CHAPTER NINE
What the hell?
Jarred out of a sound sleep by the blow to his face, Leonard sat up in bed and tried to gather his startled wits. Rubbing his stinging jaw, he called out, "Lights, 20 percent!"
Light bloomed. Blinking, he barely managed to dodge another blow – this time an elbow to his ribs. Swallowing a curse, he stretched out a cautious arm and shook Jim's shoulder.
"Jim! Wake up, kid. You're having a nightmare."
His attempt to rouse the young man failed. Instead, Kirk's eyes remained closed and his agitation increased. He began to thrash wildly, muttering under his breath.
"Don't… stop… leave me alone… please…"
Leonard grabbed the tricorder from his nightstand and quickly ran a scan.
It wasn't a nightmare. It was a night terror. A horse of a whole different color.
Leonard set the tricorder aside, troubled. With night terrors, as opposed to a run-of-the-mill nightmare, physical contact typically made things worse, often prolonging the time the victim spent inside the nightmare they were experiencing. The last thing McCoy wanted to do was to cause Jim to bang his head again or do himself some other injury. As awful as it was to witness, as helpless as it made McCoy feel, he knew the best thing to do was to let the episode play out – and provide what comfort he could afterward.
Rubbing his eyes, Leonard eased himself out of bed, hoping that if Jim no longer sensed a presence next to him, the episode would end all the sooner. On bare feet, he padded to the kitchen and filled two glasses with cold water. Setting one aside, he leaned back against the counter and sipped slowly at the other, contemplating this latest wrinkle in Jim Kirk's recovery.
Was the kid prone to nightmares? There had been nothing noted in his childhood records following his discharge from the hospital for the injuries his 'uncle' had inflicted. A period of follow-up psychological therapy and counseling was standard procedure after an assault, but McCoy hadn't seen any treatment summaries from a mental health professional in Kirk's old chart notes. In fact, the years following the incident had been mostly blank, with no mention of nightmares or night terrors – or any other medical treatment, for that matter.
McCoy sighed and took a last swallow of water before setting his glass aside and picking up the full one to take back to the bedroom. Just one more troubling hole in Kirk's medical history that would need filling. He wondered if the kid would be as close-mouthed and touchy about this topic as he'd been about his relationship with Captain Pike.
"So, you knew Pike before you joined the Academy?"
Jim went still. He laid the carrot stick he'd been nibbling aside, adopting the expressionless mask that McCoy was beginning to learn meant 'Keep out. No trespassing allowed.'
"Not exactly."
McCoy looked at him askance. "Seems like a pretty simple question to me. What am I missing? Were you pen pals or something? I could see Pike being into that kind of thing." He chewed thoughtfully on a bite of cracker topped with cheese before swallowing and saying, "He definitely talked to you like he knew you."
Jim frowned. "He just thinks he knows me. I'm not that person anymore."
Well, this was getting interesting. Murkier, but interesting. "So Pike knew you when you were younger? Sounds like pen pals isn't far off the mark, then." He pursed his lips. "And he sounded… fond of you. Like a big brother. Or a father," he mused.
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to call them back. His grandmother had warned him years ago, when he was a boy. She'd said, "You've got a sassy mouth, Leo. It's going to get you in trouble more times than you see coming, if you don't learn to control it." And here he was proving her right. Again.
Jim reacted as badly as he'd feared.
"Pike's not my dad!" He tossed a scornful look McCoy's way, his eyes overly bright. "You're a smart guy, Bones. You must know my dad died on the Kelvin."
Father is deceased in the line of duty…
Sweet Jesus, Jim Kirk was the Kelvin Baby. He'd let that notation in the kid's medical chart go right over his head. Dying while serving wasn't exactly rare in Starfleet. Lord, have mercy, he'd really stepped in it.
"I apologize, Jim. My ex always said I had a knack for making the worst faux pas." McCoy rubbed his chin, feeling about as high as a snake's belly. "I didn't mean to stir up old wounds. One of my worst failings is picking at a puzzle, whether it's mine to solve or not. I've never learned to leave well enough alone. I'm sorry I mentioned your dad. And I'm sorry your dad died. By all accounts, he was a good man."
Jim stared at him. Slowly, too slowly for McCoy's comfort, the defiance faded from his blue eyes. Then, apparently accepting McCoy's apology, he relaxed his rigid shoulders and inhaled deeply.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to bite your head off, Bones."
