This is a scene cut from a fic I ended up taking a different direction, dumped here because it qualifies. This set of oneshots was never intended to be an immediately post-STID series, but may end up being. Thanks for reading!

San Francisco, North American Continent, Sol III, ranks in the top three places Jim can think of where he'd like to not spend a drizzly Friday stumbling his way through a second set of parallel bars, trying to remember how to walk again and trying equally hard not to take his mounting frustration out on the longsuffering PT who clearly doesn't get paid enough for this.

(The first of those places being Riverside, and the second being dead, and what even is his life anymore if he can prioritize those without blinking.)

Even now, just over three months after what his people are starting to hilariously call The Warp Core Incident, he is still fighting a grueling battle of recovery. Regenerating nearly every cell in one's body to rid it of radiation poisoning is a hell of a modern dialysis, even if he'd been unconscious for the first 30 days of it. And now, they're just playing a waiting game. For all their twenty-third century advancements, for all the modern treatment and equipment…you can't rush this kind of healing, or so McCoy says.

Said, before he left this morning to visit his daughter for a couple of days. The ex wanted a weekend getaway, apparently, and with Starfleet having access to planet-wide transporter technology for next-to-no travel time, it all worked out. Bones gets just over 48 uninterrupted hours with his daughter, and Jim gets to be a dick to the rest of the poor well-meaning medical staff who've drawn the short straw.

His current physical therapist is a tiny Delosian female, barely five feet tall with bright purple hair, and ferociously terrifying as she ruthlessly all-but-drags him through his exercises. Bones loves her, obviously.

Jim would be trying to steal her for the Enterprise in other circumstances, even if she'd be a frightening addition to the Sickbay team he already tries to avoid at all costs. In these, unfortunately, all he can do is ride out the pain until he's done for the day. He just doesn't have energy to think beyond the next thirty minutes, and then the next thirty after that. And another ten, because she's not taking any of his shit and has he said how much he hates her recently?

Finally, however, he receives grudging approval and the ordeal is over for another day. He's settling into his hoverchair, ready to get the hell out of Dodge, when she reappears in a violet-haired jumpscare and tosses him something in a crinkly wrapper.

An anatomically accurate eyeball-shaped lollipop.

Like he's five years old and behaved himself today.

"You're so weird," he says without thinking, and is startled when she smiles, oddly incongruous after the fierce aggression that had pushed him through another awful day.

"Try to rest this weekend, Captain. You've earned it."

He'd shut down the "Mr. Kirk" nonsense the very first day, because no one needs George's son to be the first thing they think of with him. But he technically doesn't still retain that title either; she's obiously trying extra hard to be encouraging, reminding him of what he's working toward so diligently. It's a futile gesture given his current state of mind, but he appreciates it nonetheless, and grins at her as he moves into the hall and then the turbolift. Back to a recovery room that even now, 90 days after his ordeal, feels as much like a graveyard as it did the first day he woke, uncertain and in pain.

For all his vehement protesting that he needs everyone to stop hovering, or at the least for McCoy to give him a longer leash, it's kind of weird being completely left alone in a long-term recovery room of Starfleet Medical on a weekend. Bones had reluctantly agreed to let him have the time without being actively monitored, now that he can make his way around the hospital without an accompanying nurse, and Jim knows how difficult it was for him to concede that ground.

They still have a lot of emotional issues to work out, but some distance, he thinks, will probably help with that. You can't sort out the effects of grief if you're busy wanting to strangle the person who knowingly caused that grief. All he'd have to do is make a call, and Bones would be back at warp speed – which is exactly why Jim will not be doing that, because the man has not had a break in almost three months.

After a hot shower (he's long since gotten over any embarrassment about the fact he has an actual Shower Chair like an old man), he's looking forward to basically sleeping the rest of the weekend.

That's clearly not meant to be.

He's dozing off in bed, listening to some weird Cardassian jazz music recommended by the day shift nurse, when his door slides open and abruptly bursts his nice quiet little bubble into some very loud and obnoxious pieces.

