A/N: Hello everyone! Thanks again to all the wonderful people who reviewed. :]

I'd like to address something I think is important really quick. A lot of people have mentioned that there is a lot of angst in this story which makes them hesitant to continue reading. There is going to be a LOT of angst in this story! That's why it's in the warnings in the description. If you feel you cannot handle a large amount of depressing situations, then this story is unlikely to sit well with you for a while. However, I assure you that if you can get through the angst it will definitely be worth it! If you don't mind the angst and still enjoy the story, well, I'm very thankful! :]

Okay! Now that that's out of the way, this chapter's title comes from the song "Call Back When I'm Honest" by a band called The Almost. Check it out!

As always, comments and critiques are encouraged. Here's chapter seven - please enjoy!


Chapter Seven: Call Back When I'm Honest

"Dammit, Jim, you've gotta talk to the crew before they start busting down the damn door."

He closed his eyes.

"I swear to God, Jim – !"

He turned away, hunching his shoulders and pulling the red blanket up over his head so the folds of fabric shielded his face from McCoy's accusing glare.

There was a long moment of silence marred only by the doctor's heavy, angered breathing, and Jim hoped maybe he would finally leave him alone.

"Jim." McCoy's voice was softer now – Jim's heart ached as the doctor pulled back the blanket and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. "Look, Jim, I know this is hard. I know this is probably the worst thing to have happen to you. I know, Jim, and I'll be damned if I don't do everything I can to get you back on your feet. But this is important – if the crew doesn't at least hear you, see you, they're gonna think the worst, with a First Officer who's jumped ship and a Captain holed up in Sickbay. You have to say something to them, Jim, before they decide to do something drastic."

He was quiet for a long time, his mind fumbling clumsily with thoughts he could not keep up with. Some part of him, some rational bit of him buried too deep in the confusion and hurt to be of any real use, knew that what Bones was telling him was true and necessary, but the rest of him recoiled from the idea of doing anything other than sitting quietly right where he was. He didn't want to talk to the crew – he didn't want to talk at all. What he really wanted to do was lay down and die, but he doubted that idea would go over well with the doctor.

"I can't talk to them for you," McCoy murmured, "You're the captain, and you're the one they need."

Need? What about his needs? He was the one who just had his entire life reduced to shambles – shouldn't that count for something? He wanted to be angry – felt like he should be angry – but he couldn't bring himself to feel much of anything at all.

More minutes slipped by in silence, McCoy's hand remaining steadfastly on his shoulder. Finally the older man murmured – whispered – begged –

"Please say something, Jim..."

As the words spilled from McCoy's mouth, Jim could feel his strength crumbling as his eyes stung with tears that welled up and spilled over his grisled, unshaven cheeks almost instantly, and he choked back a sob unsuccessfully.

"Oh, Jim..."

And quickly the hand on his shoulder became warm arms enveloping his torso and he threw his arms out, blindly wrapping himself around the doctor's frame and clutching at the blue uniform as he wept like an infant.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," he whimpered into the older man's shoulder, "It wasn't – I don't – I don't know what to do, Bones, I don't know – how to – how to – " McCoy's arms tightened around him as his speech dissolved into muffled, wordless, heaving sobs.

He had no idea how long they remained there, he leaning over the Sickbay bed to rest against the doctor in a mess of limbs and tears. It may have been a minute or it may have been an hour until his sobs died away into sniffles and gasps, and then into trembling but steady breaths – and McCoy stood steadily, motionlessly against it all, a sentinel against the grief that pulled and raged at the young captain.

Finally, though, he eased away and took a step back, letting Jim sit upright for a moment before leaning back against his multitude of pillows. McCoy reached over and smoothed away Jim's blond hair from his forehead, slicked with cold sweat.

"All right, look," the doctor said in reassuring tones, "I'll send a message to the crew that you're sick but you'll talk to them in an hour or two. That gives you some time to get things together, decide what you're gonna say. How does that sound?"

Slowly, slowly, Jim nodded in acquiescence.

"I'm sick." he repeated faintly, "With... with Andorian flu – nothing to do with – " His voice faltered embarrassingly. " – with him."

"There you go," McCoy replied, stepping towards the intercom, "I'm going to make an announcement to the crew now, okay?"

"Wait," Jim replied, sitting up quickly, "I can do it now. I'm ready."

To McCoy, he certainly did not look "ready", his face pale and covered in a sheen of sweat and tears, faint tremors shooting up his body every few seconds. But Jim looked at him earnestly, forcefully, and McCoy knew that he needed this, needed to assert himself, to convince himself that he was still in control of something, anything.

"All right," McCoy conceded, "Let me help you to the intercom, then."

Jim nodded and, with one trembling arm around the doctor's slim shoulders, stood up and walked on unsteady legs to the intercom on the wall a few yards away. He then pulled away from the doctor and supported himself with the other hand against the wall, breathing heavily.

"Don't push yourself, Jim," McCoy murmured as the captain straightened and steadied himself. He supposed it wasn't such a bad thing Jim looked like crap – at least the crew would believe that he had fallen quite ill. He stepped away as Jim composed himself, then began the ship-wide transmission as the camera clicked to life.

