Title: Home (Multichapter fic with 35 parts)
Beta: un-beta'd D: D: D:
Warnings: bondage, torture, prostitution, explicit sex, drug use, attempted rape
Themes and Tropes: exploration/adventure, outlaws, bottom!Spock
Summary: Jim is heading towards a personal crisis. Their mission is vitally important: to find a new home world for the Vulcan race in the face of alien opposition. Soon it is clear that there is only one planet that will do. To secure the mysterious planet Jim must play his hand perfectly, but guilt at not having been able to save Vulcan and the responsibilities of captaining the Enterprise are wearing him down. Determined to be professional, he forces loneliness upon himself until a kiss he shares with his first officer changes everything.
"Life is short," Spock said.
Those words brought the tight feeling back to Jim's chest and he hugged Spock again. If he'd lost Spock … the idea that he might never have seen those eyes again pained him beyond belief. The excitement he felt paled in comparison to a sudden wave of raw urgency that broke over him.
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek or any of its characters, Paramount does, and didn't create them either, Roddenberry did.
– Home-Part 31 of 35 –
"Keptin! Keptin Kurk, wake up!"
Cold metal was pressed against his neck and then there was a quick sting accompanied by a hiss. Jim opened his eyes slowly. He was in a cold, dark room. At first he thought he was floating; when he concentrated on the sensation, though, he decided he probably wasn't. He couldn't really feel his body at all. Must be why it had seemed like he was floating.
"How are you, Keptin?"
Jim stared at the young man whose face was hovering about ten inches above his. Movement made his vision blurry, but he was able to get a good look at the face eventually; it wasn't too hard to keep his eyes fixed on the face. The guy didn't look threatening; he seemed to be wearing a Starfleet uniform from what he could make out in the low light.
"Who are you?" Jim asked. "And why are you calling me 'Keptin'?"
The young man's eyes went wide and he turned his head to look at someone just out of Jim's field of vision.
"I'm scanning his brain now, give me a second. Slight shrinkage of the cortex, bleeding to the brain, some partially destroyed brain tissue ..."
"Bones!" Jim exclaimed.
He'd recognize that voice anywhere and right now he couldn't be happier to hear it even though the diagnosis his friend was establishing was the stuff of nightmares.
The doctor shifted his position so Jim could see his face. "Glad you remember me, kid."
"What the hell happened to me? Why can't I feel my body?"
"Because, Jim, believe me, right now you really don't want to. Try not to move."
Another hypo.
Bones addressed the other guy. "The electric fields were probably high enough to cause seizures in his brain. Retrograde and anterograde amnesia are common side effects."
"Bones, I'm right here. Tell me what happened."
His friend leant over him to scan the rest of his body. It was all a blur as he went about it quickly; it was almost certainly not the first scan the doctor had taken that session. Maybe he was checking how well the drugs he'd administered were working.
"The electric fields you were subjected to," Bones said, "were some form of telepathic communication. Normally so low you wouldn't notice them, but you've just been through a telepathic storm."
An electrical storm of sorts? Hmmm ...
"Is that why my skin stings slightly?"
He was pretty sure that if he could feel it in the drugged up state he was in, it had to be pretty bad.
"Yeah, you do have some burns, but I'm afraid that's the least of your worries, kid."
He let the doctor do his work and give him another hypo-he'd really fucked himself up this time, hadn't he?
Footsteps. Someone was talking to Bones in a lowered voice. Jim needed to know what the hell had happened and where he was. So he listened in, but he could only catch a few sentence fragments here and there.
"... Spock's not doing well ..."
The other person, maybe a nurse, left again.
"So who's Spock?" Jim asked.
Bones paused what he was doing. Eventually it was the young man whose face he'd first woken up to who answered.
"Keptin, he iz your first officer."
Ah. So he was a captain, he just couldn't remember being one. How old was he? Bones looked as he always did, although it was hard to tell with his shaky vision. But that bit of information didn't help to lessen his confusion, because he wasn't sure how old he thought his friend should be right now. Jim stared up at the dark ceiling.
