Part I, Chapter 1

James has gotten used to days when everything goes according to plan. Waking up, going to work, returning home. He even likes those days. They keep him calm.

This is not one of those days.

"You will tell us where the weapon is," muscles says. Again the fist across his jaw, the snap in his neck and the roll of blood down his cheek. This time the skin splits and James whimpers as the blood flows down his face. He is certain one more punch and he will lose some teeth.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," James says, voice fuzzy both with the blood in his mouth and puffy face and how long has he been here? The sun had been up when they brought him, and everything is shadows now. Hours, probably.

There are tears on his cheeks and his mind is having trouble focusing. He figures enough blows to the head will do that do you. It feels like one of his fits, but worse, because it's protracted, never ending. Usually he has a flash of white and then the room with the door, and he needs what's on the other side of that door but the demons are there so he hides beneath the stairs, waiting for Brian to shake him awake. Since he began living with Brian he's been going to the room much less often. Things were getting better.

Until they got so much worse. Because this isn't in his head, this is real, and there is no Brian. No staircase. Nowhere to hide. Just him and these guys pulping his face.

The men have stepped back to confer. Flat face as usual is doing most of the talking. Muscles has been doing most of the hitting, and stands now flexing his fists. Must be painful, hitting a guy so many times. James looks around again, though his right eye is swollen shut so it's a bit tricky. Things look the same. The warehouse is still big, and empty, and unhelpful.

"Are you sure this is the right dude?" Ponytail is saying. Ponytail is the one that had offered James water, once, a few hours ago when the beating had last stopped. "I mean, he's crying, for god's sake. From his reputation I would have expected him to be less blubbery."

"It's gotta be the right guy," flat face says impatiently. "She told us this guy. I don't get the wrong guys."

Flat face glares at James, like somehow this is James's fault.

"I'm not," James says, because it's all he's got. He's gasping out breaths between blood and he has been beat up before but this is ridiculous. And he doesn't know how to make it stop. "I'm not the guy. I'm just a barista. I have no idea about any weapon, I've never even held a gun-"

"Shut up with that," flat face says.

"I really don't think this guy knows anything-" ponytail says, and James would have kissed him if his hands weren't handcuffed behind his back.

"We'll have to try something more serious, is all. No more kiddy stuff," flat face says.

Then he picks up the black bag from the floor. They had already shown James what was in the bag, earlier, when they were still trying to scare him in hope he would tell them something about this weapon he supposedly had. James remembers the scissors and needles and matches and gasoline, for fucks sake.

"No, please, I'll do anything, tell you anything-"

"Tell us where the weapon is. We know you slipped here with it," flat face says again.

"I'm sorry, if I knew anything I would tell you, please just don't there must be something I can do-"

Flat face just grunts and reaches into the bag, rummages around and James's stomach is churning. He had already thrown up his breakfast, and lunch, so all that's left now is that water ponytail had given him. When the man pulls out the gasoline, James retches up what little's still in his stomach.

"Wait," ponytail says. "Look, this guy, Kirk, right? Way we heard it he's real tough, right?

"Yeah," flat face says, like he's waiting to hear the punch line. He has pulled out some matches and is spinning them between his fingers. "Seems to be a bit of a wise guy as well. Gonna burn some of that outta him."

James whimpers, twists his hands in the cuffs but it just rubs against the already raw skin of his wrists. Ponytail holds up a hand.

"I'm gonna ask you to hold on just a second. This guy says he'll do anything. But I figure there's some stuff this Kirk wouldn't do, being a hero and all that. This guy seems more like a follower, more like a catcher than a pitcher, if you catch my drift."

The other guys do, and they're sniggering. Ponytail walks over, and as he's doing it he's unzipping his pants.

And maybe James should be nervous or insulted. But he's not. He's relieved, because maybe this Kirk guy would never suck a guy's cock, but James will. A year ago he would have done it for money and a bag of coke, he'll sure as hell do it now to keep from being burned alive.

He'll do this. He'll do this, and they'll know he's not this Kirk guy and they will let him go. James's vision is filled and there are fingers fisting in his hair.

"How about it, princess?" Ponytail's voice has gone low and rough. "Open up, and if I like it enough maybe I can get you out of here."

James is going to give him the best fucking blow job of his life.

But before the heavy weight hits his tongue, there's a blast of light and ponytail is on the floor. James blinks, and first there is terrible fucking disappointment because now they are surely going to burn him the fuck alive, but then there's a figure and in a series of moves that look like something right out of a movie flat face and muscles are on the floor as well, and then that same someone is behind him and pulling at the handcuffs.

