A/N: amanda isnt in this part, but she'll be in the next; un'beta'd

kirk's the only one to get de-aged folks

KIRK IS THE ONLY ONE DE-AGED

"Thank you, lieutenant." Kirk says, taking his hand off the transporter room's comm and straightening.

The enterprise is orbiting F'kintu, a planet that has just become eligible to try for entry into the federation, and because he's captaining the big and mighty flagship, he gets to double talk with politicians for two weeks. He doesn't sigh because, at least it's an upgrade from cargo shuttling across the quadrant, which Starfleet has been doing for half a year. He's not much worried about finally taking off the training wheels, but he knows Starfleet's suffering a terrible hard on from how well behaved their crisis promoted cadet is doing, and that their breathing hot down his neck, monitoring his every command decision.

He adjusts his phaser belt, clipping it and unclipping it, as he orders the ensign in charge of beam down to ready the coordinates. He's not gonna be the first down there, no way in hell Spock would've even allowed it; the first ambassadorial unit had beamed down planet-side fifteen minutes ago. He's got a phaser because he wants one, and because he wants one. F'kintu has a thing about high ranking people meeting, and had requested that Enterprise's highest ranking individual beam down alone; separate from any other beam down parties. To an undisclosed location in their sprawling capital, Ind'iuta, where it lays butting up against the planets only mountain range.

Spock had spent hours, trying to get the location, the way of meeting, anything, to change so the Kirk didn't have to go alone. and it hadn't worked, and Spock had gotten all stiff necked and broken backed about it, refusing to make eye contact, while Kirk'd snickered and played it down, really trying to warm him up, and get him to unbreak his spine. Which is why Spock is manning the bridge, and Kirk is walking onto the transport pad, miffed that he has no goodbye party to see him off for twelve boring hours. The only concession that Spock had been able to make the F'kintu while shoving irrefutable logic in their faces was that it 'is unsafe for a federation captain to venture unarmed into an unknown situation'. That little piece had ruffled the F'kintu enough, and still refusing to tell the Spock where exactly the meet up was that, they had ceded to allowing him to have a weapon— which Kirk would've snuck anyway, which Spock was not unawares, and so had avoided a political fuck up. A fuck up Kirk would not have incised at all.

The ensign looks up, "They've sent the coordinates, Captain."

Kirk nods, "Good; energize."

The transporter pad lights up underneath him, and Kirk feels the beam prickle and stretch his skin, the light gets stronger, he hears the ensign say something, he blinks, the dark of his eyelids floating with spots of light. The light vanishes, he feels like he gets kicked in the stomach, and maybe he bends over withe force of that, he can't tell he's mid beam, can he even move mid beam? He stumbles out, now there's something to stumble out to, his eyes snap open and he falls on his face. Well, he's not dead, the hot sand burning his cheek and drying his mouth annoys him into a sitting position.

"What the hell." he says, kneeling before he stands.

This is not F'kintu anymore. He twists in all directions, mouth gaping disbelief; iron rusted sand stretches from horizon to horizon, mini tornadoes trip off in the distance, connecting the red sand to the absolutely arid sunset-red sky. Dull orange clouds sulk high in the sky, not doing a thing to cover the fucking hot sun, burning him to sweat. He swipes his forehead, and wipes it on his shirt— except he's ass nude, not even socks, as he scrunches his toes in the scorching sand.

Also, his carpet is gone, and if weren't baking outside his wee would have goose-bumps. Not even a treasure trail.

"What the fu—"

He looks up in time to start running really fast in the opposite direction of the giant dinosaur loping at him. His arms pump, and his legs strain, sliding across hot sand and stuttering over sharp hidden rock. Shit-shit-shit, he slams against to stop, breath hurting out, and he glances behind and,

"Shit-shit-shit- Enterprise! Do you copy, Enterprise!" he shouts out, more for collecting himself than actually thinking anyone can hear without a damn comm unit.

The thing is gaining, and he jumps back, readies to jump and haul himself up the cliff that isn't going to corner him for the dinosaur. He runs, fingers gouging into the rock, and he curses as he slides instead of going the hell up. He scrambles and rolls up and over gasping hot air. He turns his head and shit-shit-shit— he pushes up, fingers dripping blood and sprints fast. The dinosaur has jumped the cliff. He's wheezing now, and his legs are numb, he can't feel his hands, white spots his visions— he is not going to pass out here, dammit.

His head is bowed he's gonna pass out, he's not gonna pass out— someone shouts, he stutters to a jog. He doesn't have enough air to ask, 'what?' as his head turns to the right and a lean figure is stark against the red sands. He hears them shout again— he can't— it's not standard— the spots in his eyes are huge now.

"Young one, get down!"

