Chapter Six: Stafford Hall

Jim has never been so happy as to see his dorm as he is right now. And considering the week he's had, that's saying something.

("But I suppose life has made him like that...")

All he really wants to do is to go to sleep, maybe for three years, and possibly to forget the whole night. He groans as he shrugs out of his jacket.

"How did it go?"

Jim starts, half of out of his shoes. Sure, the lights had been on, but Bones usually isn't around, at least not during the week now that classes have started. He's starting to miss Bones' presence, which had been a constant during the week between Riverside and Reception Day. Between the two of them, they'd been able to keep each other convinced that enlisting had been their best option. After spending two hours at Pike's idea of an adviser-advisee dinner, Jim's beginning to doubt this again. He's starting to think he'll spend the rest of his life talking himself into staying in Starfleet.

"Okay, I guess," he calls back, tossing his disregarded uniform in the closet as he searches for a semi-clean pair of sweats to change into before entering the main part of the dorm. "Thought you were at the hospital or something. Don't tell me you said that just to get out of coming with me, 'cause that's just-" mean, that's what it is. He might be Jim, who could talk his way out of anything and may or may not have used this talent on various members of various law enforcement agencies in more counties than he can easily count, but Bones can be one sneaky mother-fucker when he wants to be; he'd have to be to have convinced the idiots who think caution is the best course of action at the hospital to let him start as a fellow, not as the intern they'd wanted – a feat of impossibility to rival some of Jim's own. The idea of Bones using his powers of darkness (or whatever the hell one wanted to call them) against him sits badly with Jim for some reason.

"For one thing, I wasn't invited," the doctor snorts, entirely without compassion for Jim's plight. "For another, I'm not planning on spending all my free time catering to your insecurities. I'm a doctor, Jim, not a nursemaid."

For a moment Jim contemplated asking what the difference was between the two, but decided against it, instead walking out of the door-closet-alcove-thing – he'd yet to think of a decent word for it, but that's what it was, a narrow corridor by the door flanked by the doors to the two closets that divided the entrance to the room from the larger part that managed, barely, to hold a pair of beds and a couple of desks – and grabbing his padd on the way. Flicking it on, "Tell me you at least went out to a bar or a club or a party or something while I was gone."

Waving his own padd at him, "Some of us actually want to pass our classes."

"You wound me, Bones. I am passing my classes."

"Only because it's the first week. Even you would need at least a month to flunk out."

"Trust me, Bones. If I wanted to be kicked out, I could've managed it by now." At least eight different ways too. It was amazing he hadn't lost it on some of the people who talked about Dad like he was Starfleet's very own saint, or, at the very least, the fucking patron of pyrrhic victories or some other shit like that.

"And what," the doctor raised an eyebrow sceptically, "do you want me to do? Congratulate you?"

Pretending to think about it, he offered ingenuous, "Maybe," and a lazy smile that didn't didn't quite match his words before flopping onto his own bed. Acknowledgement of the fact would be nice, but normal human interaction – which is to say, not with idiots or captains who think they can mould him into a man like his father – is good enough. And Bones is normal, and safe, and doesn't ask questions that require deep answers, and couldn't care less if he's a genius or a delinquent or the god-damn Kelvin baby if he tried.

"And give your idiocy the reinforcement it's so desperately craving? Hardly."

"Your loss... Still, next time Pike drags me to dinner, you're coming with me."

"No."

"I'll be fun..."

"I'm working."

"You don't even know when the next one is."

"Doesn't matter."

Huffing, "That hurts, Bones; it really does. I'm just trying to look out for your best interests."

"My best interests," he repeats disbelievingly.

"Yes, of course," Jim said honestly, sitting up to stare at the doctor, who was seated on his own bed, a couple of cheap, Academy-issued padds surrounding him as he tried to do whatever homework he'd not had time to work on earlier in the week 'cause of his shifts at Starfleet Medical. "Doctor or not, you can't spend all your time holed up in here, being a good little cadet and studying and all that shit. It's not healthy. You have to go out and have fun every once and a while."