"I understand." Jim Kirk wasn't the only one who preferred to avoid the subject of fathers. "No apologies, needed. The fault was all mine."
Jim picked up the abandoned, half-eaten carrot stick, turning it in his fingers, his gaze downcast. "Pike… well, it's no big deal. Starfleet brass sent him to my house when I was little, to check up on my mom. She was still in her 'get-the-hell-off-my-property-before-I-shoot' phase but Pike managed to find a way around that and ended up staying for Thanksgiving."
"How old were you?"
He looked up at Bones. "Two. Pike was patient and friendly. I spent hours with him." Jim shook his head. "From my perspective, it was a great time, but I'm sure I was exhausting to be around. My mom always said I was, anyway. But he never let on. And then, after Thanksgiving, he left, and I never heard from him or laid eyes on him again. Well, not until that night, a month ago, at the Shipyard Bar in Riverside."
"He recognized you?"
Jim smiled humorlessly. "Hardly. You saw how I looked on the shuttle the next day. A lotta miles between that face and that of an innocent two-year-old. No, he asked the bartender who I was, while I was in the bathroom washing off the blood from the fight."
McCoy pondered that for a long minute. Jim had been two, yet he referenced that long ago meeting like it had taken place last week. How much would a two-year-old child really remember? He needed to dig deeper into Jim's records. The kid was obviously bright or he wouldn't be challenging so many of his first-year courses.
A fragment of their ER conversation floated up: "I've got a pretty good memory…"
McCoy sighed. Jim had assured him in the Emergency room that his memory was better than most. Maybe he should just start taking the kid at his word…
Pushing away from the counter, he walked back to the bedroom, hoping Jim's night terror had played itself out and he would be sleeping, or, at worst, drowsy. If Jim was partially awake, he'd get him to drink some of the water before he resettled into sleep.
Instead, to his dismay, he found Kirk sitting on the edge of the bed, white-knuckled hands gripping his knees. His disheveled hair was wet with sweat, the bright gold now a dull brown, and dark blotches of sweat also stained his scrub top.
McCoy crossed the room in a rush, hastily disposing of the glass of water on the nightstand.
"Jim? You okay, kid?"
Jim shivered and looked at him out of haunted eyes. His white face caused McCoy's physician nerves to jangle in alarm.
"I think I'm going to be sick."
McCoy barely had time to grab the wastebasket – one he'd lined with a biohazard liner the night before, in deference to Jim's concussion headache – and thrust it between Jim's knees before the kid bent over the receptacle and proceeded to vomit up everything he'd eaten for dinner.
Damn it all.
The kid was unraveling right in front of his eyes, and all that retching wasn't going to help his headache any. McCoy rubbed slow circles between Jim's shoulder blades, offering what comfort he could with his presence, as Jim shivered and heaved. When the spasms finally died away, he lifted his hand from Jim's damp-shirted back and handed him the glass of water.
"All done?" he asked softly.
"Think so," Jim hazarded, taking a small sip of the water and swishing his mouth. The glass wavered in his grasp as he leaned over to spit into the wastebasket, and McCoy gently removed it from Jim's trembling hand before it could spill.
"How about we get you into the bathroom? You can brush your teeth and finish rinsing the bad taste out of your mouth while I get things tidied up."
"I want a shower."
"Not a good idea. You're shaking."
"It'll pass. It always does."
"Jim…"
"I'm sweaty and my scrubs have vomit on them, so I need to change anyway before I go back to bed. A shower will wash away the stench." His blue eyes were pleading. "I just want to feel clean again, Bones."
God damn it, I'm going to say yes because I'd feel exactly the same way if the shoe was on the other foot.
"Okay. But I don't want any lip about my seeing you naked again, because I'm gonna stay in the bathroom with you until I'm sure you're not going to pass out in the shower."
"Whatever you say."
"And if and when I do leave, you have to promise you'll stay put until I come back to get you out."
A ghost of a smile curved Jim's pale lips. "Promise. Now, can we please go?"
Grumbling under his breath, McCoy placed a steadying hand under Jim's elbow and walked him to the bathroom. He flicked the lights on and winced at Jim's involuntary groan. The small room was shockingly bright, compared to the dimly lit bedroom, and the glare off the tiles made McCoy's tired eyes sting.
