Author's Note: Hello, everyone! I'm back and ready to get this story moving again! I'm so sorry that it's been so long since the last update. I was finally able to get in the right headspace to write this chapter, and I'm working on the next one, too. I'm writing a few WIPS, but will complete several more chapters for this one first before continuing with my 'rotation.'

Thank you for your reviews and inquires about the story - I am greatly appreciative of the interest it has gathered! I hope you enjoy what's next. :)

Thank you to plumeria47, junker5, and diamondblue4 for ALL of the work you've done helping me with this chapter - and the story in general. Your edits, suggestions, and encouragement have made all the difference! Hugs!

This chapter backtracks a bit, and I'll need the next chapter, also, to catch us up to where we left off with McCoy, down on the ground in pain. This one begins with Jim's POV, when Jocelyn is walking him back to his room.

Warnings for this chapter: angst, irrational Jim, Implied Child Sexual Abuse, Verbal Abuse, and one more (Possibly triggery) warning that will be posted in the endnotes because it would be a huge spoiler if I put it here. If you're easily triggered by things in fic, please look there first.

oOo

And If I Stand Next to You

Chapter 16

I've walked miles in your shoes (but nothing will change my course)

oOo

Jocelyn was so tender with Jim as she escorted him to his bedroom that, as crazy as it sounded, he'd thought Nora had taken him by the arm, instead. Just for a moment.

Jocelyn had never warmed up to him, had obviously disliked him from the first day they'd met years ago. Occasionally, she had acted spiteful towards Bones even before the recent custody issue. But she'd raised Joanna, hadn't she? A bright and compassionate little girl. She couldn't be all that bad. Maybe the meld with Spock, combined with cutting ties with Treadway, had drawn out her gentler side. The side she must show to Jojo, and perhaps had shown to Treadway. And maybe even to Bones, a long, long time ago.

Not that it mattered now. At least to him. He had enough problems ahead of him than to concern himself with Bones's ex-wife.

His life was surreal, had been for the past two months. Bones's words had done nothing to help the out-of-body experience he'd been having ever since he'd opened his eyes after the warp core, discovering that he'd been dead, that he'd missed Pike's funeral. He felt himself sinking into a stupor. Any other time and he would've balked at Jocelyn doing this for him. Now, he did nothing to stop her. He didn't feel up to navigating Nora's house on his own, anyway. Everything around him looked like a blur, or in a haze, in a figurative sense. He wasn't seeing anything clearly.

He stopped just inside his bedroom door, almost blocking Jocelyn's way in, but unaware that he did so. As he stared at the wall ahead of him, which became nothing more than a dark blob in his sight, she slipped past him and tugged on his arm, encouraging him to move again.

He hardly noticed he was even sitting on the bed until she placed her hand on his shoulder. "Do you need a blanket? Water? Anything?" she asked.

He thought for a second, then shook his head. He would much rather be alone when he cracked. And that, he was certain, would be at any time.

She looked him over with a critical eye. "Are you sure?"

He looked down at his hands, which had not stopped shaking, wishing that he was well again. Was that too much to ask?

"Jim?"

"Yeah?" He lifted his head slowly to look at her, this woman who'd glared at him like he was a bug she wanted to squash just days ago.

Her eyes softened, the look taking him by surprise. "Are you sure you don't need anything?"

"I-I'm good."

The words sounded hollow.

He was far, far from being 'good.'

"Okay," she murmured, but she didn't look convinced. "I'll be back soon to check on you."

"Thank you," he said, remembering his manners.

"It's the least I can do."

The door shut behind her, and that noise alone woke him up.

Sent to his room? Sent to bed? Forced to wait?

Dammit, this wasn't him. This coddling. This treatment like he was going to break. Not even from Bones. Especially not from Bones's ex-wife.

But he'd be lying if he said he didn't like it when Bones, his brother in all things, gave him that extra attention.

A thought that immediately enveloped his heart with grief.

He swallowed, running his hands over his face. Even though it was stupid to think that Bones would check on him, instead of his ex-wife, he couldn't help but hope for it to happen.