"When I said sure, stop by whenever, that did not mean – what is happening." His Chief Communications Officer is not alone; she's followed by two other women he only vaguely recognizes, they certainly weren't Enterprise.

Uhura motions around the sad little room in a sweeping gesture that somehow manages to be more sarcastic than her words. "So sorry, did you have a hot date waiting for you in the medical cafeteria?"

"Why are you so mean? Hold up, is that –"

"Tacos from the fusion truck by Academy housing, yes."

"Marry me." He makes grabby hands at the nearest bag, which is handed over by the amused Medical lieutenant behind her. "Seriously. Spock will understand."

She snorts, but she's grinning as she shoves a couple of chairs closer to his bed as he digs into the bag eagerly. "Would you like me to introduce you, or are you going to be too busy getting up close and personal with that jackfruit?"

"You're the one who barged in here expecting me to be an actual human tonight, Lieutenant. I made no such promises."

Uhura's eyes dance as she gestures toward the remaining two. "Lieutenant Clarice Barclay, Xenobiology; Ensign Kelly Tamura, Communications. Specializing in non-verbal linguistics, something we'll definitely need on a deep space mission. And you're making a stellar impression on potential new transfers, may I say, Captain. Five stars."

"Look, if they've survived an initial interview with you, I'm hardly going to scare them off," he points out, not unreasonably, and punctuates it with an innocent crunch of taco shell.

Tamura coughs, clearly hiding a laugh, and promptly pretends she is not when Uhura turns a look in her direction.

"Lieutenant Barclay, I feel like I've seen you before at some point – do you work here in the facility?" he asks.

"Aye, sir. Third floor, Non-Terran Microbiology Research. I'm currently doing research into single-celled organisms which can be ethically cultivated at low cost in a starship laboratory environment." She takes a seat and crosses her legs, swinging the topmost in a relaxed gesture. "I'm going to be making a proposal to the Board regarding its implementation aboard one of the next ships headed out."

"I look forward to hearing it, particularly if they adopt it for the Enterprise. But I'm guessing you didn't drag them out here just to talk shop, Lieutenant?" he raises an eyebrow at Uhura over the top of his second taco. "What gives?"

"It's Friday night in the West Coast's most beautiful city, and we're all single, so we're having a girls' night," she replies with a shrug, finally setting a disposable drink tray and small bag onto the nearest medical table. "Margaritas and manicures. You're an honorary addition."

"You're not sing–" She shoots him a look of pure murder, and he shuts up, because it's not really his business. But he'd thought she and Spock were solid, so what happened? "Right. Margaritas and what now?"

"I'm sorry, is Captain James T. Kirk not secure enough in his manhood to use a non-gendered personal hygiene tool like a nail file?"

"I didn't say that!" he says, indignant. "But tequila and a steady hand don't go together. I've seen you after a round of shots." Everyone had, and they Do Not Talk About That Night. "You're not coming near me with anything glittery."

"Which is why we're here." She carefully tosses a nail file end over end in his vague direction. His upper body reflexes are, thankfully, better than his lower at present, so he's able to catch it before it stabs him in the eye. "You can't drink, McCoy said, so you're on polish duty."

"Do I at least get another taco before it starts smelling like acetone in here?"

"Other bag. Now shove over, there's only two chairs."

Ehh, what the hell. He doesn't have anything else to do tonight.

And they're good tacos.

"Wait, back up a second. Since when are Waters and Garcia even tolerant of each other? Their stupid feud over who got the corner classroom during our senior year was common knowledge."

"I'm guessing ever since they worked out their differences in a supply closet on the third floor of Academy housing while doing dormitory inspections one day last summer," Tamura interjects dryly. "Bleach and recycling lubricant, the perfect romantic atmosphere."

Perched at an angle next to him on the bed and at least two margaritas in (Jim's lost count of how many they've had delivered at this point from a very long-suffering set of couriers and carrier bots that really shouldn't be allowed in a hospital), Uhura snorts, toasting Tamura with the glass. Waters was an asshole to her when he was teaching linguistics, Jim vaguely remembers.

"Pretty sure the fumes killed the three brain cells they had between them, so. Silver linings?"

