding his toes in one hand, Jimmy drops onto his stomach on the floor and tugs out the box, infinitely more intrigued with this than the PADD. There’s a key-code lock on the front of the box, but Jimmy long ago figured out that Sam uses the same lock-code for everything, so it’s easy to open the box.
“Wow, cool,” Jimmy breathes, staring at the stuff inside. Dozens of real paper books with cool titles like Son of a Wanted Man and Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, The Lord of the Rings and The Bourne Identity. When Jimmy pulls one out and flips open the cover, he sees Sam’s name inside, only not quite - it’s not Sam’s handwriting and it just says George Kirk, not George Samuel. Curiously, Jimmy stacks the books beside the box to get to what’s underneath.
A handful of miniature cars, colorfully painted with old-fashioned wheels. A t-shirt with a funky looking symbol and the words ‘Starfleet Academy’ printed across the front. A blue shirt wrapped around an old comm, the cover cracked and spitting only static when Jimmy pries it open. A couple of PADDs that refuse to turn on, no matter what buttons Jim pushes. A framed holopic of Mommy in a pretty white dress, blue eyes shining above a huge smile, something Jimmy’s never seen before. When he lifts the frame out, a handful of loose holopics fall back into the box. Frowning, Jim fishes them back out.
“That’s me,” George says, reaching over Jim’s shoulder to point at the tall man standing next to Mommy. Looking up curiously, Jimmy studies George’s face, then looks back down at the picture. Sure enough, the man in the fancy jacket is George and Jimmy frowns again as he tries to figure out this new puzzle. “Huh, I wondered what had happened to these,” George mumbles, poking at the stack of books, finger sinking up to the first knuckle into the spine of one.
“You’re...my dad?” Jimmy asks, nose wrinkled in confusion. George turns to look at him, blue eyes twinkling as he watches the little boy. Jim glances down at another of the holopics, where Grampa Ti’s arm is thrown over George’s shoulders and they’re both smiling, eyes crinkled at the corners. When Jim looks back up, George nods. “But...”
“I never wanted to leave you and your mom, Jimmy. I need you to believe me, okay?” Jim nods and George smiles at him, eyes as bright as his son’s. “Now, come on, kiddo. Let’s put these up before your brother gets mad, okay?” Jim nods again and starts scooping things back into the box, keeping a car, a holopic, and one of the books for himself before shoving everything back under the bed.
He takes his loot to his bedroom, hiding the holopic and car, then hopping up on his bed and opening the book, thumbing through the pages until George offers to read it to him.
“When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton...”
+
“Jimmy,” George sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stares down at his sulking son. Jim just tightens his arms across his chest, his scowl darkening as he watches his mom dance with Frank. “Jim, come on, now. I know you don’t like Frank, but he makes your mom happy, okay? That’s what matters.”
“I thought she loved you,” the sullen eight-year-old pouts and George winces at the venom in the child’s voice. Bad enough that Sam tried to run away - again - when Winona told them the news; if Frank catches sight of Jim’s glower, things’ll go downhill fast.
“Jim, your mom’s been alone for a while now. Doesn’t she deserve to be happy?”
Jim opens his mouth to respond and George is sure it isn’t going to be with anything good, when Winona appears in front of him.
“Jimmy, time for pictures, baby,” she says, smiling and face glowing, though there’s something strangely flat about her eyes. She looks at the people standing around Jim, briefly studying their faces. “Who’re you talking to?”
“George, Mom,” he answers. Somehow, he’s never shifted into calling George ‘Dad’, least not in front of his mom. Still, she freezes, smile melting from her face as she stares down into Jim’s blue eyes.
“I told you not to play like that, Jim.” Even her voice is stiff, as though the slightest movement would shatter her. “Now, come on. Pictures.”
She drags him through the crowds of people to the crepe-draped pavilion, tugging on his suit jacket until it lies straight and wrinkle-free across his shoulders. Jim slouches as soon as she removes her hands, the scowl twisting his face even darker than before. Sam elbows him and rolls his eyes; Sam doesn’t like Frank, either, but he’s quieter about it, preferring to sneak out in the middle of the night rather than face him.
“Jim, don’t ruin this for her,” George admonishes from behind the photographer, hands on his hips as he levels a glare at his son.
“Why did she have to marry him?” Jim asks loudly, deliberately pushing every button likely to lead to disaster.
“Not right now, Jimmy,” George hisses back, as though everyone could hear him. Sam elbows Jim again, harder than before, and Winona’s fingers go white around her bouquet. Frank shifts and casually puts his arm around Jim, hand resting loosely on his left shoulder.
“It’s not fair,” Jim insists, and the hand on his shoulder gets tighter.
“Jim,” Winona whispers harshly.
“Jimmy, stop it. You know better than this. We had a deal,” George reminds him, pushing past the photographer until he’s right in front of the eight-year-old, desperately trying and failing to get his hands around Jim’s, to calm him down and keep Frank’s temper under control.
“But I don’t like-” The fingers on Jim’s shoulder are suddenly white with tension and Jim yelps, tries to pull away as Frank smiles fixedly at the photographer and holds on. Winona’s torn between defending her son and attacking him for the spectacle he’s making and Sam just edges away from his brother and new stepfather. Tears rise in Jimmy’s eyes as he squirms but can’t get free. “Daddy,” he whimpers and George can’t take it anymore.
The tripod support for a large basket of flowers suddenly snaps, the entire stand tilting at an extreme angle as the weight of the basket tips it forward. Guests scream in alarm as basket after basket falls, pulled by each other’s weight against the crepe tied around each pole. Shocked, trying to get out of the way, the wedding party scatters, Jim pulling free of Frank’s grasp to completely leave the pavilion, running full-tilt into the nearby cornfield. George sighs and looks around at the chaos subsuming the celebration, guests crowded around Winona and Frank as they try to salvage the pictures.
No one notices the absence of the little Kirk boy, even after the photographer once again tries to organize a good shot.
+
Jim sniffles, glaring into the stalks of corn as he scrubs at his nose with his right hand. His entire left shoulder hurts, a deep, radiating ache that intensifies when he moves it. His eyes well again as it throbs particularly sharply and he remembers the way his mom and brother just stood there and watched.
“Jim?”
The familiar voice seeps into Jim’s raw nerves, soothing him away from jumping at every rustle the corn makes. George steps through a row of corn, blue eyes concerned as he looks Jim over, taking in the tear streaked cheeks and the way he’s curled in on himself, protecting his shoulder and bruised heart. With a sigh, George sinks to the ground in front of him, just as he first did three years ago, and runs a hand down Jim’s left arm.
“I hate him,” Jim mumbles, crossing his arms and wincing when his shoulder throbs again. George sighs again, a harsh, frustrated sound that makes Jim look up in surprise - he’s never heard George get really upset, not with him, at least.
“I know, kiddo. But you’re gonna have to follow his rules, listen to him.”
“I don’t wanna!” Jim knows he’s whining like a baby, but his shoulder hurts and he’s still mad at what happened.
“Jim, he’s your mother’s husband, your father,” and George chokes on the word, whipping his head around to glare over his shoulder, jaw clenched as he stares through the corn and away from his son.
“He’s not! He’s not my father! You are!” Jim shouts, pounding his fists on the ground, heedless of the rough dirt and his aching shoulder. “You’re my father! I don’t want him, I want you!” he insists and the tears in his eyes break free again, carving runnels through the dust on his cheeks.
“I know, Jimmy, I know.” George is suddenly right there, arms around Jim but Jim can’t feel it and it makes it worse, makes it hurt more, and he’s sobbing, wailing at the pain, while George murmurs softly in his ear and the sun finds its way hot through the cornstalks.
+
“Waaaaahoooo!” Jim shouts, wind and music rushing around him as the top flies off and away from the car, landing who knows where behind him. Cornfields flow past as he revs the engine and goes faster. He blows past Sam, waving enthusiastically at his brother as he does, barely keeping control of the Corvette. Settling back in the seat, he decides that this is it - this is the greatest feeling in the world.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Jim?” George shouts over the music, perched on the passenger seat and hands braced on the dash as he faces his son. Jim spares him a glance but the car wobbles as he does so, nearly careening out of the barely-there control the ten-year-old has over it.
“He’s got everything else!” Jim hollers back, hands white around the steering wheel as he glares out the windshield. “I’m not gonna let him have this!”
“Jimmy, it’s a car, it doesn’t matt-” George sucks in a breath as the car wobbles again. “You’re gonna get yourself killed! Goddammit, Jim, please.”
But Jim just grits his teeth and presses his foot down on the accelerator, depressing it as far as it will go, and the needles on the dash go wild. They streak past a resting cop, ending up nearly a mile ahead of him before he catches up, siren wailing. George is shouting again, but Jim blocks him out, focusing on the music and feel of the car under him.
“Citizen, pull over!” the cop calls and Jim doesn’t want to, never wants to, wants to get away from Frank, from Sam leaving and his mom gone again. From the hand over his on the steering wheel, the hand he can’t feel and never will but desperately wants to. He jerks the wheel to the side, sending them careening down a gravel road and through a chain-link fence.
