Well, I got a pretty good response to my poll, so I do plan on writing a companion fic to this story – is it a companion fic? Well, anyway, I plan on writing it, though it probably won't be out for a while. Quite frankly, I have too many stories going on, and I need to start finishing the ones I'm in the middle of before I start any new ones. But I will write it… eventually.

Disclaimer: isn't going to change any time soon

"I'm sorry I never told you."

Jim's voice was muffled by the blue fabric of McCoy's uniform, but the doctor still heard him. He reached up and ruffled his hair lightly, unsure how to comment, but knowing that he probably should say something.

The problem was finding something that wouldn't sound callous or empty. "I understand why you didn't," he finally replied, hugging even tighter, distractedly thinking about how well Jim fit in his arms. It was like two puzzle pieces. By themselves, they didn't make much sense, but put them together and things got clearer. Together, they made each other stronger, they made each other better.

Jim allowed himself to be held for several more minutes, before he began to fidget. McCoy knew what that meant, so he drew back, letting his friend regroup. Jim moved away, picking up his discarded shirt and slowly pulling it back on, his back to the doctor as he took long, steady breaths, pushing the tears back down. Some part of his brain – the part that sounded suspiciously like Bones – told him that it was healthy to cry, that that was the only way he would be able to let it go; but he had spent so long keeping it all in, and he really didn't want to turn into a blubbering mess tonight. He knew that if he opened that gate now, he wouldn't be able to close it again.

However, he also knew that he could be honest around McCoy. The doctor was his best friend, and around him, he didn't have to hide the crushing pain that he had long since begun to associate with the horrors of Tarsus IV. When he turned back around, McCoy was slightly stunned to see such a vulnerable expression on the captain's face. He looked much younger than McCoy had ever seen.

Jim collapsed back onto the couch, scrubbing his face harshly, turning his skin a light pink. McCoy dropped down next to him, feeling completely out of his depth. He still had questions, though, and as much as he just wanted to let his best friend be, and not make him relive any more trauma, he knew he needed those answers. And the more he knew now, the more he would be able to help later.

"What's going on, Jim?" he asked quietly, turning so that he was facing the captain, but this time keeping his hands to himself. "What did you and Pike talk about?"

Jim flinched slightly, so small an action that anyone but the doctor would have missed it. "They found him," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "Kodos. They're bringing him back to Earth for trial, and they need us to identify him."

McCoy instinctively knew who 'us' was referring to: The Tarsus Nine were talked about in great detail, though their identities were known only to each other, and perhaps one or two of the highest members of Starfleet. McCoy didn't think even the Federation President was privy to that information. They were the only ones on the 'kill' list to see Kodos' face and live to tell about it. In hindsight, McCoy probably should have expected Jim to be one of those select few, after hearing about how he had been captured and taken to the governor's palace, but for some reason, he hadn't made that connection until now. Shit. No wonder Pike had looked so serious. No wonder Jim had been so spooked.

"Pike's not supposed to know," Jim said suddenly, much louder and straightforwardly. "I didn't know he did, until today. I didn't even realize he was that good a hacker. He figured it might be easier to hear from him, rather than some Starfleet bigwig who only knows me as a name in a report."

McCoy nodded, in part not trusting his voice at that moment, but also not willing to interrupt again. Jim was talking, he was working it out, and he was doing it in the doctor's presence. He knew the younger man had grown up a lot over the last few years, and seeing the proof of it, knowing that Jim trusted him enough to know his darkest secrets, humbled him to a level he hadn't even believed possible.

Jim started fiddling with his hands, twisting his fingers together and picking at his nails, more of an absentminded act than anything else. "I'm not sure I can live through it again, Bones." His voice took on a pleading tone. "If they ask me about what he did, or what I saw… If they ask about the things I was forced to do… I don't think I can let myself go back there. Not again. I'm not sure I could survive it a second time."

He sounded so broken; McCoy couldn't just sit there and let him fall down this hole of depression. He reached out and settled his arm around Jim's shoulders, pulling him closer. "I understand, Jim, but you know there's one huge difference between then and now."

"What's that?" Jim asked wearily, turning his head slightly and losing himself in the fabric of McCoy's science blues. That smell was so uniquely Bones, it had an instant calming factor on him. He felt himself relaxing, almost against his will, though he welcomed the relief.

McCoy smiled, resting his chin on Jim's head and pulling him even closer in his one-armed hug. "Now, you've got me," he answered matter-of-factly. "And I'm not going anywhere."