"Bones?"
"Yes, Jim?"
"How bad is it? Will the amnesia be permanent?"
"Most of the gaps in your long-term memory shouldn't be."
That sounded ominous and Jim felt helpless to know that a part of him was most likely gone forever.
"But," Bones continued, "you've probably lost everything in your short term memory. Look, I really can't give you a proper prognosis now-I'm no expert on this kind of brain trauma. We'll get your scans to a specialist."
Bones moved away and Jim could no longer see him. Was he already leaving him to attend to the other person? His first officer, he reminded himself. He didn't want to be left alone like this; he tried to reach out to touch his friend, to pull him back. It didn't work. His arms weren't co-operating.
"I told you not to move," Bones chided him.
"Look, Chekov. Jim's pumped full of drugs. Strong drugs." Suddenly Bones was kneeling over him again, his brow deeply furrowed. "Stay with us, Jim, you hear me?"
He waited for his patient to give him some sign that he'd understood; Jim stayed silent, but nodded his head (or tried to do so at least).
"Chekov, whatever you do, keep him talking. I'm going to see Spock. Jim, we're too far underground for us to beam you straight to sickbay. I've got a second team with a stretcher coming for you, okay? We just need to see to Spock first."
Jim wondered how bad the other person's wounds had to be if Bones thought they needed attention more urgently than Jim's injuries did. As the sound of his friend's footsteps died down, he tried to stay calm. He knew that even with the help of modern medicine curing brain damage was not straightforward and often not possible; he tried to bury his rising terror. All he could do was to trust in Bones-that he'd at least get to remember that he was a captain, even if not how he came to be in his current state.
"So, um. Chekov, is it? What happened here? Was this one of those disastrous first contact missions they always warn you about at the Academy?"
"No, sir."
"You sound very solemn. I'm not dying, am I?"
Despite the good doctor's orders he craned his neck so that he could take a look at himself. Chekov quickly placed a hand on his forehead to gently press his head down again, but not before Jim had had time to take in the damage. He could understand Chekov's reactions better now; he was bloody, dirty, and naked.
"Yikes, I'm in a bad state, aren't I?" he said.
And that Spock person was in an even worse state? Poor guy.
"So, talk to me Chekov. I don't care about what."
Jim was grateful that the ensign took the opportunity to fill in some of the gaps in his memories. It didn't matter that Bones claimed this amnesia would only be temporary; right now he didn't know who he was. Chekov seemed to be skirting around some of the facts, Jim was sure, as every mission he talked about had a 'happy ending', but he was probably trying to keep him calm. Still, it was better to hear a sanitized version than no version at all of his life after the Academy.
Chekov talked about a mission in which Captain James T. Kirk had apparently saved the day by baring his chest to a Klingon and daring him to shoot. Sounded about right, Jim thought; that was him for sure.
"… and then zere vas that time you completely fooled some space pirates into thinking you vere a criminal by having a fake microchip at the base of your skull. Another brilliant plan! Your plans, zey always work out!"
"Eh…."
How should he respond to that? Here was a kid, only just turned eighteen apparently, who talked about him as if he'd hung the moon and the stars in the sky. And Chekov also seemed to like him. Actually like him. That's not something he'd come across often in his life. Not at school and not at the Academy either. People thought he was too full of himself and to be fair, he never made much of an effort to be liked. He had Bones, he didn't need more friends. This kid somehow looked up to him though—it just wasn't right that he didn't know all the facts.
"Chekov, that microchip-."
"You remember?"
Jim really didn't want to wipe that smile off the ensign's face, but he didn't think he could live with concealing the truth.
"No, I don't. But, um, I think you should know that that wasn't some brilliant plan. That chip is real. I really did spend time in prison."
They were both silent for a while until Jim took pity on Chekov; he hadn't planned to say much more, but it was probably best to explain, even if he didn't really want to.
"I became obsessed with fast cars, fast motorcycles, anything fast really, when I was quite young." Chekov didn't need to know just how young and what the circumstances were. "And as soon as I was able to I started to enter the races. Soon I was the fastest idiot in the American mid-west."
