He just wanted to sleep.
Sleeping on the Enterprise, on the way back, had been fitful, at best.
Nightmares, night terrors, tossing, turning, tangled in his sheets, he'd woken up gasping for air, choking on the grief, on the goddamned injustice of it all. Seeing in his dreams his dead father, his alter-ego, his best friend, his classmates, Vulcan, everything, nothing, anything, all of it – understanding none of it. It was not as it should be, but it was how it was.
He couldn't sleep.
They'd arrived back at the Academy, after putting his beloved ship down in dry dock back in motherfucking IOWA, and hopping a shuttle back to San Francisco.
Iowa. Goddamnit. He hadn't called his mother, and he hadn't slept, and he hadn't breathed in an eternity, and it all hurt so much, and then, then, he would look at Spock and remember the ice and the fingers on his face and the grief, and the panic would return and he would close his eyes and pray for it to end.
There were shoulder claps and handshakes and medals to be awarded.
But James Tiberius Kirk just wanted to sleep.
He walked alone, hazily, through the dormitory.
He'd been offered officer's quarters, and an elbow in the side from Bones told him to accept, so he did.
He packed his shit, not that he gave a goddamn about any of it, except maybe his favorite leather jacket and maybe a picture of his father, but only just maybe. He shouldered the bag, still doing his goddamned best to ignore the pain he felt in his body.
Bones wanted to give him something for it – of course he did – but what the fuck, Kirk was going to suffer, he was going to hurt, because the physical expression of it all felt like payment for the sins of not figuring out what was happening SOONER.
If he had figured it out sooner, maybe the rest of the fucking Academy wouldn't be floating in space like not so much space dust. His chest felt tight. Again. He mentally berated himself as he walked. He'd lost nothing, nothing compared to McCoy, who'd lost a mentor, or the cadets who'd lost roommates and best friends and sisters , or the hundreds of thousands of people on earth who'd lost a loved one, or fuck him, Spock who'd lost his whole planet.
Either Spock. The old man who had looked at him with such delight and love, then shown him such grief and angst he'd been staggered by it. Or hell, he still hadn't apologized for what he'd done to his Spock on the bridge that day. It'd been necessary, but… He'd hurt the other man.
He touched his throat as he walked.
For the first time in his life, Kirk felt selfish. All he could seem to process was how HE felt, and how fucking selfish was THAT?
He hated himself.
That was going around his head a lot, lately.
He looked up when he arrived at his quarters, and froze, when he realized he was next to Spock's quarters.
Seriously? Someone in the universe was making him do penance. He groaned softly, resting his head against the still shut door. He had never felt this way – never been forced down by so many feelings. He longed for Spock – for that wise old man who would be able to tell him what the FUCK he was supposed to do, who had believed in him, and known him and…
He sighed and let himself into his new quarters. Kirk was good at sucking it up. He didn't feel or muse or ponder. He reacted. He reacted, driving a car off a cliff, 'cause he could; he reacted, throwing punches and tossing insults, 'cause he could, 'cause the risk felt good. He stripped out of his simple black t-shirt, and poured himself an ample glass of scotch. He'd drink until he couldn't remember, and he'd hurt until it made up for what he'd failed at.
He hurt.
And it wasn't enough.
He drank until he got sick, throwing up. Very un-Jim Kirk. Nothing felt right anymore. He needed… He… He needed…
He got up, swishing his mouth out, ignoring his reflection in the mirror. The bruises had fully bloomed, ringing his neck, mottling his face. He tugged on a shirt and stumbled next door to where the Vulcan lived.
Fuck ringing the bell.
He banged on the door, "SPOCK!" he shouted, swaying sideways against the door. "SPOCK! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!"
There were silent footsteps he could not hear and the door opened, sending one Captain James Tiberius Kirk sprawling on his face in the lush carpet next to Spock's feet.
Spock blinked. "Captain? Jim?" He squatted, to take the man's pulse.
