(Here's the other thing that all the major news media will eventually get very wrong: Chris never—never—intended to have children. Maybe marry, but that had always been an abstract concept at the back of his mind that hadn't ever really been in his plans. Absolutely, however, no children.
The news media, of course, will say everything opposite: his atypical childhood making him crave a normal family with a wife and the two-point-three kids and the picket fence. That he'd been excited when Jim was given to him and that he was quick to get Jim to call him Dad, buying up a sweet little blue rowhouse a few kilometers from Starfleet HQ. They will say he even thought of adopting another child.
Eventually, when this all comes to pass after Nero, Chris will laugh himself hoarse because the truth is it was anything like they assume.
It was months of hell first.)
"Here, drink this."
"Is there alcohol in it?"
"Seeing as it's not even 0900 yet and you're already twenty minutes late for a meeting with the Commander-in-Chief of Starfleet, no."
Chris thunks his head against his desk as his best friend snickers; he knew how he looked, his hair haphazard, his uniform just barely skirting the edge of proper. He's exhausted and it shows on his face and in his movements.
"He's still having the nightmares?"
"Night terrors now. And he bites." Without picking his head up, Chris unzips and pulls at the neck of his uniform, revealing the neat, oval mark on his shoulder.
Rich winces, remembering one kid at the fourth or fifth group home who'd kicked, spit, bitten, and cursed his way through his nightmares until it'd come tumbling out that his abuse hadn't been strictly physical and he'd been transferred to a hospital for treatment. Granted, Chris has been assured that Jim had been spared that particular pain, but that kind of lashing out, even in sleep, is hard not only on the person with the terrors but those caring for them.
"You didn't report to Medical."
Chris shifts, rubbing at his eyes as he reaches for the offered mug of coffee, black and perfect. "It happened this morning. It was Medical or briefing," he admits before chugging his drink and getting to his feet. "I'll head down once I've gotten through this meeting."
Rich wants to argue—if Chris had any intentions of reporting the injury to Medical, he would have gone there first and used it as an explanation for his lateness with the Admirals—but Chris is striding out of the tiny office he'd been assigned four months ago while acclimating to his new position as an instructor, and he isn't looking back. So he grumbles to himself instead and takes off after Chris, wondering aloud his speculations about this meeting.
After all, they hadn't been told what the hell it was about, simply to show up at the Daystrom conference room at 0830 and be prompt about it.
It takes a brisk walk (read: a flat-out run) to reach the conference room in ten minutes, but it's enough to get them there before Vice Admiral Blackwell sends out a search party.
"Gentlemen. You're late."
"I apologize, sir," Chris immediately responds, his voice dripping with sincerity.
"I trust the delay was unavoidable, but since we're now pressed for time, have a seat." Blackwell points to the two vacant chairs on the opposite side of the half-filled table; it positions them to be under the full scrutiny of the Admiralty and it's more than a little unnerving. (They're a half an hour late and admittedly, Tony Blackwell thinks a bit of nerve-wracking his two star Commanders is good retribution.)
"Again, sirs, I apologize for the delay. Commander Barnett was only held up because of my..."
"Relax, Chris. This isn't a hearing," Archer soothes and he frowns a little that Chris hasn't figured out what's happening from Jonathan's mere presence. He looks tired and he flicks his eyes to Blackwell to communicate that something is up and to not keep the boys waiting too long.
Blackwell nods. "Admiral Archer is correct. This meeting has been called by myself and my compatriots to congratulate you both on exemplary performances both on your previous tours of duty aboard the U.S.S. Armstrong and as instructors," he pauses, leaning forward to add, "Normally I'd blather on about other accomplishments and whatnot, but, again, time crunch, so let's get right to it.
"You two have managed to exceed every goal set to you. You go above and beyond and you are clearly destined for some great things, gentlemen. Given that, it is only right to elevate you both to ranks commensurate to your skills and experience. Congratulations, Captains."
Chris blinks. "I'm sorry, sir, could you say that again?" Rich claps him on the back at that, smiling broadly.
"You're a Captain, son. You'll be taking the U.S.S. Endeavor out for her next tour."
Slowly, Chris absorbs it until he realizes he, too, is smiling and he starts to thank them all profusely, promising to not let any of them down, when his communicator's chime cuts into the chatter.
It's Jim's teacher.
"He's... Commander, I'm not sure what to do. Medical is enroute, but he's wedged himself under a cabinet and I can't get him to come out on his own and if I try, I may hurt him."
"I've got a car waiting downstairs to take you over to the Academy. We'll arrange meetings later to work out particulars. Get moving," Blackwell says only once, and Chris tells her, "I'm on my way," and then both Chris and Rich are racing through the halls, the lifts, the stairwells...
If their run before was flat-out, well, this is someone having lit a fire under their asses and it's not a good thing. Archer's taking up the rear as all three speed across the Academy campus toward the Starfleet Dependents' Elementary School. Some poor cadet is nearly mowed down in the hurry, and only when they reach the school do they pause for barely a second to note the many sets of eyes staring at them in surprise and confusion.