Since when was Jocelyn his ally?

Since when was Bones his enemy?

He looked around his room in despair, feeling Bones's disappointment and disgust like a thick, wet blanket falling over him. Suffocating him but, at the same time, pulling him back.

He couldn't stay here. This room already held too many memories of his friendship with Bones to make it a haven or safe place.

He stood, shaking and uncertain, until he thought of Bones's room. He could go there. He'd rather go there. Yes, it was Bones's room, but there wasn't much up on the second floor that reminded him of their friendship, if anything. Just Bones. Not like that was much better.

But, still, it could be better than this, constant reminders of how compassionately the doctor has cared for him since they'd arrived at Nora's house.

He only had one problem. He'd barely made it downstairs. How could he make it upstairs?

Restless and wanting a place where he could curl up and block out the rest of the world, he chose to put more distance between him and everyone he'd left behind in the dining room. A decision completely opposite of what Bones probably expected him to do. Sit on the bed. Do nothing. Wait for the doctor to make every single decision in his goddamn life from now on.

His comm started to ring beside him on the stand, a rude sound that hurt his ears. He didn't even glance at it, choosing to ignore the call. Bones probably didn't want him talking to anyone, anyway, especially if it was someone from Starfleet. He didn't care to add more stress to his day, either.

He made his way to the door and out into the hallway, closing the door behind him and shutting out the annoying ring. Looking in both directions, he quickly determined there was no one else around and headed for the stairway.

He padded to the steps like an old man, feeling the effects of his cold, of everything else that was against him, and began his ascent. He tried purging the ugly encounter with his best friend from his mind, but he couldn't. He tried to convince himself that Bones only had his best interest at heart, but he couldn't. He tried to focus on getting through the next wave of injections, but he couldn't.

If only he'd stayed in Bones's room before making the brash decision to head downstairs, preventing the disastrous chain reaction of conflicting emotions it had caused. Bones's curt orders and accusations had found their mark, dead center. While walking with Jocelyn, they'd reverberated in his ears like the doctor was in the here and now instead of in the past and in the other room. The recent past simply hurt. As his eyes burned from his cold, and maybe fresh tears, he relived the hurtful exchange over and over, like an endless scene in a movie, recurring in slow motion.

He sagged against the handrail half-way up the stairs, momentarily giving up his fight. His throat ached like when he'd woken up from his nap, and now his ears ached, too. Both symptoms worsening as began coughing. He coughed until his ribs screamed in protest, and even then it didn't stop until another minute.

Fuck this cold.

After wiping the sweat off his brow, and his nose with his sleeve, he dragged himself forward. Up a step, then another, until he stopped again. He wavered on his feet, miserable. He squinted down at the floor, now doubting what he was doing. Trying to go up the stairs again? For space?

Would he even make it?

He clung to the handrail with his limited strength, the top of the steps becoming a distant hope. He had to make it. He had to get away from Bones—from all of them—and try to clear his head. He didn't want them to find him here, stuck like some pathetic invalid on the stairs. He thought it was strange that Bones seemed to have forgotten that the stairs would be available for Jim to use, but he wasn't complaining. He'd get there, to the top. Eventually. And all by himself, dependent on no one.

With renewed determination, he narrowed his gaze on the top of the stairs but was hit with a wave of dizziness. He closed his eyes as his body swayed.

He groaned. "Shit," he breathed.

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the rail, but only for a second. He doubled over, letting go of the railing and slipping to the step, nearly sliding back down the steps had it not been for the rug creating enough friction to stop him.

Panting, he gulped a breath and rose to his hands and knees, his limbs shaking beneath him under his own weight.

Come on, Kirk.

Gritting his teeth, he inched himself upward, resorting to crawling up the rest of the stairs on his hands and knees like a small child. His best friend's words haunted him with every movement, much like Frank's did whenever doubts crept up behind him and bit him in the ass. Doubts that these relationships he'd formed over the years, as a fucked up, genius repeat-offender, would even last.

Proving what Frank had told him long ago.