Signs for the quarry are scattered all around, warnings and legalese in languages Standard and alien, and Jim never slows down. George is silent next to him - Jim’s not even sure he’s still in the car, maybe he’s had enough of Jim, enough of the ‘runt Kirk boy’, ‘the crazy one’, ‘poor Winona’s special child’. Jim doesn’t care, he doesn’t, and the quarry’s right there, right there, and he’s not stopping, he’ll never stop, he just wants, he wants to, he-
At the last second, he shifts gears and hits the brakes, diving out of the car as he realizes there isn’t enough time. He flies through the air, awkwardly graceful, with flailing arms and stiff, uncooperative legs, until he lands hard on the edge of the quarry. Momentum continues to drag at him, pulling him closer and closer to the very edge, and he’s scared now but can’t show it, literally can’t make himself express the fear. He curls his fingers into the dirt, scrabbling for any purchase, and some distant part of his mind wonders why it doesn’t hurt as much as it should. He fell off Sam’s hoverscooter once, skinned the entire length of his left forearm, and it hurt like hell, tingling and fire-hot as he lay there in shock after the fall.
He blinks and George is right in front of him, hands curled tension-white around his wrists, pulling with all of his (insubstantial) strength as Jim continues his inexorable slide toward the edge. At the very edge, the very last second, he stops, hanging limply over the lip for a moment before somehow finding the strength to pull himself back up. He climbs shakily to his feet, not noticing how George’s hands linger on his shoulders, clenched tight on the fabric of his jacket.
With a deep breath and a last look at the shrieking mass of twisted metal plummeting to the bottom of the quarry, Jim turns his back to the chasm.
“Is there a problem, officer?” he asks the cop planted in the middle of the gravel road, only a little breathless.
“Citizen, what is your name?” After his almost-suicide, the cop’s mechanized voice isn’t scary at all.
“My name is James Tiberius Kirk!” Jim declares, throwing his shoulders back and ignoring the indecipherable look George is leveling his way.
+
Needless to say, Frank isn’t happy with the loss of the car. In less time than Jim ever thought possible, he’s bundled onto the next shuttle heading off-world, his aunt and uncle on Tarsus IV expecting him by the end of the week.
“Sam’s your mother’s brother,” George tells him, voice quiet in the same way it’s been since Jim crashed the Corvette. Jim doesn’t care, staring out the viewport, hands wrapped tight around the strap of his bulging knapsack.
After Frank picked him up from the police station, Jim had been banished to his room, where he found Sam’s box of their father’s belongings hidden in the bottom of his closet. A note tucked inside the cover of a book of Greek and Roman mythology told him Sam wasn’t planning on coming back to the little farmhouse. And when Frank brusquely informed him of his trip to Tarsus, Jim hadn’t cared about taking anything other than the contents of the box with him. He only left The Lord of the Rings, his dad’s class ring, and a single holopic wrapped in one of George’s old t-shirts and tucked under the loose floorboard behind his bed, the most precious things he’d ever owned, safer off his person than on it.
“Sam and Gwen are good people, Jim.” George just doesn’t seem to get that Jim really doesn’t care who his aunt and uncle are, he’s just grateful for the chance to get away from Frank for a while. He’s tired, though, having spent the night reading through The Return of the King one last time, while he had the chance.
Jim pulls his feet up into his seat, resting his head against the viewport to watch the stars drift past until he starts to drift off. George’s hand presses weightlessly on Jim’s knee as he watches him from the floor, seated cross-legged against the bulkhead because of the lack of empty seats.
“You’ll be happy with them, Jimmy,” George whispers, just as Jim sighs and falls asleep.
+
“Jimmy.” The whisper wakes Jim out of nightmares and shallow sleep. Jim sits up in the bed, scrubbing at his eyes, and looks around for the kid.
“What, Kevin?” he whispers back, keeping his voice down even though there’s no one else in the room - there’re cameras all around, for ‘his safety’, and he doesn’t trust the people watching from the other side. He doesn’t trust very many people at all these days.
“Jimmy, you gotta help me.” A strange pang of sickening déjà vu sweeps through Jim and it’s all too easy to remember the last time Kevin asked that. His back still aches from the mostly-healed lashmarks and Kevin had died anyway, begging for his mom as they dragged him away. So, it’s with no small amount of trepidation that Jim climbs out of his bed and follows Kevin over to the computer console on the other side of the room.
He’s finally off that planet, away from the dry, yellow soil and the baking sun, the smell of ozone and sickly-sweet decay, though it still takes him a few moments every morning to convince himself it isn’t a dream. The star-filled black outside the window of his cabin on the Concord helps, grounding him in a way he couldn’t begin to explain. The cool air and readily available food and water help, too, but make him feel sick with guilt, especially with Kevin following him around.
“It’s noon back on Earth, Jimmy,” Kevin informs him solemnly and Jim has no idea how the kid knows that, but he accepts it as the truth it probably is. He wakes the computer out of hibernation and pulls up a messaging program as Kevin continues to ramble on. “She’ll be eating lunch right now, Jimmy, sitting at her computer with a sandwich before going back to work. She always came home to eat lunch with me, even if she had to stay on the computer.”
“Focus, Kevin,” Jim hisses at the kid, wanting this done and over with, wanting to go back to sleep, wanting things back to normal, the way they were before that planet. ‘Cause, ever since the Concord came, George’s been gone and Kevin’s been here, and Jim wants him back.
Twenty minutes later, the door of Jim’s room slides open, just as Jim finishes the last of his coding and sends the message - priority-mail, secure packet. Kevin’s eyes shine supernova-bright over the edge of the desk and Jim can’t help but grin back, pleased as always that he’s been able to do something for the kid. When the nurse frowns at his expression, Jim quickly wipes his face blank, staring down at the breakfast tray she brought with her and hoping she doesn’t decide to make a big deal about one of his rare smiles.
When she pulls out her comm to call a doctor, Jim realizes today’s going to be worse than normal and rolls his eyes, bracing himself for the onslaught of questions sure to come.
Kevin just smiles sadly at him from behind the nurse’s back.
+
“Jim! Jimmy!” Winona cries, shoving through the crowds until she can wrap her arms around her son. He stands there and bears it, skin crawling with the need to push her away, while she clings and cries against his shoulder. “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy,” she moans against his neck and he should feel something, he thinks, something other than slight boredom, something other than an antsy need to get away.
A dark-haired woman in Starfleet grays winds her way through the crowd and Jim pulls away from his mom, pushing and shoving people to reach her. There’s pity in every eye that meets his and he knows how he must look, with his gaunt face, spindly arms, and still dusty, too-long hair. But he doesn’t care what they think. He’s got a mission and the goal is right there (he thinks he sees the occasional flash of crinkly blue eyes, but they’re always gone when he turns his head).
“Ma’am? Ma’am!” he calls, finally catching up with her and tugging on her sleeve.
She turns and faces him, shading red, tired eyes from the sun with one hand. There’s a defeated slump to her shoulders that he recognizes from the adults on Tarsus, one that speaks of heartbreak and loss, and she’s got that same guilty, sleepless glaze over her eyes that he’s seen so many times in his mom’s.
“Ma’am, I’m Jim Kirk and I knew your son, Kevin.” The rapidly in-taken breath and hand fluttering vaguely at her mouth are familiar, too. “I was the one that sent you that message, from the Concord. And Kevin wants me to tell you that he doesn’t blame you. That he loves you and doesn’t want you to cry for too long, ‘cause he doesn’t like it when you’re sad.” He doesn’t actually see Kevin anywhere around but the words are just there, practically falling out of his mouth.
“Wha- Is he, is he here?” she asks, staring around Jim with more acceptance and belief in her eyes than he’s ever seen in his own mom’s - he ignores the stab he feels when he notices.
“No, but he’s okay now. He’s not hurt or sick or hungry or anything and he just wanted me to tell you, okay?”
She swallows harshly, hand clenched at her mouth, before blinking away the tears gathering in her eyes and reaching for him. “Thank you,” she breathes against his ear and this, this feels more real than his mother’s hug. Tears prick his eyes and he bites his lip to stave them off.
“Jim!” he hears distantly and he closes his eyes, trying to hold onto this feeling of homecoming for a little bit longer. But Ms. Riley’s pulling back, stroking her fingers through his dusty hair before moving off into the crowd again, disappearing almost immediately in the throng. “Jim!”
He closes his eyes and braces himself against the crush of his mother’s retroactive concern and fussing, her fluttering hands and half-wild eyes as she reassures herself that Jim’s safe and alive, back on-planet where he belongs.
For a brief moment, he envies Kevin.
+
“See the cloud in the water, Jim? You can’t drink it, it’s been fouled. See how the plants at the edges died?”
“Jim, wake the kids, I hear someone coming, you’ll have to run for it. Carry the littler ones if you need to. Come on, kiddo.”
“No, Jim, not that one, this one. See the berries? No black spots, right? The black spots mean they’re poisonous. These red ones, though, those’ll hold you for a little while, okay? Okay, Jim? Jim?”
“Jim?”
Jim gasps as he bolts upright out of sleep, heart pounding and sweat soaking his pajamas. He clenches his fingers in the blankets, trying to pull himself out of the dreams (memories) and back into his bedroom. It takes him a few minutes, but gradually he can makes out the vague shapes of his dresser, the desk, the closet door and the shadow-blurred images ground him in reality. As he finally manages to take a deep breath, his eyes pick up on one very important addition to the familiar furniture in his room.
“Dad!” he cries, quietly because it’s after midnight and his mom’s asleep (because anyone could be lurking in the shadows). He scrambles out of the covers, slinging his legs over the side of the bed and starting to rise to rush over to George.
Between one blink and the next, George is sitting next to him on the bed, capable hands closing around one thin wrist to anchor Jim to the bed. It strikes him harder than normal, the absolute lack of sensation when George touches him, and tears rise unbidden to his eyes as he pulls free of George’s hold. Smiling sadly, George gestures at the light on the nightstand and Jim quickly turns it on, illuminating soft blue eyes as they wander carefully over Jim’s face.
