A/N: Thanks so much for the response last chapter, wow! You guys are awesome and your feedback's always encouraging. :) We hope you'll enjoy this chapter too!
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~Chapter IX~
Jim sat in his quarters and looked at the device on the table warily, wondering how such an innocuous object could fill him with such apprehension. The mood aboard the shuttle on the return journey had been notably subdued among the passengers, McCoy clutching grimly to his harness as if determined to not cause a scene again like he had previously. Jim wouldn't have cared either way, but he appreciated the intention, even if it was misplaced. He wasn't angry. He wasn't even sad.
To be honest, he didn't know what he was anymore, or if he felt anything at all.
They'd followed him to his quarters once the shuttle arrived, Spock and McCoy, and he hadn't had the heart to tell them off. They were part of this now, whether he liked it or not.
"What will you tell the crew?" McCoy asked him now, sitting across the table in the center of the main chamber. Spock stood a small distance behind the doctor, hands folded behind his back and dark eyes fixed inscrutably on Jim.
Jim studied the surface of the table in front of him, his eyes skirting around the device avoidingly. "That it was a wild goose chase," he said finally. "That's the truth. That's what I'll tell them."
"And Starfleet?" Spock inquired. "The Admiralty has requested an on-screen conference regarding the recent events."
Jim waved a hand absently. "I'll work it out with the Admiralty. They can sit on their hands a little longer." He reached out and tapped the device with a finger, sending it spinning slightly. "I'm not sure..." he trailed off, and then he cleared his throat. "I'm not sure if you two should stay for this."
There was a moment of hesitation, both McCoy's and Spock's eyes flitting to the device before the doctor spoke first. "Whatever it is, it's gotta be worth all this trouble. Play the damn thing already."
Jim exhaled slowly, then pressed the silver indentation on the top of the disk. There was a muted beep, a quiet series of clicking and humming from within the device, and when the noises ceased, a thin beam of light expanded from the side of the contraption, widening into the projection of a human silhouette beside the table.
The hologram flickered once, twice, then the figure of Winona Kirk stood before them, her eyes blinking focusedly at the unseen cam.
She looked older, Jim realized with a start, then felt stupid for even thinking it. Of course she was older; it had been years, after all. Her blonde hair was still soft and full, though, despite the gray streaks that ran fluently along her temples. Her face, lined at the corner of her eyes and mouth, seemed to carry a certain weariness that Jim didn't recall ever seeing in her before, no matter how deeply he searched his memory, but she still carried herself the same way, head held high and back straighter than any Vulcan's. Her eyes stared straight ahead, and as a result of the hologram's angle, her gaze seemingly looked into nowhere.
"Jimmy," she said, and Jim thought with an almost painful note of nostalgia that her voice hadn't changed at all. "If you're watching this, there isn't much time."
His fingers were clenched on his knees, and he slowly unlocked them now as she spoke, watching her face with an uneasy twinge of apprehension.
Winona hesitated, her eyes sliding away for a split second before lifting them again, so quickly he wasn't sure if he had imagined it. "I know you've met Cetus. I know you've seen what he's capable of doing. I stopped him from destroying your ship once, but I'm not sure that I can do it again." Jim registered her words with a faint feeling of surprise and something else...something that was almost gratitude, but he knew better than that. He couldn't possibly be grateful to her, but if she had saved him...saved his crew.
"He's brilliant, Jim. Crazy, yes, but brilliant. He'll have figured it all out by now, I'm sure. We haven't much time," she reiterated, "but this story doesn't begin with Cetus, Jim. It begins with you."
She paused and blinked once, slowly. "I know you're angry with me," she continued, her voice quiet and measured. "That's understandable. You have every right to be. But I did it for you," she added. "It was all for you, Jim. It always has been."
Jim stiffened involuntarily at that, and he looked down with a flush of self-consciousness, hoping that Spock and McCoy hadn't seen his reaction.