Jim frowns half-heartedly. "Hey now. Gossip is one thing, that's just mean."

Uhura raises a shapely eyebrow at him. "He told me my understanding of how quickly cultural morphemes can skew the matrices of the universal translator if not closely monitored during First Contact was relatively good for someone of my limited academic background."

"Well, fuck him then."

"Pretty sure Garcia beat you to it," Barclay says serenely. She blows lightly on an index finger to dry the deep silver polish, flashing cool and shimmery against her dark skin.

Jim leans back slightly to take a look at his work, a matte taupe shade, subtle and neutral and very practical. It looks pretty good if he does say so himself; there's been no complaining yet, at least, and Uhura has the subtlety of a brick to the face when she's not happy with something.

He gestures to her as-yet blank ring finger. "What am I doing with this one?"

"Accent nail, should contrast against the rest." Uhura holds up two bottles for his inspection. "Which one do you think?"

He blinks. "They're literally the same color."

"Oh my god. Clarice?"

"Maroon, not Sangria. Too red, it'll clash with your uniform."

"Thank you."

"There's literally no difference between them," he mutters, just to be annoying, but he twists the top off the glittery burgundy polish and starts adding a thin layer to Uhura's ring nail. "So other than the Waters drama, what else have I missed?"

"Sulu's seeing someone," Uhura reports, leaning over to inspect his work more closely. "No one knows how serious it is, but the Botany crew said he's basically dropped all of his pet projects because he's too busy on the weekends now."

"Ooooh."

"Nice," Barclay agrees. "Life's too short to not jump on that shit when you can."

"He deserves to be happy, although that's going to be rough if he signs back on for a deep space mission," Uhura agrees. "Let's see…oh, Adamson got promoted to Head of Xenosociology because London is transferring to the Tenacity to serve with his brother, did you see that?"

"I'm still not instated, so no – Spock's been keeping me unofficially informed as we fill key positions, but I haven't seen him in a few days, the Board has been running him ragged." Now that he thinks about it, that might have something to do with Nyota's apparently very recent change in social status. He starts on the second coat of polish, and shrugs a little awkwardly. "I think Bones is purposely keeping a lot of it from me, thinking he's being helpful. And it's not like I really have a right to know, at this point. I'm just being nosy."

Uhura elbows him slightly, a weirdly companionable gesture, and he narrowly misses painting a streak of Comms Red right down her hand.

"I'll have a word with them both, we'll figure something out."

"Speaking of gossip, did you say earlier that we were all single?" Tamura asks suddenly, pausing mid-file of a thumbnail. "What's that about?"

Jim is quite impressed with the fact that the young ensign doesn't even blink in the face of a terrifying glare he has personally seen metaphorically eviscerate over-confident officers on their first Bridge training session. More than once.

That's a good sign, if Tamura's thinking about applying for the Enterprise. Uhura's team is tightly-knit, and she weeds out those who can't make the cut with a skill that's second only to Bones's ruthless Medical efficiency.

"We're taking a break, and I do mean a break, not a break-up," she finally says, a little terse. "His family's coming to Terra to visit for a couple of weeks, to sort out some off-planet financial issues and, I'm pretty sure, to introduce him to Sarek's new 'partner in repopulation efforts.' I'm about to take a four-week internship on the Victoriana to polish up obscure dialects with their Comms specialist, anyway."

"Well, that's convenient timing." He glances up, blinking innocently when she frowns at him. "Am I wrong? I thought you got on well with his family."

"I got on well with his mother," she corrects quietly.

He's an idiot. "I'm sorry. That should have been obvious."

"It's fine, Jim. But…yeah, he's not exactly looking forward to the visit, especially given how busy he is with 'Fleet business right now. And you know he has limited emotional bandwidth."

"A big part of that 'Fleet business is my fault. There's more to being acting captain than signing reports, even on a good day – and these last few months haven't been," he agrees with a sigh. "I'll make a couple calls tomorrow, see if I can convince anyone on the evaluation committee to put McCoy and Scott back in the ring for the bureaucratic nonsense, at least. It's stupid they put all of that on Spock to begin with, just because Medical and Engineering were under investigation."

