(They were never friends.
Winona Kirk and Christopher Pike, until the day Chris had walked up to her home and politely explained that he was there to ask about the Kelvin, had never met each other, hadn't been star-crossed lovers or friends nor had she and George been in some sort of long-distance threesome with Pike. Hell, that first meeting had ended very shortly after it'd begun with a door slammed unceremoniously in his face.
A feat given how the door always caught on the rug before sliding into the frame.
So, no, despite what the news reels would eventually say, what the magazines would eventually report, Winona hadn't contacted Chris that day because they were friends.
She'd contacted him because they weren't.)
It's the middle of the night and Chris is genuinely tempted to ignore the comm insistently chirping away on his bedside table; he'd been up for the last thirty-six dealing with the ship's repairs and another twelve wrangling a few of his wayward crewmembers before they'd gotten into trouble with the Captain. He'd been promised eleven uninterrupted hours to sleep. And shower. And eat. And possibly find a good fuck.
Still...
But the chirp stops with his hand mid-way to the device and he lets out a sigh of relief before wrapping his arms securely around his pillow.
Which is, of course, when it starts again.
"Pike," he grunts and only just manages to not bark out something along the lines of 'This better be important.'
"I'm sorry to bother you this late... or early, Commander, but I have Captain Winona Kirk in custody and she's asked to speak with you."
Chris says, "One minute," and once the comm is on the table, pinches hard at his hand.
Yup. Awake.
"Needed a second to wake up," he only semi-lies, and asks, "What's going on?"
The man on the other end, a 'Fleet Investigative Officer named Perkins, repeats that Winona's asked for him and adds, "Unfortunately we cannot discuss pending charges over a commlink."
"Pending charges?"
"Yes, Commander."
"We're not talking about misdemeanors here, are we?"
"I can neither confirm nor deny."
And yeah, that gets Chris moving like a bat out of hell. Pending charges? What the actual fuck? he thinks as he falls out of bed with all of the grace of a newborn colt, stumbles to his dresser, and remembers he needs to actually tell the guy that he's on his way rather than let him listen to Chris bash his way around the apartment.
So much for his free time this shore leave: it's three hours to Riverside from San Fran, another twenty to walk from the shuttle docks to the holding cells, and fifteen minutes more to get through the verification procedures and get access to the actual cells.
It's five in the goddamn morning.
And apparently, either Winona Kirk has taken up barroom brawls or something infinitely more sinister has happened. (She's bruised, one eye swollen shut and there's specks of blood on her shirt and hands; there's a splint on one wrist and she's wearing torn clothing. This, by the way, is where Chris's head is filled with the noise of a red alert.)
He doesn't get a word out, but she does, and once she does, the entire story comes tumbling into the open. Frank and Jim and the white-out rage she'd felt when Jim had screamed, his little arm bones breaking under the crushing weight of an adult hand. She'd killed him, with his own regulation phaser, and now she's gotta figure out what to do with Jim.
This is where her eyes fall onto him and Chris swallows.
"You aren't suggesting..."
"I am."
It throws him for a loop. "Captain, with all due respect, there has to be someone in your family willing to take care of him for now."
She snorts—she knows that Chris is well aware of the answer to that.
He breathes deeply a few times, rubs at his eyes and wills his addled mind to form coherent thoughts; she adds, "I know it's a lot, what I'm asking of you, and I know I have no right to ask it. But..." she cocks her head to the side, "You're like George. I slammed doors, threw you out, yelled, and you just came back the next day. You're devoted to the 'fleet, but you're not obsessed."
Chris swallows again. "Ma'am..."
"I'm going to prison, Commander," she interrupts, the shine of tears gathering in her eyes, "I made my choice when I picked up that phaser. I knew the path I'd end up on and it is worth it, for Jim. Please. I'm asking you to not let him end up in the system. I'm asking you to make sure he doesn't end up in some home were he's ignored and left to learn right and wrong on the street. I'm asking you to take care of the one person George loved most in the universe."
She's using her trump card, his admiring of George, and they both know it. They're both silent, regarding each other, and Chris closes his eyes for a moment when it gets to be too much.
"Yes."
(Captain Hayworth is less than pleased, which is understatement, and shocked, which is right on the credits: it's five days until they ship out on their next tour, there's retrofitting to be done and a mountain of paperwork, and his highly competent XO is comming him after being MIA for 24 hours from an Admiral's office in Iowa.
"Son, you're going to need to say that again."
"I won't be back before the launch, Cap." Chris rubs his forehead. "I've had a family emergency and I'm trying to get everything in order, but the paperwork is going to take longer than expected to go through."
"And you can't get back here in the meantime?"
