A.N. I know I said this was finished, but... long story short, this is a series of one-shots that I was going to separate because there were slight character differences, and slight genre differences, but I decided to post them as one cohesive fic. Expect two to three more one-shots after this one. Extra, extra, extra special credit to Beamirang, she really inspired me with her fic "Matterhorn", like I said, and so, I decided with a very, very sizeable amount of trepidation to bring the scene which inspired me that she so briefly described to life. To Beamirang, please don't kill me. (braces self for hurled tomatoes)
Disclaimer: If I were J.J. Abrams, Paramount Pictures, or Gene Roddenberry, I would have saved Captain Pike from Khan.
I am also not Brendon Urie of Panic! At the Disco, or any member of that group for that matter, current or former. Kudos if you spot the reference. ;)
Stardate 2256.4
Starfleet Academy, San Francisco
"And now, we honor the deceased who perished on the USS Kelvin. Captain Richard F. Robau."
A bell tolls.
"Lieutenant Commander George D. Kirk."
A bell tolls.
Jim doesn't really pay any more attention after that. This is his first Kelvin Memorial Day/birthday at Starfleet Academy, the first one he's celebrating like this, and he can already tell he hates it. All it felt like was that they were rubbing the fact that his Dad was dead in his face - much as he hated to admit it, he was still grieving for the father he never even knew, despite the fact that he felt very much his Dad's presence, although much more in the way of a hovering cloud over his head, what with the way people were expecting some sort of life-changing insight to issue forth from his mouth at every turn, and not only that, he hadn't had a night's sleep for the past two days, so he was practically running on instinct, a dangerous blend of caffeine and stims he swiped from Bones' medkit, and he had been in this annoying dress uniform with its stiff and hyper-starched collar for the better part of the day, and he still had several more hours to go before he could take it off. He stood stiffly at attention, fighting the urge to reach up to scratch his neck - what did they starch the collars with, poison ivy? When they finished the list of the crew who perished, he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, until he remembered that there was still the dinner to get through, and realized that he had been standing still long enough for one of the Commandants of the Academy to approach him and usher him to the banquet hall.
Following the roughly two hours of agony, in which Jim was paraded around like some sort of 20th century sideshow attraction, he finally escaped, and "walked briskly" back to his dorm. He practically tore off his uniform, and put on instead a comfortable shirt and pants, before collapsing onto his bed. He was just about to drift off when... the door swished open, and a Southern-tinged voice proclaimed, "Get your stupid ass up, Jim!"
"Whaaa," was his elegant reply.
"Come on, I'm taking you out for a drink."
"Lemme sl'p Bones," Jim muttered.
"Nope. Get up now, you infant, or I'm making you get up."
Jim's head came up slightly. "Why? 'M so tired."
"Believe me, you need a drink now. Better to get the hangover and the self-loathing over with now, while your teachers can be persuaded to take it easy on you."
"I'm fine, really, just let me sleep, and leave me alone."
"Nope," Bones nonchalantly proclaimed, as he literally picked up one of Jim's arms and started to bodily drag him out of bed. Jim realized this seconds before he fell the short distance to the floor flat on his face. "I am getting you absolutely wasted, Jim. Up and at 'em, kid!"
His jovial tone was starting to induce a headache in Jim - how could anyone be that happy this time of the evening? He was about to start the process of hauling himself back into bed, but the hypospray unceremoniously stabbed into his neck halted that. He was about to complain about what exactly that hypo was for, but the sudden absence of his massive impending headache, the ache caused by suddenly falling flat on his face, and the subsequent rush of energy stopped him.
"Now," Bones spoke in his "Doctor" voice, "this combo of drugs is a little dangerous, seeing as how I'm not totally sure how one of the only painkillers your damn fool self ain't allergic to, is going to react with the last vial I have of Themamine, which I know you've been taking from my medkit, and the alcohol I hope to have in your system."
A surge of guilt rushed through Jim, and he stammered out, "I-I'm so-" "Shove it, Jim. You can repay me by coming with me to the first bar we see."
Bones took one of Jim's sprawled limbs and hauled Jim to his feet. "Just stick to beer, no hard liquor, you should be fine." And before Jim could get a word in edgewise, Bones was putting on Jim's shoes for him, and dragging him out the door.