There had been times in the few weeks he'd known him that Jim had wondered if Bones had ever really let himself have fun, ever, or if his ex-wife had taken that in the divorce too. It was kinda depressing, really. The guy practically was crying out for a good night out or, at the very least, a good lay. Jim thinks, if he'd time, he might just make it his mission to see the doc had some fun some time before they graduate.

"Kid, your idea of fun and the rest of the universe's are two radically different things."

("...and he can't help it.")

"I told you," a hint of exasperation leaking through, "I wasn't looking for a fight last night. We just kinda... stumbled upon one."

It was true, too. He'd no idea what Bones had gotten up do Friday – he assumed it was very boring, involving a lot of studying and a shift at Starfleet Medical, without any sex or drugs or rock and roll at all, – but Saturday Jim had tried to initiate Bones into the art of the Grand Kirk Bar Crawl, dragging him to six before they'd stumbled into a fight over- well, Jim couldn't exactly remember what it had been about, only that he had almost literally stumbled into it and hadn't even given the guy who thought it would be a good idea to give him a black eye more than a broken jaw in return. All in all, a very sedate disagreement as far as far as Jim, who never met a fight he didn't like went. "'Sides, you had fun before that, and tonnes of fun afterwards."

Rolling his eyes, "'Cause patching attention-seeking anorexics with delusions of intelligence like you is just my idea of fun."

"Of course it is," Jim said confidently, entirely ignoring the anorexic comment – because, after all, he just didn't notice when he got hungry, not really, not any more; he ate when he remembered, most the time, not because he didn't want to – as well as the quip about delusions of intelligence. "You wouldn't have become a doctor if it wasn't."

The thing was, though, Jim really didn't know a thing about Bones. He knew that he was divorced and from Georgia and had like three or four specialities, any one of which would have caused his recruitment officer to salivate, but that was about all. Of course, all that he'd shared in return was that he was from Iowa and trying to do the command track in three years (which Bones had called crazy, not even knowing how many classes he'd placed out of), but still.

The doctor only grumbled, so he guessed his guess had to be pretty close to mark. Still, not one to be denied, "If it makes you feel any better, I think Pike's dinner was something you might've enjoyed."

"He spend half the evening patching your ass back together too?"

"No. But his idea of an adviser-advisee dinner is to drag me to his old adviser's house. And, boy, did he ever have an adviser: Rear Admiral Charles Tucker." He flicks off his own padd, deciding the half-dozen messages waiting there can all wait, and looks up at Bones expectantly.

"That supposed to mean something to me?"

"God, Bones, don't you know your pre-Federation history?" After getting a look that clearly says, no, but I'm surprised you do, Jim decides to continue. "He was Chief Engineer on Earth's first warp five ship and captain of the Challenger during the Romulan War." Unable to help himself, "You do remember learning about the Romulan War, right? Anyway, Admiral Tucker's been dead for years, but his wife is still around – you know who she is?"

Not even glancing up from his padds, "Just spit it out already Jim."

"Well, she's a professor now, but she was Chief of Naval Operations for ages and a whole bunch of other high up things in Starfleet that you couldn't care the least about, I'm sure, but his wife's Fleet Admiral T'Pol."

That caught the doctor's attention, causing his hazel eyes to flash with what might've been the most interest he'd seen in the man, well, ever. "The Admiral's wife is Vulcan?"

"Yeah. Kinda cool too. They have three kids too – the daughters live on Vulcan, apparently, but their son's the captain of the Ramesses. I figured you'd have fun asking all about their family tree and all that, 'cause you were saying the other day about being interested in the comparative physiology part of the xenobiology class you were stuck in."

Surprise flickers across his face. "Really?"

"Yeah." The idea of Bones going up to the admiral and asking about her children's biochemistries had kept Jim entertained through most the evening.

