Author's Note: I believe this would be what they call…filler? Forgive me, I write in bursts of muse.
Disclaimer: The stake I claim here is the plot—which I'm still trying to get a leash around, btw.
Chapter 4: Laughter and Tears
One time not too long ago, probably after their third or fourth experience of Federation-diplomacy-gone-wrong, Jim had managed once again to pull off the impossible, saving the Enterprise and its crew from almost certain annihilation.
The three of them had been standing on the transporter pad. McCoy was making occasional grunts as he ran his tricorder over the both of them to scan for injuries. The Captain was bent at the waist, simultaneously trying to catch his breath and wave off Bones' help. Scotty was keeping some running commentary in the background about transporter interference and how close a call it had been. It was not until he heard Spock reveal that the statistical likelihood of them getting out of the situation alive and intact had been only 4,316.93 to 1, that McCoy shook his head.
Fixing his friend with an intense stare, he said, "You know Jim, you are one hell of a good Captain."
And Jim had thrown his head back and laughed, as if his best friend had just told him the most ridiculous joke he'd ever heard.
McCoy was taken aback. "Jim, I'm being serious…."
The younger man just flopped a hand down on the doctor's shoulder, barely able to control the mini-guffaws threatening to burst again from his gut. "I know Bones, it's okay."
"Doctor, perhaps a physical would be in order. It would appear the Captain is falling into a state of hysteria," Spock suggested, a hint of confusion evident in the tilt of his eyebrows.
"No, no Spock—Bones I'm fine, I swear. Not a scratch on me. I'm sorry, I'm done laughing; it's just—damn," Jim quickly replied, holding a hand up in dissent, his raucous laughter quickly taming down to small, inaudible chuckles.
And even though Bones had dragged Jim down to sickbay for a physical which had proven that the Captain was indeed "fine", McCoy still felt troubled by that moment in the transporter room. It bothered him, Jim's reaction; but he couldn't put his figure on why.
A week passed before McCoy found an opportunity to find the answer to the question burning in the back of his brain.
It was late on a Sunday evening. Jim was lounging in the doctor's quarters, drinking liberally from a bottle of the man's finest brandy.
"You better be careful with that. You don't want to Spock finding you incapacitated, should he need you on the bridge."
"Just a buzz, Bones, I promise. Besides, couldn't I say the same of you? I mean, what if there's some crisis in sickbay?"
"There're other doctors on the ship, Jim. There's only one Captain," McCoy informed in his most patronizing tone before taking a swig of his own whiskey.
Frowning as he watched his friend down another swallow, he reached over and snatched the bottle from Jim's hand.
"Hey—what?! Bones!"
"Don't be an infant," Bones groused. "What is it with you anyway? This isn't the academy—you know you can't drown your sorrows like that anymore. You have too many responsibilities. I shouldn't even have to tell you."
Jim snorted. "You don't have to tell me. I know my responsibilities, and I know my limits, too." His voice grew hard, "You don't need to lecture me either. If you actually think that I'd jeopardize my ship or my crew, then you really don't know me at all."
"Jim, come on," McCoy responded placatorily. "You know I don't think that. I do think that you've been under a lot of stress, and that you seem to be using drinking more than you usually do tonight as a means of trying to relieve some of that stress. Which is not necessarily a crime; however, as your CMO and your friend, I suggest that there may be better ways of dealing with that stress than sitting here trying to tie one on in my quarters."
Jim just looked at him for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face. At last he broke into a wide, cocky grin. "That was really good, Bones. Now was that rehearsed, or ad-lib?"
"Oh, shut up," Bones grumbled.
Inwardly though, the doctor was relieved. Jim's light-hearted response was proof that his words had been heard and heeded.
Later in the evening, they'd gotten around to discussing some of McCoy's most recent adventures in sickbay.
"How is Ensign Howard, by the way?" Jim asked from his perch on Bones' couch.
"His ankle is healing nicely. Should be back on light duty in a couple days," McCoy reported.
Jim was quiet for a moment, then, "Yeah, I guess I should've thought before I sent him to check out that rock cropping on Bazzar VII."
McCoy glared at him. "Jim, you couldn't have possibly known that the kid was going to fall into that mineshaft. Good God, man—if this is how you react when one of your crew breaks a bone, how do expect to handle it when one of them dies on a mission?"
Jim visibly winced.
Standing suddenly, he went to look out of the room's porthole, looking out into the blackness of space.
"I guess I just never thought about this part of it," he mused, shoulders hunched.
"What?" McCoy asked, a twinge of regret at his earlier words.
"The part where I'm holding 400 lives in my hands," Jim replied, his voice heavy.
McCoy rose from where he'd been seated at his desk, feet propped up on the corner, and went to stand beside his friend.
"And all 400 of those people chose to work on the Enterprise willingly, because they know that they're in good hands here."
McCoy's voice was solemn and sincere, but his eyes narrowed in anger at Jim's reaction. The younger man merely let loose a cross between a snort and chuckle, slapped Bones on the arm, and began to walk away. He was stopped when McCoy roughly grabbed his wrist.
"Wait—why do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"You laugh every time I give you a compliment."
"What're you talking about? Let go of my arm," Jim replied, yanking his wrist from the doctor's grasp.