It was said so simply, so succinctly, that Jim couldn't help but believe him.

"And it's not just me," McCoy continued, feeling the captain stiffen slightly in his arms. "Spock, and Uhura. Chekov, Sulu, Scotty. They're your crew, Jim, and they all want you to know how much you mean to them." He felt, more than heard the snort his friend let out, and he smirked slightly. "Yes, even Spock. I can admit that I've seen how much he cares about you. I still think he's a pointy-eared hobgoblin though."

Jim let out a grunt of laughter that sounded slightly more hysterical than it should, indicating the younger man was on the verge of losing it.

McCoy waited until he had calmed down slightly, his breath still coming in short bursts, but at least he wasn't gasping anymore. "I mean it," he said quietly but with passion. He truly believed what he was saying, and he wanted Jim to believe it too. "We won't let you go through this alone. But Jim, you have to trust us. It's been four years; if you don't trust your command crew by now, we've got bigger problems."

"I do trust them," Jim argued, pulling himself back and looking at the doctor beseechingly. "I trust them with my life, I trust them with the lives of everyone on this ship."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," McCoy cut in. "These people come to you with their problems. You were the first one Uhura talked to after she and Spock broke up. Coincidentally, Spock did as well. Chekov and Sulu both went to you first to talk about their quote unquote secret feelings. It's because of you that those kids finally pulled their heads out of their asses and realized how perfect they are for each other. Chekov went to you, even before Sulu, when his mother got sick. Scotty went to you for help getting his younger brother accepted into the Academy. Can't you see that they all trust you? Why can't you reciprocate?"

"Because it's not the same thing!" Jim replied angrily. "I talk to them about things, I do! I work out with Sulu and Chekov, Uhura has asked for my help in communications several times and we've had some pretty nice evenings translating stuff. Scotty and I compare theories and upgrade ideas. Spock and I play chess. You and I…" he seemed unable to come up with one simple sentence to encompass all the evenings the two of them had spent together, just hanging out, enjoying each other's company. Finally, he shook himself off and glared at McCoy. "They're my friends. I trust them with my life," he repeated insistently. "I just can't trust them not to treat me differently if they knew…" he looked down, face softening to reveal the worry that was at the heart of the matter.

And suddenly McCoy understood why Jim was so reluctant. It wasn't about being the calm and confident captain, the man with the devil-may-care attitude who feared nothing. He realized now that their captain valued their opinions so much more than anyone would ever know. He didn't want them to know the horrible things he had seen and done on Tarsus because he didn't want to see pity, or worse, revulsion, in their eyes. He didn't want them to look at him differently. He had spent four years getting to know them, letting them see further past the masks and layers than anyone ever had before; McCoy knew that Jim wanted people to see him as whole, strong, and sound, rather than the broken, scared man in a kid's body he had been for most of his childhood.

But there was one flaw in the captain's thinking, and McCoy had to point it out. He leaned towards the captain. "They won't see you any differently, Jim. You're their friend, their leader, their captain. They know who you are, and all the things you've suffered are a part of what made you the man they love. They won't care."

Jim let out a long sigh, burying his face in his hands. He was about to reply, when the doorbell sounded, a short, steady chime so precise that he knew immediately it had to be Spock. He grimaced, but as his face was covered, the reaction went unnoticed by McCoy.

When he looked over at the doctor, he was unsurprised to find McCoy watching him intently, waiting for some sort of signal. The muscles around his eyes relaxed slightly, and his eyes dropped a millimeter.

It was enough for McCoy, though, and he immediately stood up and headed to open the door, stopping for a second on the way to squeeze Jim's shoulder reassuringly. He also had an idea of who was waiting outside, though he was also smart enough to realize that the First Officer probably wasn't alone. If he was right, this evening had the very real possibility of ending in flames. Or fists. Jim might be Starfleet's golden boy, the hero of the Federation, and a decorated captain, but he still had a tendency to relieve stress with violence – it wasn't that much of a problem anymore, since Jim had traded bar fights for punching bags as soon as he had accepted his commission. But McCoy wouldn't be so naïve as to assume that automatically meant Jim wouldn't fall back to his old ways in order to protect himself. It was a defense mechanism, and the brash exterior had worked well as protection for years.

He paused briefly, turning around to study his captain and best friend, noting the tense set of his shoulders and the way he was slumped over, arms tucked in, almost as if he were subconsciously trying to make himself smaller. He let out a quiet sigh filled with concern, before turning back to open the door.

Please review! I'm so much more motivated to continue when I know that people are actually enjoying it!