“That was a good thing you did with Kevin, Jim,” George murmurs and Jim almost wants George to call him ‘Jimmy’, like he would before...everything. But Jimmy is what the kids called him and it brings back too many memories, too many mistakes and lost chances. So he dredges up a smile for his dad, glad to see him again after almost a month without him.
He doesn’t ask where George went during that time, or why he couldn’t have had George and Kevin. He’s tried that before - back when he was little and they were still figuring this out - and it’s always seemed to be more a case of George being unable to tell than unwilling. Instead, he just curls back up under his covers and tugs the t-shirt hidden under his pillow out where he can bury his nose in it. It doesn’t smell like anything in particular, but the soft, over-washed cotton is comforting in his hand and under his cheek, the smell of a detergent his mom doesn’t use anymore wrapping like a security blanket around his heart.
With his eyes squeezed closed tightly enough, he can imagine he actually feels the hand stroking gently over his head and across his shoulders, can pretend the t-shirt actually smells like memories and familiarity, can almost make himself believe his dad’s actually here in the room with him, solid and reassuring as he chases the monsters out from under the bed and scares the nightmares away.
And it’s not like anyone really sees the few tears that slip down his cheeks at the thought so, as far as Jim’s concerned, it doesn’t really happen.
+
“Look, it’s the crazy Kirk kid. Talkin’ to your poor dead daddy again, Jimmy?” Finnegan sneers, glancing back at his cronies with a triumphant look on his face. Jim looks up at his call, the use of his old nickname drawing a cold shudder down his back, even as Finnegan’s words spark a hot ember of anger deep in the pit of his stomach.
“Jim, don’t,” George tries, face wooden, as if he seems to realize how futile the words are. Ever since Tarsus, Jim’s been on a hair-trigger, easy to anger and eager for the rush of adrenaline that comes with high emotions. Even now, five years later, it’s all too simple for idiots like Sean Finnegan to push Jim’s buttons. Fruitlessly, George tries to catch Jim’s arm, to keep him where he is, but that touch has never really been there and Jim keeps going, deliberately ignoring George as he walks over to where Finnegan and goons are standing.
It doesn’t matter at all that Finnegan’s a burly senior and Jim’s a wiry freshman. Jim gets right in Finnegan’s face, grinning wickedly as he shoves the taller kid back, both hands firmly planted in the middle of Finnegan’s chest. His goons catch him, keep him from hitting the ground and push him back at Jim, giving him extra momentum as he pulls up a fist and swings at the shorter blond. Jim ducks to avoid it, launching his shoulder into Finnegan’s gut, felling the senior. Still grinning, he’s ready for the next shot aimed at him, deflecting it and knocking down one goon, turning to face the next. Their anger and frustration are almost palpable in the air - this isn’t their first go-round with Jim but this is the general tone of every encounter, Jim’s size and experiences allowing him to easily dance in and around most of their attempts to beat the crap out of him.
The fight continues for a little while without any actual hits, feints and dodges on both sides turning it on its head until it’s more of a dance routine than a brawl. Out of the corner of his eye, Jim can still see George, leaned against the tree where Jim had been studying, blue eyes indecipherable, face reading mild disgust. It’s his expression that distracts Jim, takes his attention completely away from the fight long enough for O’Sullivan to break through his defense and land a solid blow to Jim’s cheekbone, knocking him completely off his feet. He lays there in shock for a second, pain radiating in waves through his face, still entirely transfixed by George’s apparent disgust. Sensing a change in the normal swing of things, Finnegan and his cronies leap on him, fists and feet slamming into all the soft places on his body while the sad frustration in George’s eyes batters at the weaknesses in Jim’s soul. Curling up into a ball on the dusty asphalt, Jim does his best to hold on and not succumb to the memories (guards and whips and kids screaming while Kevin calls his name over and over), until the pain of it all is too much to handle and he topples over into unconsciousness.
He wakes up in a hospital bed, his mom clutching his hand while a monitor beeps annoyingly over his shoulder. There’s a split second of panic before all of this registers, but one softly muttered, “dammit, Jim,” and a flash of concerned blue eyes, crinkled at the edges with something other than mirth quiets his nerves enough for him to notice Winona sitting red-eyed at his side. George doesn’t say anything else the entire time Jim’s in the hospital, despite the doctor coming and going and Winona’s fluttering admonishments to be careful, but Jim’s eyes stay locked on him through it all, trying to find some hint of disfavor in those familiar blue eyes.
He refuses to wonder why he’s almost disappointed when he doesn’t find it.
+
He’s too young, too inexperienced to appreciate the taste of the alcohol as he takes a hearty swallow, but the burn down his throat is heartening, something akin to the rush of adrenaline he gets from fights, without the pain of bruises. For that reason alone he downs the drink, managing to mute the grimace the action evokes, though the bartender rolls his eyes and sighs as he sets out another before leaving him alone - they both know he’s too young to be in here, but the bartender won’t ask and Jim’ll never tell.
Sipping carefully this time, lips slightly twisted at the flavor, Jim glances over his shoulder, surveying the bar. It’s a little place, busy mainly on the weekends, popular with the crews that work at the shipyard and Jim’s pleased to notice he doesn’t recognize a single patron - Riverside’s a small town, but the shipyard tends to keep to itself. Blinking sluggishly, Jim realizes he’s staring blankly at the door, eyes slightly crossed. He glances down at his drink then over at the bartender, muzzily realizing that he won’t be given another and he really doesn’t need it. Shrugging, he finishes the last few swallows; he’s achieved his purpose and there’s a woman in Starfleet grays staring at him from across the room, a question he doesn’t want to answer hidden in her eyes.
Half-falling, half-deliberate, he climbs down off the barstool, legs not quite long enough to allow him to gracefully (or in feigned soberness) step off the stool. He makes his way carefully toward the exit, stumbling slightly as he hears the news report playing on the vidscreen in the corner segue into a retelling of the Kelvin tragedy. Eyes squeezed tightly closed, nausea rising in the back of his throat, he shoves past the people trying to enter the bar and runs out into the night, shivering in the chilly air.
“Jim,” he hears George say, something ineffably tender in the mellow timbre of his voice, and he doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to be placated. Today of all days, if he’s going to be left alone anyway (for the first time since...coming back), he just wants the solitude. A chance to think, or not think, to forget as much as possible. He sets off in a wobbly jog, knees threatening to give way with every step, eyes burning with tears he refuses to shed. “Jim!”
“Go ‘way!” Jim shouts back, voice cracking. “Leave me ‘lone!” And it’s almost a sob, but he chokes it back. George flickers beside him, not jogging but still keeping pace somehow, appearing more ethereal than he ever has under the sickly light of the waning moon.
“Jim. Jim, wait- God, Jimmy!” he exclaims as Jim’s legs finally give out on him, dumping him in a heap on the edge of the asphalt. His knees ache from the impact, one hand scraped raw and the other wrist throbbing from landing awkwardly, and he can’t stop the sob this time, the alcohol he’d drunk decimating his control and laying him bare. Tears cut through the dirt on his face and he feels all of eight again, lonely and subjected to the attentions of a mildly abusive stepfather, not sixteen and the survivor of unspeakable horrors.
He curls over on his side, the asphalt cold through his clothes, and cries himself sick, the only time he’s let himself shed a tear for his poor kids. George settles cross-legged in front of him, a bittersweet, reassuring presence, murmuring nonsense until Jim’s quieted to aching stillness, the occasional shuddering breath the only sign of his breakdown. Gradually, as a winter breeze sighs through the roadside grasses, Jim rolls onto his back to stare up at the glitter of stars peeking through the thin cloud cover.
“I wish I didn’t know you,” he sighs into the Iowan night.
George lays his hand over Jim’s sternum and abruptly disappears, leaving Jim to the stars and empty fields, a headache digging in at the base of his skull as one last tear trails down to drip hollowly into his ear.
+
“Rent’s due at the end of the month. No pets. No roommates unless they pay rent, too. No loud parties or I call the police. You put a hole in the wall, you fill it before you leave. I am not a janitorial service, a handyman, a locksmith, a cook, or a nursemaid. You will have a day’s grace in which to get me the rent - the second of the month, I kick you out. Am I clear?”
Jim raises an eyebrow, blinking bemusedly at the diminutive woman standing in front of him. Arms crossed over her chest, hair pulled into a tight French braid, feet solidly planted shoulder-width apart, she appears every inch the retired Starfleet officer. He resists the urge to salute sarcastically, figuring it wouldn’t be appreciated, and nods his understanding, biting his cheek to keep a smirk from twisting his mouth. Her eyes narrow, as if she can read his irreverent thoughts, but she pivots sharply on one heel and marches off down the hall, steps ringing in the empty spaces and down the stairwell. Jim rolls his eyes, hefts his duffle back up on his shoulder, and opens the door to his new apartment.
It isn’t much to look at, just a small kitchenette, living room and bedroom, with a tiny bathroom tucked into the miniscule hallway between the living and bed rooms. He dumps his bag in the middle of the space, the dull thud resounding off the bare walls, and stares around, trying to figure out what to do next. Without stopping to think about it, he turns to speak over his shoulder.
“Home sweet h-” he mutters, a sardonic smirk tugging at his mouth, before biting off the end of the phrase. “Huh,” he sighs and his shoulders slump. Even after two years, he’s not used to George not being there.