"And those races, zey vere illegal? That's why you vent to prison?"
Jim choked out a laugh. "They were illegal alright, but no, I didn't go to prison simply for taking part in one." Then he continued in a more somber tone, "But I wanted to win, alright? I needed the best, the fastest bike. So that's what I ended up spending years of my life on. A bike. Buying parts for it, upgrading it, replacing parts when it got trashed in races."
"I do not follow."
"They don't just hand out TxK-8 fuel injection systems to anyone, you know. Let alone ones in which the safety regulators have been removed, and the pressure points re-jigged so that the engine runs at temperatures above 700 Kelvin. No, I'm afraid, to get those kind of parts I had to mix with a pretty bad crowd and I got sucked into that life. I could hack anything that contained a computer chip if it somehow got me closer to the next part I needed for my bike. And I always needed more parts."
Jim sighed. "You just start to lose perspective at some point, what's acceptable, what's not; what's right, what's wrong. When I was caught and sentenced, I was offered reduced time if I gave them names and turned in my bike. I did neither."
In the silence that stretched between them Jim could hear the people approaching.
"I'm not proud of the person I was then," Jim said quietly. "Not at all. When I joined Starfleet I got rid of that bike, gave it away just before I boarded my shuttle. I don't like to look back."
Then he was lifted onto a stretcher. All the way to the surface, Chekov didn't leave his side.
Maxime disembarked from his shuttle. The spacestation was the busiest in the system as it handled almost all traffic in and out of the Sol system. Where next? He didn't really know. He just knew that he had to lie low for a while. The Vulcans were a sensitive topic and he knew he'd probably ruffled more than a few feathers with his report. And the network heads would certainly not be too happy that he'd used his position to broadcast it across the entire system without their permission.
Eventually he found a hotel he could check into without providing too many details that he wasn't too keen on sharing, such as his name. He then sat himself down in the hotel bar with a drink—he really needed one!
The person next to him was watching one of the entertainment screens that had been placed in each corner of the room.
"Hey, have you seen this already?" the man asked him and pointed to the nearest screen.
…undercover at the mayor's office. Not unusual to hear the Vulcan survivors talked about as a drain on the city. 'Those Vulcans are just really depressing to be around,' one employee said, to which the mayor replied: 'Yeah, tell me about it. At least you don't have to talk to those pointy ears! Can't we just ship them off to the nearest desert mining colony?'
Maxime simply nodded in reply-he'd voiced the report himself-and finished his drink quickly.
It might surprise many that even Starfleet personnel showed an inconceivable lack of sympathy for the genocide survivors. In the dreary refugee city, the following recording was made.
"I don't know why we should be more patient with them than with anyone else. It's not like they have emotions or anything. It's just getting ridiculous. They want our help, but the stubborn green-bloods won't talk to us properly or anything. They just sit around and mediate all day. Especially the council of leaders."
The image switched from that of the person he'd talked to, to show a group of Vulcans sitting in a circle surrounded by medical equipment and various tubes.
"Great leaders they are, locked away, so deep in meditation that the pointy ears asked us to hook them up to some machines so they can be fed artificially, 'cause they are too busy to eat apparently. How can you be too busy to eat when all you do day in day out is sit on your bony, green ass?"
Quietly Maxime slipped out of the bar and went to his room where he activated the privacy lock. Maybe it would be a while before all this died down.
"Hey, how're you feeling, Jim?" Bones asked.
Jim sat up in his sickbay bed. "Loads better, thanks. I can feel another headache coming on though."
"Hang on, I'll get you something."
Yet another hypo-spray full of medicine was injected into his bloodstream.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome." The doctor folded his arms across his chest. "If you promise me you'll take it easy and get some rest-"
Jim nodded.
"-I'll even release you from sickbay. How does that sound?"
A big grin spread across Jim's face. "Sounds excellent."
