AN: …You know that habit I have of doing things kind of…not the way they're usually done? *puts on a helmet* K, I'm ready!

So yeah, this is the chapter where Kirk's Stick 'o Tragic Past injuries get to be explored a little. No fair picking on the divergence, because it's totally defensible from a theoretical standpoint. Stronger people have suffered worse reactions under less trauma so…yeah. The human brain is a wonderful, terrible thing. This is only one facet of that. *psychology'd*

I love Scotty =3

A couple of milestones! My favorite is Spock's eventual form of address =3 Just think: In a section or two, this space adventure will actually BE IN SPACE. …yeah.


Part IV


On Friday, with the majority of all tests and projects submitted for final grades, the cadets of Starfleet Academy were released for an afternoon of relaxation and revelry. A good portion of them immediately fled to beaches or bars or home, to come down from the stress of another intense battery of tests. Senior cadets usually began preparing for the next step of their journey within Starfleet. Orders in hand, they readied themselves for graduation and location-specific training, both of which traditionally took place the week after finals.

Most of this class, though, had yet to receive any orders. The stress of their exams was easily overshadowed by the pervasive nausea of having to face their peers and superiors at graduation with no particular purpose waiting for them at the end. So they did what they had learned to do in times of great emotional strain: They volunteered their services to the Academy. Uhura monitored subspace transmissions. Sulu flew test patterns with pilots preparing to ship out. Chekov was consumed nearly whole by the mathematics department for no reason anyone could clearly establish. McCoy became entrenched in the Academy's medical unit, patching up cadets who never learned the less-is-more approach to celebrating another successful semester.

Jim Kirk was a little more difficult to find. The other Command track seniors had joined in coalition with their instructors to pick apart and improve their curriculum to account for the issues Kirk's Kobayashi simulation highlighted. Nero survivors were a new breed of cadet, after all; their schooling had to reflect that.

Still, as remarkable as Kirk's cohorts were, their activities did nothing to explain his absence from their ranks. He wasn't with curriculum restructuring committee; he wasn't in the Computer Sciences division, or the Computer Languages and Programming labs, or with any of the numerous chairs who often monopolized his time. He wasn't in the desert garden or training Archer's puppies. He wasn't with McCoy or Sulu or Chekov or even Uhura. Who did that leave? Where could he be?

At this rate, the camera-bearing courier would find Jim before Spock did.

Uhura understood the mission behind his impromptu investigation of the Communications lab better than she should have and hid a smile by turning to tune one of her monitoring instruments. "Have you been to see Mr. Scott lately?" she asked as she worked, casual and friendly enough that no one around her heard the hint in her phrasing. "He's been working on repairs for some of the equipment that's supposed to be sent up to Enterprise soon. His upgrades are ingenious; you should go see them. He's heading up operations in that old hanger where some of us occasionally get together to have dinner. You know the one?"

As a matter of fact, he did.

Jim was covered in dirt and grease when Spock found him, twisted in and around a massive piece of equipment with a wrench in his hand and determination on his face. He was nearly twenty feet from the ground, sporting no safety gear beyond the bare minimum of coveralls, work gloves, and eye protection. All around him, dedicated engineers chattered and bickered and worked, altering printouts and filling the hanger with the charged roar of power tools. They were all, to a man, filthy.

And they were all, to a man, suffused with the joy they derived from every gritty detail of their work.

"Commander Spock! Dinnae expect to ever see you here!" Spock turned at the thick brogue to find Mr. Scott striding toward him with an enormous smile on his grease-smudged face. He looked vaguely like a small child given free reign of a confectionary. "You certainly picked a good day to visit! Gettin' to look just beautiful, isn't it?" He turned his grin up to the precarious rigging where Jim Kirk risked life and limb by changing his grip on the tool in his hand. "We'll have the old girl ready for shakedown by the end 'o next week, if they let me keep mah current staff. Ah, excusin' Jim there, a' course. We never get him more than a few hours at a time. Very useful sort, our Jimmy is! Cannae keep him all to ourselves!"

Spock's eyes flickered to Jim in time to see him hook his knees over a pipe, dangling backwards and upside-down with no other support to reach an awkwardly placed bolt. "…The cadet does not appear to be following Starfleet safety protocol, Mr. Scott."