Not that the dinner had been bad or anything, but T'Pol shared her house with Admiral Jonathan Archer – yes that Admiral Archer, who'd been captain of the first Enterprise and president of the Federation in the 2180s – and he'd seemed intent on asking Jim every question he could think of, from where he grew up to what (fuck it all) his brother was doing. While he may have been the master of the non-answer and the careful evasion, three of the people in the room had been or were starship captains, so it was a lot harder than the normal inquiries he had to dodge from fellow students or drunks or professors.

("None of us can help the things life has done to us.")

He'd never realized how difficult it was keeping up with all his lies before. Or how many things he didn't talk about. Or let himself think about.

("They're done before you realize it...")

It's all rather exhausting, really.

Pike, however, seemed to think the dinner went well. Which it had, more or less. And any other time he might've been beyond thrilled to meet a guy whose existence was proof that his goal of becoming Jim, who was a greater hero than his father ever was and lived to tell the tale was possible. But the fact of the matter he'd been through some less through interrogations than that dinner. He'd wished the whole time for the only other guest, T'Pol's young great-granddaughter, Lisa, to prattle on about her school or friends or hair or whatever else a fifteen-year-old with seven-eighths human genes might want to go on about over dinner. She hadn't, however, and so he was forced to be the Jim, who doesn't give a shit about anyone or anything he saves for survivors of the Kelvin and, recently, flag officers.

He'd have thought people who'd risen to echelons above reality in the 'Fleet would have learned to be more politic than to grill him on things he clearly did not want to talk about. Or think about. Ever.

("...and once they're done they make you do other things...")

"I can't believe it."

"That they're still alive? I know, right? I mean, Vulcans live to be like older than god, so her I can get, but Archer's got to be at least a hundred if he's a day."

"No, that you actually remembered the name of one of the classes I'm in."

Pouting a bit, because being Jim, who it's a minor miracle still has a pair of braincells to rub together is almost as exhausting as Admiral Archer's questions, "I do listen, Bones," he leans forward far enough to snatch one of the padds off the doctor's bed before falling back onto his own.

"I was using that, you idiot."

He examines it for a minute before tossing it back. He can think of twelve ways to make it faster, more user-friendly, and able to hold twice as much data just off the top of his head. "Piece of junk anyway."

"It's Starfleet standard issue."

"I rest my case."

Sighing, "Don't you have homework or something kid?"

("...until at last everything comes between you...")

Maybe it's because it's been just one of those weeks. Maybe it's just because he's hardly been sleeping and is just so god-damn tired now. Maybe it's because he's been on the verge of a panic attack since Wednesday and all the stress had to come out sometime.

He can't run – he's paralysed with something he cannot name (not fear, he knows fear and this isn't it), but maybe it's the inevitability of the memory, which will haunt him everywhere, a ghost whose spectre he will never escape, not even if he manages to outshine his father's memory – can't breathe, can't fucking think, and all he knows is shit, not this, not now. Regardless, in that moment, it's not Bones' voice he's hearing, not the stupid, popcorn-ed ceiling of their dorm he's seeing.

No, in that moment he's in the Governor's Palace on Tarsus IV. He's seeing one of the shorter, dark hallways on one of the lower floors, in one of the areas of the building mostly attended by servants and minor government officials. For that reason the walls are rough and the lighting system faulty. There's a blue tint to the stones, to the shadows, and it adds to the sense of derealization that's suddenly overcome him.

The subspace communications systems were kept on that hall, locked behind a door with a code that changed every twenty-four hours. He knew he could break the code. Fuck, he'd designed the code for the governor, not knowing that the algorithm he'd been messing about with in math class one day was going to be used to update security all over the palace, with the intention that Starfleet's standard overrides wouldn't work if they tried to get inside.

All he had to do was get off a message to the nearest 'Fleet outpost telling them there was no plague, that it'd all been a smokescreen for Kodos' real plans; that they needed to come quick 'cause Kodos had already killed four thousand and who knew where he would stop.

