Title: Home (Multichapter fic with 35 parts)

Beta: Lissaea at Livejournal

Warnings, Themes and Tropes, etc.: bondage, torture, prostitution, explicit sex, drug use

Summary: The Vulcans need a new home planet, so the Enterprise and her crew set out to find one for them.

"They'd come all the way for this? Which mad astronomer had sent them out here? Whose twisted idea had it been?"

Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek or any of its characters.

– Home-Part 7 of 35 –

Jim didn't really want to go see Bones again so soon-he'd spent enough time in sickbay recently, thank you very much-but he was his friend and had asked to see him. When he entered sickbay his eyes feel on Uhura's still form. Although her eyes were closed he didn't think she looked asleep.

He walked over to her. "How are you? You look a lot better than yesterday."

She opened one eye. "My neck's a bit stiff, but I'll be alright."

"That's what I want to hear."

A big smile lit up Jim's face; it even reaching his eyes this time. He was incredibly proud of his bridge officers and how they had handled the situation. The doors opened and both Bones and Nurse Chapel joined him at Uhura's bedside. Jim went to stand outside the doctor's office to give her some privacy as they discussed her treatment. Eventually Bones came over.

"That was a rough ride you took us on," he said, leading the way into his office.

He fished two glasses out of a draw. The alcohol he poured into them was normal Earth whiskey this time.

Jim held up a hand. "Not too much for me."

"Huh," Bones grunted.

Somehow Jim had come to expect his friend to drink the stuff in a few gulps, but instead of doing that, Bones sipped his drink.

"We nearly lost her, you know," his friend said. "She'd almost bled to death when they brought her in here."

Jim felt his heart constrict. It was all right, he had to tell himself, the danger was over, they weren't in the middle of battle, he could allow himself to feel. There was a hard lump in his throat that made swallowing the harsh liquor difficult; he concentrated on the unpleasant burning sensation. Uhura would be alright, as would the other survivors-they were all Starfleet officers and excellent ones at that. Their missions were dangerous and they all knew it. If you weren't prepared to die you didn't sign up.

Jim stared at the floor. "How do you cope?"

"I'm a doctor, kid! A fleet doctor! I can't get depressed every time I lose a patient."

Looking up, Jim saw that Bones' eyes were full of emotion.

"I guess …," Bones continued, "somewhere during med-school you either learn-or you don't become a doctor. But … talking to friends, it helps."

Jim looked at the drink in his hand and nodded slowly.

Bones put his glass down with a thud. "Look, Starfleet can stuff medical with as many counselors as it likes, but there's nothing mentally wrong with people who are, God forbid, actually horrified at the horrors of war; it's normal, Jim. Just don't bottle it up, that's the key. Good friends who you can be open with, that's better than any therapy session. Being a human being with a heart, that Jim, is not a mental illness.
"As a medical professional I now feel obliged, though, to remind you to go book a counseling session if you think you are suffering unusually following any of our past missions.

They didn't say much more, or at least Jim didn't. Bones said a lot, although he didn't open his mouth. The way he sagged in his chair and looked out at the empty biobeds, at some very specific ones, said more than he could have articulated verbally.

Jim wanted to take that advice, but what was he to say? It was he, as the Captain, who was responsible for those deaths. The weight of that would break his back one day, he knew; but not today. He pulled himself up straight, took a deep breath and smoothed out the lines on his forehead, doing such a job at hiding his emotions that he thought he would've made Spock proud. Spock, who incidentally, Jim had just seen entering sickbay. He now stood at Uhura's bedside, though Jim couldn't hear from inside his friend's office what they were talking about.

Jim turned and thrashed around in bed; his pillow was too hard, his sheet too heavy. Outside his window the stars streamed by. The Federation was negotiating a meeting with the Klingons, but both the Excalibur and the Enterprisewere heading towards Verna VI-they were 'off the case'.

Pravit was furious. He'd told the admiralty that Jim had given the system to the Klingons, but he'd spun it as a way of Jim surrendering to prevent their ships from being destroyed. In a sense he was thankful that Pravit was covering for him like that, it must have cost Pravit quite a bit of self-control not to act on his anger and try to discredit him.

But-that wasn't why he'd given them the system!

Jim felt nausea rolling over him as the thought tore through his mind. At no point in time had that actually been his motivator. The system wasn't lost either, he was sure of it. The planet was so much like Vulcan that they had to understand that it was perfect to be the new Vulcan home-world, they just had to! The Klingons would keep a system they had won in a glorious battle-but stealing from the Vulcans? Their honor wouldn't allow them to keep it.

Jim turned his head on his pillow to look out at the stars. The pill bottle on his nightstand was outlined in dark against the starry sky, the sight beckoning to him and it took a lot of willpower for him to turn around to face the wall; sleep refused to come.

When they arrived at Verna VI Barrow and Pike called a meeting. Jim hadn't had to face Pravit in person since the incident on the Klingon ship; it didn't surprise him that Pravit didn't shake his hand when he stepped off the transporter pad, nor that Isabaev also shunned him.

That didn't annoy him. What did anger him, though, was that they were both walking close to Spock, isolating Jim. Spock always walked next to him, or was it he who sought out Spock and always stood close to him? Regardless, now it looked like it was three to one, but Jim knew Spock wasn't angry with him and no posturing on Pravit's part would persuade him to believe otherwise.

