This has been rewritten. I kept very little of the original chapter, and what I did keep is at the front end. Hope you like it.

Jim got up early. Had breakfast. Oatmeal and toast and fruit, putting the oatmeal on the toast wedge, which he had been told was weird, but tasted so good. Bones had scrounged up a waffle and some soy sausage, bleary eyed before his second cup of coffee. He used the cup as a shield, staring at Jim like he was going to spontaneously combust. In retaliation, Jim hummed a catchy song while pouring some orange juice and browsing a warp mechanics journal. He didn't actually read any of the journal, but Bones didn't need to know that.

He was pretty much living in Bones' room, unwilling to put up with the soap opera Cochran dorm had become. Roommate was still being a dick and the girl at the front desk had become two girls at the front desk giving him an evil eye.

Med track girlfriend number two had dumped Bones after he called her too clingy, and Jim wasn't about to argue with serendipity, so he moved in permanently. He'd thought they might rub each other the wrong way, but it had been surprisingly comfortable in an oddball domestic way he couldn't recall, except in a few memories of pre-famine Tarsus.

Jim picked up after himself, didn't drink all of Bones' beer, and he didn't bring girls back to the room. Tried to be the perfect roommate, except that with Bones, there wasn't any try necessary.

It just worked. It was comfortable, and it was fucking weird that something so comfortable, like a worn knit sweater or a cup of cocoa, could make him so fucking uncomfortable. It made him smile and squirm and he wanted to pick at it like a scab, and he was fucking dealing with it because it was also something he didn't even know he needed until he had it.

A steaming pile of bananas foster was dumped on Bones' waffle with a plop, oozing fat and sugar. One of Jim's 'adjustments' to the replicator. He still couldn't get decent alcohol from the thing, but they now had bread pudding, proper cheese grits, unsweet cornbread and squash casserole. Jim had needed to readjust himself the first time he heard Bones moan at a bite of something southern fried and smothered in gravy, but it was worth the smile it put on his face.

He was definitely racking up favors, especially since Bones made him eat okra.

Okra.

Probably owed Bones an even dozen favors, but who was counting?

Jim finished his breakfast early, but lingered over the coffee. It wasn't perfect, but it usually helped blunt his nerves enough that he could power through them. When he found himself drumming his fingers in nervous anticipation anyway, he clutched his Padd two-handed before placing it down and moving to the closet.

Clothes were laid out, and he dressed carefully, having perfectly laundered his uniform instead of scrounging for a clean shirt from the pile in the corner the way he used to.

Bones looked on after quickly pulling on his own cadet reds and putting a comb to his hair. He looked like he wanted to say something like 'I told you so,' or bitch about pretty boys and their 'skin care bullshit' taking too long, instead of saying 'don't leave me,' or 'I'll give 'em all space herpes, just say the word.'

He just held his tongue with a constipated vengeance, piercing eyes saying everything for him.

So. Situation normal.

Kind of.

But Jim wasn't nervous.

Not really.

Not like Bones was nervous. Not like it showed.

Jim squared his shoulders and pulled on his mantle of cockiness, just like he pulled on his uniform, smiling winningly, making Bones roll his eyes.

This? Would be awesome.

Really.


Chris thought he was arriving early, and he was, but the auditorium was already fairly packed- the walk to his seat, interminable. He was used to scrutiny, but had never been comfortable being under this kind of lens. Chris remainedstoic, even when he received several looks from peers and cadets alike, eyebrows and frowns and tense posturesthat all questioned his silence, his lack of direct action. He would let them think what they wanted about his sitting on Jim's side of the room. He knew what it meant, even if no one else did. Rumor had made him either the villain or the hard treated benefactor, depending on who you spoke to, though he preferred to look like an asshole rather than a sad bastard vulnerable to predation.

His placement was fuel for rampant speculation. He could see the wave of gossip spread through the room like a Mandelbrot set, spiraling outward.