Chris looks at Admiral Archer who explains, "The emergency relates to a custodial issue. Unfortunately, the child can't leave the state until we get the paperwork filed and unless we put the child in the care of the state, there's no one else to assume temporary guardianship."
Okay, now that is an interesting bit of information, because Craig is incredibly sure that Chris Pike's family is from California. His eyes narrow and Archer glares right back; clearly, this is not going to garner any answers.
"I hope you know what you're doing," he says after a beat. Seriously, Chris is a dedicated, intelligent officer and he's on the fast track for a command of his own. Hell, he's one of the younger First Officers in Starfleet and more than a few of the other Captains have been eyeing him for themselves. Whatever is going on, clearly it's approved by the higher ups, but he sincerely hopes it doesn't fuck up what Pike's worked so hard for.
"Me too, sir." Chris twitches. "Me too.")
Here's the next bit of information that is not common knowledge: while Captain Marcus had recruited him, it was Admiral Archer who'd convinced him to join Starfleet. He'd been an eighteen-year old kid fresh out of high school, a chip on his shoulder, and no one to impress. His mother had died at thirty, leaving behind three kids and a husband who worked until Chris entered high school and then proceeded to drink himself into the grave.
His sisters had both married young to get out of the house, never graduating themselves, and had two kids each by the time they buried their father. They'd been unable (or unwilling, maybe) to take care of him and between them, pooled together enough cash to get him out of Mojave to San Francisco where he had a much higher chance of finding work. They sent him care packages now and again, but they were too rare to get by on and he ended up sitting in a chair on the recruiting center simply for the free coffee and cookies.
(Marcus had given the speech and preened about it later; Archer had called the man a blowhard, taken Chris out to the nearest buffet so the kid could stuff his face, and then explained that Starfleet is its own kind of family with its own kind of rewards.
"We take care of our own," he says, "and while the Academy is filled with competition, no one messes with one cadet alone—you fuck with one, you fuck with all."
It's a lesson he will learn over and over again, in different ways and at different times, and he learns it all over again when Winona makes that call.)
Archer had taken Chris under his wing, so to speak, and helped him out, mentored him, and now, despite the fact that Archer was only in Riverside to oversee the construction of the first ship in the new Constitution-class heavy cruiser and was not meant to be involved in any criminal investigations—those went directly through the SIB branch out of Des Moines, whose officers reported directly to the office of the Judge Advocate General—he's elbow deep in this mess.
Because he takes care of his own.
He just wishes he'd been there to take care of Winona. He promises himself that she'll get the best damned lawyer the 'fleet can give her and he'll fight like hell at her side.
For now, he's got multiple PADDs in front of him, two comm units and the largest coffee his secretary had been able to find... better known as the carafe directly out of the machine. Okay, so they're pouring it into mugs, but somewhere in the mess, there's at least one really pissed off cook that, once again, his coffee machine has been fucked with.
There's a minimum of three dozen documents the lawyers have drawn up to go through and Jonathan swallows another mouthful of black, delicious life-blood as the chrono over the door chimes. He glances over at the twenty-seven year old passed out on the edge of the desk and slams his fist down on the top with a smirk.
Chris snaps awake. "I'm up! I'm up. What time is it?"
"Time for you to drink some more coffee. Here," he pushes a PADD over, "you need to sign in a few places on this one before it can be submitted."
There's a nod and a few flicks of his finger along the screen, then Chris sets down the mug, announcing, "This is crazy. I'm crazy."
"No more than the rest of us." Archer shrugs and sighs, and says, "If I could, Chris, I'd take him, but I'm old, crotchety, and I doubt my stubborn dog would be interested in a six year old. And, God knows, if this were to get out, he'd have dozens of takers, but Winona asked you. She wants you."
"And I know fuck-all about children."
"I have every faith you'll figure it out."
"You're a real jackass sometimes. Sir."
The swat to the back of the head isn't exactly unexpected, and Chris laughs a little at the gesture, relaxing for a moment. Then he looks back at the PADD in his hand and, with a yawn, gets back to work, managing to get through another PADD's worth of documents before daylight starts to peek through the windows.
Jim meets Chris on a warm Thursday afternoon.
It's been two weeks of raging back and forth databursts, calls, and meetings to get them to this point and Chris, admittedly, has spent several of those days itching with multiple emotions. He's anxious and worried and freaked out, and also, he's concerned for Jim in ways he knows will grow more intense with time; no, he doesn't already love Jim like a son—it's not a switch to be flipped—but he'd heard that Jim wasn't in a foster situation as he'd expected, but a group home.
(He knows about group homes, though not through first-experience, and he knows that it is the last place Jim needs to be right now.)