"Where is the key?"

The voice, calm and careful and somehow deeply familiar washes over him like a warm wave and he's prickly with relief and fatigue and a sensation strangely similar to pride, which is ridiculous because James has never done anything to be proud of in his life, except for maybe the day he landed that barista job, the first real job he ever had.

"Flat face had it," James says. His mouth still feels full of cotton balls. He supposes that's better than it being filled with other things.

There are quick footsteps and when he opens his eyes there is a man kneeling over flat face. He's wearing a black beanie like some kind of cat-burglar out of a cartoon. The rest of the outfit fits the cat-burglar moniker as well, some full bodied black suit that is tight in all the right places. The guy's systematic search of flat face's pocket soon produces the key and he's heading back over. He walks with economical feline precision, and in the shadows of the warehouse James can make out the sharp angles of a handsome face, and truly impressive eyebrows.

"Thank you," James says.

James brings his wrists to his lap and rubs the raw skin And then he is engulfed in warm, strong arms and waves of relief wash over him. The arms are so tight they almost hurt and he is so surprised he doesn't for a moment register that the guy has also begun whispering in his ear.

"Jim, I thought you were dead."

James is not sure why he's being hugged or called Jim but he wraps his good arm around the guy's shoulder because he seems to need it.

". . . don't you ever again do something this idiotic."

"Hey," James is affronted. "I didn't do anything, those guys grabbed me. I was just walking down the street."

The guy's shoulders are heaving like he has just been climbing Mount Everest, and he must have some serious muscle mass, like a gold plated gym membership, because his arms are like steel. James is certainly bleeding all over his suit, some rubbery material that gives slightly beneath his fingers, like the high-tech fabrics he's seen at some of the trade shows in the valley.

The guy pulls back slightly and James's has never really understood that saying taking your breath away but he thinks he gets it now cause he feels like he's underwater.

"What's wrong?" James says.

The guy is studying his face, eyes narrowed and inches from James's own, and James uses the time to study him as well. The cheeks, the hair, the eyebrows. Under that cat suit is a body under precise control, enough to take apart three men without breaking a sweat. James has a thing for the strong, competent types, the men in suits who spoke like they controlled the world, the men in designer jeans and trendy glasses who actually did. James leans forward slightly and it's an invitation. Their lips are almost touching.

Then the guy says, "You are . . . broken."

James blinks. "What?"

"I cannot feel you. Why?"

It's funny because they're pretty much wrapped together and James thinks they can feel each other pretty damn well. Actially, James is a big bucket of feelings, the pain from his numerous injuries, the confusing embrace, and the almost kiss mixing together into what almost feels like an attack.

Oh fuck, please don't let him have an attack now. He doesn't want this guy to see him like that.

"What are you talking about?" James says uneasily.

The guy is looking at him now like he's trying to see through into James's skull. James feels naked beneath those eyes, exposed, and he suddenly feels raw and scared, and definitely in need of going to a hospital. He'll probably need stitches.

The guy pulls back, dropping one hand to James's arm, fingers curling almost painfully into James's skin. With his free hand he pulls something out of what looks like a batman-style utility belt and lifts it towards James's cheek. James has had enough foreign objects shoved in his face today. He stops the hand before the device makes contact with his skin.

"What're you doing?" James says.

"You are in pain. I am treating your wounds. Release my wrist."

James isn't sure why, but he does. James expects a burning or a pinch or some kind of pain, but all that happens is a slight warming. When it's finished James raises a hand to his cheek and finds nothing but smooth skin. After the gadget is applied to James's other wounds, and he's beginning to feel a little less like he's been run through a juice pulper.

"Who are you, anyway?" James says. For some reason the guy flinches, and James feels bad but doesn't know why. Maybe it was the phrasing. He tries again. "I want to know your name."

This is clearly not the proper thing to say either. The guy looks at him and the cool expression is cold after the embrace, the almost kiss, the relief that had been so obvious it had seemed as though James could feel it where their skin touched. James is feeling dizzy with the whiplashing emotions. It almost feels like the emotional equivalent of the beating he was given earlier, which isn't really fair considering this guy just rescued him but really this has been a long and beyond crappy day so James is going to forgive himself for feeling a little bitchy.

The guy says, "Who are you?"