"I'm not proud of who I was all those years ago, Jim. I know..." Winona swallowed, the first discernible sign of emotion she had shown yet. "I know I wasn't...the best mother to you. And for that, I am sorry." Jim raised his eyes disbelievingly, but her gaze looked straight past him as she went on.
"When your father died, Starfleet offered their condolences, sent the cards, paid the bills. It was hard, it was sad, but I had you and I thought it was going to be all right." Winona took a slow breath and exhaled.
"It wasn't right, what they did to your father, Jim. How they took his death and played him as a promotional poster. More recruits joined Starfleet that year than any other point in history, did you know that? They were just children." Her face tightened briefly. "Children who thought they knew what glory and sacrifice and honor looked like, because they saw him die on every broadcast on Earth. You were too young to remember it, but those first few years were the worst, seeing him again in every cadet who enlisted, wanting to be the next George Kirk. But they couldn't live up to that. Nobody could."
Winona stopped again, as if steeling herself for what came next. When she went on, it was hesitant and almost reluctant. "Cetus contacted me when you were three years old. He...he said he was a sympathizer, an ally against the press. He understood, Jimmy, everything he said about Starfleet was what I had already come to believe, and he only made it stronger in my mind. It was weak of me to trust him, but I had no one else. You were too young, the press crawled on my doorstep if I so much as stepped outdoors. There was no one else I could turn to.
"Cetus began trying to involve me in what he called his Revival. Reinstating the old technologies and caste systems in place of the new innovations. I admit, I was interested at first, but there was something...off about him. Something that made me uneasy. But it wasn't until he began to use you against me that I realized what I had gotten myself into."
Jim stared at her during the short pause that followed. He thought he vaguely remembered staying indoors all day, wanting to play outside and being gently refused by his mother. Had she been so tired even then? So worn and weary of the world? The Winona he recalled from his childhood was soft and golden, and later, hard and gray. This Winona was somewhere in the middle, a shade he hadn't come to learn yet, and the not knowing was bothering him. He couldn't bring himself to trust her yet, but if all she was saying was true...
"I couldn't stay, Jim. I knew too much. He didn't expect me to refuse, but he couldn't leave me alive. As long as I was there, you were in danger. I...I wasn't strong enough to stay with you. I had to leave." Her hands clasped at the folds of her dark skirt distractedly. "So I did. I joined the Revival and tried to keep my head down, tried to keep them from you.
"It hasn't been easy, staying away….I saw the news from Earth about those Romulans. And the incident from last year. I want you to know...well, that's not a conversation for now." As she spoke, Winona ran a hand through her hair in a motion that seemed oddly familiar to Jim; he frowned and tried to ignore it.
"But then I had to find you. This organization, Jim, the Revival. They've been developing a device, a weapon, one that I know you're all too familiar with. When Cetus contacted you, he knew fully well how you survived; there were transmitters in the bomb that looped constant feedback to him as you disabled it. He was only testing your resolve, see what you would do. And now that he knows….you're in far greater danger than you think, Jim. I'm still not sure myself how you managed to pull that one off, but then again, I should have expected it from you." She offered a faint smile that wrenched at his heart, just another phantom pain that he couldn't explain, before the brief flicker of pride faded and the solemnity returned and she said, "They intend to utilize it in three days in a public setting in the heart of Starfleet's elite."
Three days. Jim's mind flitted ahead, trying to conjure up significant events, important dates-
"The Kelvin Memorial, Jim. There's going to be an attack during the Remembrance Day ceremony."
Jim glanced automatically at Spock and McCoy, startled at the revelation, as Winona continued, "The initial distress call was sent to lure in any nearby Federation ships. You were the first to respond and so they took you as an experiment. And the bomb didn't go off, the device failed, but I didn't know, Jim." She suddenly seemed desperate in her emphasis, taking an involuntary step closer towards the cam. "I didn't know what they were planning. I don't think Cetus ever completely trusted me since I joined, he told me enough to keep up the pretense, but… well, I suppose I proved him right by leaving as soon as I found out you had escaped."