Fortunately, the only other person who deserved to be privy to what happened between him and Jim was McCoy, and he didn't so much as look over. His worried eyes were trained on Jim for the entire ordeal.

No relationship, his ass. As if fucking defined the parameters of what made two people an us.

It was funny, but not in the ha-ha sense. He thought he would feel bitter about it, but he couldn't begrudge Jim what he needed, when he really needed it. And Jim might, might, not need McCoy, but he was much better off with him. Kirk mirrored Chris in a lot of ways, but McCoy complemented him in ways Chris could never hope to, allowed Jim to be fully there, instead of fading into a two-dimensional construct.

No. He couldn't begrudge Jim McCoy and whatever they were. No matter how much he wanted a piece of it for himself; even if he didn't know what kind of fit he would be, where he would go, what function, if any, he might serve. Maybe a fit like their bodies did, acute angles notching together like they were engineered from the start. Maybe friction fit, forming tightly, but allowing for expansion and adjustment.

McCoy and Jim seemed to have formed under pressure, had this strange mutual codependence that seemed to work despite their fractures. Extruded, bent, water cut with faulty equipment- a sonic weld shoring up the worst cracks. But broken was still broken, and two broken things needed some serious gorilla glue to hold them together.

A pipe dream, really. Attempting to insert himself there, trying to be that glue. It was a recipe for disaster.

He looked at McCoy's worried scowl once again, the way it trained on Jim. Wanted it trained on him, instead of the one that said 'you prick.' Wanted that regard, wanted to deserve that type of regard.

But he wasn't going to get it, and he knew exactly why.

Hated recognizing it, now that he was letting it go, but there had been pity for Jim, deep down and hidden. Pity that the world had fucked him over so badly, given him so little that was good. But looking at Jim and McCoy, Jim and Bones, he felt that thread of pity slip away. If Jim's father had lived. If Jim had grown up with no cares, so handsome and charming and golden, would he have appreciated what he had, when he had it? Known something special when he saw it? When it puked on him in a shuttle to San Francisco?

Sometimes he thought Jim just took it as his due, and then he'd be surprised all over again, when he caught a glimpse of his face. Jim, looking at McCoy like he might disappear. The way he had sometimes looked at Chris.

This Jim knew what he held, small and trembling in his palm like a punch-drunk moth, and knew how quickly it could be snatched away. Held onto it with everything he had.

No- no more pity for Jim. Life had snatched a lot away from him, but it had given back something most people could search for and never come close to finding. More than that, it had given him the ability to recognize the rare and precious value of it.

Not even this farce of a hearing could negate that.

And it was a fucking farce.

Sanctioned stupidity.

Institutional anger management issues.

He inwardlywinced as he watchedSpock stand and move to the podium.

Fuck.

Spock, who he had hand-picked for his XO. Brilliant mind, rigid in his Vulcan logic, yet thirsty to prove himself, though Chris couldn't begin to imagine his motivation.

Spock, who he had cultivated, groomed. One of his stars.

Facing off against the brightest of them all.

Of everyone Kirk could have gone head to head with, Spock was not who he would have picked.

He'd thought there would be chilly reserve. Cold recitation of facts. The unsurpassed debate king of Starfleet, being clinical in his approach.

Everything Spock had presented to the world.

But no.

"You of all people should know. A captain cannot cheat death."

Chris sucked in a breath. Straight for the emotional jugular.

Low fucking blow. It was brutal, and there was no way that Spock didn't realize exactly what kind of card he was playing. He would have done his research on Cadet Kirk thoroughly before initiating these proceedings.

Once again, Chris was being slapped with his own earthbound incompetence. How the hell had this aspect of Spock's personality gotten by him?

He'd been so blinded by Spock's perfect, startlingly white record he had neglected to research the man's personal command style.

His macro was amazing but his micro needed fucking work.

Chris, Jim, hell, the whole campus, they were getting a monster dose of it now.

"I, of all people."

"Your father."

