I'm kind of sad...I don't know if it's because I got used to getting floods of reviews for each story, but I'm so sad that I didn't get all that many this time around. Was the chapter bad? Should I fix it somewhere? Or am I just unloved now? I'm sorry if I didn't meet expectations...
With that said, I really want to thank those who did review. Your reviews made me smile and some had some really good ideas that I hope to incorporate into my future stories. And I still want to thank all those who read/favorited/followed my story. Just because I don't hear from you doesn't mean you're not there silently supporting me, so thanks again!
So, without further ado, here's the second part! Sorry for the wait! Ah. I should give a warning: there are some parts in here that are a little bit more brutal - like the chapter with the whole gladiator fight, but not like that. Ish. Also, the medical aspects may be off. I tried to research and draw from what I learned, but without being a doctor, I can't be sure if it's accurate. So let me know if it's as accurate as possible.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy! And please review! A happy me writes faster. ;)
Disclaimer: I do not own any Star Trek franchise.
IX
There's No Place Like Home Part II
Hans asked Jim a question every day. Some were expected and revolved around the knowledge that only a Captain of the Enterprise and Starfleet would know. Others were more personal and always threw Jim off, but he refused to answer each one and passed the time trying to come up with more witty ways to insult Hans and his men. In response, Hans found more and more creative ways to try to make him talk.
The first day, Hans ripped off all his fingernails from his hands, leaving the flesh beneath them bloody and raw.
"What are the codes to the Enterprise, Captain?" Hans asked.
Jim was sitting on a bench, his arms outstretched and bound with steel manacles before him on a wooden table. It would be fairly easy to weasel out of his predicament, but he needed to buy more time for Chekov anyway, so he remained reticent and stared at the table like it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen before.
Twitchy brought forth pliers – large, rusty ones that were still abnormally strong for its age. Bugger forced Jim's hands flat onto the table, making him spread his fingers.
"Answer the question, Captain," Hans growled, forcing Jim's chin up.
"The codes start with an 'f' and ends with a 'u'," Jim snapped back, his blue eyes blazing.
The pliers clung onto the nail of his right index finger and suddenly pulled back, completely peeling it off its finger-bed. Jim almost bit off his tongue to stop himself from screaming out. Blood gushed out, streaming out onto the table. The flesh beneath puckered immediately, sending throbs of pain down Jim's hand.
"What are the codes to the Enterprise, Captain?" Hans asked again.
Jim breathed through his nose harshly, shoving a barrier against the pain. He merely raised his blue eyes, glaring defiantly at Hans.
Hans nodded at Twitchy who ripped off the nail on his middle finger. He flinched violently, biting down on the inside of his cheek, but made no sound, so Twitchy moved onto the ring finger, then the pinky, and finally the thumb. By the end of it, Jim's face had become so pale and sweat was dripping down his brow; his breathing was harsh and irregular and he could barely hide the acute pain that was making his hand shake like a leaf in a gale.
"I see that you are unwilling to answer my question; how about I change the topic then? Do you have anyone in your life right now?"
Jim shot him a confused look, wincing as the sharp movement jolted his hand. What was the point of asking about his personal life?
"I hear that you are particularly close to your crew. It would pain you greatly if something happened to them, wouldn't it?" murmured Hans as he sat back casually, picking out the dirt from under his nails with a large knife. "Your doctor friend has a daughter, does he not? In Georgia, I believe."
Jim had to fight his rising instincts to tear out Hans' throat for even mentioning Joanna, but any sign of anger or fear would instantly put her and Bones in danger. Jim had no doubt in his mind that if he showed that cared, Hans would use his resources and hunt them down.
So he just shrugged, putting up an air of nonchalance. "Maybe? From what I hear, his bitch ex-wife took her off-planet so that they could get away from the crazy bastard."
The words (except for the one insulting his fucking ex-wife) felt bitter on his tongue, but it was worth it to see the look of surprise flicker across Hans' eyes.
"What about your First Officer? I hear you have a…'special' relationship with him."
Jim actually snorted at that. Him and Spock? Jesus. Did people really have nothing else to do with their lives? They really needed to stop playing matchmaker for him with whichever being was close to him. "You're wasting your time, Hans. I care for my crew as much as the next Captain. Would I give my life for them? Yeah, but only because it's written in my list of duties. Why else do you think I came out here alone?"
"Need I remind you that you were captured along with your comrade, Captain?"
Jim let honest fury lit up his eyes. "He was sent by my superior who didn't think I could get the job done. I work alone and they sent me a fucking child to do a man's job?"
"And yet you protect him?"
"You kill him and it's my ass on the line."
"You speak as though you are angry at Starfleet, yet you do not wish to tell me the codes to the Enterprise."
"It's something called a code of ethics, though I'm sure you've never heard about it before."
Anger flashed across Hans' face and he jerked up one finger. Twitchy excitedly tore off another nail on Jim's left hand; his middle finger to be precise.
Jim hadn't expected it and had let his senses lull while talking. His entire body cringed and he actually bit his inner cheek open before he got a handle of himself. Leaning forward, he spat out a mouthful of blood, hitting Twitchy in his right eye.
Fury contorted Twitchy's already deformed features and in seconds, two more of Jim's fingernails were torn off.
"Stop!" Hans shouted, coming forward.
At first, Jim thought that Hans just wanted Twitchy to leave some nails behind so he could continue to pester him for information, but Jim was so wrong. He had underestimated how sadistic Hans truly was.
Hans grabbed the pliers away from Twitchy and with a smirk that said that he enjoyed this way too much, he wrenched out Jim's remaining nails. Jim refused to make a sound, even though he was yelling internally.
That was until Hans pressed down the butt of the pliers against the raw flesh of his left middle finger. A gasp escaped him and he almost groaned out loud. His entire body curled in as his hands spasmed in agony.
And then Hans poured salt water all over his hands.
Jim's scream ripped through the air, leaving him gasping breathlessly.
It was the first scream that they had forced out of him.
It wouldn't be the last.
The second day, Hans moved onto physical blows, slamming metal bats down over and over again until almost all Jim's ribs were cracked or broken and bruises and hematomas decorated his battered body.
"What are the security codes to Starfleet headquarters?" Hans asked.
Jim was strung up by both his arms, dangling from the ceiling. It pained his sore, relocated shoulder and painfully stretched the wounds from the whips on his back, making some of them begin to bleed all over again. His shirt had been torn off, leaving him in just his slacks. He was still strong; his eyes still defiant and unconcerned at his predicament, despite the fact that his fingers had become so sensitive and uncoordinated from the pain.
The day before, speaking had caused him to be caught unawares, and he wasn't about to let that happen again. So no words left his mouth, even when Hans repeated his question.
Twitchy and Bugger (Jim was so going to make them suffer in the most painful way possible when this was all over) raised identical metal bats and looked at Jim like he was a fucking piñata.
"Tell me, Captain, or you will suffer the consequences."
Jim glared haughtily at him."Go to hell."
"Do it," Hans commanded in German.