"They'll be after me now- I took all the plans I could discover about the strike and ran." She took a deep breath, and there was a sharper, clearer glint to her eyes when she started again. "Three days, Jim. Cetus and a team of his best will be at the ceremony with the bomb. They plan to end their lives there and strike at the heart of Starfleet. 'Purified from the inside out,' was what he said." She stared imploringly into the cam. "You have to stop them, Jim. I wish..." A hesitation, a flicker of emotion beneath the surface. "I wish it didn't have to be this way."
The hologram halted, Winona's last wistful smile frozen momentarily, before the image collapsed in on itself and the beam of light retracted back into the device. The disk hummed a second longer, then dimmed and eventually powered down.
The room was silent, and the sound of Jim pushing himself abruptly to his feet rustled loudly in the still ambiance. "Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath, and whether he was addressing the two of them or himself, Spock was unsure.
"Why's that?" McCoy eventually asked a beat later, watching him cautiously.
"It's a set-up," Jim said finally, looking over at the two of them. "It's got to be. There's no way everything's that coincidental- the bomb, Cetus, now her-"
"There is no reason to assume that this is a ruse," Spock felt obliged to comment at this point. "Cetus himself mentioned the Kelvin incident when he was divulging his motivations."
Jim scowled, pacing back and forth uncertainly. "They're both in on it, then. She claimed that she left the Revival, but what if she didn't? What if-"
"It is unlikely that either Cetus or your mother would have contacted this ship in order to deceive us in some way," Spock reasoned. "What benefit could possibly arise from unnecessarily compromising themselves by opening communications-"
"I'm just trying to look at this logically," Jim cut in, glaring at the Vulcan in frustration. "Trying to be practical. Isn't that what you'd do? Look at all possible sides of this?"
"If you are attempting to consider all the options, you are failing," Spock said quietly, and Jim's angry retort seemed to die in his throat. He closed his mouth and stared at his first officer, his expression unreadable.
Spock went on intently, "You are not operating on logic now, Jim, or you would not be so adamant in your mother's ill intentions." He hesitated, watching Jim carefully as he continued, "I cannot keep from noticing that you have not yet addressed her as your mother, Jim. Could it be that you are refusing to believe her trustworthy because-"
"Spock," McCoy finally broke in, his voice hushed, and the Vulcan halted for a split second before forging on determinedly. "Perhaps she merely intends to reconcile with you after all these years."
Jim snorted derisively, "Is that what you think this is?" A slow flush was beginning to darken his face as he spoke. "Just like you reconciled with your mother, right?"
Spock blinked, briefly thrown off guard by the unexpected jab.
Jim stepped closer, his eyes beginning to gleam with a strange satisfaction. Behind him, McCoy was watching with caution, his attention flickering between the two of them nervously as Jim said, "I remember her now, you know. From your memories, even if it's just bits and pieces. I remember how human she was, Spock, and how much you tried to be like that, to be like her."
Spock blinked again, attempting to speak, and McCoy raised his voice warningly, "Jim."
Jim forged on unrelentingly, "You wanted to be human so you wouldn't disappoint her, but you couldn't, and you couldn't bring yourself to say how much it meant to you that she loved you anyway. You never told her that, and now it's too late. So don't push your own failures on me, Spock, don't-"
"Jim, that's enough!" McCoy interrupted, standing abruptly up from his seat. A sudden silence fell, and Jim looked away wordlessly.
"Jim," Spock began at last, his voice even and calm. "My personal matters are of no importance at the moment," he said. "It is your matters that concern us all now. You cannot allow your emotional conjectures to fuel your decisions, Jim. If indeed the information is correct, we have no time to spare in preparing our defense."
Jim stared at him for a long moment, and Spock wondered if he would continue resisting. Then, he stepped back and exhaled slowly, turning slightly towards the exit. "Send me the request from the Admiralty, Commander. I need to set up that conference with the council." He didn't look at them as he spoke, his face oddly still and empty of expression, and McCoy turned slightly in his seat to glance meaningfully at Spock.
When Spock did nothing, McCoy frowned disapprovingly and turned back, but Jim was already turning away.