Jim stumbled to the sink, bracing himself with one hand on the counter, the other reaching for his toothbrush. He opted first for a sonic cycle, then switched the handle to manual before applying a generous amount of toothpaste. McCoy propped his shoulder against the wall and let Jim take his time brushing. He'd had his share of morning pukes after too many injudicious nights of drinking-to-forget, so he knew the vile taste was hard to scrub away.
"Finished?" he asked as Jim spat a final time, rinsed the toothbrush and his mouth, and straightened from his hunched stance over the sink.
"Yeah." He pulled the scrub top away from his torso, and cautiously sniffed the tented material. "I smell like the alley behind a dive bar, but I'm hoping that's my clothes and not my breath."
"Only one way to find out," McCoy said, observing Jim closely despite his relaxed pose. The kid's hands had stopped shaking but he was still sheet-pale. Speaking of which…
"I want to tidy up the bedroom. Why don't you prove to me you're steady enough to undress and get in the shower without help."
"Sure thing, Bones. But I'll be fine. Trust me."
"I'm more a 'seeing is believing' kind of guy." McCoy waggled his fingers. "Clothes off. Let me know if you feel dizzy or unsteady."
Jim carefully shed his scrub top and pants, giving no sign that he was distressed at being scrutinized. He didn't make eye-contact, though, as he eased into the shower, and he kept his head bent. It was hard to tell, McCoy thought, whether that was because Jim was trying to hide his self-consciousness at being nude or whether he was watching his step to keep from tripping because his balance was off.
Once Jim was safely in the shower, McCoy waited to be sure no problems were going to immediately arise. He filled the time by laying out a fresh towel for Jim, along with his comb. Catching sight of his own scruffy-looking, stubbled face in the mirror, he removed his razor from the medicine cabinet and quickly shaved. When he was done, he laid it next to the waiting comb, in case Jim wanted to shave, as well.
He cast a long glance at the steam-filled shower stall. Jim seemed to be steady enough as he shampooed his hair, soapy water streaming down the planes and angles of his body.
Time to hustle.
Picking up Jim's dirty scrubs, McCoy strode into the bedroom and dumped them on the bed. He snagged the noxious biohazard bag from wastebasket, sealed it, and relined the receptacle with a fresh bag. Quickly stripping the sheets from the bed, he gathered everything, linens and clothing in one hand, biohazard bag in the other, and hurried out of the room.
"Lights 50%," he ordered, and the living area and kitchen brightened. Once in the kitchen, he moved quickly. Opening the recycler, McCoy dropped the biohazard bag inside, triggered the medical waste setting, and let it run. He deposited the bundle of dirty laundry in the fresher, checked to be sure there was still enough detergent and softener in the auto-deposit, and started the cleaning cycle.
Ordering the lights off on his way back to the bedroom, McCoy paused outside the bathroom. He could hear that the shower was still running, so he put his head inside the door.
"You still doing okay, Jim?"
"Quit hovering. 'm fine."
"I'm going to go remake the bed. Then I'll come back and get you out of there, so finish up."
Striding into the dimly lit bedroom, McCoy deftly remade the bed with fresh linens, then collected a fresh set of scrubs for Jim, and headed back to the bathroom.
Jim was a statue beneath the showerhead, head and shoulders bowed, hair dripping. He'd angled his body so that the spray of water struck him between his shoulder blades. A frisson of concern set McCoy nerves tingling.
"Jim? You okay, kid?"
No response.
"Dammit, Jim, answer me."
McCoy was reaching for the shower door when Jim came back to life.
"Bones," he said, slowly lifting his head. He stared at McCoy with dazed eyes, his lashes clumped and dark with moisture.
"Turn off the water and get your skinny ass out here," McCoy ordered roughly, "before I have to scrape you off the floor."
"Okay," Jim said. He fumbled the shower dial twice before he managed to halt the flow of water. Stepping out, he banged his shoulder sharply on the shower door frame, causing the door to rattle and vibrate. "Ow!" he protested, blinking. "Sorry."
No sass. Shadowed eyes. Coordination off. The kid must be feeling like shit.
"No harm done, except to yourself. Let me see your shoulder."
Jim half-turned away. McCoy was sure Jim's reaction was an instinctive gesture of evasion because the small bathroom had precious little space in which to maneuver, much less hide, especially with the two of them already standing inside it.
"It's fine," Jim protested, snagging the towel from the counter and burying his face in the folds.
"It won't hurt for me to take a look," McCoy said mildly.