He got out of bed and picked up the PADDs on the medical trolley next to the bed—his personal logs. All in all he was feeling a lot better. He still had no idea how he'd ended up in the state his friends had found him in, but as Bones said, that was to be expected. Other than that, his memory seemed to be okay. Yeah, he'd come across some things in his journals that he didn't remember, but no one had a perfect memory, right? And he'd scored lower on the aptitude tests than he usually did, a lot lower in fact, but he still felt a bit disorientated, so he probably shouldn't be worried. And it was early days, wasn't it? His scans were still being analyzed by the specialists.
He patted his friend's back as he sauntered past him to stand at Spock's beside.
Bones followed him. "You're not fooling anyone, you know? I can tell you're worried about him. But there's really no need. Spock should make a full recovery. With this healing trance he can mend himself better than I could ever fix him up. Wonderful creatures, those Vulcans. Just don't tell him I ever said that, okay?"
"Yeah, but you also said that as a telepath his brain was more sensitive to the electrical fields than mine. I'm worried, because I know how this is affecting me, and his brain suffered far more damage than mine did."
"Don't worry, he'll be right as rain when he regains consciousness and won't have any of the troubles you're going through. I was just concerned at first that he might not be able to put himself in a trance, but now he's in it, I know he'll be fine."
"How long 'til he wakes up?"
"I'd say seven days."
I must believe that Spock will wake up, he told himself, as he left sickbay.
The first thing he noticed when he entered his quarters was a neatly folded shirt on one of his chairs—it was blue, one of Spock's. But he couldn't remember how it had gotten there. He picked it up and sat down heavily on his bed. He hadn't been able to access all his personal log entries; those that concerned his relationship with Spock had been securely encoded. So what did he remember? How had their relationship started? He searched for his earliest memory of them both together.
One day he'd opened the doors to his quarters and Spock had just walked straight in and kissed him. Jim tried to reconcile the man he knew his first officer to be with someone who'd just walk into his superior's quarters and kiss him out of nowhere. A tear slid down his face. The terror he'd felt when he'd come around in the underground city gripped him again. That can't have been their first kiss! He scrunched up the shirt in his hands, holding it tightly to his chest. His arms were shaking slightly when he finally put the shirt back where he'd found it. Oh Spock.
Not much later he had to deal with a three-way call between himself, Captain Patel, and Admiral Barrows, which he took in the conference room.
"I'm sure my CMO has passed my brain scans and cognitive test results onto specialists at Starfleet medical," Jim said. "So I'm surprised you were not informed or that you missed the memo, but I don't remember what happened, Admiral, so there's no point in you asking me all these questions."
He realized his tone wasn't really going down well, so he added a quick "sir."
"I can't guess why I woke up in some cave with my brain fried," he continued. "Once I've read and compiled all the reports from my crew, and once the Commander wakes up, or my memories of the event return, I might have the answers to your questions."
"Hmmm…," Barrows replied. "Well, I will trust that you had your reasons for what you did. And you have managed to rid Saketh of the pirates, although why you'd chose such a violent method that would leave all the survivors, including yourself, with severe brain injuries I cannot fathom-though I know you can't either at the moment. You're to stay in orbit around Saketh to investigate what took place, though I think you can understand that I am putting that investigation into Captain Patel's hands, while your crew is to assist him unreservedly."
Jim nodded in agreement. "Understood."
He thought that would be all, but Barrows continued to talk.
"As for Spock: I want to get the investigation into his conduct with the prostitute out of the way as soon as possible."
Investigation? What? Jim felt his stomach drop. Had he submitted a report to Starfleet about it? He thought he'd decided not to.
He held up a hand. "Wait, what?"
Barrows looked concerned.
"Sorry," Jim elaborated, "but if I submitted a report about his conduct during that mission, I want to withdraw it now. He had his reasons and I'm completely satisfied with them."
The meaning of Jim's words took a moment to register with Barrows, but when it did his expression of concern shifted to one of disbelief and anger flashed across his eyes.
"So the accusations are true?" Barrows bellowed.
Patel's eyebrows shot up his forehead.