Inside, they're led right to Jim's classroom, which has been emptied of the other kids and been filled instead with a handful of Medical personnel.
"Commander, oh, thank God," Jim's teacher greets.
But Chris is too focused on the people clustered tightly around the spot Jim's chosen to use as his hiding place. He nods at her, knowing she's spoken yet unable to comprehend the words, and he marches toward the elevated cabinet at the back of the room, pushing through the white shirts. There, he kneels, looking at the boy and saying, "Hey, Jim."
"Hi, Chris."
"You ready to come out?"
Jim shakes his head violently.
"All right, then I'm just going to sit here until you are, okay?"
"Kay."
This is how Chris spends the immediate post-promotion period: sitting on the floor in Jim's classroom, glaring at the Medical personnel to stay away while guarding the kid from anyone who would scare him. It is not the dinner he'd envisioned for them to celebrate, but it's worth it when Jim eventually crawls out from under the cabinet as the others start to get twitchy and into Chris' arms.
The day of the Endeavor's launch coincides with Winona's sentencing.
It's by her own doing that the only contact she's had with Chris and Jim over the last six months has been through the lawyers, despite a few very insistent requests that Pike be permitted to speak with her directly, and Chris has to admit that he's more than a little upset with her for basically cutting Jim out of her life. It's not malicious, he knows this, and it's not because she wanted to do it, but because she believes this the best way to protect Jim.
So it is unsurprising that as Chris works to get their quarters aboard the ship set for launch, he is called to his ready room for an urgent incoming transmission from Jason Hughes. The lawyer, an older man in Starfleet Dress Grays, is one of the JAG's finest and had been a personal friend of Robau's. He'd taken on Winona's case the minute it'd passed into the unit, helped along by a private civilian lawyer Archer had contracted.
"How's she doing?" he asks as he settles into his chair.
"Well, considering."
Chris forces himself to be calm. "What's the verdict?"
"Twenty-five years in the New Zealand Penal Colony."
"Twenty-five years? That's a bit excessive considering the mitigating circumstances, isn't it?"
Jason sighs, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his forehead. "It would have been life, but the judge felt that it was too severe a punishment. He cut it down with eligibility for parole set for ten years on good behavior."
"We're appealing, I assume."
"Gary and I are going to start on that paperwork tomorrow. Right now, he's down at the courthouse getting the transfer papers signed and then he's going to meet up with Patrick and Jan to iron out a few details on the custody agreement."
"They terminated her rights?"
"All physical and legal rights to Jim Kirk are now yours. The adoption will be finalized on March 22nd. As we discussed before, Winona would like updates now and again to be sent to Gary's office, but she will continue to maintain her distance."
"Understood. Please, again, let her know that I would very much prefer if she would allow contact at least with Jim. He's not exactly benefiting from her absence." And that's putting it mildly: her continued lack of communication has led Jim to various (very untrue) assumptions, some of which have unsettled Jim to the point where he spent a week straight sneaking into Chris's room at night to sleep on the floor beside the bed simply to be sure that he wouldn't be abandoned by yet another person.
"I'll do my best to talk to her," Jason leaves off the 'but she is exceedingly stubborn' that they're both already thinking.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome. Anyway, my congratulations on the promotion and your assignment. Safe travels, Captain."
Chris smiles and thanks him, ending the transmission with all of ten seconds to spare before the door to his ready room opens and Jim is there with Number One. (He is grateful for how quickly Jim had taken to Chris's new XO, grateful that the Admirals had seen fit to give Chris early access to his crew roster so he could gently introduce the command staff.
He doesn't want to think of what the fallout could have been if he'd been forced to bring Jim aboard the ship without any prior meetings. Of course, the thought dives into the forefront of his mind anyway and he suppresses a shudder because, yeah, ithat/i would have been a disaster, pure and simple.)
"Hey, Jim," he says as he gets up, and lifts Jim to his side, "How was your tour of the ship?"
Jim shrugs. "S'okay."
That gets a raised eyebrow from Chris. "Just okay?" Honestly... Jim's been talking about the mission for the last two weeks. His classmates had started covering their ears and walking away whenever Jim got started, to the point that his teacher had recorded an incident of it to send to Chris.
Jim's response is to bury his face into Chris's gold tunic.
Ah.
"Number One, could you give us a moment?" he asks, voice a mixture of politeness and command, and once the door has closed again, he settles back into his chair with Jim tucked into his lap, his head laying against Chris's shoulder.
For a moment, there's silence, then Chris manages to find the words. "Jim, there are a lot of things out here in space that can be dangerous. But this mission is all science research, and we won't be far from any Starfleet Port. We'll be hundreds of kilometers from the neutral zone and the Klingons, and I promise I will not let anything happen to you."
"And you too?
Chris doesn't hesitate to reply, "In a year, we'll both be back on Earth, safe and sound, okay?"
"Okay."
