Still on a Spock hiatus, but be patient my lovelies, chapter eleven is dedicated to that wondrous creature, and because I took a few extra days off, you will get two chapters back to back. Rejoice. Until then, get to know Jim a little more.

Thanks again for all your reading and support. Love all you reviewers and lurkers.

Chapter 10 – Shadow Boxer

Jim

The first thing Jim noticed about the house was the stale and stifling air. It reeked of old ladies in red hats on Sunday morning wearing too much perfume and his socks after a two hour workout. Completely and beyond being debated, rank. The second was that the milk had expired and this was evident when the chunks of what use to be whole milk now bordering on yogurt hit his lips.

"Gross."

Winona Kirk was currently out of the country with the latest man to steal her frozen heart. There was a pile of mail by the phone, courtesy of the cleaning lady, a dead fern, neglected by his mother and the cleaning lady, and a hungry Mr. Puffs in the fish tank floating on his back.

"Guess he's dead too."

It was Sunday night and the last thing Jim needed was his overanxious and extremely nerdy roommate questioning him about the weekend's exploits. He was not in the mood to tell bed time stories. There were no wild escapades. He didn't have the energy to make up any names or dimensions for the fake women that he slept with every Friday and Saturday night. Instead he had spent the weekend watching a new friend battle an old demon.

Jim flicked the light on in his father's abandoned study. Besides the dust, nothing had changed in nearly ten years. There were still pictures of George Kirk and Chris Pike, positioned in a questionable pose on top of a tank while holding large automatic rifles. His parents wedding photo in a Vegas casino still had its own personal shrine, as well as every picture of Sam or Jim took during their school years.

Then there were the posthumous awards recognizing his father's bravery and years of military service; medals, awards, commendations, framed and lining the walls.

Nothing would bring him back.

Not even nights driving his precious T-bird above the speed limit. Wind whipping through his hair. The sound of his father's laughs echoing on the night air.

"Shit dad, why did you have to be such a fucking hero."

The keys made a thud as Jim dropped them back in the dish on his father's desk. He collapsed into the leather chair, listening to the material squeal as it adapted to its new occupant.

"Big shoes to fill…"Jim said taking a deep breath.

James Tiberius Kirk, offensive player award, two years running, genius underachiever with enough charm to win over the coldest soul, and boy who needed a father now more than ever.

Several had tried and failed miserably.

Case in point…

The guy Winona was seeing now was a former Federal Agent who thought that all Jim needed was discipline. This usually resulted in an attempt to out maneuver him in wrestling and boxing matches. One concussion later, the man quit trying to share any 'wisdom' during his visits to the gym along side Jim.

His mother's second husband, Frank, had been a definitive asshole and derelict individual. That marriage ended with his mother's savings bled dry and a map of bruises on Sam and Jim. Some were more internal than external. Like the nights when too much alcohol forced Frank to pound Sam's face because he looked too much like his father George. Or the one time he tried to cut his father's name out of the skin on his mother's shoulder. There were some things that a thirteen year old couldn't get beyond.

After that divorce, Winona had given up on finding love. Instead she threw all of her energy into writing historical accounts of the war in the Middle East, and meeting men fifteen years younger and incapable of hurting her. She also forgot about her boys. Sam checked out during Jim's junior year of high school; leaving Jim alone and without supervision. Partying got old by senior year. There was only so much sex, drugs, and rock and roll in pack into a day.

So Jim chased the girls he knew wouldn't stay.

Jim became the football player every team wanted, but too afraid to leave the stomping grounds of George Kirk, he remained close to home.

Jim the consummate loser, pooled his intelligence, and pushed himself to succeed at something that would make his father proud. He had always planned on retiring from military service at forty – five, heading to law school, and spending the rest of his years helping the ones who couldn't help themselves.

"I'm going to make you proud."

Jim crawled into bed in his old room and fell asleep; comforted by the pictures of Deion Sanders and Sports' Illustrated models lining the walls.

The morning brought another day. No new changes and a void that remained. He showered, threw on one of his father's old sweatshirts, avoided the same mistake with the milk, and climbed back into his Jeep.

Pike's car was already in front of the bar and Jim stopped before heading to campus.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Pike said over the boxes currently stacked on top of the bar.

Jim took the hand offered before him.

"A year, maybe a year and half, let me take this place off your hands?" He wasn't sure why he was making the offer, but something about it felt right.

The man stopped and threw a question filled glance in the boy's direction. He pointed to the picture above the bar.

"Sam looks like him, but you have his heart." The man's eyes were glistening as he recounted years of memories.

It was Jim's turn to mirror Pike's gaze.

"Life ruined Sam. He's jaded, doesn't see the good in people. You, I've watched, and you go above and beyond. I saw you the other week, watching Gaila in here. I know you picked up that other kid from Scotty's and stayed with him this past weekend. You're a good kid and one day you'll be a great man."

"Yeah, just not George Kirk."

"Well, there was only one George Kirk, and fuck it he would want you to be Jim. Yes, he was a war hero, saved my life, but don't stay in his shadow. Do your own damn thing. Find your greatness."

Damn Pike, he had a point.