Frank hadn't been eloquent in his speech except for when he was drunk, ironically, the words spilling from his lips faster than Jim could understand them as a young child. But now, as an adult, he understood them all too well.

Think that grade's gonna prove you're somethin' to me? You're trash, Sonny Boy.

One day you'll end up like me, left with a dumb kid and a bottle of beer. You'll have no business having a normal life like other people.

We ain't normal, Sonny Boy.

In the end, 's'not worth it. You're always gonna get hurt. Even a hero's little brat.

Take a good look at me, ya hear? You're always gonna be alone, Sonny Boy. Get used to it.

Alone, Sonny Boy. Nursin' a worthless heart with booze or sex or drugs. Jus' you wait and see.

The mere thought of the bastard's name made him cringe, the nickname Frank had given him in the dead of night, when the older man had stolen into his bed and carded his dirty hands through Jim's blonde hair, more revolting than anything in the world.

But those weren't the only things that caused him feel this hellish cycle of emotions. The guilt he harbored from simply surviving through the years, suffering Frank's abuse, welled up in his chest. His mind was pulled into his past in Iowa, insecurities returned, looking to attack his most vulnerable places.

Unworthy.

Unlovable.

Alone.

All of which had been laid bare thanks to Bones. He knew, deep down, that Bones wasn't Frank. In no way was he near to being the type of man Frank had been.

But he felt himself slipping, weakening for a moment, allowing Bones's words to strike his heart like Frank's had.

It was easy to do. He had ended up on his own. Like Frank.

There seemed to be only one solution to his problems now. Running away. Ignoring them. But even that was an uncertainty. He wasn't stupid enough to just leave.

He'd probably die.

It seemed as if he was stuck in his own no-win scenario.

Maybe Frank had had the best idea, after all. Never getting too close to anyone. Too bad he hadn't been smart enough to think about it before he'd boarded that damn shuttle, he thought bitterly.

He continued his struggle, panting for breath by the time he reached the top, and practically dragged himself over the last step.

He'd made it. He'd fucking made it. He sat, leaning against the wall, allowing himself to give into the numbness again as he rested.

He didn't see Bones forgiving him for lying about Delta Vega all these years any time soon. If anything, their friendship...had taken a serious hit. A break that might never be repaired.

Jus' you wait and see.

Frank's words resonated with him, and it wasn't for the first time.

Everything he'd done had been for the love of his crew.

What good was it now, when Bones was going to take it all away from him...again?

He'd died saving his crew, and Bones had revived him, stealing his honorable death from him right from under his nose. He'd stuffed everything inside after Delta Vega to protect the ones he loved, and Bones was going to make him spill his darkest secrets to a stranger. Stealing it away from him—again.

All this time he'd thought it'd been for the best, not for the worst. Where had he gone wrong?

Had he gone wrong?

He'd thought he'd been sparing Bones and the rest of his friends from his continuing pain. From the harsher truths that he alone had wanted to bear. He'd thought he'd been sparing Selek, a man who was lost in a world so different yet achingly similar to the one in which he'd lived, from the backlash he might receive after Bones or another medical professional learned of the meld.

He'd never said a word about the meld for those reasons, but also for reasons he didn't quite understand but suspected had to do with his brain being fucked up on that damned ice planet. Images of a more stable Jim Kirk, of a different life, were memories he'd never wanted to share, with anyone. They were his and his alone.

If he'd told Bones the truth, that ever since he'd claimed those strange memories as his that he'd tortured himself with them for no good reason, would they ever mean the same to him again?

And if he told him, would they even be his anymore?

This other life would most likely be torn from his grasp by either medication or a psychiatrist or a healer.

He'd lose it. All of it.

Probably wouldn't even remember that he'd had a meld by the time they were done with him. But Spock and Bones would.

That thought alone was so fucked up he couldn't help but shiver.

He'd lose his will to do better. His daydreams of a father who was there. The memory of the planet, Vulcan, intact. The destruction of Vulcan that made him cry into his pillow and at the same time want to be a better friend to Spock. The beauty of a crew whose friendships surpassed his dreams.