It's pretty standard, after a tragedy and subsequent inquiry like there was into the Khan Incident (particularly since all official reports are suspiciously vague regarding the actual condition Jim was in immediately afterwards and how much blame rested on one of their own Admirals for the debacle), but it's definitely not ideal. Typically, the rest of the command staff wouldn't be re-instated for ship's business until the refitted Enterprise command crew has actually been confirmed, but they're stretched thin in the 'Fleet right now.

And Admiral Barrett, at least, doesn't completely hate him or Spock, thanks to her previous association with Christopher Pike. She also likes Spock a lot more than she likes Jim, which doesn't surprise Jim at all. He likes Spock more, too.

"That'd be good, if you can swing it. But it's just part of the deal right now, it's not unexpected."

"Still. Anything I can do while you're on the Victoriana?"

"Wow. You really must be bored."

"I thought that was obvious." He waves the little brush for emphasis. "Also, no one else is brave enough to sneak me non-hospital food, even when Bones is safely off-campus. I'm personally invested in keeping on your good side, Lieutenant."

Barclay laughs, capping the silver bottle. "Well, you know where I work now, sir. I'm available for emergency runs when necessary. I accept tips in guacamole."

He points the tiny brush at her. "You're my new favorite, Barclay."

Uhura smiles at their interaction, and leans over to carefully drop the empty margarita cup in the recycling bin, with the hand that's nearly dry.

Jim caps the bottle, giving it an extra twist because his physical strength is just not there yet and Uhura will murder him if it leaks in her handbag. "There, you're done, I think. Reporting for evaluation, ma'am."

She holds up her hand against the ugly hospital lights to inspect his work, and then offers him a regal nod. "It'll do. Don't quit your day job."

He laughs, but there's an underlying seriousness to her tone that isn't lost on him. It's been a very rough few months, but the idea that there might be a light at the end of the warp corridor is the only thing keeping him going right now.

"Wasn't planning to."

"Now it's your turn, sir!"

"Uh. I'm good, but thank you."

Uhura nudges him with a boot-toe. "She wasn't asking. Give her your damn hand, Jim."

As he eyes Tamura's half-drunk, salt-rimmed glass dubiously, she laughs, waving a nail file for emphasis. "It's a mocktail, Captain. I have a shift in six hours."

Ah. None of them (except Chekov) are nineteen and able to power through a hangover, anymore.

"All right, fine. Speaking of – out of curiosity, what do Communications personnel do when they're not aboard an active starship?" he asks, with genuine interest.

Uhura waves her fingers in the air, he assumes to dry the nails faster and not to emphasize with weird jazz hands. "Most of them, extremely boring tasks like editing marketing materials, coming up with classroom work and tests, drafting inter-departmental memos, writing speeches, live translation, that kind of thing. Something a computer still can't quite do without sounding mechanical."

"I feel like that's a waste of your skills."

"It is. I got a little luckier, I'm translating the Academy linguistics curriculum for next year into the three Romulan dialects, because the universal translator still has issues with the emotives, for some reason. The vocabularic nuances are too important to trust to a computer, given the galaxy's current political state." She shrugs. "It's interesting enough, but I'll be glad for the break on the Victoriana. I hate working in an office."

That makes sense. "And you, Ensign?"

Eyes still firmly on her work, Tamura nonetheless launches into an eager explanation of how she's creating experimental algorithms for the universal translator based on an obscure theory that each planet's music is subconsciously informative of its language, particularly in emotive details and mathematical repetition of common themes.

"Wait, so you're saying you think we could just waltz up to a new planet and listen in on their subspace entertainment channels, gather enough information from their music alone to get at least a vague understanding of their language structure? That would make a huge difference in pre-First Contact observation strategies."

"Exactly!" She fairly beams at him. "Most people think non-verbal linguistics is a waste of time and 'Fleet money."

"Most people meaning Captain Kramer?" Uhura asks, raising a weirdly Vulcanesque eyebrow.

"Now, I didn't say that."

Uhura snorts. "You didn't have to. The man's a dick."

