A/N: Hi, guys, we're back with another chapter. Hope you're enjoying the story so far, and we'd be glad to hear what you think about it :)
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~Chapter X~
There were thirty hours left until the memorial, and it was starting to show. The crew was buzzing with mingled tension and purpose, the comm channels jammed with outgoing messages warning family and friends away from the memorial site, and McCoy had handed out more antidepressant hypos in the past six hours than he had in a month before the entire mess began.
Jim, on the other hand, was now quietly doing paperwork in his command chair, and if that in itself wasn't unsettling, McCoy didn't know what was. It was usually a hassle just to get the man to sit still for more than five minutes, much less hand him a stack of PADDs and expect him to be sitting down long enough to do it. And yet, that was what was undeniably happening that very moment.
McCoy watched out of the corner of his eye as Jim handed off the next ledger to Uhura with a vacant nod, redirecting his gaze to the remaining pile of paperwork on his lap without so much as a wink or a grin or some flirty sidenote.
It was odd, it was strange, and McCoy didn't deal well with sudden changes. He liked things to be in place, he liked to be comfortable, but if there was one person in the whole of universe who managed to upset every standard McCoy had previously known, it was Jim Kirk.
Uhura returned to her seat, casting a questioning glance at McCoy with an accompanying eyebrow lift she must've learned from the hobgoblin himself. He raised a shoulder in a small, answering shrug. Jim's response had been...different, to be sure, and it wasn't even the first unusual thing McCoy had noticed about him recently.
After the briefing the day before, which had somehow managed to end much more cordially on both sides than McCoy had initially anticipated, Jim had made his curt farewells without looking either him or Spock in the eye, and then disappeared off to who knows where until Alpha shift.
McCoy had managed to wrangle his shift in medbay off to an unimpressed Chapel in order to place himself on the bridge at that time for...purposes of strategic observation, he reminded himself. That'd be what Spock would call it, or some other logical claptrap. Someone had to keep an eye on the kid, and Spock had his own issues to worry about.
It later turned out Jim had summoned him to the bridge anyway to work out the details of the dispatch team to Earth, and so he found himself waiting uncomfortably next to the command chair sixteen minutes into the shift. He realized belatedly now that he was, in fact, standing exactly where Spock would normally be, and that idea didn't sit right with him one bit.
The Vulcan was working at his station quietly and hadn't made a move towards Jim all shift, obviously still unsettled by the change in dynamic between them. McCoy wondered briefly if it was possible for him to shuffle closer and confer with Spock somehow without Jim noticing, then dismissed the foolish notion and continued to pretend that he was examining Chekov's console from across the bridge.
"So," McCoy said uncomfortably, simply for the sake of breaking the silence. Jim, predictably, paid him no mind, and McCoy forged on with dogged determination. "I suppose it makes sense, then, how that second failsafe in that bomb kicked off, if Cetus had those transmitters on us the whole time."
"Mmm," Jim murmured disinterestedly.
McCoy counted to ten, then counted again for good measure.
Jim's voice distracted him in the next moment, however, and McCoy glanced down in surprise. Jim had set down his work to look up at him, the first time he'd done so all shift, to McCoy's knowledge. "Have you picked out your dispatch unit?"
Oh, so you're talking to me now, are you? McCoy bit back what would most likely be a regrettable comment and answered the question succinctly instead, "Yes, Captain. You told me to stick to five-" A fool idea, really, with that number of potential casualties present. "-so I've got Perkins, Johnson, Kent, and Chapel. Plus myself. They're good in a pinch, level-headed under stress and all that-"
"Good," Jim interrupted, with little indication that he had been listening at all. He'd already started back on his work, and McCoy found himself staring down at the back of his head incredulously. He could feel a familiar irritation rising within him despite knowing exactly why the kid was acting like this, the same part of him that still remembered the cadet with a disproportionate ego knocking on his door with a broken nose after one too many drinks that night.
"Is that all, sir?" he ground out with forced politeness, because if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was to keep his patience with Jim Kirk. Even in his most insufferable moments, which was apparently now.
"That'll be all for now, yes," Jim answered, and McCoy took a deep breath to calm himself down before turning back to face the front of the bridge. No wonder Spock stood like that all the time, he thought wryly. With his hands behind his back, it certainly eased the temptation of knocking some sense into the kid.