And then Twitchy and Bugger were off to the races, striking Jim with all the suppressed fury they contained. Each hit made a sick, metallic sound, followed by the sound of bone cracking. Jim counted three or four ribs broken, and another two merely cracked. He jolted with each whack, unable to stop his body's peripheral nervous system from recoiling and making everything hurt all that more. The pain was resonating within him, like a rock being thrown into a calm pond. The ripples of agony were spreading fire throughout him; he could almost feel the bruises being marked everywhere on his skin.
It was the shortest beating Jim had ever had in his life.
But it was by far, one of the most debilitating.
The third day, Jim was waterboarded and almost died.
All Jim could remember was the sheer terror when his body flailed helplessly, like a fish on land. He couldn't even stall for time for Chekov because suddenly, there was nothing but darkness.
And then it was just pain, pain, pain.
On the fourth, Jim was connected to electrodes and shocked until he couldn't even feel the pain in his body anymore. That was a relief for a little while, until the painful feeling of pins and needles times a thousand kicked in.
His body jerked uncontrollably for minutes after the electricity had stopped being pumped against his skin. He could feel his heart beat unsteadily, fighting so hard to return back to its normal QRS complex.
"What information does Starfleet have on us?" Hans asked as he slowly walked in circles around Jim, swinging around a cattle prod.
Like before, he was hung up by his wrists. By now, he was sure there was going to be significant damage to his shoulder; not to mention, he was sure that the wounds on his back were going to scar horribly. Every time he was forced into this position, he could feel all the delicate healing rupture almost immediately. Now, he could barely catch his breath, let alone keep it from stuttering. All the electricity had run though his body, leaving his nerves temporarily overwhelmed.
Later on, when he was thrown back into his cell with Chekov, all his nerves woke up with a vengeance and he spent the next hour curled into a ball as all his muscles spasmed while his nerves shot pain signals through his entire system, making it feel as though every inch of his skin was on fire.
Everything burned and twisted, stung and ached, until finally, he could take no more and tears dripped slowly down his dirt-crusted cheeks.
The fifth, knives were brought out into play. Jim passed out from the lack of blood far before he would have from the pain.
Jim's tongue felt thick in his mouth, almost like it was a foreign object. His vision was wavering, going in out of blackness. All he could feel right now was the strain on his shoulders as he found himself hanging once more (they couldn't find another position to torture him in?).
Hans was delicately and artistically carving out pictures into Jim's skin, drawing blood with every flick of his wrist. At the start, Hans had been smart about all of this, cutting shallowly with his silver dagger so that he didn't puncture any vital organs, but enough so that Jim's already overtaxed nerves screamed.
Now, after more than half of his body had been desecrated, Jim felt the familiar edges of hypovolemic shock: lightheadedness, weakness, frigid coldness, and he could feel his heart beat unnaturally fast. It took a few more seconds than usual, but Jim instantly connected the lines to severe blood loss, and judging by the amount that was pooling by his feet, his salvation was near.
His world faded to black again and Jim welcomed it with everything that he had left of his sanity.
And then the cycle was repeated.
Chekov did what he could. When Jim was brought back to their cell, more half-dead than alive and barely conscious, Chekov would bind his injuries as best as he could. He would lend Jim his lap as a pillow and run his fingers as comfortingly and as painlessly through Jim's hair.
Food and water was given scarcely. Chekov never failed to try and coax Jim into eating, though he could barely stomach anything before throwing it all up again. In the end, he and Chekov both decided that it was more harmful if he ate and the food ended up rotting in a corner, despite Jim's quiet protests. But Chekov refused to eat if Jim couldn't. Most of the water was given to Jim as well and when he no longer had the strength to drink on his own, Chekov squeezed it down Jim's throat via a piece of cloth that he had ripped from his shirt.
"Don't vorry, Keptin, ze others vill be coming for us soon," Chekov murmured after the entire knife incident, stroking Jim's damp hair like Bones used to do when he was running a fever.
There was so much love and warmth in Chekov's voice that Jim simply didn't have the heart to tell him that help wasn't coming. When he had been dragged out for his daily torture session, he had seen a fully functional DRFM system and immediately felt his heart sink. The digital radio frequency memory system was being used for radar jamming, disrupting any locating devices that Spock or Starfleet could have. The memory loops that the DRFM system created would even send out signals for false targets and completely redirect radar signals. Jim was sure that Spock wasn't even looking in the correct area anymore.
Jim had made a promise that he would bring Chekov back safe, and he was damn sure to keep it. If no one was going to come for them, he would just have to break them both out.
So all he did was smile and flash his pretty blue eyes at the teenager. "Can't wait…There's no place like home, right, Chekov?"
Those were the last words that Jim said to Chekov for a while.
After that first week, Jim stopped talking completely. To Hans, to Chekov. He simply couldn't form the words anymore.
While Hans saw Jim's weakness as a sign of him wasting away, Chekov knew better. In the first few days that they spent crowded around each other, seeking comfort from one another, Jim would whisper his plans into Chekov's ear and Chekov would curl over Jim to give him the illusion of safety so that he could rest for a couple of hours and gather his strength. While Jim attempted to rest, Chekov would glare endlessly at the camera that never stopped recording, mentally going over all that Jim had laid out for the two of them.
It was the ninth day of their captivity and Jim was in his usual position, lying on his side with his head pillowed in Chekov's lap. He was curled in on himself, trying desperately to not shake, but he knew the accumulation of all his injuries had caused a bone-chilling fever. Chekov's thin fingers were weakly going through his hair. He could feel the slight tremor in Chekov's hand and he felt his lips pull down into a frown. The starvation didn't affect him, at least not anymore, but Chekov on the other hand? Jim knew firsthand how painful hunger was – how it ate at the lining of the stomach, cramping, churning, and stabbing. Chekov wasn't going to last much longer and Jim didn't have the strength to try and convince him to eat anymore.
He wasn't doing so well either. Worse than he had thought he would be. He could barely walk anymore; just moving his feet sent jolts of fire up and down his spine. His fingertips had swollen and breathing only reminded him of his painfully, broken ribs. A cough had started to settle in deep in his chest; the wet hacking made everything hurt more. There was something deeply, deeply wrong than just the superficial injuries that he had. The lacerations all over his body had started to close over, but it had also begun to fester, making the skin around the cuts painfully hot to the touch. Infection had settled in, spreading poison slowly through his veins.
He just needed to last one more day. Just one more before he and Chekov could escape, but he had a deep, sinking feeling in his gut that made his stomach twist ominously. It was familiar – he always had the same feeling right before shit went down, and Jim had to be ready for whatever was coming.
Jim shifted slightly, quietly groaning as the movement sent fire through his broken and beaten body. Instantly, Chekov's hand was on his face, caressing ever so comfortingly. Chekov leaned down, his wide eyes looking at Jim. They were so close – just a couple more inches and they could practically be kissing – but they both knew that it was so that Chekov's curls, though greasy and flat, could block Jim's face from the camera.
"Keptin?" Chekov murmured quietly.