Scott rubbed his chin thoughtfully, smearing more grime in long, dark lines. "The lad's a mite precocious, I'll give yah that," he admitted, tipping his head back to watch Jim scale the side of his project as though he were mountain climbing. Rather than alarmed, Scott seemed pleased. "Highly efficient, though. None of that mucking about with harnesses and ropes and ladders and the like. Gets the job done. I could use a dozen more like him, to be honest."

"Safety protocol is standardized for a reason, Lieutenant. Most often, the intended purpose is to save lives."

The Scotsman made a dismissive motion, pulling a dirty rag from his back pocket to wipe his equally dirty hands. When he was done, Spock detected no noticeable difference. "He'll no' come to harm here, sir," Scott said firmly, slinging the cloth over his shoulder. "He's knows the equipment too well. It's when we try to enforce the regulations that things start to get dangerous. Joint pads and helmets gettin' caught on all and sundry. Usually it's best to just step back and let him work."

Before Spock could reiterate the viewpoint that safety protocols prevented cadets from falling to their deaths, Jim spotted him. His dirt-streaked face lit with a grin. Moments later, he twisted and shimmied and repelled back to solid ground, wiping his hands on his coveralls as he approached the Vulcan and Scott. "Spock," he called in friendly greeting, "what brings you here?"

Spock inclined his head a fraction in acknowledgement of the welcome. "Cadet Uhura recommended I make a personal observation of Lieutenant Scott's equipment upgrades. She indicated they were quite satisfactory."

Scott made an incredulous sound. "Satisfactory?"

"Quite," Spock agreed.

"Why I— Never— I'll show her satisfactory—"

"Scotty." Jim reached out to grip the incoherent engineer's shoulder, giving it a reassuring shake. "Spock's paraphrasing. Vulcans tend to strip stuff like compliments down to basics. Whatever Uhura actually said was probably a lot more flattering, since she was pretty amazed the last time she toured the building."

Scotty simmered for a moment, glancing between Spock and Jim as though trying to decide whether or not to nurture his offence.

Jim chose for him by clapping his hands once, rubbing them together in a show of enthusiasm. "Speaking of tours!" He grinned toothily, jerking his head toward a large component propped on the floor half a building behind them. "Wanna wow Spock with your kickass upgrades?"

Marginally insane engineers being what they were, Scott immediately began an excited explanation of the minutia behind every small change or alteration made, detailing efficiency rates and power increases and what Kirk referred to as "six degrees of awesome."

"This is impressive, Lieutenant," Spock conceded when the tour wound to its frantic close. "Will your next assignment offer you equal challenges?"

Scott froze, expression colored with panic and worry as he glanced at Kirk nervously. "Oh, ah…mah next assignment. Yes. Tha' should be…pretty interesting."

Jim's distracted investigation of a deconstructed replicator ground to a halt as his eyes snapped to the Scotsman. He turned to lean back against a low railing, tucking his hands under his arms and crossing his legs at the ankle."Scotty," he said in mild accusation, one eyebrow curved challengingly. "Didn't we swear over shots of ten-year-old whisky that you'd tell me when you got your new assignment?"

"Ah, y'see…that is, Jimmy-lad, that I had meant to— You're quite a busy man, y'know! I couldnae always—"

"Where, Scott?"

The Scotsman sighed, defeated and fond and filled with regret. "Right where yah wanted. They gave me the Enterprise."

Jim's expression didn't change. "As Chief Engineer?"

"Aye, lad. They did at that."

Then Jim grinned, bright and pleased. "Good! At least someone on board will make sure she doesn't fall to pieces."

Everything but the regret faded from Scott's face. "It should be you, Jim."

The cadet made a dismissive gesture. "Nah. I never wanted to be Chief Engineer."

Scott frowned. "Yah know that's no' what I—"

"I'll be okay, Scotty," Jim promised, smile crooked. "Everyone starts somewhere, and I don't even technically graduate until next week. Give me a few years to catch up, alright?"

"It's no' right—"

"Are you James T. Kirk?"

Even with all the years he'd spent studying it, life continued to amaze Spock.

Jim turned to the courier, arms and legs still crossed, expression automatically defensive. "Yeah?"

"Damn, man." The teenage boy Starfleet had employed shoved a signature pad toward Kirk, a thin package tucked under one arm. "You're almost impossible to find. I've been looking for, like, an hour now. Sign please," he prompted when Jim just stared at him in mounting bewilderment.

"But I didn't order anything."

"Like I care, dude. Just sign."