A lead mass dropped to the bottom of his stomach. Maybe it was a gut reaction to any mention of Jim's family situation, the reason for that situation, but Chris could barely keep from standing in outrage. Who brought someone's dead dad into play like this? He thought of every time Spock had said something like "I do not understand the nuances involved in this particular idiom,' or 'His illogical human emotional response defies understanding.'

Vulcans don't lie? Fucking bullshit.

Spock understood just fine. And exploited it. Not just exploited it, but broadcast his bitch fit for everyone to see.

He couldn't imagine what that low blow was doing to Jim's guts. It was bowel churning for Chris, and he wasn't at the center of the gale.

It was easy to read if you really knew him, could see it in Jim's face like he had seen it before, about to fracture like thin porcelain, but no. No. Jim was an Apollo. He had prepared for this argument.

And the moment passed, as vulnerability turned to annoyance and disdain because Jim suddenly saw this pissing contest for what it was, saw beneath the Vulcan veneer to the annoyed academic underneath, and it was angering him.

Good.

Spock. Spock! Was he that offended that someone had been able to hack his brainchild- challenge him intellectually?

Or was he offended that he had been beaten by a human?

He backed away from that thought.

No.

Just…no.

Spock wanted to win. Wanted that last fucking word- wanted to win, wanted to be better.

King of the mountain.

He couldn't tell if it was pride or ego at play- what the costs might be, how far Spock was willing to go to make a point.

Spock was going to get slapped with a double dose of Terran illogic later. When Pike reamed his ass for calling a hearing over his Vulcan hissy- which Chris would do in private. It wasn't regulation, but it was accepted behavior to fucking ask around about this type of thing before pointing skinny telepathic fingers. And he definitely should have talked to his future captain.

Spock wasn't an autonomous unit. He needed feedback from his superiors. He'd make an excellent first officer, but Pike was going to put a boot in his ass till he got the difference between being a commander and being a martinet.

And the sooner Spock learned that few would willingly follow someone who punished with humiliation and cheap shots, the better.

Jim was just getting into it, getting good and properly pissed, good and properly on the offensive, when a messenger strode in to the room, intent on the head table. The interruption was quick, like a clean cut.

The Admiral's voice was decisive. "We've received a distress call from Vulcan. With our primary fleet engaged in the Laurentian system, I hearby order all cadets to report to hangar one immediately. Dismissed."

It took Chris a moment to understand what was being said, to shift gears from instructor, friend- onetime fuck, spectator to a circus- to a different state of awareness, a different way of being, unable to momentarilyhear over the sudden roar of blood through his veins.

Hearing.

There was no hearing. No accuser or accused.

No crowd of cadets filing out in a surge of speculation. No thing left undone, unsaid.

Only his ship.

His sky.

Four months early. No milk run, no training wheels.

Just life. Filled.

Full to bursting.

Light.

Cresting the horizon till he transcended it.

One arc in his universe might remain incomplete, but he felt another closing with a burst of light so intense it could birth a quasar.

Holy shit.

The room was clearing rapidly by the time he had absorbed that first rush of adrenaline, come back down to Earth. Ha!. Polite shoving, tall bastards blocking his view. He craned his neck, searching, wanting to share this moment, not knowing how. He finally caught Jim's determined eye, giving him a nod, not quite sure what he was trying to communicate. Saying it anyway.

When Jim returned the nod before hurrying away with McCoy, Chris told himself that the feeling in his chest was in no way tied to Kirk understanding everything that passed silently between them.

McCoy glared at him before skulking off behind Jim; the feeling in Chris' chest had nothing to do with that, either.


Everything after that-

And that's how he would define his existence later, dividing everything into before or after-

Everything after-

Space. The Enterprise. A quirk of fate, a parking brake. Jim, so terrified and sure of himself, and Jim.

Red Alert.

A wasteland. Wreckage. Incomprehensible loss.

Romulans.

March of doom to the Galileo.