The doors closed behind him, and Spock turned hesitantly towards McCoy. The doctor's expression displayed well what Spock was beginning to identify within himself, glancing at the Vulcan with growing alarm and concern.
"Do you think…we should…" McCoy gestured helplessly at the doors. "Should we?"
"No," Spock said, reasoning out the intention behind the doctor's fumbling words instantly. "I believe that, this once, it may be best to leave the captain to his own devices."
"Well," McCoy said eventually, scowling at the innocuous projector still laying on the table. "I should be headed back." Spock instantly stepped forward, propelled by a sudden inexplicable urge.
"I shall accompany you, Doctor," he said decisively, and McCoy eyed him suspiciously before grunting in affirmation and striding for the doors.
"I suppose I should be glad," McCoy grumbled, moments later as they walked down the halls. "At least he didn't break anything again."
Spock glanced at McCoy consideringly, and he pressed the button to summon the lift when they reached the end of the corridor. "You were well acquainted with the captain during your years at the Academy, if my observations are correct," he said, watching the doctor's expression carefully.
"They usually are," McCoy responded warily, crossing his arms across his chest. "So what?"
"Has he ever brought up mention of his mother in the time you two spent together?" The lift arrived and they stepped in, the quiet murmuring of the corridors falling silent as the doors slid shut.
"Not really," McCoy said, almost defensively. "I was brought up proper, y'know, manners and all. Not to speak ill of anyone's family or anything, but Jim's got some pretty sensitive history there that he didn't want anyone digging into. And we were just there. You saw how he was."
"He did not inform you of any details of his personal life?" Spock pressed intently.
"Well, I mean, nothing much beyond the basics. And that only came out around finals time, after a few hours of hitting the bars." McCoy thought for a moment, his foot tapping distractedly on the floor of the lift. Spock considered informing the man of the nervous tic, but restrained himself to merely looking mildly impatient.
The turbolift halted and McCoy stepped out, gesturing for Spock to follow him into the medbay. "He has a brother. Sam," McCoy said, ushering him into his office and sealing the door behind them. "He wasn't in the picture for long, though, from what I understand. Step-father, too. Jim never said much about him, which I think speaks pretty clearly for itself. But his mom….he never mentioned her at all. I didn't even think she was still around, personally, 'til the death notice came in." McCoy shrugged vaguely, taking a seat at his desk. "He was a private guy, I never thought to ask much more than that."
Spock sat down in the chair across from the desk, placing his hands calmly on his knees and contemplating McCoy steadily. "I can confirm the validity of those facts, Doctor. It appears that the captain displays more honesty when sufficiently inebriated."
McCoy squinted at him suspiciously. "What, how do..." His eyes widened as he came swiftly to a full realization, three seconds sooner than Spock had predicted, and he grudgingly raised his measure of the other man by another percentile. "This is about that meld, isn't it."
It was not, Spock reflected, completely a question, and he responded with a simple nod. "I believe an explanation is long overdue."
"Damn right it is," McCoy muttered, and he leaned forward across the desk expectantly. "Well, go on."
Spock hesitated, scanning through the scant memories he had managed to decipher from the fragmented meld. It had been no simple process, attempting to make clear the blurred details without the advantage of proper stimuli, but the pieces he had untangled had been enlightening, to say the least.
"When I disengaged from my bond with the captain, I may have done so with perhaps less...precision as I might have under more favorable circumstances. As it is, we are both under the effects of what appears to be a mutual influence by the other's mind."
"So, it's like...like backlash of a sort, right?" McCoy asked, eyebrows lowering in consternation, "You've got something from him, he's got something from you."
"In a manner of speaking. I have managed to glean a few key pieces of the captain's past-"
"So you know about his mother?"
"Not everything," Spock admitted. "It appears that the majority of those memories were not transferred through the meld, or I have simply not been able to detect them thus far."
"Well." McCoy settled back in his seat, his expression lined in heavy thought. "We'll have to do something about that, won't we?" He watched Spock a moment longer, then said slowly, "So all that was true...what Jim said about you back there."