"You did not submit the report, Patel did," the admiral said. "And if it all actually happened then I definitely want a review, no matter how easily you claim it can be explained. For the future, captain, such incidents which involve crew members with a history are to be reported to me or one of the other fleet admirals, understood? Even when they involve your favorite officer. He'll regain his command privileges after the inquest, which we'll aim to keep as brief as possible. Right, if that's all, I've got some business here on Earth that needs sorting. Barrows out."
Patel was still on the line, but Jim didn't pay him much attention as his brain was doing overtime. A review into Spock's conduct? Barrows was right, of course. With Spock's record of having had an 'inappropriate' relationship with a cadet he'd taught the admiral really didn't have much choice but to call an inquest, but if there was one, then they'd find out about his relationship with Spock-and they'd put an end to it. Their track record would again leave the admirals with no other choice. Barrows had just confirmed that to him-'your favorite officer'; they were no doubt already scrutinizing his mission reports carefully, having spotted in their early missions that they would each take great risks to keep the other from harm.
He remembered the shirt on the chair. No, he couldn't allow that to happen. He mustn't lose Spock. When he looked up Patel's brow was deeply furrowed and his hands were folded in front on him.
"How much of your memory have you lost and will you get it back again?" the other captain asked.
Jim ran his fingers through his hair. "I seem to have some gaps in my memories. Mostly of the last few months. Maybe further back too, I don't know; but I think those memories are okay. I definitely am missing a lot of what happened very recently though."
There was concern in Patel's eyes and he wrung his hands. "Take care of yourself, Jim. I hope you get better soon."
"Thank you."
The connection was terminated and he was alone in the conference room with his thoughts. Now what? Admiral Barrows was insisting on the review, so he would need someone high up in the chain of command to help him if he was going to stop this.
Pike. He couldn't think of anyone else who he might be able to turn to for help. And yet, he was certain that once Pike found out what he'd done, that he'd kept such a significant relationship secret from his superiors, from Pike himself, that he wouldn't be warmly received by his former mentor. In fact that was a bit of an understatement. He imagined Pike's hard, blue eyes bearing down on him, trying to reprimand him with the intensity of the disappointment in them. Above all else Pike would resent him for having the gall to ask for help with this whole messy business, to ask him to cover up for his mistakes. By dragging Pike into this, he'd almost certainly lose the good opinion the man had of him.
With a knot in his throat Jim sat down to draft a message to Pike. He asked him for help, but then stopped short of explaining the whole situation. Maybe it wasn't necessary to? After all, he wasn't the only one who had a soft spot for Spock. He sent it off.
"Captain Kirk to sickbay."
"McCoy here."
"Hey Bones, it seems I do still have a few problems with my long term memory. Also, I'm calling you 'cause I need to know how long you think it'll be 'til Spock wakes up? I really need to know, so that I can plan how much time I have to sort out this review that I don't remember anything about."
"I already told you. 7 days. Don't you remember?"
"My mind must've been elsewhere."
"Fuck. Jim, look, as much as I hate to do this to you, but I'm going to have to relieve you of your command for the time being. Retrograde amnesia is bad, but anterograde? Jim, that's … worse. This is only temporary, you hear. We'll try and fix that brain of yours, try and get your memories back, and make sure your ability to learn and remember things is restored. The inability to remember facts might naturally only last a short time, but when we take into account your low test scores …."
Jim scowled. "Fine," he said, and cut the connection before Bones could say anything further.
He clenched his fists. He was thankful to be alive, but there was no doubt he and Spock had both sacrificed a lot in that chamber to get rid of the pirates. Why had he gone in there with Spock? It didn't make sense to him that he'd do something so reckless without good reason, but on the other hand he wasn't exactly sure he knew who he was right now. He put his head in his hands and gave up for the day.
Without going to the mess to eat he went straight back to his quarters and got ready for bed. If he was hungry he could concentrate on his stomach all night, rather than the concerns he had.
Jim woke up with a start. The bed sheet was soaked in sweat; he shivered as the cold, circulating air blew across his chest. He reached for his right shoulder; his pulse was quick beneath his fingers.