He'd made Jim first officer, because Spock would be a good captain, but that time obviously wasn't now. He'd needed to patch up those small failings with bravery and risk taking and maverick ability. If he was going on this mission, a last mission, he wanted to leave a trail of audacity in his wake.

Ordering Jim into a suicidal ETLO jump, freefall from exobase- madness. Sheer madness. He didn't think it would hurt so much, to give that order, but he'd had no choice. There was no choice here. None at all. As if they were on a circumscribed path that was impossible to derail.

Odd, that these were his thoughts once he was alone, with only his head for company.

Odd that his mind should turn to Jim, that he had such faith placed there. That Jim could be a source of comfort.

"I am Christopher Pike, Captain, U.S.S. Enterprise. Registration NCC-1701."

He'd read a book once. A novel. He couldn't remember the name, since he was given mostly to non-fiction, but a few parts had stuck with him, like a particularly aggressive burr. There was a mantra that a character repeated, over and over, meant to face down fear. Fear of pain, fear of the unknown. It was a mantra used to remind the speaker that they were human, and unique in their reason, in their existence. That they could triumph over any pain that sought to dehumanize them.

He couldn't remember that exact mantra, probably wouldn't like it if he did. But he damn well had one of his own.

"Christopher. Answer my question." As if he had any other answer to give.

"Christopher Pike, Captain, U.S.S. Enterprise. Registration NCC-1701."

Metal tongs. Something fierce and writhing. Chittering beast.

"Christopher Pike, Captain, U.S.S. Enterprise. Registration NCC-1701."

Mouth, forced open. Pain. Screaming that couldn't be his. Tongues of fire licking into his throat, his head.

"I AM! Christopher Pike, Captain, U.S.S. Enterprise. Registration…"


Chris woke abruptly to twilight and a soft vibration that was instantly recognizable. The walls were clinical white. Medical displays. Monitors. Privacy curtain pulled three quarters.

He twitched and realized he was strapped to the bed. Secondary medical bay.

Enterprise.

He remembered Jim.

He'd saved Jim.

And Jim had saved him in return.

He hadn't expected to make it out alive. As soon as Nero's demand had been made, he'd resigned himself to being a footnote in the history books- pretty soon bright-eyed Starfleet cadets would be writing essays on where he went wrong in his decision making process. He'd told Kirk to come and get him, but it was flippant, a poor substitute for everything he'd wanted to say- couldn't say. Because he was captain and needed to project a confident face to his crew. Because he was just too damn cowardly.

He shied away from thoughts of the Narada. Towards the end things became confused in his head, a jumble of mismatched images. Probably the drug cocktail he'd been hit with as soon as McCoy got the gist of his injuries.

Being handed off to McCoy. Nurses. A call for medications. Prep. Then an endless period of nothing. Brief bouts of lucidity and too bright light.

Earth. He had asked about Earth.

His crew. Mostly okay.

His legs. Had he asked about his legs? He couldn't feel that slug moving around, glutting itself on his fluids anymore; his head felt lighter, clearer, but that wasn't saying much because there was still a thin film of cobweb lacing everything he tried to concentrate on.

He was about to say something, call out, when he heard familiar voices.

"Ow!"

"Don't be a little bitch. Let me treat this." McCoy. That bitching held a familiar twang that was thickened with exhaustion.

"I'm letting you treat this. I'm just objecting to the-"

"I meant the other this. The elephant in the room. The one doin' cartwheels."

There was a significant pause, and a tearing of plastic, some sort of wrapping. When Jim finally responded his voice was closed off and arctic despite its hoarse sawing- metal grit upon metal.

"I don't want to talk about it right now, Leonard."

"Tough titties, Jim. I'm not gonna let you stew over it and start seeing what isn't there. I know you."

"Just hurry up with my ribs. The bridge needs me. I shouldn't have even come down for this. I've got dozens of communications to respond to, the quartermaster said that the ship left dock without even a fraction of the supplies we need, and half the crew is weeping like-" Jim trailed off, sounding completely unlike himself. "Like they just lost-"

Chris could fill in the blanks. Everything. Fucking everything.