Jim swallowed hard a few times before forcing his dry tongue to move. "S-set?" he lisped. He couldn't manage any more than that, but Chekov understood all the same.
Chekov nodded. "I just hawe to configure the transporters, and then ve're ready at your command, Keptin."
Sounds of footsteps in distance reached their ears and Chekov couldn't help and curl protectively over Jim, even though experience told him not to. It usually just made things worse, but Chekov wasn't sure how much more he could take, seeing his friend being brought back so broken, so damaged. Jim's soul was strong and Chekov could see that in the never-fading bright blues of his eyes, but there was only so much a human body could take before it gave up.
And Jim was quickly reaching that breaking point.
Immense guilt rested heavily in Chekov's stomach. He had always been the "baby" of their small, dysfunctional family, and he had always been aware of the vast gap existed between him and the others. Spock was a genius of his own right; McCoy was a truly gifted doctor – they were the only two that Jim, who stood so brightly over all of them, relied on. To the world and quite possibly the universe, Jim was this extraordinary man whom everyone longed to become. Chekov was no different, but he didn't want Jim's smarts or his amazing fighting prowess. He didn't want his renowned fame or his charming looks. No, Chekov wanted to become someone that everyone relied on, just as everyone counted so heavily on Jim.
Chekov wasn't naive though. He knew how heavy Jim's burdens were, to have the entire universe's expectations resting solely on him. He knew how Jim's past weighed down on his soul. Chekov knew that he couldn't bear as much as Jim could without being completely crushed. All Chekov wanted was to be someone that Jim and the rest of his little family could rely on: to not be coddled and protected; to hold his own place amongst this group of remarkable people who stood so proudly and so high above everyone else.
And all of this? It was Jim protecting him all over again, and he could do absolutely nothing.
He hated himself for it.
Even as beaten as Jim was, he was still sensitive to changes in emotions, and he nudged Chekov's stomach with his head a little. "A'rite?"
Chekov sniffed. "Are you?"
The upper corners of Jim's lips lifted. "Touché."
The footsteps became louder and they knew that they had seconds before men barged into their prison. Jim struggled upwards, as he always did, so he didn't show weakness if he could help it. He managed with Chekov's help, just in time for Hans and his minions to come in.
Each one was carrying an archaic gun – a Glock 9mm, if Jim wanted to be precise. Hans' was holstered at his waist and he stood before Jim with his arms crossed over his chest. There was a taut expression on his face; a certain darkness was coupled with his angry frown.
Jim's instincts were never wrong and as he read Hans' contained fury, he felt a lick of fear touch him and he nervously shot a glance towards Chekov, who was just out of arms reach. It made him incredibly worried.
"Get them up," snapped Hans in German.
His men automatically moved forward, roughly grabbing Jim and Chekov and hauling them to their feet. One man punched Jim in the stomach when he stumbled a little. Jim flinched, but he kept his groan deep within his chest and managed to straighten up to glare at Hans as viciously as he could with a half-bloodied face.
"Captain Kirk," Hans growled. "My patience has worn thin. Tell me the security codes to the Starfleet Headquarters, Captain, or suffer the consequences."
"Fuck off," snarled Jim with as much spite as he could muster up.
"So be it."
Hans nodded at one of his men who raised his gun and pointed it directly at Jim. Jim didn't even react to the weapon and stared defiantly at Hans.
"Do your worst," he hissed.
The gun went off, but Jim didn't feel the familiar flare of pain from a gunshot wound. Confused, he looked around, and what he saw horrified him more than the previous nine days times one hundred combined.
Chekov was staring down at the growing spot of red around his lower right abdomen. He raised his head and looked directly at Jim; his expressions were blank and a little bit befuddled.
"K-keptin?" He dropped to his knees, gasping, as he fell backwards against the wall.
"Chekov!" yelled Jim, and immediately swung around, unable to even contain his wrath. "You agreed to leave him alone!"
"You refused to cooperate and I grow tired of your resistance. Don't worry, Captain Kirk. You will be joining your friend too."
Hans cocked his gun and pointed it at Jim's head, but all Jim could see was Chekov's motionless body and the crimson liquid spreading across the stone cold floor. And then all he could see was a sheen of red.
Lashing out with strength he didn't know he had, he grabbed for the guns of the men holding him. Hans' gun went off, but with inhuman speed, Jim jerked his head to the left, missing the bullet by centimeters. He twisted his hand and ripped the weapons away from the rebels and without hesitation and without mercy, he shot straight through the center of their heads. The Germans dropped down, dead. Swinging around like a windmill, Jim flicked his wrists, shooting the remaining six men through their chests or heads with unerring accuracy that only he could be capable of.
With eyes like fire, Jim raised his guns to face-off with Hans whose expressions were full of terror.
"Will you shoot me, Captain?" sneered Hans, keeping his own weapon at level with Jim's eyes. "Will you dirty your hands with my blood?"
"No. Death is too good for you," Jim said, his voice as cold as ice, as his fingers curled around the triggers.
Shots fired rapidly and Hans fell to the ground with a cry as blood spurted from his wounds. With unerring accuracy, Jim had shot through both of Hans' shoulders, hands, and feet, purposely missing Hans' vital points, but the German would never walk or be able to use his hands again.
Hans rolled on the ground in agony, sobbing as he curled over his wounds, and Jim could only feel hatred towards the man who had hurt Chekov.
"If he's dead or about to die, I will make you wish that you were never born and rip off your skin piece by piece so that when you go to hell, you will still feel the pain and terror forevermore," Jim said in German quietly, but the words were so cold, so full of venom that Hans knew that Jim would carry out his threat if it was the last thing he did.
There was no doubt in Hans' mind that Jim would throw away everything he had – his ship and even his Captaincy to avenge his friend.
Jim turned his back on Hans and fell harshly to his knees, rolling Chekov over with gentleness that he really shouldn't be capable of right now. Chekov moaned, keeping his hands clamped tightly over his wound.
"Let me see it, Chekov," Jim soothed even as tense lines on his face made him look years older.
He tenderly pried Chekov's hands away, all the while whispering words of comfort, "It's okay, Pavel, you're going to be okay," he said over and over again as he inspected Chekov's injury. "You're going to be fine."
It was a thru-and-thru and by some miracle, nothing vital had been torn apart. At this point, the only thing Chekov was in danger of was bleeding out, but it was still a serious wound.
Relief showed obviously on Jim's expressions and allayed Chekov. Seeing that, Jim turned slightly on his heel and reached for the nearest dead man. Though it disgusted him, Jim grabbed for the man's shirt and ripped it off him before wrapping it tightly around Chekov's wound.
Chekov almost whined as Jim tightened the knot, but even though his eyes were clouded by pain, they were still bright and aware.
"K-keptin…ze plan?"
"We're a day ahead of schedule, but it'll work. I'll make it work." Jim's keen ears caught the sounds of footsteps running towards them. The rest of Hans' men must've heard the commotion and had come to investigate.