Jim straightened not long after, lifting his arm as if to offer the PADD he was holding over his shoulder before he seemed to catch himself, his hand raised at an awkward angle. McCoy cast a curious glance his way, and he was mildly troubled when he found that he couldn't read Jim's expression.
"Bones," Jim said at last, looking his way without meeting his eyes. "Look over this for me?" He proffered the PADD to McCoy, the gesture seeming almost imploring in a distant sort of way.
McCoy took the datapad skeptically and gave it a cursory glance, realizing instantly that he didn't understand a word of it. It was completely clear who it was meant for, though, and it was bleakly amusing in a way that Jim couldn't even bring himself to hand a PADD to Spock.
"It's the layout of the memorial," Jim said after a moment of watching McCoy stare blankly at the thing. "Positioning of the separate units."
Ah. He could see it now, almost, if he squinted at the diagram just right. "That us, then? Down in the inner ring?"
"My unit," Jim corrected, leaning over to point. "Medics will beam down on the second ring with the civilians."
Well, McCoy couldn't say that it didn't make sense, but he looked at Jim dubiously anyway. "You're right in the thick of it, then, in front of Cetus and his lot. Bit risky, don't you think?"
"It's where they'll expect me to be," Jim said offhandedly, taking the datapad back. "Honorary seating and all. If I'm a target now, it won't stop them."
"I don't like it," McCoy grumbled, only partially out of obligation. He had a reputation to keep as the sane one, after all. "All sorts of things could-"
"You don't have to," Jim cut in, and McCoy stopped to glare at him. He wasn't even looking, the stubborn idiot, his eyes locked back on the screen and his fingers tapping away maddeningly.
He'd had enough of this, McCoy decided abruptly. "I'm headed back to medbay," he said shortly, trying to prompt some sort of reaction from Jim. Anything would do at this point, really. "Seeing as my opinion's not needed here."
"Mmm," Jim answered absently, barely listening.
McCoy took another calming breath, and his eyes flickered to Spock's rigid back. No help there. He was going to have to pull this one off on his own. "Can I have a word with you, Captain?"
Jim waved at him to continue, but McCoy stood his ground. "Alone, if you wouldn't mind."
The younger man glanced up at him with a flicker of wariness, lowering his PADD into his lap. "Not now, Bones," he said quietly, and McCoy shook his head in resolution.
"You don't want to have this conversation here, Jim," he said, lowering his voice slightly. "Trust me."
"Bones, I can't-"
McCoy made an impatient noise and stepped in closer, hissing, "Doesn't it mean anything to you, Jim? What we talked about back on that shuttle?"
Jim stared at him, and McCoy felt a pang of satisfaction at finally throwing the kid off for once. "What?" Jim asked, as soon as he'd regained his composure- all too soon, in McCoy's opinion.
"You heard me. We're talking about this here, right now, unless you get your ass down from that high horse of yours and-" He stopped short, unable to get much further as Jim stood abruptly from the chair and grabbed a handful of his shirt, jostling him backwards towards the doors.
"Let's go," the other man muttered, his shoulders tense and his eyes practically burning blue with ill-disguised irritation.
Well, that made two of them, McCoy decided disgruntledly, allowing himself to be all but manhandled off the bridge. The stares of the crew followed them out, accompanied by Spock's own inscrutable gaze as the doors closed.
McCoy opened his mouth, ready to speak as soon as they were in the corridor, but Jim kept going until they were at the corner before finally stepping away from the doctor, his demeanor anything but welcome. "What was that about, Bones?" he demanded, somehow managing to make the nickname anything but friendly. "You couldn't have waited until after shift?"
"You would've just run off again," McCoy snapped defensively. "Back to wherever you've been hiding yourself recently- don't deny it," he added, seeing that familiar recalcitrant look in Jim's expression
"I wasn't," Jim muttered, a little of his old petulance returning, and he folded his arms across his chest. "Well, you've got me now. What did you want?"
"Come on, Jim, you know what. This." McCoy gestured exasperatedly at him, then back towards the bridge where the source of the problem still obliviously remained. "Whatever it is going on between you and Spock. You owe it to yourselves to figure it out."
Jim sighed grievously. "Bones, it's really not a big deal."
"Not a big de-" McCoy began incredulously, then cut off, shaking his head with a grimace. "You mean to tell me that this doesn't bother you? All the...the hiding away and the fighting?"