"I wanna know why," McCoy demanded.
"Why what, Bones?"
"I said that the crew of the Enterprise knows they're in good hands, and you snickered like I was making some sort of idiotic comment."
"I don't know, I just…." A shrug.
"Don't you try to blow me off, either, 'cause you've done it before. What, you don't think what I say matters?"
"No, that's not it all Bones—I'm sorry, geez," Jim said, letting out a frustrated sigh.
"Look, I don't just say things to coddle you. If I say you're a doing a good job, I mean it, damn it!" McCoy said angrily.
Jim just looked away, unable to make eye contact. It was then that realization dawned on the doctor.
"That's it isn't it. You really thought I was just humoring you. Geez kid—surely you have more belief in yourself than that," McCoy said with a touch of incredulity.
"I do believe in myself, Bones. If I didn't, I wouldn't have gotten this far," Jim snapped, turning toward the porthole once more.
"Ah…so you believe in yourself—you just don't think anybody else believes in you."
"Don't patronize me, Bones," Jim's voice had razor sharp edge.
But Bones was on a role, because finally it all made sense. It was like the final puzzle piece fitting into place. Jim had grown up in his dead father's shadow. The man was hero, sacrificing his life so that 800 others would live. It wasn't that Jim felt like he couldn't compete with his dead father's legacy, or even that he wanted to compete at all. It was simply the fact that no one else ever expected him to.
Even at an early age, Jim had felt special. He had potential lurking inside of him, and he was desperate for someone to recognize that potential and help cultivate it, give him a direction. His mother tried, but was too busy traveling off-planet to really invest in his life. That left Frank, Jim's temperamental stepfather. It wasn't so much that Frank was a bad guy; but Jim was a handfull, and Frank had an explosive temper coupled with a vile tongue. Even though Jim had many good memories of his stepfather, they always seemed tainted by the bad memories. It was a matter of the human condition—the soul's tendency to hold onto the scars of verbal abuse while overlooking salving words of praise.
In school it was the same. Jim had a genius IQ, yet he was never challenged enough. The teachers mostly let him do what he pleased because he was the late George Kirk's son, never bothering to look deeper. Jim Kirk spent most of his childhood feeling directionless and lonely. As a young teenager, he began to lash out. Driving his stepfather's antique car off of a dusty cliff was only the beginning of the kind of trouble he would get into. By the time Jim was 19, his inner feeling of isolation had manifested itself externally, as he had alienated himself from everyone around him.
When Christopher Pike challenged him ("the only genius level, repeat offender in the Midwest") to enlist in Starfleet, it had been the first time in a long time that Jim had felt like somebody actually believed in him. He had laughed then too. "Why're you talkin' to me, man?" Jim had chuckled rudely, with an air of disbelief, his words slurring due to the effects of too much alcohol and a smashed nose and mouth.
When Bones sacrificed his own future to sneak Jim onto the Enterprise—that was the second time.
After defeating Nero, Jim had been given the Enterprise. But even Jim knew that the decision to give him Captaincy occurred more for the sake of politics than the fact that Starfleet actually believed in him. In fact, Starfleet had been watching Jim like a hawk ever since the Enterprise set out on her 5 year mission. Jim likened them to vultures. It was as if they were just waiting for him to fail so they could devour him. Slowly, over the past month, Jim had begun to feel the old insecurity creeping back into his soul.
"Patronize you?" McCoy spat. "I ought to beat some sense into you! What do I have to say, to get you to realize that I believe in you? What do I have to do to get you to take me seriously? Maybe I should take a ship-wide poll to see just how many of the crewmembers actually believe in their Captain? Or maybe I should just drag Spock up here, because he'd tell you that such an action would be completely illogical, since no one would willingly serving under a Captain they didn't think was fit for command. Yet you have the unmitigated gall to sit there and insult my intelligence, insinuating that my professional observations of your character and performance are somehow based on some fanciful desire to make you feel better?! Well if you think that then, James T. Kirk, you are a damn fool!"
Jim blinked, staring at his best friend, whose chest was heaving from the effects of his rant.
A small smile graced his lips, and his vibrant blue eyes were suspiciously bright as he reached out to clap McCoy on the shoulder.
"You're a good friend Bones," he said softly, then turned to leave.
McCoy stared at his friend's back as he headed for the door and then stopped, mid stride.
"Bones?"
"Yeah, Jim?" A tired sigh.
"Thanks."
Bones stared at his friend's inert, sleeping form as he sipped from a cup of hot tea. He wasn't going to get any sleep tonight, not after that episode.
He'd been shaken by Jim's panic attack. Now he took simple comfort in watching the even rise and fall of Jim's chest as he slept.
His mind swirled with what if's. What if Jim was developing some sort of PTSD? What if his mind continued to plague him with anxiety, guilt, nightmares, and panic attacks? What if he never recovered from the trauma on Thay'are?
'What if I can't help him?'
McCoy subconsciously shivered. Too many what if's for one night.
Setting down his cup of tea, he made his way over to the couch and lay down, pulling the afghan down off of the back to cover his aching body.
Soon, he drifted into a restless sleep.
A/N: So yeah, don't just mark the story alert or stick it into favorites…leave a review!