Jim instantly grabbed both the previously abandoned guns and hefted it up, keeping his body between the door and Chekov. With the adrenaline rushing through his veins, he could barely feel how weakened he truly was, but he knew that he didn't have that much time. He couldn't protect himself and Chekov at the same time, not when both of them were so damaged. His clock was ticking down fast and he knew it, but if he didn't do anything, he and Chekov would be die there in that rat-infested hole. And he was damn sure not going to let that happen, regardless of what happened to him.
He handed one gun to Chekov. "You know how to use this, don't you?"
Chekov nodded, his eyes wide and alarmed.
"I'll be right back. I'll get everything ready and come back for you, okay?"
"N-no, Keptin!" Chekov cried, reaching out to grab Jim's sleeve. "If ve go down, ve go down together!"
Jim smiled softly. "I can't let that happen, Chekov. I promised I'll bring you home, didn't I?"
A hard expression settled onto Chekov's face and he struggled to sit up, despite Jim's protests. With a determined look in his eyes, Chekov grabbed both of Jim's cheeks and spoke resolutely to him. "You promised to bring me back. You, vhich means zat you cannot die here, do you understand me? Ve are going back together. Zere is no other option."
Though surprised at how forceful Chekov was, Jim really should have known that he was going to react this way. Gently, he pulled Chekov's hands away from his face, but he didn't let Chekov go just yet.
"I promise that I'll come back for you and we'll go home. Together," he said softly with a smile that hurt the split lip he was sporting.
"Together," Chekov agreed, raising a pinky.
Jim raised an eyebrow. "A pinky swear? How old are you again?"
"Not as old as you."
Jim chuckled and linked his pinky with Chekov's, sealing their promise.
Lifting one more gun from another dead man, Jim stood and straightened. Even as bloodied and broken as he was, there was still strength left in his bones and it made him a truly terrifying sight.
He stepped over every body without a second glance before sauntering past Hans. He paused, realizing what a danger he still posed to Chekov and changed his mind in a split second. Though he never once looked at the crying German, he lifted his right hand and pressed the trigger. The gunshot echoed in the room.
Hans was dead with a bullet in the skull before he even realized what was happening.
"See you in hell," Jim said quietly before slipping out the dank prison that he had been held captive in for ten fucking days.
This time, he was a free man and thirsting for blood.
Despite the information that Spock had swiped from Komack, he, Sulu, Uhura, Scotty, and McCoy still couldn't get much headway on Jim's and Chekov's location. Spock and Scotty had managed to uncover the trails of Chekov's hacking and discovered the very motel that they had been captured from. There was still dried blood on the floor; broken glass and plastic was everywhere. It was ground zero, but all leads had gone cold from there.
Any signals that the crew discovered were pinged all over the place, never focusing on a single spot. There were indications that Jim and Chekov were in Poland, Russia, Austria, Greece, and the list went on and on. No matter how much they searched, they simply couldn't find their friends, and it was draining all of them. They all knew that the longer Jim and Chekov remained missing, the chances of them being found safely decreased tremendously each day.
It had been nine days since their capture, and they were all beyond themselves with fear and worry.
That was, until Spock's communicator rang shrilly amidst all the chaos, bringing new hope with it.
Jim locked the prison door behind him, knowing full well that no one but Hans had the keys. He could easily pick it when he returned, and at least this way, Chekov had some measure of safety in this fucking hellhole.
He crept silently down the hallway, hearing the footsteps come closer and closer. He shifted and hid himself in the shadows of a corner as four men came running down past him.
Infiltrate and eliminate all the terrorist cells involved. Weapons, information, and persons included. Leave no trace behind. Show no mercy.
Holding his breath, he quickly stepped out and as he exhaled, he fired four times: each bullet buried into the base of the men's skulls. Without even waiting for their bodies to fall, Jim pressed forward, slipping into another room that he knew contained weapons. It was filled with various trinkets: rocket launchers, grenades, guns, phasers, and even bazookas. Grabbing one of the phasers and a communicator from the wall, he pulled out a few wires from each of them, twisting and playing with them until he was satisfied.
He placed the now configured phaser on top of the boxes of grenades before pushing them closer to the other weapons. He attached the reconstructed communicator to the waistband of his sagging pants (Bones was going to scold him about losing so much weight again) and trotted towards the door. Poking his head out to check out his surroundings, he cautiously stepped forward and pressed onward.
If he remembered correctly, there were not that many people at this base: fifty-three to be precise. At least that was all Jim had counted. Hans' group didn't recruit many people – he was a wary man who didn't trust in anyone. The more people that entered his organization, the more chances of being betrayed and sold out. That was why Jim couldn't charm his way into it in the first place. When Hans got wind that he was snooping around, he personally came to investigate and discovered that the one and only Captain James T. Kirk was on their tail.
Then all this shit happened. But at least Jim knew exactly where and who to vent his anger on.
He was cautious to never sound off the alarm – if it did, then Chekov would be placed in danger and make his job all that more difficult. His aim was true and the body count was quickly rising as he made his way around base. In between, he would reconfigure just one weapon in each weapon room, linking it to his 'communicator'. When he was sure that had gotten the majority of the people there, he made his way back to Chekov.
At this point, his vision had started to waver and his muscles ached. Even his fingers were trembling. His nailbeds were bleeding again, throbbing agonizingly after using his hands so much, and his chest hurt from desperately trying to keep his breathing normal. He knew that his body was inches away from giving out on him, but he could still feel the weight of Chekov's pinky against his, and that drove him on.
That weight forced back all the fatigue, pain, and exhaustion that he had, and he once again built up a barrier against his body's protests. It was going to come back and bite him in the ass, but if it got him through all of this, it was going to be worth it, no matter the consequences.
Quietly and quickly, Jim picked the lock and flung open the door to see Chekov slumped against the wall in the same position as Jim had left him.
For a brief second, Jim thought the worst. "Chekov?!" Jim breathed out, fear making his heart stop.
Chekov crinkled his nose and shifted, biting back a groan. "Vhat took you so long?"
Jim almost laughed in relief until he noted that Chekov's words were slurred and his face was so, so pale. He didn't have much longer before he passed out of from blood loss. Jim had to get him Medical help, and now.
"We're getting out. Come on, let's go," Jim said, reaching forward to pull Chekov to his feet.
Chekov wrapped an arm around Jim's shoulders and the two slowly limped their way out towards freedom.
The journey to the center of the base was arduous, but it didn't take quite as long as Jim had thought. He studiously ignored all the bodies that were sprawled all over their path, but Chekov couldn't. There was a mixture of disgust and hatred in his eyes every time they walked past one – Jim wasn't sure if it was directed towards his complete apathy towards them or if Chekov was the type to hold grudges for the experiences that they both went through. Jim was leaning towards the latter, but with his history, he was never sure, and he filed that away to sulk over later.
He had already made sure that the room with the transporters was empty before he lugged Chekov into it. Carefully, he set Chekov onto the pad and ran (in his mind; in actuality, he shuffled) over to the console.