"Spock and I fight all the time," Jim argued reasonably.
"Not like this," McCoy pointed out.
Jim seemed to be struggling with his next words, finally settling on, "It's complicated."
McCoy raised his chin stubbornly. "So what? We've seen more than complicated before."
Jim shook his head frustratedly. "You wouldn't understand, Bones. You don't know what it's like." He was starting to look fidgety, as if he was going to bolt any second, and McCoy resisted the urge to physically block the way back to the bridge with his own body.
"You're better than this," McCoy said quietly, wanting to reach out and take Jim's arm, but knowing instinctively that it wasn't the right time now.
"You're a good man, Jim," he said instead. "And a good captain. I just never took you to be a damn coward."
"You think I want this?" Jim demanded, eyes widening in heated disbelief. McCoy felt a twisted sense of victory at having baited some sort of response, even if it was anger. Anger was a good first step; it was probably the most honest of the human emotions. "You think I like doing this to him? He's my friend, and I-"
"Well, you've got more than one friend, don't you?!" McCoy jabbed at Jim's chest accusingly. "Why the blazes do you think I'm out here with you right now, Jim? It doesn't take some kinda mind meld to see that you need more help than you're willing to ask for! So you listen to me, or one day you'll wake up and realize that the good things in your life just aren't there anymore, when they're standing right in front of you." He was almost out of breath by the end of his tirade, flushed with righteous satisfaction.
Jim looked stunned, mouth fallen slightly open in surprise. "You-" he made a valiant effort to retort, then visibly deflated, his shoulders sagging slightly and his mouth twisting in wry amusement. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous, Bones."
"That's not the point," McCoy grumbled, mildly disappointed that Jim hadn't yelled back at him for some inexplicable reason.
"I know," Jim said, his smile fading and leaving behind only a weary echo in his eyes. "Look, Bones, the truth is...I don't know if I can fix this."
"Well, why the hell not?" McCoy demanded.
"Because it changed everything between us! You can't just go back from something like this, and I-" His voice wavered, but stopped before it managed to crack. "I don't know what to do, what to say to him. The hell do you say to a guy who's seen you at your worst?" He seemed to notice then that McCoy's gaze had slid over his shoulder, eyes widening meaningfully, and he turned on his heel in time to see Spock come to a full stop in front of them.
"Spock," Jim said blankly, and McCoy's gaze flicked between him and the Vulcan nervously. He hadn't seen Spock approach at all until he was practically breathing down their necks, or he would've...what, exactly, he didn't know. This was what he'd wanted, after all.
"Captain," Spock answered evenly, as if those weren't the first words they'd exchanged all day. His face was carefully composed, but it had the air of a fragile perfection that was struggling to remain unbroken, and McCoy had no doubt that Spock had overheard their exchange. He was resolutely not looking at either of them, eyes fixed respectfully on the floor, and McCoy felt a sudden flicker of guilt.
"Is there something you need, Commander?" Jim asked, slipping back into cool detachment with an ease that made McCoy mourn the time he'd just spent attempting to convince Jim of the exact reverse.
Spock hesitated, finally glancing up towards McCoy in what was possibly some form of supplication. "There is a matter I wish to...discuss..."
Jim's comm beeped with suspiciously terrible timing, cutting him off. McCoy muffled his curse before it could fully escape, rolling his eyes in impatience as Jim fumbled for the device on his belt.
"It's Scotty," he muttered after a moment, staring at the text comm on the small screen. "I gotta go."
There was an awkward silence that followed, neither Spock or Jim looking at each other and McCoy feeling extremely disgruntled at the entire situation. He sighed wearily, "All right, I'm taking off for the labs."
"Okay," Jim said, trying to sound casual and slightly overshooting the mark. "I'll see you, then."
"And I'm gonna need Spock."
Now that elicited something from the both of them- Spock shifted his gaze to eye McCoy warily and Jim jerked his head up from the screen to stare at McCoy full-on. "What?"
McCoy stifled a knowing smirk, putting on his best nonchalant expression instead. "You've got me on a tough assignment for that plan of yours, Captain. I'm gonna need all the free hands I can get. And Spock's not occupied now, are you?" He directed the last towards the Vulcan, who merely blinked back, nonplussed.