"Look." A tired sigh- Chris could hear the bags under McCoy's eyes. Two soft tinks, something hitting a stainless steel table. "I didn't protest that green-blooded bastard ditching you on Delta Vega. Not until after you were gone. Then I cursed a blue streak."

"I don't want to-"

"Because," McCoy continued, doggedly. "The Narada had just taken out six ships and a planet. They weren't going to concern themselves with a moon."

"Leonard."

"He just made you first officer, Jim, and you tossed yourself off a drilling platform. Chekov barely rescued you both, and then you wanted to go after it? You were safe on Delta Vega." His voice became gruffer. "I could breathe if you were on Delta Vega."

There was movement, and a humorless laugh.

"Safe? I wasn't safe. It was Hoth. I was almost eaten."

Chris hated to hear Jim sound so small, close to defeat. After all of his triumphs, he shouldn't sound like that. He should never sound like that. Not during, not this long after the fact. What was going on, that made Jim this hollow?

"What?" McCoy sounded confused.

"Haven't you seen that movie? The thing with the teeth?"

And here was the point where Chris could imagine everything. McCoy's face, morphing from vaguely upset and tired into I'll-fucking-kill-him. Psycho eyebrow, sneer like an angry dog, with lips pulled back and quivering against gums, over sharp teeth in an even sharper mouth. Hungry and vicious.

Why the hell had Jim been stranded? And why did it sound like Jim was in command of the ship?

"Ice monsters. Scary fucking ice monsters that eat smaller ice monsters. Fuck, Bones. I'm juicy on the outside and crunchy on the inside."

There was a small scuffle, then the beeping of a tricorder.

"Hey!"

"Did anything hurt you? Bites? Scratches I should know about? Dammit, Jim! They could have been venomous. They aren't in the Fleet database, I checked. Supposed to be small scavengers only."

"Christ. I'm okay. Keep that shit away from me. You already had a long look at the goods. Give it a rest."

But Jim's voice was it's own tell, and it had become softer, lighter. Not less angry- it would be a long time before any of them could say that, but more open to McCoy, more willing to let down the walls he'd had to erect to keep the majority of soul intact.

Pike knew this Jim where few did.

"What about your phaser? Where was your pack? It's standard issue."

"There was nothing standard about that shit. No protocols followed. Spock should have put me in the brig. And apparently Cupcake thought I was 'too much of a danger to arm.' They took the phaser out of the pack; I asked, after."

"Then Cupcake can get in fucking line. I'll kill him when I'm done with Spock."

"Chill the fuck out, Bones. I'm okay. It worked out for the best. And Cupcake now has some problems of his own."

"Reverse nepotism?"

"He's too prejudiced and too bitter for that position. I'd have kept him if he was able to be professional."

There was the sound of a tricorder going offline, a small digital death knell breaking the tension.

"So I'm Bones again?" This was quiet. Sad.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're my Bones."

A pause, two three four.

"What about Joanna?" Chris didn't know who Joanna was, but Jim's solemn tone made her important.

"She was never in danger, Jim. She was off-planet with her grandmother. I didn't need to worry about her. I had other things to worry about."

"Never happy unless you're worrying."

"It doesn't make me happy. It makes me a nervous wreck."

But Chris thought Jim was on to something there. McCoy wasn't made happy by the worrying; he was happy because he had someone to worry about.

"You asshole. Don't you think that I worried about you? Up here while I was down there. Letting Spock do whatever seemed fucking logical?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I thought about it. But Dr. Puri was dead, and these people needed me. And I needed to know you were all right."

"I'm fine." Jim laughed quietly. "You really bitched at Spock?"

"Yeah." Chris could hear a smile in there somewhere. "You woulda loved it. Told him he was out of his Vulcan mind and called you a prized stallion."

"Stallion?"

"Then Spock said something about breaking stallions. I wanted to hit him with a hypo, I was so mad. He had no right. I stopped listening to anything he had to say after that."