Spock studied the surface of McCoy's desk, noting absently that while the doctor's work area was substantially less haphazard than the captain, it still required a decent cleaning. "He was not incorrect," he answered quietly.
McCoy swore softly, and the doctor's chair creaked as he leaned forward, "I'm sorry, Spock."
Spock glanced up despite his previous misgivings, surprised at the utter sincerity in McCoy's tone. He found himself speaking soon afterwards, though he did not recall giving himself permission to do so. "It is perhaps one of my most prominent regrets, as much as it is against my principles, that I did not...that I never informed my mother of my affections for her."
"You never told her you loved her?"
"I did not," Spock answered, feeling the familiar shame prickling at his skin. "I regret heavily that she died before knowing that-"
"Of course she knew." Spock met McCoy's gaze then, slightly taken aback. The doctor was frowning at him as usual, but there was an understanding in his expression that Spock had rarely seen directed towards him.
"Do you feel guilty about her death?"
Spock paused, then said haltingly, "I know that it is...highly illogical to assume blame for something that was entirely out of my control...but the truth is, Doctor, irrational as it may seem, I do often wonder that if I had arrived any sooner, perhaps-"
"It wasn't your fault, Spock," McCoy said, his voice softening. "I know you're tired of hearing it-most people are- but you gotta know that whatever happened...it happened. And she did know you loved her. Mothers have a way of knowing things like that, after all. Some things just don't need to be said to be true." He watched Spock for a second, tapping his finger on his desk thoughtfully.
"Before, when you said Earth was the only home you had left," McCoy continued carefully, his eyes never leaving the Vulcan. "It's because you do acknowledge that side of you, right? Accepting that humanity...it's honoring her in a way that doesn't require words."
Spock swallowed, suddenly finding it difficult to hold the doctor's gaze. "Yes, of course. I appreciate your input, Doctor."
"That's a first," McCoy muttered, but his mouth twitched good-naturedly as he settled back. Something still seemed to trouble the Vulcan, however, despite his claims, and the doctor might have missed it if he hadn't been looking as closely as he was. It was in the way Spock's shoulders slumped at the slightest degree, the way his gaze slid away uneasily even now, and McCoy narrowed his eyes consideringly, finding himself unable to let this go.
"What else is on your mind?" he asked, with the air of one fully expecting an answer in return.
Spock was reluctant to answer immediately as he composed his thoughts. "The captain's anger is not misplaced by any means. When I initiated the meld, it was purely for the sake of alleviating his pain, regardless of his will. I have attempted to justify my actions through concentrating on the positive aspects of the effects, however, it is...it is a grave violation that warrants far worse than his displeasure, and I do not expect Jim to come to terms with it as long as this effect lasts."
"But he knows why you did it-"
"It is obvious that he is still discontent with the results, despite my original intent," Spock answered. "I did not wish for this consequence any more than Jim, and this animosity between us is...troubling, to say the least."
"Hmm." McCoy seemed almost satisfied with the reply. "Well, you care about him, don't you? Friendship's messy like that sometimes."
Spock listened to the doctor's words, a gradual realization beginning to dawn within him even at that moment.
"It is to my understanding," he said slowly, "that when humans care for one another, they wish the best for the other party, no matter the sacrifice it may bring."
"Well, sure-" McCoy stopped short, an odd expression passing over his face. "What are you on about, Spock?"
"It is simple reasoning. If my very presence is troubling to the captain and therefore impeding to his obligations, then it is my responsibility to remove the obstruction, which in this case is myself." Spock took a deep breath. "I believe that the only practical solution at hand is for me to request a transfer."
McCoy stared at him, incredulity battling with reluctant admiration in his expression. "Is that really what you want?"
Spock frowned slightly. "Of course, I would prefer to remain on this ship, Doctor. Despite my initial reservations, my time aboard has been...pleasant, dare I say."
"Don't rush this," McCoy cautioned. "Just don't- don't do anything rash, Spock, for crying out loud. You practically said it yourself, you'd stay with him, keep him in one piece."