They'd been in the same house a while ago, a handful of times, when Jim was barely a year old. He'd clung to his mother, little fingers in the fabric of her shirt, and screamed loudly if Chris got too close: even then, he'd sensed the danger.
Now, Jim sits on a bench outside the home, little feet dangling over the edge of the seat and a rainbow of bruises down one arm that disappear into a splint. The break has been dealt with, but with kids, you never take the chance of a re-injury, he'd been told, He'll wear the splint for two weeks until the bone is completely hardened.
He looks small and tired for such a young child, worn at the edges. But there's still spirit in his eyes and that gives Chris hope: Jim's not broken yet. A fact which is driven home when Chris introduces himself and Jim holds his gaze without flinching.
"My mom says you're going to be my guardian."
There's a butterfly bandage over one of Jim's eyebrows that is coming loose and without thinking, Chris presses the edge back against skin; it must have been infected if the docs are letting it stay open to drain, and he nods as he sits and lays his hands in his lap (as he's been told to do: no sudden movements, keep hands visible at all times, keep your voice level modulated...)
"Yes."
"She's going away," he says, "She's not ever coming back."
There's a great big lump in Chris's throat suddenly, hearing the finality in the kid's voice and wondering just whom had told Jim this. He knows it wasn't Winona—CPS has allowed all of one phone call between the two and Chris had seen the transcript of it—and it sure as hell wasn't him. That leaves someone at the home; for a moment he feels rage, then forces himself to tamp it down before Jim picks up on it.
"We don't know that for sure, okay?" That gets him a nod. "Until we do, though, your mom wants you to come live with me."
Jim's eyes are saucer-round, yet he still gives another nod and Chris relaxes for the first time since arriving at the group home. He knows this will not be easy, but at least they've cleared the first hurdle, and he glances toward the social worker loitering nearby.
Time for the next obstacle.
The drive over to the holding cells isn't terribly long nor terribly short. Jim, for his part, sits in the booster seat in the back, his belongings having been packed into the trunk (a suitcase full of clothes, a backpack of toys and a My First PADD loaded with books that are beyond a typical six-year-old's reading level. Except for Goodnight Moon, but that's a classic), but for a single stuffed tribble that he kneads with his hands as he stares out the window at the town going by. He pays no attention to Chris's repeated glances back and Pike doesn't know if that's good or bad or nothing at all, but it eases his nerves either way.
Getting through the sign-in process has been streamlined for Chris and the social worker, but it takes a few extra minutes to get through with Jim—children aren't exactly a common occurrence—and his tribble, and then they're being walked to an interview room by a guard. There, Winona sits, her bruises already much better than the day Chris had arrived, and she smiles broadly at Jim.
The effect is instantaneous as he smiles back and waves from his place up in the social worker's arms. He works to wiggle free, but after so many years in the field, Nancy is able to adapt and keep Jim in the hold until he gives up and settles again. (It's a ruse. He's just biding his time and Chris can see it.)
"Mommy!" He greets before kicking his foot out 'innocently' into Nancy's stomach and dropping to the floor to run to Winona.
He's stopped by the hand of a guard, pulling Jim back as he squawks in indignation, and Nancy draws Jim back up with a soft scolding about kicking. He barely hears it as he starts to yell and push against her and reach for his mother.
Chris yanks him away from Nancy, and moves out of the room, holding Jim as close as he's allowed until the boy stops crying and then Chris quietly turns to one of the SIOs and tells the guy, "He wants to hug his mother. Please. Just a minute." Jim's head has fallen to his shoulder and between the red eyes and the sniffling, he looks so utterly pathetic that the officer gives his approval.
(The look Winona gives him once Jim is safely in her grip, his face buried in the fabric of her jumpsuit, is one of gratitude. She mouths something to him too, but he can't tell what and she doesn't repeat it; she turns her attentions back to Jim and when the guards make an aborted move to force Jim back to Chris, she growls at them.
Pike wonders why it surprises them. After all, she'd killed for her boy.
Still, he takes Jim back, moving slowly as to allow the two to a few extra seconds, then, for reasons he cannot name, he kisses her cheek and promises, "I'll take good care of him," before throwing a blanket Nancy hands him over Jim's back.
He stops in the doorway, looking back as the lawyers settle down in the now-vacated seats and he locks gazes with her; Jim is pressed safely into his arms, his blue eyes disappearing under drooping, sleepy lids, and with the blanket wrapped over his body, he is warm and protected.
This is what Winona chooses to commit to memory, what she chooses to etch into her thoughts and keep forever.
This is what Winona thinks of on worse nights in her cell: her little boy and the man who would be his only steady protector in an interview room in Riverside.
This is, in the end, the last time she will ever see Jim.)