Had he his druthers, he’d have kept away from Rosalind Maddox’s little apartment building, not that he really has much of a choice when it comes to low-rent accommodations in and around Riverside. But retired Lt. Cmdr Maddox’s building is the only one that also came fully furnished, a bonus since Jim has only his duffle bag and the clothes on his back to his name. Though he’d have rather stayed away from such a strong reminder of Starfleet and all that it meant to him, the rent is good and the inclusion of a mattress on the narrow bedframe tucked into the little bedroom keeps Jim from having to sleep on the cold floor.
Sighing, he scrubs a hand through his hair, grateful he’d gotten a haircut just last week, making it one less thing he’d have to worry about, for a little while at least. If he’d known his mom was planning on kicking him out, he would have made sure to be prepared, actually taking that job at the mechanic’s and stocking up on some supplies. He refuses to contemplate how empty the cabinets behind him are right now - he’s not broken down since his mom’s declaration, but if there’s anything bound to send him into a panic attack, it’s an impending lack of food.
He squares his shoulders and drags his bag into the bedroom, tossing it in the corner after digging out a book. He throws himself down on the bed, planning to go back to the mechanic’s tomorrow and accept the job offer, and flips open the book, tracing a finger over the holopic he’d tucked in the middle as he reads the words on the opposite page. He’d memorized them years ago but they still bring him comfort in some way, especially after Tarsus. He could use some reassurance now, eighteen, unemployed, and broke, in an empty apartment he’s been granted on good faith and trust in his last name.
“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.”
As he falls asleep, he thinks he sees George standing in the corner of the room, blue eyes shadowed by the night creeping in through the window, but he passes it off as a dream, heart clenching as he misses his dad.
+
The girl in his arms - Jessica? Jeanette? Jorja? - giggles as they crash through the door and into his apartment, landing awkwardly against the rickety table set in the middle of the room. He smiles back and kisses her again, more teeth than anything, tugging on her bottom lip until she moans and arches against him, her skirt riding up as she hooks a leg over his hip. Alcohol is buzzing nicely through his veins, but he’s got enough presence of mind to realize that the table can’t take their weight, so he hauls her - Jennifer? Janna? - up into his arms again and carries her into his bedroom. Her stilettos dig into the small of his back and she curls her fingers into his shoulders as she rubs herself against him, a wicked smile on her face. The friction is driving him crazy and she laughs breathlessly at the way his eyelids flicker in reaction to the sensory onslaught. He retaliates by mouthing at her breast through the filmy material of her blouse, fingers working to open his zipper as her breathy moans sound encouragement in his ear.
They fall asleep later in a tangled mess of sweaty limbs and half-doffed clothing, his head on her stomach and feet hanging off the end of the bed. He wakes to warm lips and steady suction, back arching and toes curling in ecstasy before he’s even fully awake. The girl - Janis? J- uh, J... Janiera! - crawls back up the bed with a satisfied glow in her amethyst eyes, cool, golden-velvet skin rubbing against his as she settles against his side. They kiss with lazy abandon until his comm starts to buzz, indicating he has a half-hour to get to work. He walks her down to the street, brushing one last kiss across her mouth before waving good-bye, the morning sun warm on his bare shoulders despite the wintry chill in the air.
As he rushes through a shower and bolts a protein bar before running out the door to hop in his motorcycle, he completely forgets he’s a year older today, twenty-one instead of twenty, though it doesn’t take him long to see a news feed flashing his dad’s face and remember. He buries himself in the engine he’s taking apart and tries to forget again, not noticing George watching from the corner, where the vidscreen has mysteriously shorted out.
+
“You can whistle really loud, you know that?”
The man in Starfleet grays cocks his head at Jim’s slurred response, but it’s the figure hovering blurrily behind him that Jim’s eyes lock on to. He blinks once and groans as the table tilts, toppling him to the floor, where he gratefully releases his tenuous hold on consciousness and blanks out, George’s startled expression following him down.
+
He’s not sure how long he’s sat here, staring up at the unwieldy, somehow graceful hulk of the ship currently being built at the shipyard. Long enough for the dew to settle on his jacket and run off the cuffs and folds in chilly rivulets, dripping dark spots on his jeans. Long enough to feel the tips of his nose and ears turn pink in the crisp morning air. Long enough for the shape of the ship to indelibly imprint itself on his mind, overlain by his knowledge of Starfleet schematics and engineering to form a clean, strikingly stunning impression shadowing his thoughts of the future. Without even thinking about it, he sighs, drags a hand through his hair, and tilts his head back to stare at the fading stars, keeping his eyes on them as he asks his question.
“Why’d you choose to go?”
There’s silence behind him and Jim calls himself nine kinds of fool for hoping again, shoulders slumped as he hangs his head. Obviously, seeing George standing behind Chris Pike was a fluke, a hallucination caused by his beating and the alcohol he’d consumed. He’s not really seen his dad since his sixteenth birthday, the first time he’d gotten drunk and the only time he’d ever voiced the bitter wish to have never seen him, but he’s still not used to being so totally alone, even after six years. He sighs harshly and moves to kick the bike back to life, hands tight on the handlebars.
“Mostly it was my dad.” The bike wobbles unsteadily as Jim nearly jumps out of his skin, electric tingles of adrenaline prickling under his skin as he whips around to stare hungrily at George. He looks exactly the same as he always has, blue eyes warmly crinkled as he watches Jim fondly, completely unruffled and at ease. He turns to look up at the half-finished ship, Jim’s gaze following as though tethered. “He served his time up in the black, retiring just before I graduated from high school, and I was always interested in the stories he had to tell. But, it was also more than that.” George’s eyes are on Jim again, but he’s too captivated by the dull glint of fading starlight on the occasional panel of aluminum-alloy stretched across the ship’s girders. “Something about it just called to me. There was never any chance I wouldn’t go.” George shrugs and Jim finally turns away from the ship to look at his father.
“I...I’ve never thought about it, not really.”
“Funny,” George’s smile is fond, indulgent as he steps close and lays a careful hand on Jim’s shoulder, “I’ve always thought you’d go.”
+
Part 2
There’re strange noises - almost like laughter, with the occasional crash-thud of something hitting the floor or wall - coming from behind Mommy’s door. He goes to see if Sammy’s noticed, but his brother is staring determinedly at a PADD and when Jimmy tugs on his brother’s arm to get his attention, Sam shakes him off impatiently.
“Go ‘way, Jimmy. Y’made me mess up!” he scowls, jabbing at the device and turning away from Jimmy. Jim sits there for a little while longer, staring at the couch cushion and chewing on his lip, glancing up occasionally to see if Sam’s changed his mind. He hasn’t, so Jimmy climbs down off the couch and heads for the stairs.
Standing outside Mommy’s room, he scuffs his toe in the carpet a couple times, hoping maybe she’ll know he’s there and open the door. He’s not surprised when she doesn’t, looking up through his bangs at the knob like it’ll bite him or something. He’s not s’posed to bother Mommy when her door’s closed, that’s what Sammy always says, but he’s worried about Mommy so he reaches for the knob anyway.
“No, Jim, don’t do that.” A hand closes over Jimmy’s, keeping him from opening the door, but somethin’s weird - Jimmy can see the hand and his five-year-old mind tells him that if he can see it, it has to be there, but he can’t feel it. Eyes wide, chin trembling, he looks up.
There’s a man there, taller’n Mommy, with kind blue eyes that crinkle at the edges as he returns Jim’s stare. He’s familiar looking, Jim decides, someone nice that would always play games when Jim was bored and would never tell him to ‘shut up, Jimmy, I’m busy’. Besides, he reasons, he wouldn’t be in the house if he were a bad man; Mommy’s made sure of that, with doors that buzz until you push the buttons the right way and windows that don’t open unless Mommy does it, no matter how hard Jimmy pushes and pulls on ‘em.
“Who’re you?” Jimmy chirps, but another sound from behind the door distracts him. “Do you know what’s wrong with Mommy?”
The tall man hesitates, hand still around Jim’s, then crouches in front of him, his other hand coming to rest on Jim’s right shoulder (Jimmy’s eyes widen again when he does that - he still can’t feel it and it’s weird). “My name’s George, Jimmy, and your mommy’s very sad. Do you know what today is?”
Jim lights up at the question. “Yeah, it’s my birfday!” he all-but shouts, excited in the same way any five-year-old gets. Jim grins hugely, blue eyes shining over missing baby-teeth, glad someone’s finally remembered. “I’m five today,” he declares proudly, shoving his splayed fingers in George’s face.
“Yes, I know you are,” George smiles back, stroking the side of Jimmy’s face with a sad sort of fondness. “Do you know what else happened today?”
Jimmy frowns, looking down at the carpet between his feet. “Yeah, my daddy died,” he mumbles, peeking up through his bangs. “Izzat why Mommy’s sad?”
“Yeah, Jimmy,” George breathes, “that’s why your mommy’s sad.”
“Should I go give her a hug? Hugs always make me feel better when I’m sad,” Jimmy offers, mouth twisting in doubtful hope as he looks back up into George’s blue eyes. He starts to reach for the doorknob again, pulling his hand out of George’s despite the older man’s protests.
“No, Jimmy, that’s not-”
“Jim?” Winona asks, just before the door swings open. Jim looks up with a smile, all blue eyes and chubby cheeks as he rushes forward to wrap his arms around Mommy’s legs. “Baby, who were you talking to?”