"In fairness, so was I, not that long ago," Jim points out.

"You were barely legal at the time we met. He's seventy-five, that's more than enough decades to grow out of it," she says dryly.

"Fair point." That explains a little more why Uhura brought her tonight; she's making a concentrated effort to poach her from the Informer, and Jim would trust her judgment even if he too didn't like Tamura already.

Technically, it's not considered good form in the 'Fleet to actively recruit from other captains' ships, even if both ships are technically on ground leave, and Jim knows he'd totally throw down if anyone tried it with the Enterprise. Still. There's also technically no rule against it, which to him (and Uhura, clearly) means it's a valid strategy.

He's sure as hell not going to tell Spock it's happening, though.

A voice outside, and the door slides open to admit the night shift nurse, a cheerful young Andorian with a dark sense of humor that makes them get along great with Jim. Making the last round of the night, apparently. Jim hadn't even realized it was after 2000 hours.

Head bent over a padd and no doubt gathering resolve for this particular patient's typically irritated greeting, the nurse belatedly registers the scene and halts abruptly just inside the door, blinking at the chaos.

"Uh. Good evening, Mr. Kirk?"

"I told you I have friends, Kyl!" Jim gestures grandly at the other occupants of the room, before Tamura patiently yanks his hand back down. "See?"

So Jim's a little defensive, sue him. Last night the nurse had inquired if there was "anyone they could call" to keep him company, because apparently he's pathetic now in addition to bed-ridden?

Uhura chokes back a laugh and slides off the bed so the medical readings reset to Jim's baseline, scooping up nail files and other assorted debris as she goes. Kyl at least recognizes her, and offers her a smile before moving toward the bed to check the bio-monitors. Seeing the empty taco wrappers in the recycling can, their smile turns suddenly disapproving.

"Sir…"

"I'm allowed to have solid food now if it's not spicy or acidic."

"I don't believe greasy tacos were on the approved list Doctor McCoy left with us," Kyl replies, arms folded.

Barclay grins and promptly removes herself from the cross-fire, flipping Jim a casual salute on her way out the door.

"They're vegetarian, for pity's sake! That list was not all-inclusive, and you know it."

"And you know McCoy will have my antennae if you get sick on my watch."

"I'm not going to get sick, there wasn't even salsa on them!"

Tamura firmly yanks his flailing hand back down, going back at the last nail with the determination of someone who knows she's not going to have much longer to accomplish a difficult task.

"Kyl, you tell McCoy, and I will tell him you forgot my supplements yesterday morning."

The nurse flushes a delicate shade of robin's-egg blue. "Johnson was having an allergic reaction and the closest aide was two floors down!"

"I know that, and you know that. Bones only knows my Vitamin B and D levels were low when he got here." He smiles evilly. "What'll it be."

"I honestly do not know why someone hasn't choked you in your sleep yet, we've given them plenty of chances," Uhura says dryly from the corner, as Kyl splutters an unintelligible protest. "Kelly, we should probably call it a night, though. McCoy's got a movement tracker on this room and it'll go off if he isn't asleep by 2130. I do not want to field that comm."

Tamura's eyebrows hit her blonde bangs. "That's…"

"Super creepy? I know." Jim sighs, and gets his hand back in time to swat at the nurse as they try to take advantage of the distraction to hit him with his nightly muscle relaxant hypospray. "Kyl, I swear to god –"

"I was going to say it was a little unusual, but from your reaction, I'm guessing it actually isn't, sir," Tamura replies, clearly trying not to laugh as she caps the bottle of polish.

"You have absolutely no idea." Uhura shakes her head, but she's smiling. "Do you need a ride back to the Comms building?"

"I'm good, Lieutenant, but thank you. I have a transport token and it's short walk from there. Have a good night, Captain Kirk."

He offers her a genuine smile, and rolls his eyes as Kyl finally manages to dodge and apply the hypospray to his neck. "I hate you. Not you, Ensign. I hope to see you again when I'm a little more mobile."

"Anytime, sir. Good night, Lieutenant Uhura!"

