.:.:.:.:.

Jim collapsed into the tiny desk chair and sighed out a heavy breath. Now that things had calmed down somewhat, he'd had time to sort out a set of quarters for himself so he could catch up on sleep. Ironically, they'd belonged to Ivan Georges, the man who'd parachuted down with him and Sulu.

He absently picked up a figurine from the desk that he recognized. The Madonna, an old Earth religious figure still worshiped in some areas. Apparently, Georges had been religious. Perhaps that was why he seemed not to fear death even in the very last moment.

Jim shook his head at himself. Wishful thinking. He knew the reality of it, even if he didn't like to acknowledge it. Georges had been a green cadet, just old enough to be sent out with the rest, still young enough to think he couldn't die. Jim couldn't even recall a time when he had believed such a foolish bit of idealism. He'd always been intimately aware of his mortality; he'd taught himself to read on reports of just how close to death he came at birth.

He rolled the figure between his fingers and cracked his neck, feeling all of a sudden much too old for all of this shit. He sighed once more and set down the Madonna before crossing to the bed and dropping gracelessly on top of the sheets. When he woke, he'd get Bones to fix him up and return to his duties. In the meantime, he hoped for a dreamless sleep without memory or premonition or the echoes of an excited boy too young to be meeting any god.

.:.:.:.:.