Being aware of his surroundings has always been a part of Jim Kirk's make-up. After Tarsus IV, he can't help it. His eyes flick around like lightning, and anything new is drawn to his attention. He walks into a room and catalogs every component. That was manageable. Then, it started bothering him— anything from pens tapping to fingers mindlessly drumming against the table. But he could ignore it then— just leave the area, put on noise-canceling headphones. When he became the captain of the Enterprise, he lost that freedom. Already with a diagnosis of ADHD, sitting in the Captain's chair for hours put him on edge, but he needed to maintain the demeanor of a captain. He couldn't snap at Chekov for his nervous tapping, Sulu for his knuckle-cracking, or even Uhura for the light jangling of her earrings.

Bones, of course, knows about Jim's sensitivity. He even gave it a name: misophonia. Then he warned Jim against researching it— reading about other people's triggers could only procure more of his own. Instead, Jim made a list of all of his own triggers. Chewing, tapping, sniffling. The list went on and on and by the end, he stares at twelve items. Twelve actions that drive him absolutely mad.

One of the worst parts of the misophonia is that Bones can't fix it. Yes, there is medication, but it messes with Jim's ability to think clearly. Bones told him about some sort of "white-noise" hearing aid, but Jim needs to be able to hear everything.

He is on edge most days, taking every opportunity to check in with Scotty in engineering, get an update from the R&D lab, anything to walk off the bridge and clear his mind. Lunch is a confusing and poses a dilemma. He could either eat with the crew, boosting morale and bonding or he could eat in his quarters, far from the noise and insanity of the cafeteria. More often than not, he sucks it up and suffers through thirty minutes of lunch. Some days, Bones, reading him better than most, leads him to his room and forces him to eat in solitude. If only he could do that every day.

Then one day, it's too much. After long negotiations on a desert planet, everyone's a little jittery. Chekov taps out erratic beats, Sulu manages to crack every joint in the human body (then do it again), and Uhura's earrings clink merrily with the slightest movement. Spock notices Jim's hands grip the armrests, knuckles slowly turning white. Jim brushes off his concern and tries to focus on slowing his ever-rising heartbeat.

Then he tips over the edge. The dull roar of noise pulls him in every direction, overloading his senses. Jim stands up, mutters to Spock to take the chair, and all but sprints off the bridge to his quarters. As soon as the door slides shut, he slumps to the ground. Even the mostly soundproof walls can't muffle the sound of footsteps pattering past the door. Jim finds his way underneath his blankets and covers his ears with a pillow. Please, please, please, let me find some silence, Jim begs, anything for silence.

Jim loses track of time. He just stays curled up, ears covered underneath every blanket he could find. Finally, he centers himself and falls into a light doze after turning the lights off.

A light knocking on the door pulls him out of his slumber. "Jim?" Thank god, it's McCoy. Jim tells the computer to let him in and detangles himself from the mountain of covers.

"What's going on, Bones? Is everything alright?"

"Well, considering you practically ran off during your shift, no, everything isn't alright. What happened, Jim?"

"I just couldn't anymore... the people, the sounds. I couldn't."

McCoy sits next to his best friend. "I know this is hard, kiddo. But you aren't doing yourself any favors by suffering in silence. We can't fix this problem with meds or any other sort of physical thing but—"

"But what, Bones? How can I tell the crew that their captain is sensitive to noise? That Uhura can't wear her earrings anymore? That Sulu can't crack his knuckles? That Chekhov can't tap? It's impossible, Bones. If I can't handle this, the Admirals will take the ship away. I'll never be able to stay a captain. To use the technical term, I would be emotionally compromised— all the damn time."

"While we try to figure something out, why don't you try on these?" McCoy places a box in Jim's lap. Jim lifts the top off, revealing a set of ordinary looking headphones. "I ran the idea of completely noise-proof headphones by Scotty, and a week later he gave me these, calling them "pure magic". Apparently, they are just about perfect. Do you want to test them out?"

Jim slips the supposedly magical headphones and almost falls over. McCoy is moving his mouth, but finally, finally, it's quiet. Jim snaps his fingers, the motion silent. He wants to cry with relief. Then it strikes him. "I can't wear these all the time, Bones." His voice sounds funny in his head. McCoy motions to take them off. Returning to reality has never been harder. Everything seems... louder.

"I know that, Jim. But at least while you're in your quarters you can put them on; Scotty also said that you can program them to ping once if there is an important notification, so it isn't triggering anything. I told Spock you had some medical stuff to sort out and to use my exact phrasing, 'would have your ass' if you were late."

"Thanks, Bones. Can you tell Spock that I'll be up on the bridge in time for next shift?"

McCoy nods. "Sure thing, kiddo."

The headphones don't solve all the problems. Just as Jim had explained, he couldn't wear them all the time. The bridge is as hard as ever. With help from McCoy and surprisingly, Spock, Jim learned some techniques on how to tune out triggering noises. McCoy plans a ship-wide training on mental illnesses and some of their byproducts. Some of Jim's triggers are mixed into the section on misophonia and believe it or not, no one really changes their mannerisms drastically. But crew members are much more aware of everyone's subtle changes behavior. And Jim copes. Sometimes he wants to put on the headphones and disappear under a mound of blanket for hours, but he makes it through those moments. He learns that not every situation will fit his abnormal brain's needs. But then again, nobody's brain is normal.