Uhura waves with a look of tolerant amusement as the young woman picks up her things and fairly bounces out of the room, humming to herself. Kyl mutters something about blackmail and lights out in ten, and then wisely scuttles after her, the door sliding shut behind them with a nearly-silent whissssh.

Jim half-turns on the bed, and cocks his head in question. "So what is actually going on?"

Uhura sighs, flops into one of the vacated chairs with a exasperated gesture that almost knocks Tamura's glass off the bedside table. "I don't even know! I just know I can't deal with it right now. Why do you think I jumped at the chance to get off-planet for four weeks."

"Do you need me to like, talk to him or anything?"

"Please don't. You haven't exactly helped free up his 'emotional bandwidth' the last couple of months."

It's not an accusation, not really; but he winces anyway, knowing she's right. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"Maybe not, but I'm still sorry." He fidgets absently with the edge of a pillowcase, and only remembers the night's activities when his still-wet finger-tip comes away covered in fuzz. He shakes it briefly, like a cat flicking water off its paw. "Ew."

He's surprised to hear her laugh. Not the fake, polite, overly feminine one she uses when trying to smooth over diplomatic relations, but her real one, the one that starts with a giggle and ends in a hilariously undignified snorting noise. It's no doubt helped along by a healthy dose of San Fran's finest imported tequila, but it still makes him smile. And smiles are hard to come by, right now.

"Rude." He waves a hand aimlessly, hoping to dry whatever's left of it. "Seriously, why is this even a thing."

The laughter finally dies away, and she clears her throat. "Well," she begins, with an unusually gentle hesitance. "It's a way to feel a physical connection to someone in a way that is both platonic and relatively non-invasive."

He freezes, hands in mid-air, eyes glued to them in lieu of having to look at her.

"It took me way too long to figure it out, honestly. I of all people should do better at reading non-verbal signals." She clears her throat again, and leans forward, putting a hand on his arm. "And you should do better at making them verbal."

He sighs, deflating like a collapsing balloon, and closes his eyes against the pile of pillows. "You sound like my therapist."

"Then that should tell you something." He opens one eye to look at her, and she shrugs, unrepentant. "Nobody here's a mind-reader, Jim. And it's not fair to make everyone guess what you need right now, we're all stretched too thin."

She's not wrong, on any count.

He's always been good at finding physical companionship, on shore leave or otherwise, in all its varied forms and shapes. That slowed down more than his reputation would indicate, when he took command of the Enterprise, because not even he is stupid or arrogant enough to endanger the reputation of his crew or his ship by making a foolish decision that would give the 'Fleet plenty of grounds to toss him on his ear for fraternization. He has always kept his dalliances firmly ashore, on other people's vessels, or confined to the extremely rare occasion they have civilian visitors aboard the Enterprise. Flirting only, and even that he's tried to rein in when possible.

But the rest of a relationship, romantic or otherwise, is what he never has gotten right; all the messy, complicated, emotional parts. Sex is easy, emotions are difficult; so he keeps people at arm's length as a general rule, to avoid broadcasting the fact that he's far more experienced at the former than the latter.

But now? Now, ever since he woke up from a month-long coma, everyone's treating him like he's made of glass.

Broken glass, at that.

No one wants to cut their hands on broken glass.

"How are you always able to see through my bullshit?"

"An excess of opportunity to practice the skill set," she replies in a tone as dry as the Medical cafeteria's meatloaf. "Maybe work on it, while I'm gone."

"I can do that." He's getting sleepy at breakneck speed, thanks to Kyl's abilities with a hypospray, and now blinks rapidly, stifling a yawn. "Enjoy your trip."

"I will. You should be up and around more by the time I get back, right?"

"Mmyeah. Get my own tacos, just you wait." She smiles, and pats his arm fondly before standing. He cracks one eye as she gathers up her things. "Hey, also, keep up the good work luring Enterprise applicants away from anywhere you can. Don't get caught doing that, please."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Sir."

"Of course not." He makes a sleepy little hand gesture that could be a salute in other circumstances. "Dismissed."

Her laugh follows her out the door, and he falls asleep smiling.