Curious now, Kirk untangled himself enough to comply. He took the package when the boy held it out, stalling a moment so he could leave, since his job was done.

But, as Spock well knew, it was only half done. So the boy crossed his arms and waited.

Eventually Kirk shrugged, tearing the official envelope open to reach for the paper inside. "They went old school with this. Must be an evic—"

He froze, every drop of blood leeched from his skin as shock tore through him like a bolt of lightning. His face then was unlike any Spock had seen before, disbelieving and vulnerable and filled with burgeoning joy so powerful it was shadowed almost immediately by fear.

A unique expression indeed. When the courier lifted his small digital camera to snap a picture, Spock relieved him of the device. This was not the part of the inevitable reaction a Starfleet captain would want immortalized.

To Cadet James T Kirk

Jim swayed on his feet, prompting Scott to reach out, alarmed, and catch his arm. "Steady on there, lad!"

Upon graduation from Starfleet Academy, you are hereby requested and required—

"Jim!"

All four looked over at the sound of McCoy's familiar call. The doctor, still dressed in medical scrubs, a letter crumpled in one hand, raced through the hanger. When he reached his friend, he gripped both his shoulders, steering him over to a worktable he was forced to sit on. McCoy's own letter fluttered to the ground, almost completely unnoticed. Spock retrieved it, scanning the contents.

Orders to report for duty as Chief Medical Officer of the U.S.S. Enterprise.

Ah. No doubt the doctor had gotten his assignment and immediately understood what that would mean for Kirk. So he did possess the ability to think logically.

"Put your head down," McCoy ordered, firm but gentle as he pressed at the back of Jim's neck. "Breathe, kid!"

Jim gasped, a starved sound, and continued gasping as he lifted bright blue eyes to McCoy's. He fisted his free hand in the front of his friend's scrubs, shaking with adrenalin as he pressed the other fist, clenched around his orders, into McCoy's chest. "Bones," he panted. "Bones, they—" He shook his head, unable to continue, and leaned heavily on his doctor's strength.

Bones pried the letter from Jim's hand, pushing it off on Scott, who snatched it from him in a dead panic. He read it in a glance, then read it again. And a third time.

His shout of disbelief drew the attention of his entire division.

Before anyone could question it, a whirlwind of energy slammed into Kirk, babbling incoherently. Chekov was shaking harder than Jim, both hands gripping his dirty sleeve as he stumbled almost hysterically in Russian.

Jim laughed, a nearly hysterical sound in itself, and cupped the teenager's face in his hands. He cut Chekov's stammering short by breaking in with some Russian of his own. Chekov's expression went from frantic to dazed in a heartbeat. Jim laughed again, more amazed and wondering than before, and kissed each of Chekov's cheeks in a rapid sign of familial congratulations. Then, on another laugh, he hooked an arm around the boy's shoulders, tugging him close to plant a louder kiss among his curls.

Chekov continued to be dazed.

"Jim!" Everyone looked over to where Sulu was sprinting into the building. He faltered when faced by Chekov's alarming expression, asking, "Is he alright?" reflexively.

"He's fine." Jim laughed helplessly, squeezing the young Russian genius. "He's Navigator on the Enterprise!"

Sulu lifted his orders with a massive grin. "Helmsman!"

Jim looked at Bones, blue eyes nearly wild. "And you?"

McCoy sighed. "CMO," he admitted.

"Chief Engineer!" Scotty crowed, waving Jim's orders as he climbed atop the worktable. "Attention, all of yeh! And listen to this: To Cadet James T. Kirk. Upon graduation from Starfleet Academy, you are hereby requested and required to take command of the U.S.S. Enterprise—"

Howls of victory and excitement and indescribable emotion drown him out, rising from the throats of Jim's future crew scattered all throughout the building. Jim himself started laughing again, golden head thrown back, Chekov still caught under one arm. The Russian came back to himself with a shout of pure triumph, whole body vibrating as he threw his arms around Sulu and Kirk.

Surrounded by the roar of a crew reunited, Spock looked down to find Uhura standing at his side, dark eyes glowing with her own triumph.

"I knew they couldn't hold him back," she murmured, low enough so only a Vulcan would hear.

Spock glanced to her hand, where a piece of paper was gripped carefully by one corner. "No more than they could you," he observed, equally soft.

She smiled at him only a moment before Jim noticed her.