All of it.

Wouldn't he?

He had depended so much on that glimpse into the other him that he was used to it by now. Trusting it without giving it a second thought, even using it to justify his current choices and how he commanded his ship.

That glimpse into Selek's world had influenced him in ways—that maybe he didn't even want to know.

Ever.

He supposed, swallowing a new lump in his throat, that it showed just how dependent he was on all of the pain and suffering he'd endured in his life. From an early age, he'd used his shitty childhood as an excuse to lie, cheat, and steal. And now he used—was using—a different pain and suffering to do other things. Laid bare, they all knew how twisted up he was inside, bordering on being dysfunctional, especially when they'd threatened to take it away from him in a blink of an eye.

If Spock was serious about him needing a Vulcan healer, and Bones accepting of it, he'd have to accept the help once he was admitted into the hospital, whether he wanted to or not.

And once there, would they purge his mind of that meld? Was that even possible?

One thing was for sure, he didn't know if he could endure the ride back to San Francisco sitting next to his best friend who now, at best, hated him.

He didn't know if he wanted to endure it.

He didn't know if he wanted to continue with the therapy, as illogical as that thought was.

He didn't know if Bones's treatment was the answer to getting better, after all, at least in one piece.

He didn't know if he could trust anyone but himself. Because, clearly, it had been better to keep those secrets to himself. Their reactions had proved it.

With time, he was sure that these side effects he continued to experience would diminish, especially when he was able to finally put dying behind him.

Not that anyone would even listen to him and his logical reasoning. It was clear no one was willing to give him a chance to try things his way, or accept that sometimes he simply had to make these difficult decisions and that was all there was to it.

No one was in his court. Not really.

No one.

He gritted his teeth in renewed determination and pushed his back into the wall, using it to help himself to his feet. Hugging the wall, he made his way to Bones's bedroom. The door was still open, just like he'd left it, and his PADD was untouched.

He frowned, taking a second look at the device when he saw the green light, flickering on and off.

An incoming video call.

"Not now," he muttered.

Those usually meant an urgent message from the admiralty. Given that his comm had been ringing in his bedroom, it had to be.

Dammit. Resigned, he grabbed the device, connecting that video call without glancing at the caller's ID.

He wished he had the instant the face appeared on the screen.

"Treadway," he said, blinking in slow recognition.

"You don't look so good, Captain Kirk. Maybe even worse than the last time I saw you."

"How'd you get this number?" he demanded to know.

Treadway's eyes grew colder, then his face suddenly disappeared from the screen.

In place of it was what looked like live footage, though he couldn't be sure, of Christine and Dr. Marcus in an apartment but as if he was looking from the outside through a window. Dr. Marcus sat on a couch, drinking from a floral teacup. Christine carried a stack of PADDS to the coffee table, then took a seat in a chair. Her gaze drifted to the window, as if she was staring straight at Jim, but didn't know it.

His heart dropped.

"They look comfortable, don't they?" Treadway asked. "At least for now. My associate is keeping tabs on them, ready to shoot on my command."

"What have you done?" Jim whispered hoarsely.

"Exactly what I needed to do to slip into the dark again, with your help, of course," Treadway said as his face filled the screen.

Jim knew, then, that his life had taken a drastic turn. Treadway had upped the stakes, possibly putting these two women's lives in danger. And, maybe even his.

He swallowed. "You're lying to yourself if you think I'm going to help you evade the law."

"At the cost of Nurse Chapel and Dr. Marcus? Both former crew members?"

"I don't even know if this is live feed," Jim said, easing the worry from his face with a smooth smile he'd used a hundred times before.

"I can rectify that."

The screen split in half. On the left was Treadway, the right, the apartment.

"Boss?" a man off screen asked. "This view still okay?"

"It's perfect," Treadways drawled.

As Jim watched the women go about their lives so quietly inside their apartment his chest tightened painfully. He didn't even know what, exactly, Treadway wanted from him but he felt trapped by the ex-boxer already. "They're innocent in all of this," Jim pleaded. "Please don't hurt them."