Spock was quiet for a beat, before he answered, "I believe the captain will be able to manage even without my assistance. He has certainly proved himself capable before. And this... if this will preserve our friendship in any capacity, then it is what I want."
…
McCoy shifted in his seat uncomfortably as the first screens began to appear, blue-edged silhouettes flickering in the empty seats around the conference table. He glanced at Spock furtively for the sixth time in forty-five seconds, then leaned over to hiss at the Vulcan, "Why am I here again?"
"The captain has requested your presence at the meeting," Spock answered, eyes fixed on the materializing holograms.
Some explanation, McCoy thought moodily, sitting back in his seat and fiddling with his cuffs distractedly. He'd been more than a little surprised to receive the summons barely thirty minutes after Spock had vacated his office, having assumed that the conference would primarily include the captain and first officer.
After receiving the comm, McCoy had made his way through the decks anyway, bemused and not a little apprehensive. Diplomacy had never been his strong suit, had been his worst class, actually. If Jim hadn't been around for cramming sessions at the time, he may have very well failed that course in training.
He'd almost completely rounded the last corner when he caught a glimpse of command gold and, for reasons he still didn't know himself, he paused and stepped back so that he could observe unseen.
Jim was pacing in front of the conference room door, face set in concentration. He seemed to be thinking something over, the weight of the matter practically bowing his shoulders, and McCoy had a sudden flashback of a slightly younger Jim wearing out the doormat in front of his friend's medical dorm room, trying to work up the nerve to apologize for whatever stupid thing he'd done that week.
It wasn't long before he heard a quiet footstep and peeked out farther to see Spock step in front of Jim mid-pace, hands behind his back and his expression wary.
"Captain."
Jim had stared at Spock for a long moment, a muscle in his jaw working as if he was struggling to say something, then the moment had passed and he had merely nodded distantly.
"Commander."
McCoy had taken the cue then and made a great deal of fanfare with coughing and clearing his throat before emerging, and the three of them had made their way into the room.
The last few members were logging in now, and McCoy suppressed a rising tide of discomfort as flickering heads turned to survey the three of them seated around the head of the table. "I hate this," he muttered to himself, then forced himself to smile blandly at an inquisitive woman seated to his left.
He glanced around uneasily at the rest of the faces, recognizing Admiral Barnett and Komack from Jim's trial, but most of the council was unknown to him. They would be, he figured, after the attack by Khan. They'd lost Pike and more, other leading heads injured or simply traumatized into early retirement.
"Captain Kirk," Barnett spoke first, seated at the other end of the long table across from Jim. "I understand there has been a recent development that prompted this meeting."
Jim straightened, and from where McCoy sat, he could make out the carefully composed expression on the younger man's face as he pulled up his notes on the datapad in front of him. "Two days ago, I was assaulted and held captive by an unidentified organization. They implanted a bomb in me, defused by my first officer and chief medical officer, both of whom are present here today."
McCoy stared pointedly at the table as impassive eyes swept over him and Spock. The goblin took it all in stride, of course, nothing in his ramrod posture signifying anything more than mild boredom at the close inspection. McCoy found himself unconsciously trying to copy the stance, and he forcibly slouched his shoulders at the realization.
"The same organization made contact soon afterwards," Jim continued. "I believe the details were given in Mr. Spock's report." He paused for what appeared to be calculated effect before saying, "There is another matter their leader mentioned. Concerning the state of the abandoned planet on which I was attacked. Starfleet's involvement in the planet's deterioration was...explicitly implied." He kept his tone neutral as he spoke, but McCoy couldn't help but glance anxiously around the table.
"You should never take the word of a terrorist, Captain," Barnett eventually answered. "The matter doesn't concern you or your crew." His eyes pinned McCoy briefly to his seat, before the steely gaze swiveled to Spock, then finally rested on Jim. "Will this be a problem?"
"No...sir," Jim answered, when McCoy and Spock remained silent. McCoy could practically feel the weight of the sudden tension, and he was relieved when the conversation moved on.