“Just George, Mommy,” he answers guilelessly, chin on her thigh as he looks up at her. Glancing over his shoulder, he can still see George kneeling in the hallway, forehead wrinkled and face sad. Mommy makes a strange sound, not a laugh but kinda like it, and presses a hand to her mouth, red-rimmed eyes welling with tears. “Look, Mommy, he’s right there,” Jimmy points, scared he’s upset his mom again.
“She can’t see me, Jimmy,” George says, hands resting on his knee as he watches the two of them. “Oh, Winnie,” he sighs, pulling himself up to his feet, reaching out to cup Winona’s cheek in one hand. Winona jumps and pulls away from Jimmy, staring wildly around the hallway.
“There’s no one there, Jim, don’t tell stories like that. J-just stop it.” She’s backing away from the doorway, staring down at her son as he tries to figure out what he’s done wrong.
“But, Mommy, he’s really here,” Jim insists, stomping one small foot noiselessly on the carpet. “He’s gots crinkly blue eyes like Grampa Ti and he says his name is George.”
“Stop it!” Winona shrieks, hands against her ears and eyes screwed shut. Jim jumps back as she reaches for the door and slams it shut, the sound echoing through the hall until George places one hand against it. Turning quickly, he kneels in front of Jimmy again, hands on both slight shoulders gripping until his fingertips turn white and Jimmy can almost - almost - feel it.
“It’s okay, Jimmy. It’s not your fault, it’s mine, I shouldn’t have- You’re not in trouble, okay?” Jim nods, chin trembling, blue eyes luminescent with tears. George swipes his thumbs across Jim’s cheeks, though it does nothing for the tears that break free. Jim sniffles once and scrubs his sleeve across his face and nose, not even noticing that his arm moves right through George’s hands. When Jim looks up again, George has pulled his hands back, studying Jim’s face and eyes with another sad smile. He opens his mouth to say something when Sam comes thundering up the stairs.
“What’re you doing, Jimmy?” he hisses, grabbing hold of Jim’s arm and towing him roughly down the hall to their rooms. “I told you t’leave Mom alone. Why don’t you lissen t’me?” Jim babbles some protest, trying to shove his older brother off him.
“Lemme go, Sam!” he cries, pulling and tugging until they’re wrestling in the hallway, Sam trying to shut Jim up and Jim trying to get away from Sam. George watches them roll around in the floor until Jimmy manage to pull free of Sam’s hands and runs for the stairs, thundering haphazardly down them. George shadows him, making sure Jim makes it to the bottom unharmed, and Sam follows, hollering at his brother as he goes.
“I’ll see you later, Jimmy,” George sighs to the empty downstairs, the laughing shrieks of the boys wafting vaguely through the front door as they run around the front yard, throwing handfuls of snow at each other.
+
“Jim-mee, don’t bother me!” Sam groans, shoving Jim away from where he’s leaned against his older brother. Pouting, Jimmy trudges up the stairs, staring resolutely at his feet as he passes his mom’s open bedroom door. It’s been a month and she still won’t believe him when he tells her about George; worse, she won’t talk to him the same way anymore, especially if Sam isn’t in the room. Jimmy still doesn’t know what he did, but George promises him it’s not his fault, so Jimmy figures it really isn’t.
Bored, Jim heads to Sam’s room instead of his own, poking around his brother’s things for something interesting to do. Stacks of PADDs teeter on the bookcase, threatening to topple at any second so Jim steers away from those. The bright blue PADD on Sam’s bed is full of cool stories and Jimmy’s tempted to ‘borrow’ it for a while, but when he goes to climb up, he stubs his toe on a box peeking out from under the bed. Scowling, holding his toes in one hand, Jimmy drops onto his stomach on the floor and tugs out the box, infinitely more intrigued with this than the PADD. There’s a key-code lock on the front of the box, but Jimmy long ago figured out that Sam uses the same lock-code for everything, so it’s easy to open the box.
“Wow, cool,” Jimmy breathes, staring at the stuff inside. Dozens of real paper books with cool titles like Son of a Wanted Man and Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, The Lord of the Rings and The Bourne Identity. When Jimmy pulls one out and flips open the cover, he sees Sam’s name inside, only not quite - it’s not Sam’s handwriting and it just says George Kirk, not George Samuel. Curiously, Jimmy stacks the books beside the box to get to what’s underneath.
A handful of miniature cars, colorfully painted with old-fashioned wheels. A t-shirt with a funky looking symbol and the words ‘Starfleet Academy’ printed across the front. A blue shirt wrapped around an old comm, the cover cracked and spitting only static when Jimmy pries it open. A couple of PADDs that refuse to turn on, no matter what buttons Jim pushes. A framed holopic of Mommy in a pretty white dress, blue eyes shining above a huge smile, something Jimmy’s never seen before. When he lifts the frame out, a handful of loose holopics fall back into the box. Frowning, Jim fishes them back out.
“That’s me,” George says, reaching over Jim’s shoulder to point at the tall man standing next to Mommy. Looking up curiously, Jimmy studies George’s face, then looks back down at the picture. Sure enough, the man in the fancy jacket is George and Jimmy frowns again as he tries to figure out this new puzzle. “Huh, I wondered what had happened to these,” George mumbles, poking at the stack of books, finger sinking up to the first knuckle into the spine of one.
“You’re...my dad?” Jimmy asks, nose wrinkled in confusion. George turns to look at him, blue eyes twinkling as he watches the little boy. Jim glances down at another of the holopics, where Grampa Ti’s arm is thrown over George’s shoulders and they’re both smiling, eyes crinkled at the corners. When Jim looks back up, George nods. “But...”
“I never wanted to leave you and your mom, Jimmy. I need you to believe me, okay?” Jim nods and George smiles at him, eyes as bright as his son’s. “Now, come on, kiddo. Let’s put these up before your brother gets mad, okay?” Jim nods again and starts scooping things back into the box, keeping a car, a holopic, and one of the books for himself before shoving everything back under the bed.
He takes his loot to his bedroom, hiding the holopic and car, then hopping up on his bed and opening the book, thumbing through the pages until George offers to read it to him.
“When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton...”
+
“Jimmy,” George sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stares down at his sulking son. Jim just tightens his arms across his chest, his scowl darkening as he watches his mom dance with Frank. “Jim, come on, now. I know you don’t like Frank, but he makes your mom happy, okay? That’s what matters.”
“I thought she loved you,” the sullen eight-year-old pouts and George winces at the venom in the child’s voice. Bad enough that Sam tried to run away - again - when Winona told them the news; if Frank catches sight of Jim’s glower, things’ll go downhill fast.
“Jim, your mom’s been alone for a while now. Doesn’t she deserve to be happy?”
Jim opens his mouth to respond and George is sure it isn’t going to be with anything good, when Winona appears in front of him.
“Jimmy, time for pictures, baby,” she says, smiling and face glowing, though there’s something strangely flat about her eyes. She looks at the people standing around Jim, briefly studying their faces. “Who’re you talking to?”
“George, Mom,” he answers. Somehow, he’s never shifted into calling George ‘Dad’, least not in front of his mom. Still, she freezes, smile melting from her face as she stares down into Jim’s blue eyes.
“I told you not to play like that, Jim.” Even her voice is stiff, as though the slightest movement would shatter her. “Now, come on. Pictures.”
She drags him through the crowds of people to the crepe-draped pavilion, tugging on his suit jacket until it lies straight and wrinkle-free across his shoulders. Jim slouches as soon as she removes her hands, the scowl twisting his face even darker than before. Sam elbows him and rolls his eyes; Sam doesn’t like Frank, either, but he’s quieter about it, preferring to sneak out in the middle of the night rather than face him.
“Jim, don’t ruin this for her,” George admonishes from behind the photographer, hands on his hips as he levels a glare at his son.
“Why did she have to marry him?” Jim asks loudly, deliberately pushing every button likely to lead to disaster.
“Not right now, Jimmy,” George hisses back, as though everyone could hear him. Sam elbows Jim again, harder than before, and Winona’s fingers go white around her bouquet. Frank shifts and casually puts his arm around Jim, hand resting loosely on his left shoulder.
“It’s not fair,” Jim insists, and the hand on his shoulder gets tighter.
“Jim,” Winona whispers harshly.
“Jimmy, stop it. You know better than this. We had a deal,” George reminds him, pushing past the photographer until he’s right in front of the eight-year-old, desperately trying and failing to get his hands around Jim’s, to calm him down and keep Frank’s temper under control.
“But I don’t like-” The fingers on Jim’s shoulder are suddenly white with tension and Jim yelps, tries to pull away as Frank smiles fixedly at the photographer and holds on. Winona’s torn between defending her son and attacking him for the spectacle he’s making and Sam just edges away from his brother and new stepfather. Tears rise in Jimmy’s eyes as he squirms but can’t get free. “Daddy,” he whimpers and George can’t take it anymore.
The tripod support for a large basket of flowers suddenly snaps, the entire stand tilting at an extreme angle as the weight of the basket tips it forward. Guests scream in alarm as basket after basket falls, pulled by each other’s weight against the crepe tied around each pole. Shocked, trying to get out of the way, the wedding party scatters, Jim pulling free of Frank’s grasp to completely leave the pavilion, running full-tilt into the nearby cornfield. George sighs and looks around at the chaos subsuming the celebration, guests crowded around Winona and Frank as they try to salvage the pictures.
No one notices the absence of the little Kirk boy, even after the photographer once again tries to organize a good shot.
+
Jim sniffles, glaring into the stalks of corn as he scrubs at his nose with his right hand. His entire left shoulder hurts, a deep, radiating ache that intensifies when he moves it. His eyes well again as it throbs particularly sharply and he remembers the way his mom and brother just stood there and watched.