Treadway lifted his comm, his look piercing and confident. "I won't...if you cooperate. Just...a minute." He typed into the comm, then held Jim's gaze while a comm beeped in the women's apartment. "And don't worry, Kirk, I'll put it on speaker."

Jim didn't know who to watch. Splitting his attention did not seem right, but neither did focusing his attention on one side.

"Hello? Who is this?" Christine demanded as she picked up.

Treadway was silent, his lips curving into a mocking smile as Jim's gaze flickered from him to Christine.

"Hello?" Christine asked. She waited a beat, then tried again. "Who's there?"

Carol lifted her head, straightening in her seat, alarm flashing across her face, the same expression on her face that he'd witnessed when she realized her father's intentions—to destroy the Enterprise.

Christine closed her eyes. "Leave us alone," she whispered. "You've had your fun. There's a cop right out—"

Treadway cut the connection and cocked his head at Jim.

But his attention was on Christine, who held the comm away from her ear, her hand shaking as she stared down at it.

Dr. Marcus rose to her feet and limped over to Christine, without her cane. Her face was pale as she took the comm from her friend's hands and spoke to her, but Jim could not hear what she said.

While he was still trying to read Carol's lips, the scene faded out, leaving only Treadway.

"I hope you make this as easy as possible, Kirk," Treadway said. "Listen to my instructions, and no one will get hurt."

His anger flared. "What do you want from me?"

"Well, since it's obvious that I lost my fiancée, I'll take the next best thing. Money."

He'd thought as much. "Enough for a long vacation, I presume?"

Treadway's smile gleamed with teeth. "You catch on real quick. Now, let's see if you can hand over 500,000 credits just as fast. Half transferred to my account, the rest cash. I'll send you my information."

He barely held back his shock, though he had that much, and more. He'd never spent the money he'd received as 'the child George Kirk had left behind,' but he also saved more than he spent as a captain. Wanting to save it for a rainy day.

Some rainy day this had turned out to be…

"That's all?" he asked in a bored tone.

Treadway chuckled. "I went for a more...modest sum."

"I'll need time. I don't want to draw suspicion. I'll have to get it from several banks." He thought quickly. "I'll have to withdraw some from a branch downtown." Anything to stall, give Bones and Spock more time to find him once he left the house.

"You have half an hour. Tell no one, Kirk. You know what will happen if you do."

"Half an hour?" he asked in raw disbelief. "You saw me. I'm a sick man. You can hardly expect me to—"

"The clock is ticking, Kirk."

He hesitated, stalling as he developed his plan. "Meet me there, near the bank, at least."

"Where is it?"

"Close to The Book Heart, the bookstore Jojo likes that's down—"

"I know where it is," Treadway cut in sharply.

"That makes it easy, then. In fact, let's meet at the bookstore," he said, hoping there actually was a bank on that street. "I'd like to get...coffee. And maybe pull up a chair. Unlike you, a man who used to fight for hard cash, I really haven't been out all that much lately. Just to the front porch, but you know that already, don't you?"

Treadway stared at him for a moment, long enough for him to doubt that there was a bank located near there, after all.

And his own sanity for going along with this, though he had no choice in the matter.

Fuck.

"You're quite the smartass, aren't you, Kirk?" Treadway finally said.

"One of my more loveable traits," he said with a shrug, belying the rage he felt rising in his chest that someone like Treadway had threatened his crew.

"Not sure I like meeting you there, but you do have a point. You look like hell warmed over, and I'm pretty sure the trip alone in this storm won't help. You're down to twenty-nine minutes."

Impossible.

How the hell was he going to walk out the front door without anyone noticing him and drive downtown in his poor physical state in a half hour? How could anyone? "Twenty-nine minutes?" He couldn't help but laugh. "You're fucking cra—"

"Tell no one," Treadway interrupted, low and menacing, and catching him off guard.

The screen faded to black.

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oOo

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Matthew tilted his head back and stared at the large bookcase near the middle of his store that still needed several shelves filled.