Jim hesitated a split second, but that brief pause told more than he had probably intended to.
"Cap-" Spock tried to begin, and if McCoy didn't know better, he'd say the Vulcan looked almost torn.
"Go on," Jim said, tearing his eyes away from McCoy. "You're dismissed, Commander."
"Yes, Captain," Spock said, after a lengthy pause. He looked for a moment like he was going to linger longer, then stopped when McCoy caught his eye and jerked his head down the corridor.
"Come along," McCoy mouthed, relieved when Spock obligingly followed him away, leaving Jim where he stood.
As soon as they piled into the lift, Spock chanced to ask, "What is your true intention in requesting my presence, Doctor?"
"Come on, I did you a favor," McCoy snorted. "You can't mean to say you would have enjoyed the rest of shift. Standing there like a couple of overgrown popsicles."
"There was an element of unpleasantness that was….discomforting," Spock eventually conceded, and McCoy nodded in satisfaction.
"Well, to tell the truth, I didn't do it all from the goodness of my heart," he said grudgingly. "I've got something to show you."
Spock glanced at him sharply just as the lift doors opened, and McCoy strode out briskly before he could speak.
"Doctor," the Vulcan attempted anyway, catching up with two easy strides, to McCoy's annoyance. "I find that to be an inadequate explanation, as you failed to establish the specific-"
"You'll see," McCoy assured him, ushering him into the lab. It was empty on his request while he was working on the inane project Jim had assigned him via text comm shortly after the briefing. The debris of his earlier labors were still scattered across the worksurfaces, one stray stylus lying snapped clean in half from an exercise of sheer frustration.
Spock cast an inquisitive look towards the clutter, briefly distracted by what McCoy supposed was what he considered to be a horrific example of mass disorganization.
"You appear to have made significant progress," the Vulcan said carefully, bending over to examine one of the sketches more closely. "The designs are quite intricate."
"Yeah, well, I've got my own weight to pull around here, don't I?" McCoy grumbled, sweeping up his plans and making a note to himself to get the charts down to Scotty soon. Damn Jim and all his crazy, brilliant ideas. He put the matter out of his mind firmly, turning mentally to the issue at hand. Spock was looking at him expectantly, clearly waiting to be shown whatever it was he'd been brought here to see, and McCoy sighed, rubbing absently at his eye.
"Jim wasn't kidding, you know, when he told us he'd had broken ribs before," he said finally. "But you knew that already, didn't you?"
Spock said nothing, his expression unreadable, and after a moment, McCoy gave a quiet huff of mirthless laughter. "Well, it explains his crazy high pain tolerance, at any rate." He picked a PADD up from the table and swiped a few screens over before handing it to Spock. "Here."
The Vulcan scanned the first page of the report, eyebrows raising gradually as he came to a full realization. "Doctor, these are the captain's medical records."
"Imagine that," McCoy muttered. "Tell me something I don't know, Spock."
Spock frowned, continuing quietly, "There will most certainly be repercussions when Jim discovers-"
"I'm his doctor, damn it!" McCoy exploded impatiently, slapping at the table. "Trust me, I wouldn't have done it if I didn't need to know this."
Spock hesitated, wavering slightly, then asked firmly, "And is your motivation one of that as the captain's doctor, or his friend?"
"I'm worried about him, Spock," McCoy snapped back. "And I know you are, too. I can't even remember the last time I've had a good night's sleep on this ship, can you?"
Spock said nothing, but McCoy took the silence as answer enough.
"I just thought you could take a look, see if anything jogs your..." McCoy gestured vaguely. "...might as well put that meld to use, right? His whole medical history's in there, you should be able to put it all together if you've got those memories of his."
"Why the sudden urgency?" Spock inquired. "The current mission is of the highest priori-"
"And how are we supposed to go through this with Jim in this state?" McCoy retorted. "He's messed up in ways that I don't know how to fix, and I hate to even think it, but I can't do a damn thing for him. And now on top of everything else he's had to deal with these past few days, hell, with his life, he's got this thing with his mom..."
McCoy stopped and shook his head with a sigh of resignation. "The bottom line is, Jim's gonna break and it's only a matter of time. It's a miracle it hasn't happened yet, really, and we need to be there to pick up the pieces when it does."