Even as Jim speaks, as he arranges himself more comfortably in Chris's lap, Chris knows that Jim doesn't really believe him and he can't really argue that. Jim's one and only travel on a starship prior to this had resulted in the death of his father and considering his ever-present fear of abandonment, he can't really grasp the reality that attacks like the one made on the Kelvin are extremely rare.
For now, Chris decides, experience is going to have to speak louder than words.
Oh, hell fucking no.
These idiots did not just fire on his ship.
"Red alert," he orders from his chair, staring out the viewscreen at the ship that's decided it a good idea to attach a Federation vessel, "Evasive maneuvers! Arm all forward weapons."
Commands issued, they hop to, shouting, "Yes, sir!"
There's incoming now and the ship rocks under the assault, throwing everyone sideways in their chairs; another volley is caught by the Endeavor's return fire, but at least one torpedo gets through, slamming into the ship with enough force to throw Chris clear out of his chair.
There's another volley, then another. It's fifteen minutes before he can stop yelling about defensive measures and swap over to offense. He orders Houser to hail these morons, but the other ship doesn't answer and he takes twenty seconds to decide that if they're going to go for a shoot first-talk later approach, well, he's going to go with a cripple the damned ship defense.
"Lock phasers onto their main drive!"
"Doing it now, sir," he's told, and then, "Ready to fire on your mark, sir."
"Now."
The attacking vessel reels back, a spray of sparks and metal and engineering spilling out into the empty stretch of space between them; there's a flicker of lights through the ports along one side and finally, Chris can make out the name Gemini along the side.
"Do you want us to hail them now, sir?" Lieutenant Pacheco, a bruise already forming over one temple from striking his console.
Chris shakes his head—the Gemini is a known pirate vessel operating in this sector and the crew is unlikely to respond, even without any other choice—and says, "Cancel the red alert. Number One, contact Starfleet. Report what just happened and who we've got in our sights. Then speak with the nearest station, let them know they'll need a tow ship and a squadron of security officers."
She nods and moves to Houser's station, directing the communications officer to patch through both calls while Chris tugs at the edge of his tunic, wiping at the blood now dripping down the side of his face. He's not dizzy or nauseous, but he knows it's just a matter of time before one of his conniving subordinates alerts Boyce to the fact that the Captain is bleeding and he'll be dragged down, kicking and screaming, to Medical.
"Captain, their impulse engines are coming online."
"Warning shot over the bow, Mr. Pacheco."
The engines power down.
Thankfully, the crew of the Gemini don't attempt anything further, which the arresting officers later tell him was their one intelligent move: "The ship's held together on hopes and prayer. Another good shot from you and it would have gone down in hellfire."
"Well, considering their known cargo, hopefully my restraint will lead us to some family reunions."
"You and me both, sir."
Opening his mouth to speak again, Chris closes it with a snap and pulls a face. "If you'll excuse me, Ensign, my CMO is attempting to sneak up on me."
"I don't sneak."
The ensign grins and ends the transmission, leaving Chris to face Philip Boyce head on. "I was going to come down once..."
"You're bleeding. From the head. Get. Moving."
Pacheco snickers to himself and Number One is giving him one of her flat looks that's tempered with a bit of amusement in the glint of her eyes; Houser is looking at anything but him and he knows she's hoping he won't figure out that she's the one who'd blown the whistle on him.
"Number One, you have the conn," he relents, "I'll be in Medical."
He's shoved into the lift before he can get anything else out, Phil shoving him along, and as the doors shut, Chris lets out a long breath. "You are a huge pain in my ass."
"Please. I didn't actually get you off the Bridge for the head wound. I got you off the Bridge to clean you up before I take you to your kid." The doors open and Phil drags him out, down the hall, and into Boyce's personal office where he's sat down and Phil adds, "Jim's panicking and I figure we've got about five more minutes before that boy goes nova," as he cleans then heals the wound.
"Jim... Damnit, is he okay?"
"He's fine. He was on the observation deck with Ensign Harville when it started and got a good sized egg on his head—it's already reducing on its own—but he's been asking for you every chance he gets." Phil steps back and looks over the fresh, pink skin. "Lose the shirt and let's go."
Chris just about rips the tunic in half to get it off and hurtles it into a corner, glances down to ensure there isn't any large blood spots on the dark undershirt, before following Phil out into the main treatment room.
Where Jim is trembling in Harville's arms.
"Hey, buddy."
It seems like Jim never touches the floor as he flings himself into Chris's hold, and he clutches at him, muttering, "Daddy," over and over until Chris realizes Jim's not talking about George.
Someone pushes a chair up behind Chris and then Phil's pushing him down into it, and Chris lifts a hand to Jim's hair.
(It was never a switch to be flipped, loving Jim. It came in stages, in moments, and now Chris realizes, it was also inevitable: he never would have just been Jim's guardian. That's not what Jim needed nor could Chris ever have kept that distance.
He breathes in, heart tight in his chest, while Jim sniffles into his neck.)
"It's okay, son. We're both okay."
And they are.