The first bar they saw was this kinda-decent dive bar called "The Busty Babe", and an hour later, Jim and Bones were more than halfway into a six-pack of beer, respectively. As a result, sobriety was more than halfway out the window. More like hanging by a thread, getting closer to becoming nonexistent.
"So, Jiyum," Bones slurred, his Southern drawl becoming exaggerated, "what'd ya think of, of the whole dayum ceremony of this whole dayum day?" He paused for a second, then guffawed, saying, "hey, that kinda rhymes!" Causing the two to burst into laughter like a couple of hyenas, drawing stares from other bar patrons.
"I hated it, Bones," Jim slurred just as badly, his midwestern accent, which was slowly disappearing, making a reappearance. "I abso-tehlutehly ha-ted it. I felt like a freaking sideshow, you know, from the 20th century." They maintained a drunken silence, punctuated by heavy alcohol-soaked breaths, and the gentle thud of beer bottles against the wooden bar counter.
Then Bones proclaimed, "Ah know, let's comm that Cap'n friend o' yours, Pah-Pahke and tell 'im what ya think."
"It's Pike, Bones."
"Thass wha' ah said, idjit!" Bones fumbled for his comm, just saving it from falling on the floor. "Whass tha frequency, Jim?"
Somehow, Jim rattled off a string of numbers which Bones miraculously managed to completely enter into the irritating little device. It rang for a moment, then a strong, male voice answered, "Dr. McCoy, what can I do for you?"
"We, Jim an' ah, tha' is, we wanted to tell you how much Jim hated th' ceremony of today, an'... ah don' know wha' else ta say, we're drunk as hell!"
Jim then interjected, "I'm not as think as you-you-ah, hell, I forgot."
A barely audible sigh was heard, then, "Where are you two, you're in no condition to get home alone."
"The Busty Babe!" Was loudly chorused into the receiver, and Pike replied, "Stay there, and don't move, or this is going on both of your records." They blew a collective raspberry, but by that time, Christopher Pike had hung up, and was dashing out the door, barely sparing time to put on a light coat.
The last thing Chris Pike expected at 2200 hours was a drunken comm from Leonard McCoy, and at the same time, it was exactly what he expected. He could see the discomfort in Jim's face that afternoon, and he knew enough of McCoy to know that that night or the next, he'd have to fish them out of some piece of crap bar. And so, he had braced himself that evening for the eventual responsibility of dragging them back to their dorms. At least though, they commed him before any brawls could occur. When he finally found his way to "The Busty Babe", the two cadets were easy to spot - they were the ones clinging to each other lest they fall right off of their barstools in the corner. "Kirk. McCoy." He sternly spoke.
They as one, turned, and Jim said, "Chris! Come join us in our revelry!" As he widely gestured with his - you had to be kidding - sixth bottle of beer? At least he saw no shot glasses. It might be an old wives tale, but he could attest to the fact that, "Beer and liquor, never sicker", from his own cadet days, loathe as he was to admit it. He snatched the beer out of Jim's hand, despite his protesting, "hey," and set it on the counter.
"What the hell are you two doing! You are Starfleet cadets, and not only that, you are the most brilliant mind in the medical track, and the son of George Kirk, brilliant in your own right, and one of the, if not the most stellar student in the command track, maybe even the Academy, respectively." Chris knew Jim was the most brilliant student in the Academy, but he wasn't about to inflate Jim's ego any further. "And you two are sitting here, drunk off your damn asses. As your commanding officer, I have the right to put you two in for disciplinary action." He let the threat hover, then, "That being said, as Christopher Pike, you deserve a drink, both of you. You, Jim, for managing to get through that stupid parade they made of this day, and you, McCoy, for not letting Jim drink alone, although, you seem to have had more than one, apparently."
This seemed to sober the two up, and they now looked grave. "Well," he looked at the pair, "you're both already sauced, so might as well finish up your beers, what's a little more at this point?"
Chris took the barstool beside Jim, and watched the two start to finish up. There was half left in both of their bottles before Jim said, his voice surprisingly steadier than five minutes ago, "Chris, get a drink, let's drink to the savior of the USS Kelvin, who couldn't be bothered to save himself at the same time, the heroic idiot."