He caught Spock's questioning look and tried to elaborate. "We humans are flimsy things, Spock. It takes a lot to get us to that point, but when we fall apart...we fall hard. And the strongest fall the hardest. Sometimes we get back up, but sometimes we don't, and I don't want to see that happen to my best friend. So I need to know what's going on." Upon seeing the slightest trace of reluctance still in the Vulcan's expression, he took a deep breath and uttered a small, "Please, Spock."
McCoy watched with bated breath as Spock hesitated, then nodded, looking back down at the PADD. He knew what the Vulcan was seeing, had pored over it himself in the privacy of his quarters many times already.
He remembered reading over the lists of numerous physical traumas, feeling sick to his stomach at the vision of a young Jim bruised and bleeding, refusing to file an investigation report and turning away multiple psychologists. He remembered the details of the surgery that had put his right arm back together after suffering eight breaks and three hairline fractures. He remembered seeing the empty visitation records and the lonely emergency contact channel that could never be answered from a starship light years away.
Spock's brow furrowed as he read, his eyes growing distant as he flicked through the records, and McCoy could only hope that he was seeing some long-past memory.
Spock scanned past the most recent additions, remembering well just how Jim had acquired each notated injury. Several were accompanied by the doctor's own annotations, usually punctuated by some form of derogatory comment regarding the captain's sense of responsibility, or lack thereof. On the impulse of a rare whim, Spock slid the screens to the earliest accounts and was surprised to see that they began as early as the age of eight.
The hospital visits became increasingly more frequent throughout his late childhood and early adolescence, but it was at an entry logged during the captain's sixteenth year that gave Spock pause.
Four broken ribs, fractured collarbone, shattered ulna, severe bruising and internal injury. And at the bottom of the entry in small, official print: Guardian held under interview. Spock stared at the small, tidy text delineating what must have been great violence, wondering how the circumstances had come about to cause such an occurrence. He could easily imagine the extent of the physical damage, all the more shocking on such a young face...
His whole body ached, his lower lip split and bruised. He could taste the sharp tang of his own blood, feel it drying in rusty streaks across his chin, and he winced as his grimace tugged at the swelling around his left eye.
Damn him, he thought viciously, probing gingerly at the worst of the marks on his cheek. At least Frank hadn't busted his nose again, or so he hoped. The last it'd happened, he'd suffered a week in school from too many concerned questions and just as many sneering jibes.
Frank was passed out on the couch now, snoring and grunting with a case of empty beer bottles on the floor beside him. Disgusting, Jim thought vindictively. He could run anywhere now, just like his brother, make his own way in this stupid, unforgiving world. He didn't need anyone, didn't need his mom, and he sure as hell didn't need Frank.
He was gonna do it, he decided, glaring into the bathroom mirror. He looked terrible, a long scratch from Frank's ring running down his cheek along the darkening bruises. Anywhere was better than this.
The house was dark despite the brightness of the afternoon, heavy curtains pulled over the windows and the shadowy floorboards cool beneath his bare feet as he tiptoed down the hallway. She'd always liked them to take their shoes off in the house, and it was a habit he'd never quite grown out of.
Frank was as good as dead on his own, and Jim couldn't care less, as long as he wasn't anywhere close. Everything would be okay once he got away. He thought this to himself repeatedly as he crept inside his mother's empty bedroom, mouthing the familiar mantra as he headed towards the tall chest of drawers by her bed.
He needed to move fast, if he was going to be out of the house by the time Frank woke up. There was a bus station a few miles away that he could make by sunset if he left now.
His fingers fumbled the latch of the top drawer in his haste, and he muttered a curse to himself as he finally succeeded in wrenching it open. His mother was gone on another mission, had been gone for a week now, and somewhere along the line she had stopped telling him when she'd be back. It wasn't like she needed the money anyway, he thought as he rummaged through the contents of the drawer. No point in seeing it all go to waste, or letting it all go to Frank.
He rooted through the folded garments within the second drawer, wrinkling his nose at the faint puffs of dust and the familiar smell that always reminded him achingly of forgotten afternoons and sunshine. The third drawer was just as fruitless, and he slammed it shut with annoyed frustration. The force of his shove jostled the chest slightly, rocking it back against the wall, and something slid off the top with a metallic slither and clanked lightly to the floor.