"Uhura!" he called, his question so obvious on his face that the soon-to-be officers around him stilled, adding their hope to his as they all held their breath and waited.

Uhura rolled her eyes with a blush, lifting her orders so they could all see. "Communications Officer aboard Enterprise."

The shouting redoubled as the rest of the bridge crew swarmed Uhura, dragging her laughing into their midst. Kirk, bright and bold and triumphant, dirty but unspoiled by the work he shouldered to rebuild the Academy, was surrounded by the young, determined, joyous Starfleet officers who had once stood with him against the end of the world.

Spock returned the camera to its owner, who snapped the shot with a grin.


Admiral Barnett shuffled the papers on his desk, looking more frazzled than usual, which was odd, considering how close he was to finally graduating his surviving senior cadets to their posts throughout the Federation.

Perhaps it was not so odd after all.

"He's asking for you," the admiral said, sounding harassed. His eyes lifted to Spock's in exasperation as he spread his hands. "In fact, he's all but demanding you. There are six individual personnel requests clogging up my office alone, one sent every day since he got his orders, each just unique enough to slip through the redundancy filters. When we try to make him give a backup choice, he submits another request for you. Notarized, to make sure we know he's being serious. We're going to have to tell him something."

Spock felt vaguely puzzled. Assuming he was Kirk, what need could he possibly have of Spock? "I must admit to some confusion, sir. To what do these requests refer?"

Barnett stared at Spock disbelievingly. "You can't honestly expect me to believe you don't know."

"I assure you I am quite sincere in this matter."

"Spock." Barnett pushed a sheaf of papers toward the Vulcan. "He's requesting you as First Officer aboard the Enterprise. He wants you for his second. And he doesn't appear to be willing to take no for an answer." The admiral shook his head in bewilderment. "How did you not know this?"

How indeed. Spock looked through the papers, cataloguing each one's differences and similarities. A campaign such as this must have taken a great deal of Jim's limited free time. How had Spock never noticed? "Why have you not simply granted the cadet's request?" he asked finally, turning his attention back to Barnett. He did not relinquish his hold on the personnel request forms.

Barnett shrugged, studying Spock speculatively. "It's a big decision. Whoever becomes First Officer of the Enterprise isn't likely to have an easy time of things. Kirk's already geared up to be unlike any captain in recent memory, and we're gearing up to exploit the hell out of that. He'll be running more missions than any other two ships combined, to say nothing of distress calls that will demand the presence of Starfleet's flagship. We think you'd be good for him," the admiral admitted, "but we're not going to force you to take a position this demanding just because someone requested it, even if that someone is James Kirk."

So Jim meant enough to the Admiralty that they were already in the habit of leaning in his favor. Interesting.

"Besides," Barnett added with a faint smirk, "that kid usually figures out what we have planned for him well in advance of our taking any actions. It's nice to be able to keep him guessing every now and then."

Spock looked at the papers in his hand, the physical proof of Jim's desire to work together as they once had. Then he looked at Barnett. And back down at the papers. "…I would like to request time to think on this matter."

"Granted," the admiral replied instantly. "But I'd recommend keeping it brief. The Enterprise ships out for her shakedown mission first thing Monday."

The Vulcan's eyes darted back up to Barnett's. "So soon, sir?"

Barnett's expression went blank and distant. "Starfleet has need of our flagship, Commander. That is all I can tell you." A slight grin tugged one corner of his mouth. "For now."

Spock left Barnett's office, crossing the commons until he was in the familiar sanctuary of the desert garden. He sat on his usual bench, spreading his hands carefully on his knees. What he did then was nearly meditation, a form of thought beyond the concept of time. Hours slipped by like minutes, grains of sand freed from an irrelevant hourglass.

So. James Kirk, captain of the Enterprise, wanted Spock as his second-in-command. Their first few attempts to work as a unit had not gone well. Then again, the final attempt, with Kirk in control and open to the voices around him, had been successful beyond measure, to the point of saving the Federation from almost certain doom where anyone else would have failed.

They had vastly different outlooks on life. Their thought patterns were divergent, so much so that they might almost qualify as exact opposites. Spock, as a Vulcan, used logic and reason as cornerstones. James Kirk was chaos theory personified. The idea of them working as a cohesive team was nearly ludicrous.