Chris almost wanted to interrupt, ask all the questions jockeying for first place, wanted to know what the hell had happened on his bridge. But he held his tongue, wanting to hear their private conversation more.

"I'm sorry I missed that."

"I'm- I'm sorry too."

"I know. It's okay."

"No. It's not. And when you came back, givin' me that look, when you wouldn't let me help you. Fuck, Spock's dad had to stop him, you dumb shit. When you left with Spock-"

"It is. It's okay." A rustle of fabric. Soft movement.

"Shut up. I'm supposed to be the one comforting you, here."

"And you're shit at it. But I have to say…"

"I said, shut up."

"Your logic. It totally sucks. Big rubber donkey dick. Sucks."

"I'm gonna tell you what I told that pointy-eared asshole- there wasn't anything logical about it. He can take his logic and shove it up his ass for the thrill. You can't be logical about people. Especially you."

"Oh." Jim cleared his throat, and Pike couldn't tell if he was uncomfortable with that declaration or not. "Well, then. Fuck logic."

McCoy obviously didn't know what to make of that, and settled for noncommittal silence.

It became so pregnant with things unsaid that even Chris became fidgety before McCoy cleared his throat too, prelude to an abrupt segue.

"Four hours."

"What do you mean?"

"You've got four hours to do what you need to do. Then you're handing the conn to someone else. I'm going to bunk in Puri's room. It's big enough to share, and I didn't think you'd want to use Pike's room."

More than anything else, the fact that Kirk didn't even try to argue McCoy's ultimatum said a metric fuck ton. "Thanks. God, I'm tired. This captain stuff is…"

Jim was shouldering a burden he hadn't been quite prepared for, trying to sound less alone- and failing. "And my throat's still sore even after the good stuff. Stim's wearing off too, but I have some things to tie up first." Chris heard Jim move. It sounded like he had hopped off a biobed. "And I know I'm not a hundred percent because now I'm fucking whining about it."

"You whine about everything."

Jim's voice got softer, the concerned Jim voice. "I'll try to be there sooner. And you better be there too, because I know you must be dead on your feet. That was a long surgery."

"I told you. He'll be okay."

"I know."

"I'll be there when you get off shift."

Chris doesn't hear Kirk walk away, but everything is quiet for a time.

Until it suddenly isn't.

"Well? Have fun eavesdropping?"

McCoy rounded the curtain, arms crossed, face impassive.

"It's not," Chris began before he had to cough. "It's not eavesdropping if you're practically standing over me."

"Hmm." McCoy came closer, looking at a few readouts before getting rid of the restraints around one arm.

"I'm undoing these, but don't try to sit up. That insect did a number on your spine." He moved to the other side of the bed, unfastening the other restraint.

"My legs?"

"It's not permanent."

Chris closed his eyes, let out a shaky breath, tried not to cry. "Jeezus."

"But it isn't pretty either. It's going to be a lot of work. Lots of therapy."

"How long?"

McCoy sat down in a chair and gave him a frank appraisal. "You're lucky it didn't sever anything I can't fix. It's caused trauma to your cervical spine. You've got four new discs to replace the ones that were destroyed. The reason you can't feel your legs right now is due to swelling and pinching of the spinal cord. It's in a touchy place and neuro regen can only do so much." McCoy slouched a bit, frown knitting his brows. "That will take some time to heal, and I can't speed the process. Then physio. You'll need to learn how to walk again."

"How long?"

"At least a year. Maybe two."

"A year."

"Consider yourself lucky. Those other captains." He didn't finish the thought, just shook his head.

"What about the other ships? The Truman?" Number One's ship.

"Captain Pike-"

"Please."

"We have reports of a few survivors. Pockets with minimal life support being found. But no names yet. Most of them are gone."

"Shit."

"That was a brave thing you did."

"Shit."

"Dumb as a bag of hammers, but brave." McCoy leaned forward. "So I guess you aren't a total loss."