He used a corner of the hanging towel to dry off Jim's arm and shoulder. The crown of Jim's shoulder was already a dark red, although the taut skin was unbroken.
"You banged it pretty good, kid. It's already bruising. I'll run a regen over it once you're in bed."
Jim uncovered his face and turned his head to peer at his shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Bones. I collect worse bruises in my hand-to-hand class. It'll be fine."
"You know, if I got a credit for every time you say something's 'fine' when it isn't, I'd have enough for a week's worth of fancy coffees from Beans & Brew."
Jim gave him a skeptical look. "You don't strike me as a barista-dependent kind of guy."
McCoy snorted. "I'm not. A good cup of black coffee is more than enough for me." He used the end of the towel to wipe the water droplets from Jim's back. "I was trying to make a point."
"Which I was ignoring because you worry too much."
"I'm not worried, just observant. C'mon, let's get you back in bed. I want to give you something for that headache you're pretending you don't have."
It didn't take too much longer for Jim to dry off and dress, and he heaved a sigh of relief when McCoy turned off the bathroom lights. Leading him by the elbow, McCoy walked him back into the softer light of the bedroom.
"Lie down on the bed and get comfortable. I need to prepare the hypo."
"I don't want a hypo. I'm fine."
"Cha-ching. That's the sound of another credit dropping into my coffee account."
"Very funny."
"Pain is no laughing matter, Jim. You won't sleep well without medication."
Jim eased gingerly down on the edge of the bed. "I'm not going to sleep." He looked up at Bones, his eyes full of shadows. "I never do, after one of these… episodes." Jim bit his lip. "Maybe I should just go stretch out on the couch. That way, you can have the bed to yourself."
With casual deliberation, McCoy slipped the medication carpule he'd selected into place and closed his med kit. "There's plenty of room for both of us. You weren't complaining last night."
"I wasn't thrashing around in bed last night. I could have given you a black eye."
"You didn't."
"But I woke you up. In the middle of the night."
"Do I look concerned?" When Jim opened his mouth to respond, Leonard held up the hypospray. "That was a rhetorical question, idiot. Shut up and lie back."
Looking mulish, Jim complied. "Has anyone ever told you that you have authority issues?"
"On several occasions," Leonard admitted drily. "What about you? You're more a wolf, yourself, than a sheep. You seem like the type who enjoys defying the status quo."
"The story of my life." Jim sighed and relaxed back into the pillow, a silent admission of defeat. "In fact, some would say I've earned a PhD in the subject."
"Why am I not surprised?" Leonard said, placing the hypospray against Jim's neck with a practiced snap.
Jim hissed when he triggered it. "Ow. Fuck, that burns. Are you sure you gave me the right medication? I don't remember the others feeling like this."
That's because the others didn't have a sedative mixed in with the pain medication.
"I'm sure. I always double-check meds before I administer them." Leonard set the hypospray aside, then reached out and gently rubbed the administration site. "Better?" he asked, after a minute.
"Yeah." The tension slowly seeped out of Jim's face and shoulders, and his fisted hands relaxed.
Leonard smiled with satisfaction. The sedative would ensure that Jim wouldn't be plagued with nightmares while he slept.
"You need anything before I turn the lights off? Some water?"
Jim yawned and his eyelids drooped. "No, 'm good. Had a big drink when I brushed my teeth." He yawned again, bigger this time, and turned on his side. "Just… tired."
McCoy tucked the covers in place around Jim, taking care not to brush against his bruised shoulder. "Get some rest. Sleep, if you can," he advised. He ignored the twinge of conscience his suggestion elicited, knowing sleep was inevitable. The sedative was already pulling the kid under. "And tomorrow, you're going to eat a decent breakfast or I swear I'm going to make you drink an electrolyte shake with every meal."
"Sure, Bones, whatever you say," Jim slurred, as his eyes drifted closed. A moment later, he was snoring softly.
McCoy stood over the sleeping cadet for a long minute.
Night terrors. Possible food issues. A complicated social history, made even more complicated by trauma and abuse.
Every instinct was screaming that the kid was going to be trouble. The smart thing would be to back away from getting involved, tell Kirk he had changed his mind, and hand him over to an experienced physician in Starfleet General's Internal Medicine department.
McCoy absently rubbed the pale band of skin on his ring finger, thinking hard.
Yeah, well. When had he ever taken the easy road in anything?