Chris felt that this statement rather encompassed Jim's entire sense of his father, the love-hate situation he felt. Reluctantly, Chris flagged down the bartender, and ordered a shot of bourbon, looking at Jim, waiting for him to speak, just as McCoy was doing.
"To my dad, Lieutenant Commander George Daniel Kirk, who, while saving me, my mother, and more than two-thirds of the ship's crew complement, perished, after exhausting all weapons available to him, setting a self destruct course, severely damaging the enemy ship to the point that they could not pursue, nor fire upon the escaping shuttles."
Chris fought the urge to let his jaw drop, he should have known that Jim would read his dissertation, as that toast was almost word for word the entire summary he wrote for his paper. They lifted their glasses and toasted George Kirk. There was a moment of silence, before Jim spoke again.
"Why?" He said, to no one in particular, his tone starting to break. "Why couldn't he have saved himself too? Couldn't he have set the course and ran to the shuttle bay? He had over a minute! He didn't even try to save himself! Why did he even stay to begin with?"
"He had to fight off the shots to the shuttles, Jim." Chris quietly spoke. "There weren't any auto-targeting systems yet, and the auto-pilot was destroyed. If he left, no one would be able to prevent the enemy shots from hitting any number of the shuttles. Your shuttle might have gotten hit, killing you, your mother, and the medical staff onboard."
"I know that! I just... wish he were still alive. I wish he were here, stupid as it is."
"'S not stupid, Jim," McCoy said, his speech still slurring slightly. "Ev'ryone needs a dad in their lives, 's not stupid ta wish yours was still 'ere."
"Have you ever heard the recording in the shuttle, Jim," Chris asked, as he flagged down the bartender for another shot. While the brand was not his usual favorite, it was still smooth, and enjoyable.
"Yeah. About a million times," replied Jim tiredly.
"Well, have you ever listened to your Dad's tone? I remember my Dad sounding exactly like that, talking like that to me. My Dad loved me, and yours loved you."
A tear Jim couldn't repress slipped out of his eye, and he mildly sniffed. "Thanks," he muttered, after a beat.
Chris placed a gentle hand on Jim's shoulder.
"You were talking about your dad in the past tense. Is he..." Jim cautiously asked.
"Yeah," Chris sighed, finding himself suddenly in the need for a third shot, feeling mildly better as the bourbon flowed through him. He still missed his parents. It wasn't easy, being an only child. "Halfway through the first semester of my second year at the Academy. Both he and my Mom. They were going home from dinner. Shuttle transport gone wrong, was what they called it."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay, it was a while back."
"Well," McCoy said, "looks like we're all part of some dead parents club."
Chris and Jim looked across at him.
"Muh Daddy died from a disease called Pyrrhoneuritis. Causes unbearable pain. He intentionally overdosed on morphine. A month later, they found the cure. St'll beat muhself up over that."
They all drank in solemn silence, until, "Well," Chris murmured, as he ordered yet another shot, "here's to all our parents."
Shot glass and beer bottles clinked against each other as they toasted, then drank. "Aren't we a trio?" Chris asked quietly.
"Yup," was the collective reply. From that point on, the night started to become a bit of a blur for Chris.
"Ohhh," the starship Captain groaned, as he woke up with the worst hangover he had ever had the misfortune to experience. In hindsight, he reflected, he probably shouldn't have had that fourth shot. Or the third, for that matter. How he ended up staying in the bar getting drunk with Jim and McCoy when his initial purpose was getting them out of the bar was something he didn't understand. Although, if he was honest with himself, he understood exactly how. And he didn't enjoy thinking about it anymore than he already did the night before. He still missed his family, and he still felt lonely, after all these years, when he got to thinking about it. Finally, he looked around, once he could open his eyes without feeling that a million knives were stabbing into his eyeballs.
He was in his apartment, okay, that was good. On his couch, weird, but still okay, and he was wearing all his clothes. That definitely was good. But then... from behind his couch, a voice moaned, "Hngghhh."
Chris gingerly lifted himself up to look behind the couch, and gazed right down into the bloodshot blue eyes of Jim Kirk, a still unconscious McCoy sprawled beside Jim's seated form. Ugh. He was definitely not going to be doing this again. Ever. No matter if Jim and McCoy were stinking, pass out drunk. They could get their own asses back to the dorms themselves.
The End
Just in case I don't upload the next one-shot before Christmas, Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!
God bless you all!