The voice is low, thick with what James feels might be anger but he's not sure cause the guy's face is unreadable. But he feels the anger, almost like it's his own.

"My name is James Wilson," James says slowly, and thinks this is the wrong answer because the man's face twitches, it definitely twitches, but he does not interrupt so James continues. "I'm a barista at Peets Coffee and I live with my . . ." boyfriend is there on his tongue, and he's called Brian that a couple of time before and has even started getting used to it, but now it feels wrong so he skips it for now ". . . friend Brian by the Ballpark. I was on my way home when those guys jumped me, they must have had me here for hours."

"No. You are wrong. Your name is James Kirk."

It's like a punch to the gut and James needs to get out of this chair right the fuck now. The guy's hand on his arm is preventing him, but when James pulls the guy drops his hand immediately and for the first time in hours James is able to stand, and considering his state he thinks he does a pretty good job of it, only wobbling slightly.

"Oh no it's not. That's what those freaks were calling me and I tell you I'm not him."

"You are him," the man is stepping forward with those feline movements, and now there is something hungry, predatory about him. A panther, definitely a panther.

James doesn't want more talk about this. Kirk's name has been screamed at him for the past several hours, in terrifying conditions, and he thinks he's been conditioned to break out in a cold sweat at just the mention. He doesn't want this, doesn't need this, literally thinks he cannot handle this any longer without slipping under.

"I'm telling you, I'm not. I don't know anything about any ships or weapons or whatever it is you are looking for. Please just leave me alone."

Staying upright is harder than he remembers. He places a hand on the back of the chair to steady himself. There are splashes of his blood on the wood, and he sees other splashes on the concrete. His stomach is roiling and it seems unfair that the guy is standing so straight and steady in front of him. There's a bruise forming on James's stomach that is making it difficult to breath.

"You do not remember. But I can show you."

"Please . . . don't . . . I can't take any more of this . . ."

The guy is raising a hand towards James's face, fingers spread. The gesture is confident, and purposeful, and at the same time completely disconcerting. James does not want someone touching his face. He has very recent memories of fists pounding into his flesh and maybe this guy has less violent intentions but James really doesn't want to take the chance.

James doesn't know when it happened but his knees hit the concrete and he's slumps forward. He's so fucking tired and he's long past caring about people seeing him cry, so he lets the tears come. Black-clad knees hit the ground beside him. The hand placed between James's shoulder blades is burning hot though his thin and sweat-stained shirt.

"Please, Jim," the words are whispered and James imagines he can feel the sadness pressing against him, again like it's his very own emotion. "Let me help you."

James doesn't pull back when the fingers touch his tear stained face. There's no point. The fingers press against his skin.

It's like spinning and falling all at once, and he knows exactly where he is going to land, because it's always the same.

James is beneath the stairs. He knows they are coming, and is already hiding, pressed beneath the stairs and he can hear the demons prowling into the room. He peeks around the corner. Standing in the middle of it all is the this man in the black cat suit, and he's standing like he cannot see the demons. The shadows are all around him but they are drifting, like they don't see him. He is there but he is not there. Behind him is the door but it is impossible to reach, better not even to consider.

They have trapped you here, that it is why I cannot feel you, why I could not find you, why you are broken. The black figure raises a hand, running across the scratches in the staircase. James remembered when he made each one, before, when he used to run for the door. When he used to think if he could just make it beyond he would be safe. But the demons had caught him every time, torn him to pieces and now he would never try again. He would hide, here, and maybe Brian would wake him.

How long have you been here?

I have always been here, James thinks, and feels the tinge of pain.

Not always. Come to me, some back to me and together we can fix this. That you do not know, cannot remember what we are it pains me, Jim, my . . . please come with me and we will leave this place. Please, Jim, come to me, I cannot find you, I cannot feel you . . .

They cannot see him if he stays hidden.

I can help you, come to me and let me help you leave this place . . .

James wants it. He wants to stand next to the man, to stand in that halo of space around him that seems immune from the beasts.

But then there is a flash of light and they are ripped apart, a tearing that shatters his mind leaving sharp glass pieces and it's more painful even than the punches, because it's like something essential is being ripped from him and he needs more than he needs to keep breathing but he can't even remember it's name . . .

What is your name? And he's desperate, flinging, but there is no answer. He is alone.

The warehouse is alive with sounds and light and feet and voices, and he's shouting no, don't, leave us alone, let me stay here, but there's no one to listen and he's hoisted to his feel, shoulders wrapped in a blanket and bandage applied to his head, and the whole time he is half here half elsewhere.