“Jim?”
The familiar voice seeps into Jim’s raw nerves, soothing him away from jumping at every rustle the corn makes. George steps through a row of corn, blue eyes concerned as he looks Jim over, taking in the tear streaked cheeks and the way he’s curled in on himself, protecting his shoulder and bruised heart. With a sigh, George sinks to the ground in front of him, just as he first did three years ago, and runs a hand down Jim’s left arm.
“I hate him,” Jim mumbles, crossing his arms and wincing when his shoulder throbs again. George sighs again, a harsh, frustrated sound that makes Jim look up in surprise - he’s never heard George get really upset, not with him, at least.
“I know, kiddo. But you’re gonna have to follow his rules, listen to him.”
“I don’t wanna!” Jim knows he’s whining like a baby, but his shoulder hurts and he’s still mad at what happened.
“Jim, he’s your mother’s husband, your father,” and George chokes on the word, whipping his head around to glare over his shoulder, jaw clenched as he stares through the corn and away from his son.
“He’s not! He’s not my father! You are!” Jim shouts, pounding his fists on the ground, heedless of the rough dirt and his aching shoulder. “You’re my father! I don’t want him, I want you!” he insists and the tears in his eyes break free again, carving runnels through the dust on his cheeks.
“I know, Jimmy, I know.” George is suddenly right there, arms around Jim but Jim can’t feel it and it makes it worse, makes it hurt more, and he’s sobbing, wailing at the pain, while George murmurs softly in his ear and the sun finds its way hot through the cornstalks.
+
“Waaaaahoooo!” Jim shouts, wind and music rushing around him as the top flies off and away from the car, landing who knows where behind him. Cornfields flow past as he revs the engine and goes faster. He blows past Sam, waving enthusiastically at his brother as he does, barely keeping control of the Corvette. Settling back in the seat, he decides that this is it - this is the greatest feeling in the world.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Jim?” George shouts over the music, perched on the passenger seat and hands braced on the dash as he faces his son. Jim spares him a glance but the car wobbles as he does so, nearly careening out of the barely-there control the ten-year-old has over it.
“He’s got everything else!” Jim hollers back, hands white around the steering wheel as he glares out the windshield. “I’m not gonna let him have this!”
“Jimmy, it’s a car, it doesn’t matt-” George sucks in a breath as the car wobbles again. “You’re gonna get yourself killed! Goddammit, Jim, please.”
But Jim just grits his teeth and presses his foot down on the accelerator, depressing it as far as it will go, and the needles on the dash go wild. They streak past a resting cop, ending up nearly a mile ahead of him before he catches up, siren wailing. George is shouting again, but Jim blocks him out, focusing on the music and feel of the car under him.
“Citizen, pull over!” the cop calls and Jim doesn’t want to, never wants to, wants to get away from Frank, from Sam leaving and his mom gone again. From the hand over his on the steering wheel, the hand he can’t feel and never will but desperately wants to. He jerks the wheel to the side, sending them careening down a gravel road and through a chain-link fence.
Signs for the quarry are scattered all around, warnings and legalese in languages Standard and alien, and Jim never slows down. George is silent next to him - Jim’s not even sure he’s still in the car, maybe he’s had enough of Jim, enough of the ‘runt Kirk boy’, ‘the crazy one’, ‘poor Winona’s special child’. Jim doesn’t care, he doesn’t, and the quarry’s right there, right there, and he’s not stopping, he’ll never stop, he just wants, he wants to, he-
At the last second, he shifts gears and hits the brakes, diving out of the car as he realizes there isn’t enough time. He flies through the air, awkwardly graceful, with flailing arms and stiff, uncooperative legs, until he lands hard on the edge of the quarry. Momentum continues to drag at him, pulling him closer and closer to the very edge, and he’s scared now but can’t show it, literally can’t make himself express the fear. He curls his fingers into the dirt, scrabbling for any purchase, and some distant part of his mind wonders why it doesn’t hurt as much as it should. He fell off Sam’s hoverscooter once, skinned the entire length of his left forearm, and it hurt like hell, tingling and fire-hot as he lay there in shock after the fall.
He blinks and George is right in front of him, hands curled tension-white around his wrists, pulling with all of his (insubstantial) strength as Jim continues his inexorable slide toward the edge. At the very edge, the very last second, he stops, hanging limply over the lip for a moment before somehow finding the strength to pull himself back up. He climbs shakily to his feet, not noticing how George’s hands linger on his shoulders, clenched tight on the fabric of his jacket.
With a deep breath and a last look at the shrieking mass of twisted metal plummeting to the bottom of the quarry, Jim turns his back to the chasm.
“Is there a problem, officer?” he asks the cop planted in the middle of the gravel road, only a little breathless.
“Citizen, what is your name?” After his almost-suicide, the cop’s mechanized voice isn’t scary at all.
“My name is James Tiberius Kirk!” Jim declares, throwing his shoulders back and ignoring the indecipherable look George is leveling his way.
+
Needless to say, Frank isn’t happy with the loss of the car. In less time than Jim ever thought possible, he’s bundled onto the next shuttle heading off-world, his aunt and uncle on Tarsus IV expecting him by the end of the week.
“Sam’s your mother’s brother,” George tells him, voice quiet in the same way it’s been since Jim crashed the Corvette. Jim doesn’t care, staring out the viewport, hands wrapped tight around the strap of his bulging knapsack.
After Frank picked him up from the police station, Jim had been banished to his room, where he found Sam’s box of their father’s belongings hidden in the bottom of his closet. A note tucked inside the cover of a book of Greek and Roman mythology told him Sam wasn’t planning on coming back to the little farmhouse. And when Frank brusquely informed him of his trip to Tarsus, Jim hadn’t cared about taking anything other than the contents of the box with him. He only left The Lord of the Rings, his dad’s class ring, and a single holopic wrapped in one of George’s old t-shirts and tucked under the loose floorboard behind his bed, the most precious things he’d ever owned, safer off his person than on it.
“Sam and Gwen are good people, Jim.” George just doesn’t seem to get that Jim really doesn’t care who his aunt and uncle are, he’s just grateful for the chance to get away from Frank for a while. He’s tired, though, having spent the night reading through The Return of the King one last time, while he had the chance.
Jim pulls his feet up into his seat, resting his head against the viewport to watch the stars drift past until he starts to drift off. George’s hand presses weightlessly on Jim’s knee as he watches him from the floor, seated cross-legged against the bulkhead because of the lack of empty seats.
“You’ll be happy with them, Jimmy,” George whispers, just as Jim sighs and falls asleep.
+
“Jimmy.” The whisper wakes Jim out of nightmares and shallow sleep. Jim sits up in the bed, scrubbing at his eyes, and looks around for the kid.
“What, Kevin?” he whispers back, keeping his voice down even though there’s no one else in the room - there’re cameras all around, for ‘his safety’, and he doesn’t trust the people watching from the other side. He doesn’t trust very many people at all these days.
“Jimmy, you gotta help me.” A strange pang of sickening déjà vu sweeps through Jim and it’s all too easy to remember the last time Kevin asked that. His back still aches from the mostly-healed lashmarks and Kevin had died anyway, begging for his mom as they dragged him away. So, it’s with no small amount of trepidation that Jim climbs out of his bed and follows Kevin over to the computer console on the other side of the room.
He’s finally off that planet, away from the dry, yellow soil and the baking sun, the smell of ozone and sickly-sweet decay, though it still takes him a few moments every morning to convince himself it isn’t a dream. The star-filled black outside the window of his cabin on the Concord helps, grounding him in a way he couldn’t begin to explain. The cool air and readily available food and water help, too, but make him feel sick with guilt, especially with Kevin following him around.
“It’s noon back on Earth, Jimmy,” Kevin informs him solemnly and Jim has no idea how the kid knows that, but he accepts it as the truth it probably is. He wakes the computer out of hibernation and pulls up a messaging program as Kevin continues to ramble on. “She’ll be eating lunch right now, Jimmy, sitting at her computer with a sandwich before going back to work. She always came home to eat lunch with me, even if she had to stay on the computer.”
“Focus, Kevin,” Jim hisses at the kid, wanting this done and over with, wanting to go back to sleep, wanting things back to normal, the way they were before that planet. ‘Cause, ever since the Concord came, George’s been gone and Kevin’s been here, and Jim wants him back.
Twenty minutes later, the door of Jim’s room slides open, just as Jim finishes the last of his coding and sends the message - priority-mail, secure packet. Kevin’s eyes shine supernova-bright over the edge of the desk and Jim can’t help but grin back, pleased as always that he’s been able to do something for the kid. When the nurse frowns at his expression, Jim quickly wipes his face blank, staring down at the breakfast tray she brought with her and hoping she doesn’t decide to make a big deal about one of his rare smiles.
When she pulls out her comm to call a doctor, Jim realizes today’s going to be worse than normal and rolls his eyes, bracing himself for the onslaught of questions sure to come.
Kevin just smiles sadly at him from behind the nurse’s back.
+
“Jim! Jimmy!” Winona cries, shoving through the crowds until she can wrap her arms around her son. He stands there and bears it, skin crawling with the need to push her away, while she clings and cries against his shoulder. “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy,” she moans against his neck and he should feel something, he thinks, something other than slight boredom, something other than an antsy need to get away.