"I could have finished that," said the young man coming up to him.

Matthew smiled and shook his head at his newest employee, Stanton. The young man was studying to become a doctor, working here when he could, and had shown great interest in the state of his 'leg' once he'd learned that Matthew had lost it years ago. "I'd rather be back here tonight. Something about the rain on the roof that's calming."

"If you say so, sir," Stanton looked at him doubtfully.

He took a treasury of Tennyson's poetry off of the cart beside him, handling it with care. This was no ordinary book, but a beautiful antique with gilded pages. It would go behind the glass doors to be seen, not touched. "I do. How about you make sure our customers have a warm cup of hot chocolate on the house?"

There were very few customers tonight, the storm driving them away in droves.

Stantons' brows raised. "Of course, sir. I'm sure they'd appreciate that tonight," he said and hurried away to the front of the bookstore.

Alone once more, Matthew placed the books on the shelf at his own, slow pace. It was a lot of work for one man, but he had received a message from his stepfather earlier. He'd needed something to get his mind off of it.

He hadn't bothered to read the message, assuming it had been a mistake. His stepfather never talked to him.

That was why, when he heard the surreal sound of the footsteps behind him, his hand froze in mid-air. He knew it was his stepfather before he even turned around. He smelled the cologne he remembered him wearing after he'd graduated from high school. Felt the calculating gaze sweeping over him just to check the status of his leg like he used to do. Heard the sigh that was no doubt meant for him, and the time he was taking to greet him.

He lowered his hand, returning the book to the cart. "What do you want, Dad?" Matthew asked, unsure as to why he didn't just call him by his first name, Peter.

It wasn't like there was any love existing between them.

"You didn't answer my message," Peter accused.

"Didn't check it." He calmly pushed the books in place, lining them up perfectly, then stepped back to survey his work. It had taken him most of the afternoon because of the ache in his leg, thanks to the rain, and the phantom pains he still endured. But the result was one he was proud of. He'd rearranged the poetry section just like he'd envisioned a week ago.

"Your mother's ill and in the hospital," his stepfather continued, in his usual stiff manner.

Matthew turned around, not wanting to meet the other man's gaze. But knowing Peter would respect him even less if he didn't, he raised his eyes.

Peter's gaze was as cool as over.

"How ill?" Matthew asked, worry stirring in his gut.

"She will live."

He wilted inside, like he usually did, whenever his stepfather spoke so casually of his mother, a kind, gentle woman. Much like he remembered Eleanora McCoy to be years ago, on those rare occasions when she'd get together with his mother at their house for lunch, to discuss their gardens.

He'd probably developed his crush on Jocelyn then, now that he thought about it.

"Which one?" he asked, suddenly too sickened to give Peter the courtesy of looking at him.

Peter's gaze swept past him and to the poetry books, frowning. "You and your...hobby."

"Which one?" he repeated through clenched teeth.

"Atlanta Memorial," Peter answered crisply.

Matthew's mother had been more forgiving of him over his career choice, and they'd met several times, in secret. He'd visit her in a heartbeat, even if he had to stand outside her room. But he would not stand here and take this.

He turned back around, finding a random book's edge to fix and realign. "I'll be there. It's raining pretty hard out there. Grab an umbrella on the way out, if you want. No charge."

Not that he needed it to be free. His stepfather was one of the wealthiest men in the city.

So was he, for that matter, though nobody knew it.

"Be sure that you will." Peter's voice held no warmth, ignoring his generosity. "For her sake."

"Yeah," he said hoarsely.

"Thank you for the...offer," Peter said. There was no mistaking his disdain.

Once Matthew could no longer hear his stepfather's retreating footsteps, he sank into a seat in a nearby chair, relieved he hadn't stayed longer.

After he had his own cup of hot chocolate, a sweet treat he rarely indulged in, he'd be on his way to the hospital. See his mother. Find out why she was sick, since Peter hadn't even had the courtesy to explain it himself.

As the rain continued to pound the roof, he remembered, belatedly, and with great satisfaction, that they were fresh out of umbrellas.