The shift in intensity, from doctor to something else, surprised him. "What-"

"I talked to Jim, now I'm going to talk at you. Both batshit insane. Do you know what it did to him, when you went off like Robau? Jimmy ate your thesis for breakfast, lunch and dinner for three weeks. Hell. He made me eat it. I know all about your conclusions. Your opinion on Robau's actions. I'm no strategist, but I'd think you'd listen to your own damn self."

"It's different when you're the one in charge. I was captain- I had a duty to my ship." Was captain. Fuck.

But McCoy went on as if Chris hadn't said a thing. "Then you put it on his shoulders. Turned him into his daddy, near as I can tell."

"I made Spock captain."

"And a bang-up job he did, too. Rendezvous in the Laurentian system, my Aunt Fanny. If this had gone wrong, if Jim hadn't pushed, we wouldn't be having this conversation. You'd still be in the belly of that beast and Earth'd be gone."

Chris could hear the heart rate monitor jump a little, then remain steady.

"Spock was the-"

But McCoy went on as if Chris hadn't spoken. "You turned Jim into his daddy, when all daddy means to him is a fucking suicide mission."

"I didn't have any other options."

"I want to thank you."

Chris rolled his head to the side as best he could, to look at McCoy, because the waver in his voice was so wrong, the thank you, choked and stubborn and just so out of left field and wrong.

"I hate you. And I want to thank you. Jim. He won. He won where his father couldn't. You listened to him, made him first officer, then you saved him, on that deathtrap. He told me." McCoy shook his head, a denial, but never broke eye contact so Chris could see the sincerity of his words in every angry facet of hazel. "Which is why I want to kill you, fucking rip you to pieces with my bare hands, and then I want to kiss you stupid, because nothing else could have done that for him. He beat the no-win scenario. For real this time."

All Chris had in his defense was the truth."I knew he'd be great."

"Yeah, well, I already thought he was great. Even when he was a drunken little shit."

"Not what I meant."

But McCoy ignored him once again."I'm still pissed at you. I don't want to be beholden to you. You confuse the hell out of me, and I hate that Jim needs to prove himself to you, but Jim still cares and he doesn't know what to do with it except blow shit up."

"Cadet Kirk-"

"Captain Kirk."

"He doesn't need-"

"It was a shit thing you did to him, then and now," McCoy went on, sour with the bitterness of his words and Chris saw that his hand was trembling. "But at least it lanced the wound." He stood up, looking down at Pike, concern and anger warring for dominance of his expression. "Maybe you've got enough trauma in you now. Maybe you're kind of even."

"Parity."

"Close to it. Doubt Jim realizes it. As far as he knows he only had to face certain death to live up to your standards."

The doctor was shaky, haunted. Tragic- a portrait of Adam expelled from the garden. Every angle and plane hung over with grief unspilled, unnecessary after all, but impossible to contain again.

And it had poured from his mouth like vomit. A violent purge. Poetry. Every one of those chords ringing true, like a church bell or a banshee on the ramparts.

"Are you like this with all your patients?"

Chris was trying for levity, to defuse the tension, because it was freaking him out a bit, this McCoy, but McCoy treated it seriously.

"Never had one that needed it so much." McCoy moved to the curtain, grabbing its edge with raw-knuckled hands. Lips a tight line, face grey. "Trust me. It isn't making me happy either. I shouldn't be treating you. You shouldn't be in my care. But you'll walk again, and that's a fact."

"I don't think-"

"No. You don't. You got that in common." McCoy started to draw the curtain. "Jim will debrief you tomorrow morning. Let him know."

"Let him know what?"

"Tell him he doesn't have to kill himself to win your regard. He'll keep trying. He's that kind of eager dipshit." The curtain was between them now, and Chris could no longer see McCoy's face.

"You get to keep your legs. I get to keep Jim."

And then Chris was alone with the hum of the ship and softly pinging readouts, a counterpoint to the rapid arrhythmia of his heart.