A dark-haired woman in Starfleet grays winds her way through the crowd and Jim pulls away from his mom, pushing and shoving people to reach her. There’s pity in every eye that meets his and he knows how he must look, with his gaunt face, spindly arms, and still dusty, too-long hair. But he doesn’t care what they think. He’s got a mission and the goal is right there (he thinks he sees the occasional flash of crinkly blue eyes, but they’re always gone when he turns his head).
“Ma’am? Ma’am!” he calls, finally catching up with her and tugging on her sleeve.
She turns and faces him, shading red, tired eyes from the sun with one hand. There’s a defeated slump to her shoulders that he recognizes from the adults on Tarsus, one that speaks of heartbreak and loss, and she’s got that same guilty, sleepless glaze over her eyes that he’s seen so many times in his mom’s.
“Ma’am, I’m Jim Kirk and I knew your son, Kevin.” The rapidly in-taken breath and hand fluttering vaguely at her mouth are familiar, too. “I was the one that sent you that message, from the Concord. And Kevin wants me to tell you that he doesn’t blame you. That he loves you and doesn’t want you to cry for too long, ‘cause he doesn’t like it when you’re sad.” He doesn’t actually see Kevin anywhere around but the words are just there, practically falling out of his mouth.
“Wha- Is he, is he here?” she asks, staring around Jim with more acceptance and belief in her eyes than he’s ever seen in his own mom’s - he ignores the stab he feels when he notices.
“No, but he’s okay now. He’s not hurt or sick or hungry or anything and he just wanted me to tell you, okay?”
She swallows harshly, hand clenched at her mouth, before blinking away the tears gathering in her eyes and reaching for him. “Thank you,” she breathes against his ear and this, this feels more real than his mother’s hug. Tears prick his eyes and he bites his lip to stave them off.
“Jim!” he hears distantly and he closes his eyes, trying to hold onto this feeling of homecoming for a little bit longer. But Ms. Riley’s pulling back, stroking her fingers through his dusty hair before moving off into the crowd again, disappearing almost immediately in the throng. “Jim!”
He closes his eyes and braces himself against the crush of his mother’s retroactive concern and fussing, her fluttering hands and half-wild eyes as she reassures herself that Jim’s safe and alive, back on-planet where he belongs.
For a brief moment, he envies Kevin.
+
“See the cloud in the water, Jim? You can’t drink it, it’s been fouled. See how the plants at the edges died?”
“Jim, wake the kids, I hear someone coming, you’ll have to run for it. Carry the littler ones if you need to. Come on, kiddo.”
“No, Jim, not that one, this one. See the berries? No black spots, right? The black spots mean they’re poisonous. These red ones, though, those’ll hold you for a little while, okay? Okay, Jim? Jim?”
“Jim?”
Jim gasps as he bolts upright out of sleep, heart pounding and sweat soaking his pajamas. He clenches his fingers in the blankets, trying to pull himself out of the dreams (memories) and back into his bedroom. It takes him a few minutes, but gradually he can makes out the vague shapes of his dresser, the desk, the closet door and the shadow-blurred images ground him in reality. As he finally manages to take a deep breath, his eyes pick up on one very important addition to the familiar furniture in his room.
“Dad!” he cries, quietly because it’s after midnight and his mom’s asleep (because anyone could be lurking in the shadows). He scrambles out of the covers, slinging his legs over the side of the bed and starting to rise to rush over to George.
Between one blink and the next, George is sitting next to him on the bed, capable hands closing around one thin wrist to anchor Jim to the bed. It strikes him harder than normal, the absolute lack of sensation when George touches him, and tears rise unbidden to his eyes as he pulls free of George’s hold. Smiling sadly, George gestures at the light on the nightstand and Jim quickly turns it on, illuminating soft blue eyes as they wander carefully over Jim’s face.
“That was a good thing you did with Kevin, Jim,” George murmurs and Jim almost wants George to call him ‘Jimmy’, like he would before...everything. But Jimmy is what the kids called him and it brings back too many memories, too many mistakes and lost chances. So he dredges up a smile for his dad, glad to see him again after almost a month without him.
He doesn’t ask where George went during that time, or why he couldn’t have had George and Kevin. He’s tried that before - back when he was little and they were still figuring this out - and it’s always seemed to be more a case of George being unable to tell than unwilling. Instead, he just curls back up under his covers and tugs the t-shirt hidden under his pillow out where he can bury his nose in it. It doesn’t smell like anything in particular, but the soft, over-washed cotton is comforting in his hand and under his cheek, the smell of a detergent his mom doesn’t use anymore wrapping like a security blanket around his heart.
With his eyes squeezed closed tightly enough, he can imagine he actually feels the hand stroking gently over his head and across his shoulders, can pretend the t-shirt actually smells like memories and familiarity, can almost make himself believe his dad’s actually here in the room with him, solid and reassuring as he chases the monsters out from under the bed and scares the nightmares away.
And it’s not like anyone really sees the few tears that slip down his cheeks at the thought so, as far as Jim’s concerned, it doesn’t really happen.
+
“Look, it’s the crazy Kirk kid. Talkin’ to your poor dead daddy again, Jimmy?” Finnegan sneers, glancing back at his cronies with a triumphant look on his face. Jim looks up at his call, the use of his old nickname drawing a cold shudder down his back, even as Finnegan’s words spark a hot ember of anger deep in the pit of his stomach.
“Jim, don’t,” George tries, face wooden, as if he seems to realize how futile the words are. Ever since Tarsus, Jim’s been on a hair-trigger, easy to anger and eager for the rush of adrenaline that comes with high emotions. Even now, five years later, it’s all too simple for idiots like Sean Finnegan to push Jim’s buttons. Fruitlessly, George tries to catch Jim’s arm, to keep him where he is, but that touch has never really been there and Jim keeps going, deliberately ignoring George as he walks over to where Finnegan and goons are standing.
It doesn’t matter at all that Finnegan’s a burly senior and Jim’s a wiry freshman. Jim gets right in Finnegan’s face, grinning wickedly as he shoves the taller kid back, both hands firmly planted in the middle of Finnegan’s chest. His goons catch him, keep him from hitting the ground and push him back at Jim, giving him extra momentum as he pulls up a fist and swings at the shorter blond. Jim ducks to avoid it, launching his shoulder into Finnegan’s gut, felling the senior. Still grinning, he’s ready for the next shot aimed at him, deflecting it and knocking down one goon, turning to face the next. Their anger and frustration are almost palpable in the air - this isn’t their first go-round with Jim but this is the general tone of every encounter, Jim’s size and experiences allowing him to easily dance in and around most of their attempts to beat the crap out of him.
The fight continues for a little while without any actual hits, feints and dodges on both sides turning it on its head until it’s more of a dance routine than a brawl. Out of the corner of his eye, Jim can still see George, leaned against the tree where Jim had been studying, blue eyes indecipherable, face reading mild disgust. It’s his expression that distracts Jim, takes his attention completely away from the fight long enough for O’Sullivan to break through his defense and land a solid blow to Jim’s cheekbone, knocking him completely off his feet. He lays there in shock for a second, pain radiating in waves through his face, still entirely transfixed by George’s apparent disgust. Sensing a change in the normal swing of things, Finnegan and his cronies leap on him, fists and feet slamming into all the soft places on his body while the sad frustration in George’s eyes batters at the weaknesses in Jim’s soul. Curling up into a ball on the dusty asphalt, Jim does his best to hold on and not succumb to the memories (guards and whips and kids screaming while Kevin calls his name over and over), until the pain of it all is too much to handle and he topples over into unconsciousness.
He wakes up in a hospital bed, his mom clutching his hand while a monitor beeps annoyingly over his shoulder. There’s a split second of panic before all of this registers, but one softly muttered, “dammit, Jim,” and a flash of concerned blue eyes, crinkled at the edges with something other than mirth quiets his nerves enough for him to notice Winona sitting red-eyed at his side. George doesn’t say anything else the entire time Jim’s in the hospital, despite the doctor coming and going and Winona’s fluttering admonishments to be careful, but Jim’s eyes stay locked on him through it all, trying to find some hint of disfavor in those familiar blue eyes.
He refuses to wonder why he’s almost disappointed when he doesn’t find it.
+
He’s too young, too inexperienced to appreciate the taste of the alcohol as he takes a hearty swallow, but the burn down his throat is heartening, something akin to the rush of adrenaline he gets from fights, without the pain of bruises. For that reason alone he downs the drink, managing to mute the grimace the action evokes, though the bartender rolls his eyes and sighs as he sets out another before leaving him alone - they both know he’s too young to be in here, but the bartender won’t ask and Jim’ll never tell.
Sipping carefully this time, lips slightly twisted at the flavor, Jim glances over his shoulder, surveying the bar. It’s a little place, busy mainly on the weekends, popular with the crews that work at the shipyard and Jim’s pleased to notice he doesn’t recognize a single patron - Riverside’s a small town, but the shipyard tends to keep to itself. Blinking sluggishly, Jim realizes he’s staring blankly at the door, eyes slightly crossed. He glances down at his drink then over at the bartender, muzzily realizing that he won’t be given another and he really doesn’t need it. Shrugging, he finishes the last few swallows; he’s achieved his purpose and there’s a woman in Starfleet grays staring at him from across the room, a question he doesn’t want to answer hidden in her eyes.
Half-falling, half-deliberate, he climbs down off the barstool, legs not quite long enough to allow him to gracefully (or in feigned soberness) step off the stool. He makes his way carefully toward the exit, stumbling slightly as he hears the news report playing on the vidscreen in the corner segue into a retelling of the Kelvin tragedy. Eyes squeezed tightly closed, nausea rising in the back of his throat, he shoves past the people trying to enter the bar and runs out into the night, shivering in the chilly air.