He understands that, he— how can he do that, he's— the ground rushes past him and his bare back blunt against a cliff he hadn't seen. The sudden agony is quick, and he's leaning against a small hill, jagged on the one side he'd tipped over. He lays there spread eagle, feet all tingly, then he stumbles to his feet, and climbs. He's just about to the top, and he sees the stranger, spear the dinosaur in the chest. The loose sand blows up with the wind and then settles. He wants a spear. he pulls over onto all fours and stays there gasping air that's too thin and hot, his chest constricts, and he groans, falling to rest his head on his left forearm.

"—it— shi…t— shit—…hit…" he gasps, sucking up sand and spitting it out, without actually trying to stop sucking up the sand.

The scare of the fall had sucked all his adrenaline away and his body aches so bad he doesn't wanna move any part of himself. Over his gasps for air, he hears faint puffs of footsteps. He hears them stop, but they don't say anything, he slumps against his arm, and manages to turn his head. he stares, it not the same person he'd seen kill the dinosaur, it's a little kid, chillin' there staring right back at him, dark brown eyes, wide and curious, and not embarrassed to have been caught staring. The kids wearing a long cloak-thing, a brown dress-looking thing, and a hood covering their head.

Their still staring at each other when the person he'd seen joins them, holding the spear in their hand, before sticking it in the ground and crouching in front of Jim.

He speaks, well, Jim thinks he's a he, his voice is deep enough to be a man's— but his quiet words are too quick, and Jim can pick enough to know they're not standard either. He wants to know where the hell his universal translator went. The man waits for him respond, and when he doesn't a faint frown line appears between his brows. Jim sits up, ass hitting his heels and stares at the man's eyebrows. He ignores the man's faint stillness from his sudden movement and gapes as he still gasps for breath. He glances at the kid, and yes— they both have the same brows. Okay. These guys are Vulcans, or Romulans— he'd rather deal with peaceful Vulcans, so he's sticking with the Vulcan idea.

"Where am I." he says, wiping a shaking hand over his mouth.

"Where Cheleb-khor ends and The Forge begins, young one." the Vulcan answers, in heavily accented standard.

"Um, no… I mean where, what planet." Jim says.

There is no possible way that he is on New Vulcan; the Enterprise isn't even in alpha qua—

"Vulcan."

Wait. "How the hell am I on New Vulcan— that doesn't even make sense."

The Vulcan says nothing, but the kid next to him takes a step closer, "You are mistaken, this planet is not named 'New Vulcan', but Vulcan. I suggest you remedy your obvious lack in astronomical knowledge."

Jim stares at the kid, his hand curl on his thighs, "Kid…"

The older Vulcan shifts towards the kid, "V'ar'el, please."

The kid, V'ar'el, stiffens and lowers his glare to the ground, but not before, "I am obviously older than the human child; therefore, you should not call me as such."

Jim looks around, and doesn't see a human kid, "What human kid?"

He sees the kid's brow rise, and looks at the older Vulcan who is now totally studying him.

He doesn't like this, he doesn't like this. Something's not right; he should be on a nice tropical planet, in the beta quadrant. Now, he's on New Vulcan— Vulcan, but that's not possible. He looks past the Vulcan content with studying him, to the vast red sands, and bare ridges, rising to the empty skies; high bridges, leaning down to touch the hard ground, the dry wind sucking his sweat away, and his thundering heart. He tries to swallow, his throat catches. This is just like—

He tastes the desert on his tongue, remembers the first time he tasted the memory of the Vulcan-That-Was. His eyes widen, and he— he wants to stand, he wants to run. Wants to just, doesn't want this.

He forces himself to turn back to the adult Vulcan, "Wh— what's the star. Stardate. Uh please."

He just barely sees the kid frown out of the corner of his eye, and the adult, "The current stardate is 2254."

He wants to fall, inside he falls; someone pulls the carpet out from under him, he's falling. He starts breathing again, squeezing air out of tight lips, refusing to lose it in front of these Vulcans. His hands are fists on his thighs, his eyes close against him, trying to breathe, just breathe. These people, these innocent people. This planet; had these two made it, had he saved them? Or— he cringes into himself, hands on the sand in front of him, twisting and serrating in his grip.

Someone is near him, his eyes snap open and he flinches away, fists rising— it's the adult, hands up in peaceful assurance.

"You are unwell." it's not a question.

No he's not. He's not. He needs his ship, he need his crew. He can't, not with this. These Vulcan, are they even alive, is he talking to ghosts. He can't.

"I'm— I'm fine, fine." he says, is voice is fine, doesn't reflect him, only shows what he wants. He—, "Thanks for saving my ass."

He grins up at the Vulcan. Up at him. Jim looks down at his tiny hands, trembling on his bare thighs, his hairless legs, and hairless self. He reaches up and rubs his face, his smooth face, young, not scar less. His grin, he thinks, cracks, unhinges, by the Vulcan's sudden twitch closer, like he's about to fall apart. Falls apart. He's the kid, he's a kid.