"You didn't have the time to reconfigure this, did you?" Jim called out as his fingers rapidly typed out long sequences into the console.
"No," came Chekov's quiet voice. It was too quiet and it was fading away fast.
At that, Jim's head snapped up and saw Chekov listing towards his side, his eyes fluttering slowly. "Hey! You stay awake, you hear me?! Stay awake, Chekov! That's an order!"
There was a pause, but Chekov visibly tried to pull himself together. "Yes, sir."
"Just a few more seconds, Chekov." He punched something harshly and then white lights were swirling around Chekov.
Alarm spread through Chekov's face when he realized that he was going back alone, and he sat up in panic. "Keptin!"
"I'll be right behind you, Chekov. Just got something to do first," Jim said. He raised his pinky and smiled reassuringly, despite the fact that there was blood dripping down his face. "I made a promise, remember? See you back home."
And then Chekov was gone, sent back onto the Enterprise, because Jim knew that Spock would never leave without him or Chekov, which meant that she was still sitting at the space station with her parking brakes on. By now, most of the crew should have matriculated back on-board. Shore leave was supposed to end in a couple of days and he knew that Medical always came back at least three days ahead of time, which meant that Chekov was in safe hands.
He pressed a few more buttons, to make sure that the transporter itself would implode as soon as he transported and set a timer. Running forward, he leapt onto the pad and felt the familiar lights take apart his molecules. Timing it perfectly, Jim jammed his thumb into the communicator he had on him. In the distance, he could hear explosions erupt with his pre-prepared phaser explosives, decimating whatever and whoever was left in the base.
That was the last thing he heard before the scene before him completely warped to a plain room with white-washed walls. Without looking, he knew that to his right, there was a panel of glass windows, letting bright sunlight stream into the space. It was familiar and spoke of safety and comfort, but Jim didn't have time for that now. He kept his eyes glued at the older man sitting at the desk before him, his entrance still unnoticed.
"Pike," he said without much preamble.
Pike jumped at Jim's voice and when he looked up, all the blood drained from his face and he leapt out of his chair to rush towards Jim. "Jim!" he gasped, "My god, what happened to you?! How…?!"
Jim just shook his head, batting off Pike's supporting hands. "You can debrief me later. Call off the search for me. Where's Komack?"
"What? Komack? He's in his office. Jim, you need to go to Medical."
"After." Jim abruptly turned on his heel and marched out of Pike's office with Pike at his heels.
Vaguely, Jim could hear Pike calling Spock as he moved quickly through the hallways. He was probably quite a sight to see – a decorated Captain roaming through the halls of Starfleet headquarters half-naked and with clear signs of being tortured to an inch of his life. Everyone instantly moved out of his way and stared with their eyes popping out, but he paid no attention to them. He had probably another five minutes before his body collapsed on him and he needed to get something off his chest first while he could.
He had a bone to pick with Komack. The man was going to regret putting Chekov and his crew in danger, even if it was the last thing Jim ever did.
Back on the Bridge of the Enterprise, Spock, Scotty, Sulu, and McCoy were working through their data concerning Jim and Chekov when Spock's communicator rang. The Vulcan almost dropped it with his trembling hands when Pike's strained voice came through telling them that Jim was back.
"Jim just transported himself into my office," said Pike, just as Uhura came running in, exclaiming, "Chekov's back onboard! He's just been moved to Medical."
Relief and happiness made Scotty sag into a chair while the rest of them breathed for the first time since their capture.
Spock's communicator crackled to life again, making their hearts stop once again. "Spock, bring McCoy. He looks bad."
McCoy snatched Spock's communicator and was already sprinting towards the turbolift with the rest of them at his heels. "Get him to stay still until I get there. Don't let him run around or do anything stupid."
"Too late. He's making his way to Komack."
"What the hell?! Stop him!"
"I would if I could!" snapped Pike, "Fucking brat can still move faster than me all bloodied and beaten…Just get your asses down here." And then he hung up.
By then, McCoy, Spock, and Sulu were already standing on the transporter pad, and Scotty was quickly tapping in the coordinates to transport them directly in front Komack's office.
Lights swirled around them and when they landed, they immediately burst into Komack's office.
And what they saw floored them.
It was a sight that they would never forget.
With a loud bang, Jim threw open Komack's door and stormed forward, slamming his bloody hand onto his desk, almost whacking the man on his nose. The Admiral was unfazed by Jim's actions. In fact, angry crept across his face – first appearing as a flush across the back of his round neck. And then he raised his head. His jaw dropped as he saw Jim's appearance.
Jim was covered from head to toe with blood that was both his and someone else's. His bruises had yet to fade and were a dark purple, spreading across the span of his torso. Fresh cuts decorated his skin; there were even lacerations on his face, coupled with a black eye and a bloody nose. Marks left from the cattle prods and electrodes remained at select areas of his upper body. Behind him, Pike could see the crisscross whip marks on his muscled back, spreading all the way to his hips. His breathing was uneven, but the steel in his blue eyes was still the same as ever.
"Kirk, what the hell are you doing here?!" Komack exclaimed, standing up, "Pike, why isn't this boy in Medical?!"
"Leave him out of this, Admiral," Jim snarled. "This is between you and me. Now shut up and sit down."
"Be careful of what you say next, Kirk," growled Komack, "You're damn close to insubordination, Captain."
Jim leaned forward, his expression threatening and terrifying at the same time. "Sit. Down," he hissed.
Never before had Jim ever bared his teeth against his superiors, even at their most frustrating moments, and to see Jim like this scared the hell out of Komack. For the first time, he finally understood that it wasn't that the Admiralty had control over the wild and infamous James T. Kirk –they only had control because Kirk had allowed it. But now? Komack always feared a loose cannon, especially one in the form of Kirk, and here he was before him now.
Komack gulped as he slowly sank back into his seat. "I assume you're here because you carried out your mission?" he asked, his voice meek.
At this point, Jim's world had narrowed to see Komack and Komack alone. He didn't even register the fact that Spock, Bones, and Sulu had skidded into the room, completely awestruck at the sight before them. "You should be getting reports of an unexplainable explosion that decimated and killed an entire terrorist cell on your desk in the next few hours. Don't investigate. There's nothing left. But that's not why I'm here, Admiral." Jim spat out Komack's title with immense disdain before continuing.
"Admiral, over the last five years, you have taken advantage of my skill sets and sent me on missions that I should never have been a part of. My life has been in more danger under your command than my entire career thus far combined. While I agreed to participate in these missions – under your constant threats, mind you – I was fine with completing them because I knew there was a greater good in every single one. But you, sir, have crossed a goddamn line."
Jim angrily pointed an accusing finger at Komack's face. "You do not get to put my crew in danger. It doesn't matter if you think it's fucking necessary to complete missions at all cost. You do not get to play with my crew's lives. Sending out Chekov to me when you knew that everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket was the last straw, Komack, and you can be damn sure that I'll find some way to make you pay for it."
"You dare to threaten me?! I am your immediate superior!" roared Komack, his pride unable to take Jim's domineering presence.