Jim thanked Uhura, who was in the briefing room when they entered, for setting up the link to head quarters. Isabaev's eyes were glued to her, so Jim was glad when Uhura left the room, as it made the atmosphere just the slightest bit less awkward.

"Admiral Barrow, Admiral Pike," Pravit said as their superiors appeared on screen, "it is good to hear from you again."

Jim said his own greetings but then moved on quickly to ask them what the issue was.

"The Klingons have gifted the system to the Vulcan people and withdrawn," Pike said. "They seemed to think it was the honorable thing to do if you can believe it. Though, if rumors are to be believed, a large number of their leaders ended up dead after that particular council meeting."

Jim grinned and looked over at Spock, whose features were impassive and cold, as always, but still, just seeing Spock made his smile broaden.

"So we can go back and analyze the planet? Will we be able to go to the surface this time?" Jim asked.

Barrow locked eyes with him. "Away teams to the surface will be permitted. Captain Patel, I'm putting you in charge of this mission. You're to take on fresh supplies before returning to the Heuygens system. Captain Kirk, you'll stay in the Verna system, where your crew will be granted shore leave until you're redeployed."

Jim felt his ears burn hot; there was no arguing with such orders he knew. All of a sudden he didn't want to look at Spock anymore, so instead he stared at the blank view-screen.

Jim strode through the doors of the transporter room wearing civilian clothing. A group was already on the pads ready to beam down. As he entered he noticed them straightening their posture.

"At ease," he said, but no one relaxed.

He got up onto a free pad next to them and instructed the ensign at the controls to beam them down. Once they'd materialized he noted that the crew members he'd beamed down with all looked like they'd swallowed broomsticks.

"Captain," a pretty, red-head said. "We're heading to the bar if you would like to join us for a drink?"

She fumbled her light jacket with her hands. The others didn't look very pleased. Well, they didn't look displeased, but they were, all of them, doing a great impression of Commander Spock.

He felt heat rise to his face, so he made a brief excuse and set off in what he hoped was the opposite direction.

She was a mechanic, he did recognize her, but her name just wouldn't come to his mind. He used to associate with mechanics a fair bit when he was a cadet assigned the same duties; a commander should always know how his ship worked. He'd repaired data substations on the Farragut, until his eyes had bled at just the sight of one, and then he had moved on to other duties-he was training to be an officer after all.

Up ahead of him he spotted a gaggle of ensigns walking along the street. He turned a corner, ducking into a back alley, which led to a busy, open courtyard. Finally somewhere that looked less savory and clean, not touristy.

"Can I get you anything?" a slender, green waitress asked him.

He realized he'd stopped outside a café. Why not?

"Yes, table for one," he said.

"You're on your own? New to this planet? Well, once my shift is over, I can show you around if you'd like?"

He beamed at her. A short time later he had some alien drink in front of him and the waitress kept coming over to check up on him. That's why he liked the company of women so much, he decided-they were often so much friendlier than men.

Looking around the café he saw that indoors there were some happy looking couples sitting together and at another table outside a few people were chatting to one another. At the table the farthest away from him a man sat on his own, reading a PADD.

"Do you know that man over there?" the waitress asked when she brought him his drink. "He keeps staring at you."

Jim took the drink off her, glancing over to where the waitress was pointing-the man sitting at the table on his own. The guy was human too and was shamelessly staring at him. Studying him more thoroughly this time Jim was sure he didn't recognize the man.

Well, he wasn't the kind to just sit there and take it.

He got up and walked over to him. "Can't a man get a bit of peace and quiet around here?"

As he said this he plopped himself down in the seat opposite and put his drink on the table.

"Might I ask who you are?" he continued.

"I'm called Maxime."

"Jim."

"I know who you are," Maxime replied.

"Oh, right." He shifted uncomfortably on his seat. "I've never had anyone recognize me like this before."

He did know his image had been splashed across the newscasts on Earth, maybe even on the colonies, he didn't keep track of it really. But Maxime didn't get out a dreaded holo-camera; instead he opened a guidebook and asked Jim if he'd seen the sights yet.

Their conversation was quite easy going, all of it small-talk. Maxime asked him if he was here on vacation or duty and Jim explained about shore leave.

"You don't want to spend your leave with your crew?"

Jim had just raised his glass to his lips, but he didn't take a sip. He stared off into the distance. The sun reflected beautifully off a puddle.

He heard a click. It was almost inaudible, but his hearing had focused in on that sound and he trusted his senses' intuition. In an instant he turned his head back to face Maxime, who froze. A small huff escaped Jim when he took in Maxime's facial expression.

"Excuse me, I have to go," he said.

"Wait, please stay," Maxime said.

Jim gave him a 'your game is up' look. Maxime sighed and his whole body deflated as he leant back into his chair. Jim looked him over, but he didn't see the holo-camera.

"Just one interview?" Maxime asked.

Jim had no intention of giving him one, but he was curious.

"Can I see your press pass?"

Maxime produced it for him. Maxime Lessard, Chief Editor.

Jim let out a sigh, at least this seemed to be a chance encounter, not some set-up. He turned over the pass: UE News 24.

"I'm afraid you'll have to get in contact with the press office at Starfleet," he said as politely as he could through gritted teeth.