"Attention Enterprise," he said, his voice faint but steely with an attempt at his usual commanding tone. "This is Captain Kirk, repeat, this is Captain Kirk. If I could have your attention for just a minute..." He sucked in a breath, licked his lower lip, and wiped his perspiring forehead with one hand before continuing,

"I'd like to address some of the concerns that have been brought to my attention. First I want to say I understand your concern, and your worries are perfectly legitimate, but also unnecessary. I do in fact have a decent case of the Andorian flu, which is why I'm in Sickbay, where I'll be for the next few days. So this has nothing to do with..." He paused nervously, his gut wrenching, and McCoy nodded encouragingly at him. "With the... resignation... of – of the First Officer. As for... that matter, I'm – I'm sorry to say I can't offer any explanation other than the – the one he gave in his resignation letter. If that was... his true thoughts on the matter, then – then it took me by surprise just as much as you." He breathed deeply, calming himself.

"So until I'm back on duty, Scott and Sulu will serve as acting Captain and First Officer, and when I'm back I'll select replacement First and Science Officers... so some recommendations would be welcome." He attempted a smile that turned out as a grotesque twisting of his features – he made a mental note to never do that again as he concluded, "So I'm sorry for the inconvenience, and I expect the entire crew to continue performing admirably in my absence. Kirk out."

The moment the intercom was off he stumbled back to his bed, sitting heavily on the edge of the rumpled red sheets as McCoy strode over and placed a comforting hand on each of his shoulders.

"That was good," he said reassuringly, peering in worry at Jim's downcast eyes. "You did real good, Jim. The crew needed that." He nodded silently, glistening blue eyes shrouded in heavy blond lashes.

They stood silently for a moment, then McCoy continued gently,

"You need to rest, Jim, so I'm gonna give you something so you can sleep, okay?"

"I'll have nightmares," Jim whispered. "It won't be rest." McCoy felt his heartstrings being plucked like some kind of horrible, thundering orchestra as he replied,

"I can give you stuff for nightmares, too. Makes it a good dreamless sleep."

Slowly Jim nodded, and he stepped away to get the meds together. When he had the hypospray ready moments later, Jim was still sitting miserably at the edge of the bed. McCoy guided him under the sheets, gently tucked him in like a father putting his son to sleep, and made sure he was comfortable. With a tenderness that was very uncharacteristic of the doctor, he placed the hypospray against Jim's neck, watching the younger man's features flinch as it hissed into his skin, then relax into unconsciousness.

For several minutes the doctor stood over him, depleted hypo in one hand, studying the captain's face with a heavy heart. His once-boyish features had rapidly deteriorated into those of a man bent under the weight of unspeakable tribulations, of an Atlas struggling with the world in its entirety on his shoulders.

And it was all Spock's fault.

With a noise of disgust, McCoy threw the empty hypospray into the trash and retreated into his office.


"Have you any idea how you will occupy your time while you reside here?"

Spock turned his gaze away from his father, who was scanning a PADD in his lap while lounging against the dark burgundy sofa. In truth, he desired to do nothing but meditate to stave off his guilt and despair, for wallowing in one's sorrows seemed highly illogical. However, to tell his father of such a plan was unlikely to go over well.

"No," he replied simply, tapping nervously, aimlessly, at his own PADD. Sarek lifted his gaze to look at Spock for a moment, then resumed reading whatever was on his display screen as he continued,

"Would you be interested in pursuing participation in the Vulcan Science Academy? I am certain they would readmit you – they are in need of students, so it would be highly illogical for them to turn you down."

He flinched inwardly at the thought – the Science Academy was one of the last places he had any desire to inhabit, after the debacle with the Councilmen following his first acceptance – but he replied evenly,

"I have very little desire to do so."

Sarek seemed to accept this, for he made no reply. Spock nearly expected him to make a comment back – he supposed he had spent too much time around humans, with their rushed speech and illogical need to have the final say in every conversation, so much so that he had forgotten the calm, unhurried, and calculated manner in which Vulcans conversed. Himself included, of course.

Finally Sarek continued,

"Perhaps you should then pursue a job to occupy yourself with. Laziness spawns illogical behavior, and surely you can have no complaint against the additional income it will supply you with." He paused, then added, "I do not wish for you to become a victim to idleness, my son."

It nearly embarrassed Spock how well his father seemed to understand the situation – he did not want him to have enough free time to be able to immerse himself in the intensely negative emotions he was experiencing. His mind found a fitting human phrase – he wanted him to keep his mind off things.

"I would not be adverse to the idea," Spock murmured faintly, and it was not a lie. Sarek nodded slowly.

"I will inquire around the embassy, then," he said, "Perhaps someone knows of a local position you can fill."

Spock only nodded in reply. He wondered if it was even possible for him to find a job – if anyone would hire a rapist, a rapist who was too cowardly to turn himself in to the authorities.

"I think I shall retire early," Spock murmured faintly, feeling himself break into a cold sweat, and Sarek, mercifully, did not look at him as he retreated to his quarters on the opposite wing of the estate.

He rushed into his bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before his evening meal came gushing from his mouth. When his stomach was empty he continued retching, dry heaves tearing through his trembling frame like a phaser blast through his nerves.

He was filled with shame. Vulcans did not break into cold sweats, or have nightmares, or cry, or vomit as a result of unpleasant thoughts. Vulcans did not rape. Vulcans did not destroy the lives of others.

He was not human. But neither was he Vulcan. He had lived with the fact for his entire life, but at that moment the thought crashed into him, clawed at his heart, making wounds as fresh as the day he was old enough, aware enough, to make that painful realization, that damning distinction between himself and the rest of the universe.

He leaned back against the cool red tile when his stomach finally stopped heaving, and remained there motionlessly for one hour, forty-three minutes and seventeen seconds, unable to bring himself to move.

It had been three days, twenty-one hours, and nine minutes since he had fled the Enterprise, and with every minute that passed he found himself despising who he was more and more.


A/N: Thanks for reading! The next chapter will be up on Thursday. :] See you then!