Past all that hot guilt, he'd forgotten. He doesn't know how everything had superseded it. 2254; he's not captain of a starship, doesn't have a First Officer, but has already been on his first starship since his birth. He knows his body's too young to be twenty-something, and he knows this is the body he'd had when he'd gone to starve and die like an animal. Knows, because, his body doesn't have the scars he'd inflicted, that he'd refused to be healed.

Nothing makes sense. This— it wouldn't be so hard. If he had a body older than this. He doesn't want these memories to leach back into forethought.

"..ung one, young one."

Jim starts, blinking dry eyes.

"What do you call yourself?" the adult Vulcan asks.

He's about to— but he can't, he can't say what his name is, they'd look it up. They'd find him not a child in the Federation database; a repeat offender with a motorcycle to his name. Too many questions, too many he can't answer, won't. Shouldn't.

"Tiberius." he says, everyone knows his name, always forgets what it stands for. He likes it like that because he hates his middle name; old and out of date, a generation out of date.

The Vulcan's eyes narrow slightly, "Tiberius, may I question the logic of being unattended on The Forge?'

Why is he here, where are his parents; he doesn't have any, he doesn't know why, he shouldn't be, can't be here, it's impossible. He needs to sound confident. Confident in a younger body, he doesn't want suspicion more.

"Uhm, I— Spock! Spock, I was visiting him— Spock.'

Spock's on Vulcan-That-Was, of course he is, nowhere else for him to be. He hasn't gone for Starfleet yet, too early for that— in a lull between schooling, right? If jim remembers right.

Jim's smile slips right off his face, why'd he say that, shit, that's the last person he wants to see. he would've been fine with strangers, would've found a way back to his future, without messing with Spock's past. Spock would know the moment he sees Jim that something's wrong, somewhere in the universe, wait, but why? Spock doesn't know him yet, can't read him like a damn open book.

The Vulcan cocks his head, "Spock?"

"Yeah, Spock, you know him? Nice guy, bit prissy sometimes." Jim says, trying to give the guileless blues he knows kick people in the gut.

The Vulcan blinks at the 'prissy', "He is not well known to me; however, I do know of Spock son of Sarek."

"Great." Jim says, and jumps to his feet. "Uh, can you take me back to his, uhm, house?"

The Vulcan twitches, looking up at him, "Please refrain from aggravating you injuries, Tiberius."

Oh yeah, he'd got the shit beat out of him by a planet, he lifts his hand, and there isn't anything, not tears, only sand covered blood on smooth skin. his hands go to his back, he feels blood flake off, but there's nothing there.

"Um. I don't have any?" he's hitting a brick wall so hard and fast he doesn't wanna think about, he knows he had cuts all down his arms, scratches killing his fingers, lacerations stretching his back.

"You, do not?"

"This," Jim says, spreading his hands out in front of himself, "it's just me getting all sweaty, and your red dirt sticking everywhere."

He grins down at the assuredly unconvinced Vulcan, and drops his hands. He'd rolled around in the stuff long enough for it to stick everywhere, his explanation makes sense.

"You are lying." it's the kid, and he's still glaring, even though Vulcans don't glare.

Okay, so it was a thin excuse, but dammit, "Am not."

Jim doesn't stick his tongue, out but the action sure as hell colors his petulant tone, obviously enough for an ugly green to muddy the kids cheeks.

Jim isn't blinking and the kid is right up in his face, mouth thin and straining. Well, the kid is actually older than him, because he's forced to lift his chin to meet their eyes.

Jim is an adult, which doesn't mean he's mature enough to be one. He shuffles close, because he can.

he feels a hot warmth over his chest and glances down, sees two hands; one hovering over him, the other on the kid. The adult Vulcan is standing to their side, a disapproving tilt to him.

"It is unwise to goad one another, and wise to step back from conflict." the Vulcan says, and tightens his grip on the kid, and forcibly tugs him back, "Tiberius, may ask after your clothes?"

"My, uh, clothes? That's a good question, uhm," Jim smooth's his hand down his chest, and doesn't know why he's bare assed either.

He looks back up at the Vulcan, who is untying his top and shedding it, leaving his pale chest dry in the sun, "It is no consequence, Tiberius, you may make use of this."

He hands Jim the shirt, and Jim slips it on, it reaches his knees. And holy shit is it a furnace, the Vulcan's body heat radiates out, sweat soaking out more than it had been. Jim wants to give the thing back, but that'd be impolite, probably.

"Thanks— what's your name anyway?"

"I am V'arokh son of S'irikh," he says, and gestures to the kid, "This is V'ar'el, my brother."

A/N: prompt at: st-xi-kink-meme dot livejournal dot com/15838 dot html?thread=14948062#t14948062