Except for the undeniable fact that the team they made was astonishingly effective. Their differences complimented more than conflicted, each driving the other to greater heights of achievement and proficiency. Jim, with his wild ideas, would need a strong force to keep him grounded in reason and feasibility, to prevent him from getting himself and those around him killed in a supernova of unpredictability gone horribly awry.

Something, some small Human part of Spock that had nothing to do with logic, wanted to work with Jim again almost desperately. He had never felt as alive, as thrillingly engaged, as powerfully aware, as that hour when he and Jim worked together toward a common goal against a common enemy. And Jim was as endlessly fascinating now as he had been all those months ago in the Kobayashi simulation. The more Spock learned about him, the more he realized there was to learn. The scientist in him was captivated.

And his other self, the older Spock from another timeline where Vulcan still existed, had seemed so fond of Jim, so protective, with such an unfathomable depth of faith in him. Why?

Why?

"Commander Spock!"

The Vulcan lifted his head, thoughts moving out of the almost-meditation at the first syllable spoken by that voice. "Captain Kirk," he acknowledged with a small nod, watching as the newly minted Starfleet officer grinned.

Kirk, wearing his Academy red dress uniform for the last time, strode toward Spock with a small box clutched in his left hand. His special commendation, most likely. "You missed the graduation."

"Indeed." Spock stood, tugging his blacks briskly into place. "I was detained."

"Lucky," Jim mused, studying Spock thoughtfully. The Vulcan saw an inclination to question further rise in the captain, then fall again as he apparently thought better of it. Instead he grinned once more, motioning back toward the housing division with a tilt of his golden head. "I have to drop this thing off at Bones' place. Will you walk with me? We can go to the graduation bash Starfleet's throwing afterwards, and you can make it up to Uhura for missing her big moment."

Spock lifted one doubtful eyebrow. "Nyota is unlikely to begrudge my absence from a ceremony she has on numerous occasions referred to as 'a lot of useless pomp and circumstance.' But I will accompany you despite that," he concluded firmly before Jim could launch into any of the countless arguments the new captain had likely formulated.

Jim smirked but didn't comment as they turned together and walked toward the small apartment registered to Dr. McCoy.

"Should you not store the item at your own residence?" Spock asked, testing a theory.

"Nah." Jim shrugged. "I haven't lived there in ages. Usually I just split a place with Bones, but they issued him a single when we got back from that Nero thing." He frowned, tossing the velvet-lined box into the air and catching it thoughtfully. "Actually, they issued all the survivors singles. Kind of stupid of them." He shrugged again, flashing Spock a bright grin. "I ended up spending so much time at Bones' place for treatment and aftercare and fucking hypos that he eventually just told me to live on the couch. So I dragged in a set of drawers and did. It's cramped, " he admitted, "but it works out. Bones doesn't worry as much if I'm within hypo-range, and his couch is surprisingly comfortable."

"…I see."

They reached McCoy's apartment moments later. Jim keyed the appropriate code, and the door slid open obediently.

An unexpected hand caught Jim in a full-bodied slap across the left side of his face, knocking him sideways into the doorframe in an explosion of sharp pain and surprise. Spock caught his shoulder automatically, using the same motion to set him firmly on his feet and draw him away from the hysterical woman attacking him from the doorway of McCoy's house.

Jim shook his head, dazed, and tried to make sense of the woman and her shrieking. She was a few decades older than the Starfleet officers, in such an unkempt state that her exact age was difficult to estimate. Her dirty blond hair was a rat's nest of tangles, hanging too long and limply in her dark eyes. The shadow of a beautiful woman lingered in her cheekbones and the delicate line of her furious mouth.

Whatever appeal she may once have held for Jim was obviously long past.

"Give him back you took him you monster give him back to me—"

The new captain's eyes widened in recognition. He stepped around Spock, reaching for the woman with pain dark on his face. She clawed and hit at him, her arms flailing against his attempt to subdue her even as she broke into frantic sobs. Jim's only response to her increased delirium was soft, soothing noises and gentle entreaties to calm down.

Spock was baffled.

"His eyes!" the woman shrieked unexpectedly, fingers striking for Jim's face in claws meant for gouging. "You took him to keep his eyes give him back give me back his eyes!"

And that was enough. Spock reached out, long fingers closing firmly over the woman's neck. She stiffened, shuddered, and collapsed. Jim caught her, drawing her close with an inexplicably tragic expression twisting his face. He turned away from his Vulcan audience, tugging the woman into his arms before carrying her into the house.

