After facing death (as personified by Nero and his crew of time-lost, revenge seekers), Jim would have bet money on his ability to face any situation head on. Hell, that had been his MO long before the Narada Incident, so it should have only made him stronger, right?
It had been the first day classes resumed, the first day they had to again wear the red, cadet's uniforms that had become so familiar over the last few years. Jim had fastened the tabs, straightened the collar and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
Injuries sustained in the line of duty long healed, he didn't look any different than he had before. That was wrong. When something happens that inflicts such a deep, visceral wound upon the souls of so many, something so intrinsically horrible that it causes its own fissure in history (before the Narada Incident/After the Narada Incident), it seemed to him that there should be some sign.
Anything.
Later, walking across campus, he noted the emptiness, the loss of so many of his peers was clearly weighing on every remaining cadet. There were no sounds of laugher, no friends rushing, as they'd let themselves stay late chatting in the mess hall. Just pensive, silent young men and women drifting from class to class, trying not to stare at all the empty seats, to well aware of what had happened to the former occupants.
In most of Jim's classes, the other students clearly found it easier to stare at him instead.
Okay, so he'd stepped up, but he'd just done what had to be done. Anyone else in his position would have done the same.
By the end of the day it was too much and, instead of heading to the mess hall to grab dinner, Jim found his way to the seldom used garden atop Phlox Hall. The odd little half xenoscaped, half green garden had served as an oasis of calm many times since he'd come to the academy and today it was just an escape.
Leaning against one of the rough hewn stone partitions, Jim stared into the distance, out over San Francisco bay and cringed.
Work crews were still pulling up Nero's drill, the one that had plunged uselessly into the deep water. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, drawing the sea air into his lungs.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
He couldn't have said how long he lingered there, but, after a while, he became aware of a presence beside him. Before a word was said, he knew it was Bones, and actually smiled a bit when the other man asked, "Have you eaten anything today?"
Bones knew him too well. "I had an apple for lunch," Jim replied, opening his eyes to look at his friend.
The doctor looked tired. With so many medical officers killed on what they thought was a relief/rescue mission to Vulcan, he'd been swamped at Starfleet Medical, taking on, in Jim's opinion, far too many shifts. Refugees from Vulcan, injured personnel and a boatload of PTSD cases, survivors guilt…there was no shortage of work for Bones.
Still, he'd found time to hunt down Jim and had known him well enough to bring sandwiches.
"Eat something," Bones said, offering him one of the turkey on rye sandwiches.
Jim took it. "Thanks."
They ate their meal in silence, not needing to say anything…and really, what was there they could say?
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