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oOo

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Jim fought to catch his breath after Treadway cut the connection.

The entire world had crashed down onto his shoulders. He hadn't realized he'd stopped breathing because of it. Funny how your world appears to be over one minute, and then the next minute the shit really happens.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Not for him. Or Bones. Or Spock.

He was being forced to act alone—again.

He sucked in a deep breath, his lungs desperate for air. He exhaled slowly, gathering his thoughts before his mind and body crumpled underneath him. He'd wanted to feel numb just minutes ago—and now? He had to save two women who'd already been through too much, especially Dr. Marcus. Losing her father. Injuring her leg. But Christine had been through a lot, too. Treadway had clearly gotten to her already. It hadn't been difficult to see that the usually level-headed nurse was afraid, maybe even showing signs of PTSD from the way Carol had had to take the comm from her.

Maybe Treadway was bluffing, but maybe not. He couldn't take that chance. He couldn't risk their lives. Neither could he take the chance that Treadway wouldn't do this again, demanding more money from him in the future.

But most of all, he couldn't chance that Bones and Spock would actually agree to let him meet Treadway if they knew anything about this.

There was nothing else to do but meet Treadway's demands on his own. With any luck, Matthew, the owner of The Book Heart, would be there. Or someone else that would recognize their faces, in case things went south.

But he couldn't even leave the house without some help.

Bones's room was clean and tidy, except for the blue bag on the floor in the corner of the room, a bag that stuck out like a sore thumb. The white letters were printed on the side, as clear as day.

Starfleet General Hospital

It must have been delivered with the other medical supplies that Bones had wanted on hand as he treated Jim here in Atlanta.

There were bound to be more bags. And they certainly weren't all stashed in the closet or in a corner of his own bedroom. Bones had admittedly asked for more than he needed, or so he'd told Jim.

His stomach flipped as an idea blossomed in his mind with startling clarity.

He moved towards the bag without thinking of the consequences and picked it up, bringing it over to the bed. His hands shaking as they had so many times before, he opened it and rummaged through the contents. Not sure what he was looking for, but looking for it, nonetheless. Not caring that it was Bones's, and a medical doctor's, at that, but considering it to be fair game.

Really, had Bones even given him a choice?

Had Treadway?

He wasn't stupid enough to believe that he would make it downtown let alone get to a hovercraft in the driveway in his sad physical state.

With a flicker of disappointment, he realized it contained nothing that would help him. He went over to the closet next. He looked in the back, first, where he found a digitally locked box with the same identifying label as the bags next to several pairs of shoes.

He blinked at the box several times, contemplating why it was locked, sweat slipping off his brow and into his eyes. He wiped at his face, absently realizing that he was growing overly warm in Bones's sweater.

But the box was far more important. In fact, a gut feeling told him exactly what was in the box. There was only one reason why a medical box would be locked in this circumstance.

But he didn't have the code. Bones did.

He sure as hell didn't have time to guess.

He brought it over to the bed, set it down, and grabbed his PADD. Opening up a program he'd developed (illegally) years ago, he held the device up to the digital lock, connecting the two with a press of a button.

It had worked every other time he'd used it. It had to work with this, too.

Seconds later, the box opened. He didn't even have to rummage through the contents this time. The words were there, right on top. The implications of using what was in these smaller packages slugged him with guilt, but he was beyond following protocol or doing what was legal, as an officer of Starfleet should.

Only one thing mattered. Saving two innocent lives by getting to the bookstore on his own two feet, unnoticed and on time.

After which, he didn't give a damn what happened, certain that someone would see Treadway and go after his fresh trail.

His hands shaking, he pulled out one of the packages, fumbling as he opened it. He finally yanked the damn thing apart. A empty hypospray and a full vial fell out. Once the items were in his hands, he took a steadying breath.

Agrediphine.

Bones had discussed this very drug with him when he'd been discharged from SFG. It was a new drug Bones had had to fight tooth and nail to get access to. Like epinephrine, but more effective. Better. Stronger. A stimulant that would keep him alive and moving if his body started to fail during the drug treatment, when he was sitting in his apartment, and they needed to get him to the hospital before he suffered a fatal relapse. A stimulant that was highly addictive and restricted even in the worst of circumstances, given the harm it could inflict upon the body as one came down from its effects.