He froze at the sound, an automatic wave of fear jarring through him. If Frank woke up now-
He tilted his head, listening hard. There was no noise coming from downstairs, and he let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, staring down guiltily at the-
Huh.
He lifted the necklace up from the floor by one end of its chain, rolling the cold links between his fingers absently. There were two rectangular plates dangling off the chain- dog tags, he thought belatedly, remembering old photos and vague museum exhibits.
The tags were spotted with tarnish, clinking quietly in his hand as he turned them over curiously. The inscriptions on the first tag were faded, just faint scratches on the dull metal surface, and he brought the tags close to his face to make out the barely legible words.
"Greater love has no man than this, that a man gives up his life for his friends," the inscription read, minus a few letters aged beyond recognition that he easily filled in. He mulled over the words for a few moments, then dismissed them distractedly and turned his attention to the second tag.
The name on this tag stood out starkly, clearly a newer addition, and he felt his stomach drop dizzily in recognition.
George Kirk.
He hadn't known there was anything left in the house that had belonged to his father, except for the old wedding photo that his mother had refused to let Frank throw out. He poured the chain from hand to hand for a moment, fascinated by the smooth coil of cool metal, then shoved the tags in his pocket. He'd take a look at them again later, once he found the money-
"What the hell are you doing in here?"
Jim was paralyzed, his heart pounding in his chest, just as trapped as he was. The dog tags burned an icy hole in his pocket, but he didn't move to take them out.
Frank grabbed his arm, spinning him around roughly. He stumbled back into the chest, knocking it back into the wall with a thump again. The top two drawer handles dug into his back, twin flares of pain that felt like nothing under the wave of panic assaulting his mind.
"I asked you a question, boy." The weighty slap that followed wasn't completely unexpected, but it caught the side of his head and left his ears ringing, his cheek flaming in humiliation and pain. "What d'you put in your pocket?"
"Nothing," he snarled back, surly in his defiance, and he tasted blood on the next strike as it snapped his head around.
"You lying little shit. Give it to me."
Jim shook his head, his breaths coming in quick, shallow pants. He shoved his hands in his pockets, curling his fingers around the tags in numb resistance. "No."
Frank pushed him away from the drawers, throwing him hard against the wall by the door. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, and his mouth flew open in a breathless wheeze as his shoulders curled in instinctively, trying to draw in air.
Frank seized the opportunity to snatch at his arm, prying the tags free from numb fingers. He looked down at them for a blank moment, then snorted and pitched them across the room.
"You're nothing," Frank said, his voice echoing and pulsing from every dark corner. Jim blinked away black spots from his vision, bracing himself on his knees. "You'll never be anything to anyone, you hear?"
He felt the next blow across his ribs, and then-
The memory dissolved abruptly before Spock could continue, and he blinked hard, mirroring Jim's last actions before Frank had…
He touched a hand to his side at the sudden throb of phantom pain, remembering all too well the imprint of his stepfather's boot- no, Jim's stepfather. His actions were irrational, Spock knew, as he himself had not experienced the blow, and yet the vividness of the memory was slow to fade. Gradually, he became aware of McCoy's hand on his shoulder, gripping it anxiously. "Spock, you all right?"
Spock found, to his dissatisfaction, that he had no adequate answer with which to summarize the roil of conflict within him. He felt rage, certainly, a dull anger towards the source of Jim's pain, as well as a sharper sorrow that cut deeper than his rage. He remained unable to respond, and McCoy's hold on his shoulder tightened in commiseration.
"It is now irrefutable to me, Doctor, that your suspicions about the captain's childhood experiences are correct," Spock eventually said, managing to maintain an even tone as he spoke.
"That's no consolation," McCoy muttered, releasing Spock's shoulder to reach for the PADD. He grimaced as he recognized the entry before pulling up another item in the file. "Says here Jim managed to stay clear a couple of years, til he cropped up again in Vegas for public misdemeanor." He gave a halfhearted chuckle. "Sounds just like him. Troublemaker to the core."
McCoy lowered the file, and they were both quiet for a short time as they digested the information.
"It is likely," Spock finally remarked, "that the abuse would have continued to take place had Jim's guardian not been incarcerated following that particular incident."
McCoy looked up at him, his gaze conveying the myriad of emotions he felt in that moment, and he finished, "And the only reason that happened was because that bastard of a stepfather nearly killed him."
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