When he was gone, Spock bent to retrieve his commendation.

By the time he found Jim, the captain had his attacker stretched out on McCoy's bed. He refused to meet Spock's gaze as he hunted out a communicator. "Kirk to McCoy."

"What?" a grumbling voice barked in reply.

"Bones. Where are you?"

"Where do you think I am? You're the one who said to go on without you!"

"Bones," Kirk repeated, almost helplessly, and the oddly lost quality to his voice had rapid footfalls echoing down the comm unit.

"I'm on my way. Where are you?"

"At your place."

"Are you alone? What happened?"

Jim glanced briefly at his silent guest. "Spock's here. I'm fine."

"Damn it, Jim! If you're fine, I'm a fucking cat! You stay put, you hear me? I'll be there in a minute."

It was Spock who met the doctor at the door.

"How is he?" McCoy demanded, charging toward his bedroom with Spock at his heels. "What happened?"

"He was attacked by a woman who was waiting in your apartment. She accused Jim of taking an unspecified male, expressing the belief that Jim's eyes belong to the same unspecified male. When she attempted to gouge out the captain's eyes, I took steps to subdue her."

McCoy froze, turning a horrified gaze on the Vulcan. "What?" he whispered.

Female shouting in the bedroom prevented Spock from repeating himself. They hurried toward the sound, finding Jim bent over the bed with one hand wrapped around each of the woman's wrists as she bucked and screeched and kicked, always fighting to do him further harm. McCoy tore through a med kit he kept on his nightstand, diving into the fray with a sedative intended to knock the woman unconscious for a long stretch of time. She fell into sleep on a sob.

Jim backed away quickly, so eager to put distance between himself and the woman that he caught his hip on the corner of the nightstand, rattling its contents. Both hands darted out to steady the small table before he rubbed his forearms roughly, as though he could erase the sensation of the woman clawing at the material that shielded his skin from her.

McCoy advanced on his friend, both hands spread in a sign of harmlessness. Jim shied away, eyes lowered, hunched in on himself as he pressed back into the wall. McCoy stilled, mouth twisted in an unhappy line. "What can I do, Jim?" he asked softly.

The captain's gaze darted over to the woman. "Keep her sedated," he replied in a disturbingly blank voice. "I'll call someone to come get her."

"Starfleet regulations are quite clear about the proper action to take when a captain is attacked," Spock pointed out, knowing from the interaction that there was something here, some major puzzle piece, he was missing.

Kirk left without comment, shoulders tight.

McCoy, stormy with anger and empathy, sighed deeply, head tilted back and eyes screwed closed. "Spock," he said. Then he shook his head, as though unable to continue. At last he looked at Spock, motioning to the woman helplessly. "He can't treat her like some random attacker, because she isn't.

"This is his mother, Spock."


There were no internal directives to help Spock navigate the situation he had stumbled into by virtue of walking with Jim. The new captain had removed himself to the living room, where he was pacing like a caged animal without ever attempting to cross the threshold. McCoy made rounds of his own apartment, checking on Winona Kirk before watching her son's viciously silent movements only to return to the woman again.

Spock stationed himself in a corner of the living room by the window that allowed him an undisrupted view of the whole room, Jim's path, and the front door. If anyone else cared to attempt bodily harm against an elite member of Starfleet, Spock was in the perfect location to object, whether or not Jim thought the action necessary.

Occasionally, when McCoy stopped in to check on his friend, he would attempt to solicit any kind of meaningful response from him. How was he doing? Did he feel alright? Would he like some food or a drink? Perhaps something a bit stronger?

Jim glanced at him but never answered, never paused in his pacing, hands fisting and flexing at his sides in a subconscious display of furious internal energy. His demeanor clearly worried McCoy, more and more as it persisted, but the doctor apparently had no working plans for a situation like this. So he pressed his lips together in a thin, frustrated line and returned to the cause of so much tension.

Spock stood silent in the corner, hands folded at the small of his back, observing it all.

Nearly an hour into the debacle, McCoy's buzzer sounded. The doctor strode to the door, admitting a man who shared several physical characteristics with Jim. When the captain saw him, he froze, body tight as piano wire. They stared at each other for a heartbeat before McCoy imposed himself between them, ushering the man to the bedroom where Winona Kirk slept. Jim immediately paced over to the couch, collapsing onto it with such a bone-weary sigh that Spock nearly crossed to his side in order to offer support.