"This Cetus character," said a dark-haired woman on the right side of the table. "Your message implied that he was planning a strike."
McCoy watched as Jim nodded and rattled out the details of the Memorial attack, as cool and efficient as if he'd spent half his life on Vulcan instead of smashing up country bars. There was something almost mechanical in his precise movements and words, something distant and elusive that McCoy only managed to identify because he heard it from a certain Vulcan every damn day.
"...less than three days," Jim was saying now. "The exact number of assailants are unknown, but it'll be hard for them to sneak in more than five or six, if they're planning to take out the inner ring. No more than ten for certain."
A silver-haired woman beside Komack frowned and tapped at the table silently at that. "Perhaps a simple postponement of the ceremony will-"
"The ceremony can't be cancelled," Jim said impatiently, and McCoy glanced sharply at the slip in formality.
Beside him, Spock smoothly took up the slack, "It would be illogical to cancel such a prominent ceremony with such short notice. The terrorists would only retaliate in another, less predictable form once it is realized that the Federation has gained knowledge of their plans. Under these circumstances, it is only logical to utilize our current knowledge to maintain the advantage. We know where they will be in three days, and therefore we can make our plans accordingly."
"Yes, thank you, Mr. Spock. My point exactly," Jim picked up again coolly, but McCoy noticed that he didn't so much as glance as Spock as he scanned the occupants of the table with a distant gaze.
"This information," Barnett was saying, leaning forward intently. His elbows passed through the surface of the tables, and McCoy found himself distracted by the sight for a split second. "Where did you say you received this from, exactly?"
McCoy tried not to visibly start at the words. So Jim hadn't told them about his mother. Honestly, McCoy wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but knowing that the kid was still this conflicted over it...well, it only made him even more grateful for his private stash of good Southern whiskey back in his office. Maybe he'd invite Spock, have a commiseration party behind Jim's back.
True to form, however strange it was at the moment, Jim stared back solidly, his face giving nothing away. "I have promised to keep my source anonymous until further notice," he said stiffly, but McCoy could make out the tension in his shoulders and he suspected that Jim's hands were clenched beneath the table to keep from doing something truly stupid. "But it's a reliable source, I guarantee it. I have to- we have to trust this information to be accurate."
And there it was, the first indication of whatever was going on in Jim's head. McCoy realized he was leaning forward over the table, and he sat back with an uncomfortable nod at his left-hand neighbor.
"Are you certain?" Barnett pressed sharply. "This is not only your career at stake here, Captain."
Jim's lips thinned, a telling sign of his rising temper, and McCoy silently willed him to not say anything regrettable here in this room of influential powers.
"I'm not concerned over my career, Admiral," Jim said, a barely detectable edge of scathing disdain in his voice, and McCoy winced subtly as the occupants of the table shifted with disapproving murmurs. "I'm far more invested in the thousands of lives we'll manage to save if we can prevent this assault from happening!"
Spock shifted, turning to say something quietly to Jim that McCoy couldn't make out, and he watched as Jim's rigid expression gradually smoothed over, the spark of anger in his eyes dimming distantly.
"I have a plan," he continued briskly, scanning around the table as calmly as if the outburst had never happened. "If you will allow me, of course," he added, eyes cutting back to Barnett. The admiral gazed back for a long moment, and McCoy found himself holding his breath nervously.
"Proceed, Captain Kirk," Barnett said at last, and McCoy finally allowed himself to relax minutely. Beside him, Spock seemed to have the same reaction, albeit much more subtle as the tension cautiously faded from his stance.
Jim nodded, and McCoy thought that his friend had never looked more weary or alone as he leaned over his PADD and began to explain what exactly would happen at the memorial site in less than thirty-six hours. McCoy had seen more broken people in his life, on the table, than he ever wanted to see. The worst ones, he thought now, were those who believed they were exempt from the rule. He found himself looking over at Jim again, and he saw the burden that slumped his shoulders and darkened his eyes.
And it was always the strongest who broke first.
..