"Where is he?" James rasps out.

Around him people are moving, taking away the men's bodies and snapping pictures and carrying on life as usual though it is all wrong. James thinks how grateful he would have been, when he was getting punches and cut and gagged, to know this scene would happen. But now he just feels empty. There is a hand rubbing circles into his lower back, and James blinks and looks around. Things are still a bit blurry.

"Where is he?"

"Here, James, I'm here," and it's Brian is at his side.

Brian's arm is strong across James's shoulders, his body lean and hard. James presses with his hands but Brian won't let him go, keeps cooing in his ear and that's so not right, no one should ever be cooing at him, it wasn't right that people should be cooing at him.

"Not you, the man who came and rescued me."

James tries to get him away because when Brian is there it's too hard to hold onto that other thing, that thing he felt when the panther pressed fingers against his face.

"Don't fight me, James, come one, you've had one of your fits. They say they'll just ask you a few questions and then we can go home."

Brian is wearing one of his fancy shirts he must have come straight from work, the suit jacket would be around here somewhere, and James is glad he wasn't wearing it because he doesn't want to be bleeding all over Brian's jackets.

"Where is he?" James is almost crying.

"There's no one else here," Brian's voice is soothing. "It's alright. I got you."

There are questions which James answers in a blur. He can hardly think. At one point Brian passes him one of his pills, and he takes it, the police giving him a few minutes to cool down. Eventually they let him go and Brian takes him to the hospital, and he's bandaged up and given prescriptions for the pain and when they go down to the hospital parking lot it's already early in the morning and he begins to think he might have actually hallucinated the man in black because, hey, he's seen weirder shit before.

It is in the parking lot that he sees the figure again and is heart nearly stops. His feet certainly do.

"James?" Brian says. They've stopped at the door of Brian's prius. "You alright?"

"Please, wait just a moment," James says.

James has never left Brian waiting before and after everything Brian has done for him tonight he is nervous walking across the parking lot. But he doesn't turn. Keeps moving forward. When James reaches the man in black, his skin his humming and his head tingling with relief that feels only half his own. He feels almost high with it, and it's disturbing, because god knows he had an addictive personality and to get addicted to a dangerous stranger is all he needs right now.

"Where did you go?" James says, and his voice is high and cracked. "Why did you leave me?"

"I did not want to leave you," the voice is more soothing than all the balms they rubbed into his skin at the hospital. "But I must be careful not to be seen by too many people here."

"Because of all those gadgets you have?" James guesses.

James has pretty much decided he's some kind of spy, some kind of high-tech spy, which is pretty cool, and also incredibly hot. Which is probably what leads him to say what might have, in other circumstances, passed for a terrible pickup line.

"You have a place to sleep tonight?"

The guy shakes his head slowly, like he's not sure if that's the proper gesture. James finds it entirely too endearing and what the hell's wrong with him, because, hello, high-tech spy is dangerous. James doesn't really know how spy's do these things, but he's starting to formulate a theory. The guy, like those crazy guys from earlier, clearly thought there was connection between James and this Kirk. High-tech spy was probably looking for the same weapon as flat-face and his posse, and like them had found the wrong guy. And like them would be disappointed. Eventually.

But not tonight.

Sure, his theory left some loose ends - like the finger thing, the finger thing, a part of James's mind insists on reminding him - but it's a good working theory.

It is like an action movie, with James as the . . . damsel? No, James is the scientist. He likes that better.

"Who's this?" Brian says, walking up.

He's put on his suit jacket. It must have been in the car. He is eying high-tech spy with the stony look that used to disturb James back when they first started, what, fucking? That was what they did first, and James had been nervous of Brian those first couple of times. The two men are about the same height, with similar and build, and James has always thought Brian a handsome man but looking at them together he's thinking high-tech spy has that whole man-of-mystery thing going on and plus there's the eyebrows so yeah, maybe he wins.

"This is, uh - " James looked at the guy, who is looking at Brian like he might be trying to shoot icicles from his eyes.

"My name is George."

James snorts. He is positive that is not his name.

But he'll go with it.

A/N: Thanks for reading! This was a dark plot bunny that got lodged in my brain and insisted on being written. It is also my first K/S fic I am releasing out into the world, I feel like I am stepping onto not just a ship but a massive cruise liner full of lovely people :). Everything is pretty much written and I shall be posting them as I polish up the drafts.