He'd just heard the lock on the door click when there came a voice from behind him, "Don't you have homework or something kid?" It was Theo, the oldest of Kodos' converts, the one in charge of their little gang of would-be conquerors. Theo absolutely hated Jim 'cause Jim was the governor's favourite, not Theo, and he was the fastest and the smartest and the best of them all.

He remembers turning around, a shit-eating grin on his face as he tried to be Jim, who could talk his way out of anything, and seeing Theo standing down the hall blocking the exit, a phaser in his hands. A quick glance to the other side of hall showed two more of the older kids – Harerin and Raleliel – blocking the stairs there, both also armed. "Hey guys," he remembers beginning, hands going wide, "what-?"

When he woke an untold number of hours later, he was in one of the cells far below the palace, not knowing if he was going to live or die.

("...and what you'd like to be...")

And, shit, he knows Bones didn't mean anything by it – couldn't have meant anything by it – but, as he continues to lie on his bed, staring at the ceiling, he tries not to let it show, but Bones is a doctor and knows that sudden bouts of shortness of breath and sweating and trembling aren't normal, and, as good as Jim is, he can't hide everything, not when Bones is in the fucking room with him.

But he can't, and, before he knows it, Bones is at his side, quietly trying to calm him down and rubbing god-damn circles on his back and, when he's calm enough, plying him with alcohol, which he's fairly certain isn't an approved method of dealing with attacks like these.

By the end of it, he's so exhausted he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep that may or may not have been expedited by Bones and a hypo and, when he wakes hours later, feeling worse (if possible) then when he'd stumbled into the room the night before, it's only because the doc is shaking him and saying he's going to miss his 0800 class if he doesn't get going soon.

("...and you've lost your true self forever.")

It's two days before his schedule and McCoy's overlap. He'd kinda been dreading that moment all morning and maybe even some of the day before, but all the doctor does is ask, "How you doing, kid?"

Jim gives him his best, cockiest smile and an, "Okay," not wanting to give anything away.

"Want to talk abut it?"

His smile barely wavers. "No."

"Okay," is all Bones says before going on to gripe about the latest stupidities he's had the distinct misfortune to have to treat. He never says another word about that night.

("None of us can help the things life has done to us.")

Jim thinks he just might love the guy for that.

a/n: first, curse my internet, 'cause I just wrote out the a/n but the connection died and so I lost it all and this is me redoing it.

second, for ENT fans going wtf, yes, I know they had Trip die in "These are the Voyages," but I remain a diehard TnT fan and am basically disregarding that whole episode, as everyone should. For more on my specific changes to the ENT cannon, see my story "A Grief Shared," which will, eventually, bridge the gap between season 4 of ENT and the reboot cannon. This chappie was supposed to be Kirk-meets-Archer-and-T'Pol, but that didn't work out the way I wanted it (thus the delay) and became something completely other...

third, the quote is from Long Day's Journey into Night by Eugene O'Neill, one of my favourite playwrights ever. Mourning Becomes Electra is my favourite by him, but this and Strange Interlude are close seconds. Anyway, that being said, it was difficult to find a quote for this at first but, once I did, boy did it fit ever.

fourth, I think I offically can go no lower in my ST obsession. I've been a Trekkie since I was like born (there was an amusing episode in kindergarden where, instead of reciting the pledge of allegence, I recited the "these are the voyages of..." speech instead), but ST:IX has renewed that passion, especially since DS9 and ENT were canceled. I've seen the new movie like 30 times, at least, and read the novel... and have the audiobook too. That being said, I was at the bookstore the other day and bought a magazine I'd never heard of before simply because Chris Pine was on the cover (the mag is Details btw). I have now become one of those girls... and, sad to say, am not nearly as ashamed as I should be.

fifth, reveiws, questions, comments, concerns, commiserations, general guesses of where you think I'll end up going with this story, etc are always appreciated. -aadarshinah