Kirk lifted himself, his eyes bleary, his lip bleeding anew. "Spock," he said desperately, reaching out to touch his chest. Warm, hot even. "I'm so sorry, I know what you feel and I'm so sorry, sorry I wasn't faster, sorry I had to… I'm *sorry*," he rasped, coughing, and feeling sick, and bleeding on Spock's carpet.
Spock regarded him, arching an eyebrow, before hauling him to his feet.
"You know what I feel, Jim?"
"He showed me, he put his fingers…" Jim lifted a shaking hand, pressing his fingers to the smooth skin. His breath smelled of scotch and vomit and he was heavy against Spock's supporting touch. "He showed me and I felt it and now, I… I can't sleep." The statement ended on a whimper and Kirk hated himself all the more.
Spock nodded slowly. "The Elder Spock entered your mind?" He asked softly, sliding an arm around the Captain's waist, to support him, before lifting his other hand.
Jim's breath caught in his threat, expecting it, and he recoiled slightly, but Spock merely brushed Jim's hair off his forehead, watching him with deep, impenetrable brown eyes. "Yeah and it was… I'm so sorry," he babbled. "I felt it, I felt what you feel, I'm so sorry," he let his head loll forward, finding Spock's chest, as he had a few nights ago. It felt right, it felt okay.
Nothing felt okay anymore.
Spock was quiet, running through logical routes in his head. The health of his captain was clearly at risk. As if in response to this thought, Jim moaned, and retched, though nothing came up.
"You must rest," Spock said softly. "You are to be commissioned tomorrow. You are to relieve Admiral Pike."
"I know," he murmured, slowly bringing his aching, trembling hands to rest on the slender waist of the man who supported his weight.
It was official, some part of Kirk's brain thought: He was losing his goddamned mind. This was not… SPOCK was the one he'd come to comfort. To apologize to.
"S'hot in here," he mumbled, sweat sliding down his back, between his shoulder blades, down further still.
Spock merely nodded, "I presume you do not desire me to call Dr. McCoy to aid your need for rest?"
"Fuck you, Spock, I'm fine, I came to apologize, to make you feel better, to comfort you, so just… yeah, fuck you, he… He said you feel, he said you feel so deeply and then I saw it and I knew, but he was… it was so…" Jim was babbling.
Spock had to suppress a sigh. He was tired and Jim was… Well, human. And illogical. And exhausted. And clearly… something.
He picked his captain up, maneuvering him into the bedroom with ease, laying him out on the perfectly made double bed. "You must rest, Jim." He kept his voice soft. He hoped it was gentle, humans saw and heard nuance in nothing – Nyota had taught him that.
"He showed me things, their lives, the other university. Spock, I…" Kirk closed his eyes, his stomach turning, as he choked back bile, gagged, and then groaned.
"You must rest, Jim." Spock gently put his hand on the Captain's arm. Physical contact comforted humans.
Jim shifted, uncomfortably though. "I knew my father in his universe, he was proud of me, he saw me become Captain, I wasn't a fucked up playboy bastard, Spock."
He had to admit that he had reached the end of his rope, as Dr. McCoy might say. He had no experience with humans who would not sleep. Nyota loved to cuddle into her pillow and go to sleep. What was he supposed to do to calm the man down?
"Close your eyes, Jim," he said softly, resting his fingers on Kirk's face – hot, damp, feverish, pale.
Jim complied and groaned at the relief of Spock sliding gracefully into his mind, a cool, calming presence that seemed to push everything else out. The clarity, the peace was overwhelming as it freed him from the turbulence and tumult that rocked him to his core.
"You must sleep, Jim," Spock said softly, aloud, his eyes closed as he focused on giving his friend – yes, his friend, of course, his friend – this peace, this gift, this freedom that his father had spoken of.
"Sleep," he repeated gently.
Jim sighed, and shifted, easing against the pillows, still sweating in the warm rooms, but relaxing, finally relaxing. He sighed.
And slept.