“Jim,” he hears George say, something ineffably tender in the mellow timbre of his voice, and he doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to be placated. Today of all days, if he’s going to be left alone anyway (for the first time since...coming back), he just wants the solitude. A chance to think, or not think, to forget as much as possible. He sets off in a wobbly jog, knees threatening to give way with every step, eyes burning with tears he refuses to shed. “Jim!”
“Go ‘way!” Jim shouts back, voice cracking. “Leave me ‘lone!” And it’s almost a sob, but he chokes it back. George flickers beside him, not jogging but still keeping pace somehow, appearing more ethereal than he ever has under the sickly light of the waning moon.
“Jim. Jim, wait- God, Jimmy!” he exclaims as Jim’s legs finally give out on him, dumping him in a heap on the edge of the asphalt. His knees ache from the impact, one hand scraped raw and the other wrist throbbing from landing awkwardly, and he can’t stop the sob this time, the alcohol he’d drunk decimating his control and laying him bare. Tears cut through the dirt on his face and he feels all of eight again, lonely and subjected to the attentions of a mildly abusive stepfather, not sixteen and the survivor of unspeakable horrors.
He curls over on his side, the asphalt cold through his clothes, and cries himself sick, the only time he’s let himself shed a tear for his poor kids. George settles cross-legged in front of him, a bittersweet, reassuring presence, murmuring nonsense until Jim’s quieted to aching stillness, the occasional shuddering breath the only sign of his breakdown. Gradually, as a winter breeze sighs through the roadside grasses, Jim rolls onto his back to stare up at the glitter of stars peeking through the thin cloud cover.
“I wish I didn’t know you,” he sighs into the Iowan night.
George lays his hand over Jim’s sternum and abruptly disappears, leaving Jim to the stars and empty fields, a headache digging in at the base of his skull as one last tear trails down to drip hollowly into his ear.
+
“Rent’s due at the end of the month. No pets. No roommates unless they pay rent, too. No loud parties or I call the police. You put a hole in the wall, you fill it before you leave. I am not a janitorial service, a handyman, a locksmith, a cook, or a nursemaid. You will have a day’s grace in which to get me the rent - the second of the month, I kick you out. Am I clear?”
Jim raises an eyebrow, blinking bemusedly at the diminutive woman standing in front of him. Arms crossed over her chest, hair pulled into a tight French braid, feet solidly planted shoulder-width apart, she appears every inch the retired Starfleet officer. He resists the urge to salute sarcastically, figuring it wouldn’t be appreciated, and nods his understanding, biting his cheek to keep a smirk from twisting his mouth. Her eyes narrow, as if she can read his irreverent thoughts, but she pivots sharply on one heel and marches off down the hall, steps ringing in the empty spaces and down the stairwell. Jim rolls his eyes, hefts his duffle back up on his shoulder, and opens the door to his new apartment.
It isn’t much to look at, just a small kitchenette, living room and bedroom, with a tiny bathroom tucked into the miniscule hallway between the living and bed rooms. He dumps his bag in the middle of the space, the dull thud resounding off the bare walls, and stares around, trying to figure out what to do next. Without stopping to think about it, he turns to speak over his shoulder.
“Home sweet h-” he mutters, a sardonic smirk tugging at his mouth, before biting off the end of the phrase. “Huh,” he sighs and his shoulders slump. Even after two years, he’s not used to George not being there.
Had he his druthers, he’d have kept away from Rosalind Maddox’s little apartment building, not that he really has much of a choice when it comes to low-rent accommodations in and around Riverside. But retired Lt. Cmdr Maddox’s building is the only one that also came fully furnished, a bonus since Jim has only his duffle bag and the clothes on his back to his name. Though he’d have rather stayed away from such a strong reminder of Starfleet and all that it meant to him, the rent is good and the inclusion of a mattress on the narrow bedframe tucked into the little bedroom keeps Jim from having to sleep on the cold floor.
Sighing, he scrubs a hand through his hair, grateful he’d gotten a haircut just last week, making it one less thing he’d have to worry about, for a little while at least. If he’d known his mom was planning on kicking him out, he would have made sure to be prepared, actually taking that job at the mechanic’s and stocking up on some supplies. He refuses to contemplate how empty the cabinets behind him are right now - he’s not broken down since his mom’s declaration, but if there’s anything bound to send him into a panic attack, it’s an impending lack of food.
He squares his shoulders and drags his bag into the bedroom, tossing it in the corner after digging out a book. He throws himself down on the bed, planning to go back to the mechanic’s tomorrow and accept the job offer, and flips open the book, tracing a finger over the holopic he’d tucked in the middle as he reads the words on the opposite page. He’d memorized them years ago but they still bring him comfort in some way, especially after Tarsus. He could use some reassurance now, eighteen, unemployed, and broke, in an empty apartment he’s been granted on good faith and trust in his last name.
“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.”
As he falls asleep, he thinks he sees George standing in the corner of the room, blue eyes shadowed by the night creeping in through the window, but he passes it off as a dream, heart clenching as he misses his dad.
+
The girl in his arms - Jessica? Jeanette? Jorja? - giggles as they crash through the door and into his apartment, landing awkwardly against the rickety table set in the middle of the room. He smiles back and kisses her again, more teeth than anything, tugging on her bottom lip until she moans and arches against him, her skirt riding up as she hooks a leg over his hip. Alcohol is buzzing nicely through his veins, but he’s got enough presence of mind to realize that the table can’t take their weight, so he hauls her - Jennifer? Janna? - up into his arms again and carries her into his bedroom. Her stilettos dig into the small of his back and she curls her fingers into his shoulders as she rubs herself against him, a wicked smile on her face. The friction is driving him crazy and she laughs breathlessly at the way his eyelids flicker in reaction to the sensory onslaught. He retaliates by mouthing at her breast through the filmy material of her blouse, fingers working to open his zipper as her breathy moans sound encouragement in his ear.
They fall asleep later in a tangled mess of sweaty limbs and half-doffed clothing, his head on her stomach and feet hanging off the end of the bed. He wakes to warm lips and steady suction, back arching and toes curling in ecstasy before he’s even fully awake. The girl - Janis? J- uh, J... Janiera! - crawls back up the bed with a satisfied glow in her amethyst eyes, cool, golden-velvet skin rubbing against his as she settles against his side. They kiss with lazy abandon until his comm starts to buzz, indicating he has a half-hour to get to work. He walks her down to the street, brushing one last kiss across her mouth before waving good-bye, the morning sun warm on his bare shoulders despite the wintry chill in the air.
As he rushes through a shower and bolts a protein bar before running out the door to hop in his motorcycle, he completely forgets he’s a year older today, twenty-one instead of twenty, though it doesn’t take him long to see a news feed flashing his dad’s face and remember. He buries himself in the engine he’s taking apart and tries to forget again, not noticing George watching from the corner, where the vidscreen has mysteriously shorted out.
+
“You can whistle really loud, you know that?”
The man in Starfleet grays cocks his head at Jim’s slurred response, but it’s the figure hovering blurrily behind him that Jim’s eyes lock on to. He blinks once and groans as the table tilts, toppling him to the floor, where he gratefully releases his tenuous hold on consciousness and blanks out, George’s startled expression following him down.
+
He’s not sure how long he’s sat here, staring up at the unwieldy, somehow graceful hulk of the ship currently being built at the shipyard. Long enough for the dew to settle on his jacket and run off the cuffs and folds in chilly rivulets, dripping dark spots on his jeans. Long enough to feel the tips of his nose and ears turn pink in the crisp morning air. Long enough for the shape of the ship to indelibly imprint itself on his mind, overlain by his knowledge of Starfleet schematics and engineering to form a clean, strikingly stunning impression shadowing his thoughts of the future. Without even thinking about it, he sighs, drags a hand through his hair, and tilts his head back to stare at the fading stars, keeping his eyes on them as he asks his question.
“Why’d you choose to go?”
There’s silence behind him and Jim calls himself nine kinds of fool for hoping again, shoulders slumped as he hangs his head. Obviously, seeing George standing behind Chris Pike was a fluke, a hallucination caused by his beating and the alcohol he’d consumed. He’s not really seen his dad since his sixteenth birthday, the first time he’d gotten drunk and the only time he’d ever voiced the bitter wish to have never seen him, but he’s still not used to being so totally alone, even after six years. He sighs harshly and moves to kick the bike back to life, hands tight on the handlebars.
“Mostly it was my dad.” The bike wobbles unsteadily as Jim nearly jumps out of his skin, electric tingles of adrenaline prickling under his skin as he whips around to stare hungrily at George. He looks exactly the same as he always has, blue eyes warmly crinkled as he watches Jim fondly, completely unruffled and at ease. He turns to look up at the half-finished ship, Jim’s gaze following as though tethered. “He served his time up in the black, retiring just before I graduated from high school, and I was always interested in the stories he had to tell. But, it was also more than that.” George’s eyes are on Jim again, but he’s too captivated by the dull glint of fading starlight on the occasional panel of aluminum-alloy stretched across the ship’s girders. “Something about it just called to me. There was never any chance I wouldn’t go.” George shrugs and Jim finally turns away from the ship to look at his father.
“I...I’ve never thought about it, not really.”
“Funny,” George’s smile is fond, indulgent as he steps close and lays a careful hand on Jim’s shoulder, “I’ve always thought you’d go.”
+
Part 2