"NOT ANYMORE!" roared Jim as he loudly slammed his fist down onto the desk, silencing Komack instantly. He paused to catch his breath before cocking his head slightly. "You remember that little deal we made before I agreed to take on this last mission? Once I completed it, which I did, you agreed to relinquish your hold of the Enterprise to Pike and leave me and my crew alone. You remember that? Because if you don't, I have a video recording that Starfleet would be more than happy to investigate for me."
Jim leaned over, speaking lowly and viciously. "You don't get to put my crew in danger for your own selfish agendas anymore, Komack. And I swear to God, if you even try to lay one fucking finger one any one of them again, you can bet your ass that I'm coming for you."
Komack smirked. "You can't touch me, Kirk."
"You're a fucking moron. Who do you think Starfleet is going to choose? You, who's a fucking useless fodder that doesn't know his place, or me, the savior of the entire fucking universe? I think your chances are getting slimmer as your belt notches increase, and that's exactly what you're afraid of, isn't it? That some young new Captain is going to come and steal your thunder and take away all that you've worked for? Well, I've got some news for you: it's already happened! You can either continue to try to make my life miserable or you can make things easier on you and just leave me the hell alone!"
"I don't give a damn about prestige or taking over your position. I don't give a damn whether or not I'm a goddamn puppet to you all. What I do care about is my crew. They're my family and I'm not losing that again. So, this is me telling you nicely to back to the fuck off, or you'll see exactly what I'm capable of."
Komack hesitated, but it was in his nature to fight back to his last breath. "I'm not afraid of you, Kirk."
Jim just smiled darkly. "Yes you are. You wouldn't be sending me on all those suicidal missions if you weren't."
Komack suppressed a shiver and pulled out his PADD, scribbling something on it before turning it around to show Jim. "The Enterprise now officially reports to Admiral Pike and you will no longer be commissioned to complete missions that are not directly given to you by Pike. Are you satisfied now?"
Jim straightened. "Very." He started to turn, but stopped at the last minute. "Oh, by the way, Chekov was shot and severely injured during his time of captivity. I expect you to find a way to compensate for all the mental and physical the man needlessly went through."
Anger flashed through Komack's eyes, but Jim just coldly stared him down. "Fine, I'll see to it," snarled Komack. "Now get the hell out of my office, Kirk!"
Jim snorted and gave a mock bow, ignoring how it killed his ribs to do so. "It'd be my pleasure," he responded, his words heavy with caustic derision.
And he strode away from Komack with great satisfaction, though he let a moment of surprise show on his face when he saw Spock, Bones, and Sulu standing next to Pike. All of them (except for Spock, of course) had matching expressions of awe, horror, and shock. Their eyes were almost bugging out and Jim couldn't resist, despite the increasing feeling of fatigue and pain.
"What? Do I have something on my face?" he quipped as they all stepped out of Komack's office, letting the door slam behind them.
"Uh…a little more than 'something'…" Sulu responded.
"Jim, what the hell happened?!" Bones exclaimed as he stepped in front of Jim.
Good ol' Bones already had his tricorder out and was scanning him. Nothing good was going to show up, but Jim felt all snuggly at the familiar antics of his best friend. Or maybe that giddiness was just a sign of him about to lose consciousness…that seemed just as likely.
"We searched the entire planet for you, Jim. Where were you?" Spock asked, all his concern shining through his brown eyes.
Jim's barriers against his pain were crumbling quickly. Already, he could feel all his muscles threatening spasm painfully again. He could barely hear Spock over the dull roar in his ears.
"Son, you alright?" Pike questioned gently, reaching out to light touch Jim's shoulder.
The sharp pain of that seemingly innocuous gesture made everything worse. Jim swallowed harshly, blinking away the dark edges of his vision. "Guys, I know you have a lot of questions, and I would love to answer them, but I've just spent ten days being tortured and I'm still bleeding all over the floor. I would really appreciate some drugs, a bed, and a nice long sleep, preferably in that order. And none of that Starfleet Medical shit. They'll just give me something that I'm allergic to and kill me faster."
Bones sucked in a sharp breath as he remembered the last hellish nine days, thinking the worst of Jim's fate. "Don't you dare say that, Jim."
The world swirled nauseatingly and blackened rapidly. Jim had finally reached his limit, and he knew that he was in deep trouble.
"Then…" His tongue and the rest of his body felt so numb (and that was wrong, wrong, wrong). "Then you better keep me alive, Bones."
And he crumbled into Spock and Sulu's outstretched arms.
McCoy's tricorder finally pinged out the results and like Pike before him, all the color drained from his face.
"Doctor?!" Spock almost shouted out as he felt Jim's life slipping away like water through his fingers.
"Get him back on the Enterprise, Spock! NOW!"
Spock didn't need any other urging and whipped out his communicator, calling for immediate beam-up directly to Medbay. Lights swirled around Spock, Jim, McCoy, and Sulu, leaving Pike alone.
"Spock, please keep me updated," Pike pleaded, the worry and fear for his surrogate son making him seem years older in an instant.
Spock only had time to nod before they were gone.
Pike could only close his eyes and pray to a God he didn't believe in, begging for Jim's life.
And then there was nothing he could do but wait ever so fearfully.
The next few hours were a blur. Jim was brought back onboard to the Enterprise, clinging to life. He had developed pneumonia from the dirty water that he was waterboarded in and that, combined with the various infections from his uncleaned and untreated cuts and lacerations, had sent him spiraling into septic shock. Despite McCoy pumping fluids through his veins, replacing the poison in his blood, he still had respiratory distress and his heart pumped abnormally. A few minutes onto the surgery table, Jim flat-lined and McCoy was forced to open Jim up to keep his organs from failing.
That surgery took twelve hours and it was three blood transfusions later before Jim was stable, but still critical. They even ran out of blood halfway and almost all of the crew members who had the same type as him had come forward to donate for their Captain, including both Scotty and Sulu.
Jim was placed into a completely sterile room because with the sepsis, he was now more susceptible to new infections. With how weak he was, another complication would more than likely kill him. He was attached to several machines that kept his organs functionally normally, including a respirator to alleviate some of the difficulties caused by the pneumonia. IV bags filled with a broad and strong spectrum of antibiotics, fluids, and strong painkillers that acted as sedatives were constantly pumped through his systems to combat the sepsis and his fever. McCoy had then put on a hazmat suit to run the dermal and bone-regenerator on the superficial wounds. It took more than five hours – a testament to how truly wounded Jim was.
He was forbidden visitors until all the infections cleared up, not that he minded. He was unconscious for the entirety of the time he was locked up in his "bubble" – a total of two and a half weeks. But he still refused to or simply couldn't wake up after he was wheeled into 'his' area of the Medbay. His body was healing slowly, but he was far from out of the woods.
By then, Chekov had already been healed and was on his feet, alternating between his quarters and Jim's bedside. He had stopped speaking and it was clear that guilt was eating the young man from the inside out, but there was no one that could comfort him. The only one that could was lying on a Biobed, completely unaware of the conscious world, so they let him be, but they always did make sure that he was never alone.
