T for references to child abuse and swearing

Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek or The Hunger Games but the fic is mine (mwahaha).

Companion fic to Hunger Games

First Kiss

The day is gray and cold, and I'm outside, alone, sitting curled up in a ball outside the bakery, my back against the warm wall where the furnace is.

I'm hungry, but then, everybody is here. When aren't we?

Somewhere in the distance, Old Ace Miller's radio is playing an intricate, jazzy tune. My fingers start to twitch on the cold bench where I'm sitting.

Footsteps sound not far away, coming around the corner to meet me.

"Bones?" someone asks in a small voice.

At first I think it's Christine, here with yet another declaration of love, and I look over, ready to tell her to go away.

But it's not Christine.

I stand up, my mouth hanging open in shock.

"Oh, Jim," I say.

Jim's a bloody mess.

There's a gash above his eyebrow that looks like it's been bleeding a lot, a nasty bruise on his cheek, and he's clutching one of his arms tight to his chest and breathing fast.

"What did he do?" I demand.

"Used an empty spirits bottle on me," he answers without hesitation.

My heart starts pounding. Jim's scaring me. He's been beaten before, worse than this, but every time he's come out with a defiant attitude and a grin that swears revenge. This time, the attitude is gone. Jim's ashen-faced, and although it's obvious he's not crying, his breath is hitching dangerously fast.

"Sit," I growl, and he does, walking shakily to the bench and sitting. "He hit you anywhere else?" I ask.

Jim shakes his head. "Just what you can see."

"Give me your arm."

Gingerly, he sticks out his arm, and I gently pull up his sleeve to reveal another swollen welt with a few thin cuts around it—no doubt from the broken glass.

Frank, you bastard…

He's breathing faster, I notice, so I force myself to sound calm even though I'm boiling mad at his stepfather, "Jim, breathe slow, okay?" I ask. "It'll help. I promise."

Jim nods and, with difficulty, manages to slow down his breathing while I examine his arm. It looks straight. I gently press on different points on his arm.

"That hurt?" I ask.

"A little," he says, wincing.

I let out a sigh of relief. A little, but not a lot. It's not broken.

"Will I live?" he asks. An attempt at a joke. Good.

I nod. "Yeah. You'll need to e careful with your arm, though, and find a way to ice it. You might wanna put a bandage around it so the cuts don't get infected."

"Bones, I…" he hesitates, then continues, "…could you?"

I stop for a moment, meeting his pleading eyes. I nod again, pulling a bandage out of my pack and starting to gently curl it around his arm.

He leans closer to me, and I don't protest. It makes my job easier.

Apart from Old Ace Miller's radio playing in the distance, the day is fairly quiet. Maybe it's just my imagination, but I could swear I can hear Jim's heartbeat. It's fluttering like a bird.

Jim speaks, his voice small. "Thanks," he mumbles.

"You'll be fine," I say, and it's all I can do to keep the rage out of my voice. I want to find Jim's stepfather, and make him hurt.

Jim leans in a bit more, so that our shoulders are touching. I can feel him shaking as I wind the bandage around his wrist.

"You're shivering," I say.

"It's cold," he whispers, staring at the ground.

"Lean back against the wall."

He does as I say, and then I'm done wrapping the bandage. I let go of his arm, which he pulls carefully back to his chest.

But he doesn't scoot away, like I'm expecting him to.

Instead, he gets closer to me. When I give him a questioning look, he simply shrugs and says, "You're warm too."

He wraps his uninjured arm around my waist, and rests his head on my shoulder.

Tentatively, I put my arm around his shoulders, careful not to brush his injured arm.

And then we descend into silence.

In the silence, I think. Why is everything like this? Why does it have to be like this? Why is Jim's stepfather a drunk, abusive bastard? And why does Jim cling to me, of all people? I'm no saint.

Jim then mumbles something, interrupting my thoughts.

"What?" I ask. "Didn't hear."

He looks up, his face growing pink.

I blink. Is that a blush? Or is something physically wrong with him? "Jim?" I ask, "Are you okay?"

Jim doesn't speak. He looks as if he can't. "I—" he stutters, "Bones, I—" He closes his mouth, and then looks back up at me, his blue eyes full of tears.

"Jim, what—" I begin, alarmed.

And then he kisses me.

It takes my brain a few moments to register exactly what's happened.

Jim's warm lips are pressed against mine, his tears splashing down onto my face.

I don't know how to react.

Slowly, Jim pulls away, turning pink again, his tears turning cold on my face in the wind.

"Sorry," he mumbles, looking like somebody's just ripped his heart out and thrown it into the mud. He sniffs and draws his injured arm sleeve over his eyes, wincing with the pain.

My guilt is immediate and harsh. "Don't be," I say, softly. "I didn't mind it. I was just…not expecting it." My argument is lame and I know it. I want to throw myself off a cliff for making him feel this bad.

Jim looks back at me, a trembling smile on his face. "No," he says, "Sorry you have to see me like this, and I feel another rush of guilt, and hatred for Jim's stepfather, but at least Jim's starting to seem like his old self. "Thanks, Bones."

"For what?" I ask. As far as I can tell, aside from patching him up, I haven't done anything good for him.

Jim's shaky smile widens: "For taking care of me." And then he kisses me again. "And for tolerating those," he adds, blushing.

"Jim, I…" I trail off, searching for the right words. "I…I want you to keep kissing me." Upon speaking these words, I find that I mean them.

Jim gives me a hiccupy sob and nods, nods feverishly, and presses yet another kiss to my lips.

And this time, I kiss him back.

FIN