It was a most illogical impulse, but it was something his own mother had done for him on multiple occasions in his youth. The small part of Spock that was Human wondered if anyone had offered similar comfort to a young Jim, or if today's display was just another demonstration of a problem that stretched back through the years.

The man who had come for Winona was George Samuel Kirk, Jim's older brother. After seeing his mother and listening to McCoy's assurances that she was fine and would wake with another hypospray, Sam sought out Jim, who had dropped his head into hands supported by elbows braced on his knees.

"I'm so sorry, Jimmy," Sam whispered, standing just in front of Jim without making any move to actually touch him. "She saw you on the news when you got back from that big mission. We thought she'd be okay, but then she just disappeared a few weeks later. It took her this long to find you, and we've been one step behind her the whole way. I know I should have warned you, but—"

"Nah." Jim lifted his head to smile understandingly at his older brother. Stationed by the window to observe the interaction, Spock's hands, still hidden from view behind back, clenched into fists. "It was stressful enough for you guys just trying to find her, I bet. And at least you came quickly when I called."

Sam looked relieved to be so absolved. "I really thought she was better. She hasn't had an episode in years."

Jim laughed softly, eyes dropping to the hands hanging between his knees. "I guess this answers the question about whether or not it's okay if I come by for a visit."

"Fuck, Jim." Sam's hand twitched toward his little brother, as though he would finally offer some comfort. But the gesture was abortive as the inclination withered. "I'll get her out of here. Aurelan's waiting with transport."

"Yeah." Jim scrubbed both hands over his face, not meeting his brother's eyes again. "Bye, Sam."

"Take care, Jim."

With that, he collected Winona and was gone.

The entire episode left Spock with a sense of deep dissatisfaction.

After a moment, McCoy came in with a glass of whiskey that he pushed into Jim's hand. The captain contemplated the liquid longer than he should have. "Drink, Jim," his doctor ordered.

Jim did, tipping his head back to take it like a shot. He sighed afterwards, slumping against the couch cushions, eyes shut. "So, Spock," he said in a nearly jovial tone that was at odds with his demeanor. "Any questions about the floor show?"

McCoy inhaled sharply, almost a gasp.

Spock considered the offer. "A few points of clarification," he admitted.

"Fire away."

"Your mother suffers from mental illness resulting in delusions, though she has not 'had an episode' in several years."

Jim nodded, head still tilted back against the couch, eyes still shut.

"I presume, from your brother's wording, that these 'episodes' are in some way related to you."

"Good God, man!" McCoy grabbed Spock's arm, wrenching it once. "Don't you have a heart?"

"It's okay, Bones." Jim sat up, a strange smile bowing his lips as his blue eyes glinted dangerously. "If he has to sit through crazy, I can at least help him logic his way back to normal."

Spock removed his person from McCoy's grip. "The 'episodes' are related to you, Jim?"

"Yeah." Jim spread his arms with a disturbingly charming smile. "I look a lot like my dad. The older I get, the worse it is. Mom never really got over losing him the way she did. I mean, she was pretty okay in the beginning." He shrugged. "So they say. But then she started to see him in me, until I became nothing but the loss of him. It drove her crazy. We eventually figured out that I'm the trigger for her delusions, so I just…stayed away."

"How old were you?" McCoy asked, soft and gentle, as though Jim were a spooked animal on the brink of lashing out.

Judging by the tick of muscle at Jim's jaw, it wasn't an inappropriate precaution for the doctor to take. "I don't remember," he said between clenched teeth.

They dropped the question.

"Your brother cares for her?" Spock clarified.

"Him and Aurelan, his wife, and Frank, our stepdad. It's pretty great of them, although she's just about normal other than the episodes. Got a job in agriculture and everything. It's a private company," he explained with a bitter smile that touched only one corner of his mouth, "so they don't care that she's batshit as long as she keeps doing great things for botany." His expression grew cold again. "At least she's got something to keep her distracted."

"Speaking of distractions," McCoy interrupted, glaring at Spock before the Vulcan could ask any more questions. (It was going to be, Then who took care of you?) "We're already late for that stupid party you made me get a ticket for," he continued to Jim. "If the bar closes before we get there, I'm giving you a booster of something. Maybe vitamin B," he mused thoughtfully. "Your reaction to that one's pretty priceless."