"Computer, lights."
The brightness did nothing to banish the feeling that he was somewhere dangerous. He got up quickly and went to take a shower. His morning routine calmed him down until he exited the bathroom and sat down at his desk, fingers hovering over the controls of his terminal. There was no work for him to do. Scotty was in command.
He sat back in his chair and picked up a PADD to check his messages. There was a very short one from Pike.
No. I won't help. It's a shame that you and Patel can't work together and that each of you are resorting to whatever means you can to gain control of the mission you were assigned jointly. You're on your own here. I don't want to get involved. Sort it out with Patel.
Spock had become a pawn in a game of politics. Wow. Jim remembered how he'd been a bit of dick towards Patel during the Klingon mission, but he'd never thought that their working relationship would've become this messed up. Was it his fault? Had he angered Patel further by arrogantly trying to turn the mission into a one-man show and ignoring the older Captain's existence? Whatever had happened, he felt that it was quite likely that Spock would not be facing an inquiry right now if only he hadn't messed up with Patel.
Maybe it would be best if he called Pike and came clean. So why wasn't he asking Uhura to set up the call for him right now? His face flushed warm with guilt; Spock didn't deserve this review, but he would be cleared. McCoy could provide all the evidence. He didn't want to lose Pike from his life.
He stared at his terminal. There were still those encoded personal log entries that he hadn't read. Yes, decoding them would be a good way to take his mind of the issue. While it worked to stop the thoughts on whether or not to call Pike, he found that the encoded messages frustrated him at every turn. Had he been so good that he'd designed codes so secure even he as their designer couldn't crack them, or had he simply lost the ability to break codes?
Two hours later he was ready to listen to the recordings.
Captain's personal log, Stardate 2259.37.
He heard himself chuckle softly in the recording.
Man, it's so weird to make an entry about this, but yeah, Spock actually cuddled me last night. I still can't believe it. But, whatever … I feel like I'm making progress. I understand him better now, I really do. I apologized. I actually told him that I loved him.
Silence.
I think I did the right thing; he's certainly stopped going on about not wanting to give me his heart. No, that phrase has been replaced by 'I only have anger in my heart'. Still—progress, of a kind. I promised him that I would stick with him through this and I fully intend to do that. I won't give up.
Jim paused the recording. Yes, he loved Spock. So why was he still not on the line to Pike? Maybe because he still found it hard to believe that Spock would actually wake up. In one fluid movement he was up out of his chair. Immediately he felt a sharp pain in the back of his skull. Right, he could go see Spock and Bones at the same time.
He went to sickbay to get his head seen to, but Bones wasn't there. Instead he ran into Chapel who informed him that Spock was doing well, that he might even wake up sooner than expected. He could've asked her about his headache, but he suddenly didn't want to—he knew it was possibly childish, but he couldn't help it; he wanted to see Bones. No other doctor or nurse would do. It was really starting to hurt pretty badly though, so he decided he would keep vigil over Spock's silent form later. Now he had to hunt down his favorite doctor.
He finally found him in the mess sitting with Sulu and Uhura. If he'd had the energy he might've tried to put on at least a fake smile, but it was all he could manage not to let the agony show that he was in. As casually as he could he strolled over to the group and sat down next to Uhura. They all smiled politely at him in greeting before resuming the conversation they'd been having. Jim listened in. He was fascinated at all the encouraging advice Sulu had to offer Bones, while Uhura's words were simple yet effective in providing comfort. He could tell that they soothed Bones. When Bones had come to him with his worries about his daughter he'd never really known what to say. It reminded him of how he'd felt at school when it seemed like everyone else around him had always known how not to act awkwardly. Now he felt just like he often had back—he felt insecure. It was not a feeling he liked; it wasn't who he was meant to be.
Jim hadn't even realized that he'd closed his eyes until Bones touched his shoulder.
"Jim, you okay?"
"Just a headache."
"Why didn't you say something right away? Come on, let's get it looked at."