The rest of the crew on the Enterprise felt the loss of their Captain and Navigator's presence acutely. There was hardly any laughter anymore; no smiles, no brightness. It just didn't feel right when one of them was practically on his deathbed not too long ago.
Jim's condition and Chekov's silence weighed heavily on the Command crew. Sulu lost all interest in fencing and buried himself into his research of plants when he wasn't with Chekov; Scotty lost his appetite and spent a lot of his time sitting next to Chekov and Jim, staring blankly at the ceiling. Uhura would come around to try and coax the two to eat, especially because the starvation had made Chekov lose more than thirteen pounds. She would also read to Jim from old Terran classics, like Count of Monte Cristo and The Hobbit. Sometimes, she would bring out old Vulcan poetry and let the foreign words roll over her tongue to comfort herself too, but there were times when she would have to set down the books that she had borrowed from Jim's collection and leave before she burst into tears in front of the entire ship.
Spock reverted to his Vulcan side and grew distant from everyone, focusing solely on his work and research. Never before had he been more efficient, and that was saying something because he was usually one hundred percent perfect. McCoy, on the other hand, physically fell into complete disarray. He didn't shave and barely slept, leaving behind dark bags under his eyes and a constant worn out look. He still treated patients, but oftentimes, he let Nurse Chapel or Dr. M'Benga to deal with it. He spent just as much time as Chekov by Jim's side, probably more because he practically lived in the Medbay.
One day during those horrible two and a half weeks, while both Chekov and McCoy were both sleeping at Jim's bedside, Uhura had quietly come up to stroke Jim lovingly on his cheek. "You need to wake up soon, Captain. Your crew needs you. Come back to us, Kirk. Please."
But like before, Jim's eyes had remained closed.
She had sighed and bent down to kiss Jim's forehead before she slipped away, her heart heavy.
Jim just slept on.
It was three weeks and three days since Jim and Chekov escape before McCoy declared Jim completely stable and on the way to recovery.
Two days later, Jim finally opened his eyes, but those blues were cloudy and closed almost immediately. Everyone panicked a little, even Spock, but McCoy reassured them that it was normal for someone who had such taxing injuries to stay awake for a long time. The first words out of his mouth were: "Is Chekov okay?" McCoy wanted to slap him and Chekov wanted to sob, but he was back asleep before anyone could do anything.
It took another two days before Jim was able to stay coherent long enough for a decent conversation. It was another three days before Jim was strong enough to sit up on his own. The color had returned to his cheeks and his eyes sparkled like before. Even better, Jim never seemed to stop smiling, especially when Chekov was around. That smile was contagious and it spread through the entire ship.
Laughter returned and people started breathing again, but Chekov's smiles still dropped whenever he thought Jim wasn't looking at him.
"Chekov," Jim had suddenly said one day when the two of them were alone (though he knew that Bones was hovering around somewhere).
"Yes?"
"Don't blame yourself for what happened to me, Chekov. It wasn't your fault and there was nothing you could've done to stop it. I've been in your position, Chekov. I know how helpless you can feel and I know how much you wish that our roles have been reversed. There's nothing that could have changed what happened. Consider it my own stubbornness to have things play out the way they did, and I'm sorry that you had to suffer, but don't ever think that you were useless. If it wasn't for you, I don't think I could've made it out of there alive, so thank you."
Chekov had nearly stuttered out the "You're welcome," out of confusion because the guilt was still there, heavy in his stomach.
Jim just smiled. "It'll take time, but you'll come to terms with this. For now, just remember that you are indispensible to me and I owe so much to you."
"I owe you!" Chekov blurted out.
"Then call us even," Jim said back, closing his eyes as fatigue reared its ugly head.
He was asleep before Chekov could even protest more. How was any of this "even"?! Jim was lying so sick and wounded while Chekov was pretty much free of even a paper cut. Chekov found himself more upset than before, but it was as Jim said: slowly and over time, Chekov did come to terms with what happened. He would never forget it and the guilt would never fully disappear, but he understood Jim's underlying meaning that day. If he felt helpless, then he would just have to make sure that he would never feel that way again. He would have to become stronger and overcome this trauma. It would take time, but one day in the far future, Chekov knew that he would be just as strong as Jim; it just didn't have to be today.
And that single thought pulled Chekov out of his dark thoughts and it seemed that all was right with the world, or at least it soon would be.
Exactly one month from the Komack Fiasco, as Jim called it, Jim had finally been allowed back to his quarters and his Command crew was there waiting for him with bright smiles on their faces.
Jim grinned at them as Bones gently guided him to his bed and tucked him in like the mother hen he was. He even fluffed up Jim's pillows so that he could sit up comfortably. Jim chuckled at his antics and waved him away, "Sit down, Bones. I'm fine."
And he was. He was as weak as a newborn babe and needed Bones' help to even make the short trip to the bathroom, but he could at least walk now. There was still a bit of soreness in his muscles (courtesy of some nerve damage that was healing slowly) and he easily lost his breath (thanks to that bitch, pneumonia). His nails had almost fully grown back too; Jim was pretty excited to get off the damn bandages that were on each of his fingers. There were some physical scars left and his damaged shoulder was going to be more susceptible to injuries in the future, but he was close to being a hundred percent again.
Bones huffed at his flippant response and plopped down on a chair next to Jim, crossing his arms. The rest settled down on Jim's floor (not wanting to jostle him by sitting on his bed), getting ready for what they started calling "Q&A sessions with the ingenious idiot".
Jim, of course, was well aware of this new-founded tradition and spread his hands in a sign of openness. "Well, who wants to start?"
"I'd like to know why you didn't tell me about this mission, you moron," muttered Bones.
"I'd like to know when you started taking missions and why the hell you were still taking them!" Sulu cut in, overshadowing McCoy's question. "You're the Captain of Starfleet' flagship!"
Jim shrugged. "Well, Komack's a jackass who likes to use people. He was afraid of me gaining too much power and usurping him, so he liked to play me like a puppet just to prove to himself that he could."
"But you didn't have to go along with it!"
"He threatened to expel me from the Academy when I was a student, so I didn't really have much of a choice then. Later, he threatened either Pike or me directly and I couldn't really find a reason to say no. Regardless of his methods, Komack's missions saved hundreds, if not thousands of lives. It was supposed to stop when I gained Captaincy, but I made a deal with him to take one last mission."
"Because he threatened us?" prompted Spock.
Jim frowned. "How did you know that?"
Bones rolled his eyes. "We were there when you chewed out Komack's ass, genius."
"Which was damn awesome, by the way," added Sulu.
"Oh. Right." A dopey smile spread across Jim's face as he remembered the incident. He had to admit, that had felt so good.
"Why didn't you tell us about this?" asked Uhura, her tone tinged with anger. "You can't keep hiding these like this from us!"