He could only imagine what it meant for him, a man who already had a cocktail of drugs in his blood, thanks to an aggressive drug therapy.

Surprisingly, he managed to transfer the liquid drug to the hypospray without any trouble. He looked at the hypospray, but only for a second.

He couldn't give it too much thought.

There was no turning back from this.

There was no easy way recovering from this, either.

There was simply nothing else that he could do but this.

He grimaced in preparation for the looming pinch and whatever else was in store for him—and silently apologized to his best friend for what he was about to do.

With a stubborn lift of his chin, he injected the contents of the hypo into his neck. His eyes widened involuntarily, the drug immediately taking effect.

It was instant gratification, magnified a thousand times over.

Fuck, he...he hadn't expected this.

Euphoria swept through his body and ignited his senses. The world brightened until it was golden again, glowing more than he ever remembered.

His eyes were open.

The world was right again.

He was right again.

His limbs were loose, yet his body alert.

His muscles felt strong, unhindered by radiation or a weak immune system or a debilitating drug therapy.

He felt like he could take on the world.

He felt like he could take on...Treadway.

Gulping a breath, he moved so he could lean against the wall as he listened to his body. His hand shook even more than before as his body continued to adjust to the drug, and his mind, though emboldened and clear, barely kept a steady grip on the task ahead.

He grounded himself with the wall. The empty hypospray fell to the floor, slipping from his loose fingers. He closed his eyes, resting his head back against the wall where he stood.

His breaths were short and quick, and a laugh escaped his lips.

"Shit," he said, laughing again.

Damn, this felt good. Really good.

He could get lost in this.

He hadn't felt a thrill even close to this in almost two months. In over two months. Maybe more.

He'd tried drugs once, the day he'd turned eighteen. It hadn't been like this. Not even close.

This was beautiful.

This was dangerous.

This was stupid.

This was...what he'd dreamed of feeling since waking up from the dead. Feeling human.

This was perfect.

What the hell was this stuff?

Christ, he already craved more.

But he shouldn't want more, right?

He carded a shaking hand through his hair. Bones would likely kill him now that he'd had one dose. With two...that was anyone's guess. Maybe torture by the doctor's own hand, right before a gruesome death.

Yet, he really couldn't be sure that it would last through the next thirty minutes.

Opening his eyes, he tested his legs and with an assurance and confidence he'd lost along with Pike, returned to the medical box.

This would not be enough.

It was dark outside. Raining. He could hardly make it up or down the stairs. Treadway, a boxer.

He had to be sure.

Christine...Carol...the credits...Bones

Fuck, he was in a shitload of trouble, burying himself with more.

It seemed unlikely that he would ever get out from underneath it all.

He'd already wasted precious time debating the morality of his decision. With detectives right outside the house, he also had to "borrow" a neighbor's hovercraft, maybe a hoverbike, if he could find one, which could quite possibly knock this out of the park in terms of right and wrong.

He tried to think about the lives of two crewman, perhaps the only thing that would ground him while he was under the influence of this euphoria. He grabbed two vials of epinephrine, one painkiller, a second dose of Agrediphine, and four empty hyposprays, his feet anxious to move.

He quickly chose one more drug from the selection to take before he escaped the house, just to be on the safe side, promising himself that he would stash the remaining three in the large pockets of his leather jacket to use for later. Like if he ran into trouble with Treadway.

More specifically, if the ex-boxer attacked him.

He had to be sure.

He clenched his fingers around the second hypospray and brought it up to his neck.

This time, only somewhat regretfully, the effects already too alluring to think clearly about them or what he was doing.

"I'm sorry, Bones," he still whispered—and plunged the contents into his neck.

.

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Author's Note: WARNING: DRUG USE

Thank you for reading! I should have the next chapter ready later this week. Please, review? I'd love to hear from you. :)