Jim's bright blue eyes tracked over to Spock, studying him for a long heartbeat. "Walk with me?" he requested, words light enough for him to be teasing. But his expression was alarmingly blank, his cheek still red from the force of his mother's blow.

So instead of formulating an excuse, Spock merely inclined his head.

McCoy kicked Jim's foot. "You're a mess. Clean up a little before we go or people will talk, and I'm tired of everyone thinking I abuse you."

Jim rolled his eyes but stood obediently. The weight of the whisky glass in his hand caught his attention unexpectedly, and he stared at it for a long moment. His jaw clenched, fingers tightening around the smooth object until Spock was sure it would crack. Blue eyes looked thoughtfully between the glass and the nearest wall, measuring the distance. He hefted the glass, muscles tensing in his arm.

"Better not," Bones said mildly, leaning one shoulder against the wall with his arms crossed. "It was my great-grandfather's. I only have the one." When Jim glanced at him, McCoy smirked.

Jim scowled and stalked from the room, shoving the glass into McCoy's chest as he passed.

"A dangerous gamble," Spock observed. "Considering the volatile nature of the untapped energy Jim is displaying, you might well have lost your great-grandfather's keepsake."

McCoy shrugged, setting the glass on the coffee table. "Jim only destroys things if he thinks he can repair or replace them. When he's pissed like this and repressing, I don't let him handle anything but heirlooms." He frowned. "I had to go to a storage facility in Georgia to get that stupid thing, but it's saved me a lot of headaches cleaning up glass."

"Fascinating."

The doctor huffed. "Sure. You go on believing that. But listen," he added, thrusting a menacing finger toward the Vulcan, who lifted an eyebrow. "Whatever you think about whatever you saw here tonight is not to be shared with anyone else, even your little girlfriend Uhura. This is Jim's private business, and it's gonna stay that way. I wish to God you hadn't been here. "

Spock experienced a flicker of annoyance. "You would have preferred the captain face such a situation on his own?" he asked neutrally.

"Of course not! What do you take me for?"

"You appear to be laboring under several misconceptions," Spock continued, ignoring the doctor's brief response. "Allow me to attempt to clarify in a manner you might understand." McCoy scowled furiously. "Vulcans do not, as you might say, gossip. Therefore, my thoughts, on this and all matters, are my own unless logic dictates I communicate them to a secondary source. The odds of a situation requiring I divulge any of these events at a future date are infinitesimal. Furthermore, Vulcans are highly adept at displaying restraint and decorum with regard to personal or otherwise taboo subjects. It would be illogical and demeaning to alienate Captain Kirk by discussing his private matters with anyone. Including Lieutenant Uhura," he concluded with absolute calm, "who is not, as you erroneously speculate, my 'girlfriend', other than that she is a close friend who happens to be female. It might also be argued, Doctor," he added with just a drop of condescension, "that your use of the colloquial expression 'girlfriend' in reference to my relationship with Lieutenant Uhura makes you guilty of the fault from which you attempted to dissuade me. Some might call that hypocrisy."

Jim returned in time to prevent McCoy from actually attacking Spock, but it was a near thing.

At the party, none of what Jim had suffered escaped his perfect demeanor of joviality. He danced and joked and laughed and drank, surrounded by classmates and teachers and crew. The smile buckled only once, when a group of six older Humans, civilians Spock had never seen before, approached Jim to offer their congratulations. For a moment, shock pierced the armor of grins and flirtation. The shock turned to incredulity, which shifted with mercurial speed from alarm to amazement to genuine warmth and excitement. Those unknown six hugged and congratulated Jim, petting his hair and patting his back and drawing him from a façade back into a real person.

After they left, Jim danced and joked and laughed and drank, filled with triumph. The flush of his own victory wiped the handprint from his cheek and the haunted look from his eyes. He noticed Spock watching him and grinned, fierce and challenging, Jim through-and-through.

Spock couldn't help the relief that touched his otherwise utter calm.

When Admiral Barnett eventually found Spock among the assorted partygoers, the Vulcan turned to him with a thoughtful nod. "I accept Captain Kirk's offer for the position of First Officer aboard the Enterprise," he said, projecting serene professionalism. Barnett, drink in hand, blinked at him. "I also request to fill the position of Science Officer. Despite my formal acceptance, you may continue to 'keep him guessing,' if you like." As a grin blossomed on Barnett's face, Spock turned his attention back to Jim.

Someone was going to have to keep him from getting himself killed.