Jim just shrugged, having had given the same speech to Bones so many years ago when all this started out. "I would have if I could have, but I would have been written up insubordination, treason, or whatever. Komack made it very clear that only the very top and I could know, and I kind of get it. Most of the missions I get sent on tends to lean towards the shadier side of Starfleet that no one wants to know about. If word got out that Starfleet was behind any of the things that I did, I'm pretty sure a whole bunch of wars would start. Hence, the utmost secrecy, but if I had the choice, I would have told you guys. I almost did. Why else do you think I left in such a hurry?"
"Why did McCoy know an' we don' then?" frowned Scotty.
"I didn't know about this one," retorted McCoy angrily.
Jim gave Bones a strained look, knowing full well that that was going to come up sooner or later, but he didn't have to address it now. "He didn't really get a choice in the matter. Back in the Academy, I came back from a mission pretty messed up, but I knew I couldn't go to the hospital or they'll just ask questions, so I figured that I would clean myself up and went home. I forgot that Bones was home too and well, let's just say I made a very persuasive argument to Komack to not make Bones disappear, so he kind of had to stick around."
"I was told that I did not have the clearance to be privy to the details of your mission, Jim. I was under the assumption that, due to my unique standing between the Vulcan's High Council and Starfleet, we had the same clearance," Spock commented.
Jim grinned at Spock's statement-question. "I guess you're not as special as you think you are, Spock," he joked, his blue eyes dancing with amusement. "That doesn't bother you, does it? That I have a higher clearance than you?"
"That is illogical." If Spock was human, he would've sniffed and then pouted until someone took pity on him.
Jim chuckled. "I only have higher clearance because of Komack and the fact that I'm a Tarsus survivor. Don't worry. You're still loved by Starfleet, Spock."
Spock definitely did not pout at that, but it was damn close.
"So what happened?" asked Uhura, saving Spock from eternal humiliation, "Where were you? We couldn't find any trace of the two of you."
"I was minding my own business in Germany when Chekov comes knocking on my door. At this point, I'm already expecting company and Komack goes and plays Chekov into my hand, so we were both captured and held in a cell with video surveillance. I got tortured, Chekov got shot, we broke out, and I blew up the place. That's pretty much the gist of it. You probably couldn't find us because they had a DRFM system that threw all your data off."
"You escaped on your own volition, did you not, Jim?" asked Spock.
"I had more than enough incentive," Jim responded, his jaw tightening as he thought about Chekov bleeding on the ground.
"Why didn' ye escape earlier then?" questioned Scotty.
"The parameters of my mission were to decimate the terrorist cell and everything they had even dipped their fingers in. I needed to gather more intel and break down whatever support the branches had so that they could never recover. To do that, I needed time, and the only way to do that was to stay an extra few days."
Jim ignored Bones' violent flinch to his nonchalance and he knew that he was going to get an earful about it later, but for now, he and the others were more interested in getting answers. "I stalled for time and while they were 'busy' with me, Chekov snuck around and hacked into all their databases, deleting bank accounts, information, and pretty much anything that made them exist."
Spock raised his eyebrow. "How could he have 'snuck around'? You mentioned that you were both under video surveillance."
"They didn't deem Chekov as a threat, so when I was out, there was a lull in security involving our cell. No one paid attention to him because they were all so worried about what I would do, so I told Chekov to hack into the feeds and create a loop whenever I left the cell. I taught him how to pick locks and was sure to stall for at least one hour every day so he could do what he needed to. And the rest you already know."
When they looked at him incredulously, Jim just shrugged again. "I'm a genius strategist, remember? I play the cards I'm dealt. I happened to be lucky enough to have Chekov with me. I don't think I could've pulled any of that off without him."
Chekov blushed and Jim beamed at it.
"Aw! I made him blush!"
Laughter filled the air, but it was interrupted by Jim's sudden coughing that transformed into an uncontrollable fit. McCoy was immediately up, pressing a hypospray to his neck. Almost instantaneously, Jim's tightened expressions relaxed and his coughing stopped. He sagged back against his pillows, eyes closing as he sighed immeasurably.
"Doctor?" Spock questioned quietly.
All of them had stood up in alarm, but froze in place simply because they didn't know what to do.
"He's fine," McCoy responded, "He just needs some rest. We can pick this up another time."
The polite dismissal was clear in his words and tone and they easily acquiesced, exiting without another word.
When the door closed behind them, McCoy let out a sigh and returned back Jim's bedside. While his back was turned, Jim had slid down the bulk of pillows and was now lying on his side, his head close to the edge of the bed, nearest to his chair. Though Jim's eyes were closed, Bones knew that he was still awake, but he was in the midst of drifting off to sleep.
Bones walked over to the other side of Jim and settled down, leaning against the headboard and stretching out his legs. He waited patiently for Jim to fight between his pride and the need for the physical comfort that Bones knew he always wanted after near-death experiences – especially when it was so close this time around. Bones wasn't even sure if Jim needed the comfort more or if he did.
It took a few minutes, but Jim rolled over and nudged his head against Bones' thigh. Bones smiled and started to run his fingers through Jim's hair – it was a comforting gesture that he knew Jim absolutely loved.
"Why didn't you tell me about this mission, Jim?" he asked quietly.
Jim hummed a little before he answered in a sleepy voice. "You were with Joanna. Didn't want to interrupt."
"You promised that you would always tell me about these things." The hurt was unveiled in Bones' words, and Jim still wasn't too far gone to not pick up on it.
"'m sorry," he mumbled, burying his face into the sheets. "I didn't want to come between you and your family."
"Moron. How many times do I have to tell you that you're family too? I love you just as much as I love Joanna, you damn brat."
Jim's hand reached over and grasped Bones' pants for a brief second before letting go, and Bones just smiled at how that little gesture spoke volumes. It was Jim's odd way of showing how much he truly cared for Bones, and that was enough for the both of them.
Jim shifted closer, moving so that he rested his head on Bones' thigh.
Bones sighed. "Damn it, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a pillow, you damn cat."
But Jim was already asleep, his words falling on deaf ears.
McCoy leaned his head back and closed his eyes, comforted by the feel of his best friend's steady pulse beneath his fingers. He knew his back was going to protest him sleeping sitting up tomorrow, but he couldn't find it in himself to move.
He guessed, in the end, the two of them were simply a pair of idiots, ingenious or not, but he was too content with having his best friend back where he belonged to really care about the semantics for once.
They were home, and that was all that mattered.
So, I hope you all enjoyed it! I'm planning on writing a Spock injured/Kirk survivor skills/Kirk whumpage for the next installment, but fair warning: it's going to take a long time. I haven't even started and I have to get through the hellish months of exams, quizzes, papers, and projects, so please be patient with me. I hope you all still stick around. But after that, it's once again up for grabs. There's a few ideas that I've gotten that I might use, but I tend to combine two or more reviews with each chapter, so please throw out as many ideas as you have. It might be put into the next one!
Anyway, as always, please review! It makes my day, and who knows? Maybe your reviews will inspire me to write faster. I know that I often get into these writing sprees when I read your comments. :)
~ Kanae Yuna