Thank you for all the reviews and follows. Apologies if I don't update often - I have a full time job which makes a lot of demands. But I will try and keep this going!
"Captain?"
Kirk blinked, trying to focus on the face before him. Her eyes contained concern -an expression, he realised with irritation, was becoming commonplace amongst his crew. Not respect, not admiration - concern. And, in Spock's face, he was beginning to detect what he thought was pity.
"Yes, doctor?" He snapped out, causing the young woman to step back. Her face creased in puzzlement. "I only came to ask you about-" she bit her lip, in consternation. "In fact, it doesn't matter. I'll speak to Mr Scott instead."
Turning, she walked away. Kirk looked at Spock. "Don't say anything."
"I was not intending to," the First Officer said, his voice calm against the surge of the captain's emotions. "However, I think you have plenty to say to others. But I don't think you are willing to."
Stunned, Kirk looked at him. "Spock?"
"Captain, you seem - agitated." The long pause mid sentence rattled Jim even more. "Yes, agitated. Perhaps you are even...depressed."
"Depressed?!" Jim looked at him, his eyebrows raised. "Why would I be depressed? And who are you to judge?" He shook his head. "If I seem depressed, Spock, it is because I have a crew that seems to be intent on treating me as though I'm a baby-"
"Then maybe you should stop acting like one." This aside came from Uhura, who had re-appeared on the bridge without either of the two men noticing. "Maybe you should stop acting like a baby and start acting like an adult. An adult who is charge of this ship."
"Well, thank you for the character assassination, Lieutenant," Kirk said, bitterly. "But I have more important things to listen to."
As he walked away, Uhura shook her head helplessly. "I'm sorry, Spock," she apologised to the Vulcan. "He just - he -"
"It is all right," the First Officer said, his voice low. "We should get back to work."
Uhura swallowed, controlling her emotions. "Fine," she said, her own tone wooden. She could not, however, stop from looking over her shoulder, at the ghost of a man who was walking away.
Kirk had once strode onto the bridge as though he were a king. Now he were leaving as though he were broken.
"Dr Marcus!" Montgomery Scott looked up as she walked into engineering. "This is a nice surprise!"
The blonde smiled - a genuine one. "Thank you," she said, as though relieved to find someone who might appreciate her company. "I wanted to show the captain something, but he-"
"Och, you don't want to listen to him," the Scotsman grumbled. "He's a right moody one at the moment." Scott shook his head, and picked up a wrench. "Probably a bad hair day. That's about as deep as Jimbo can get!"
Carol tried to suppress a giggle. "I think you might do him a disservice, Mr Scott!"
"Ach no." Scotty shook his head again. "I'm sure its possibly girl trouble." He raised his eyebrows. "God knows there's been plenty of them! Anyway, enough about him...what can I help you with?"
Kirk was back in his quarters. Staring into space, not looking. He was resting his chin on his hand, not thinking about the ship, or the crew. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there. Minutes? Hours?
Either way, he didn't care. He was lost in a fog of memories, that tormented him at night and haunted his days.
He remembered the first punch. Straight, hard, to the jaw, which had felled him. Then he remembered the other hand closing around his throat, delivering another blow. Eyes, wild with insanity, had glared at his. Picked up as though he were weightless, thrown against the wall. And kicked in the midriff - a kick so vicious he thought it would tear through his abdomen.
He'd been helpless. Pathetic. Unable to stop a man murdering a father in front of his daughter.
The sickening crack rang in his head. He'd lain there, staring, doing nothing. Was he really better than his opponent?
Or worse?
He'd allowed him to live. He'd been given an order to kill him. He had not. Instead, he'd thought he knew a better way. And he had failed.
He rubbed his forehead, and began to sit up. He'd removed his uniform and was clad in cloth robe, that was ageing as rapidly as its owner. He dismissively flicked cotton off his sleeve. He was a far cry from the cocky, handsome man who had both charmed and irritated Starfleet in equal measure.
He remembered the first time she'd approached him. On the shuttle, smiling nervously and introducing herself. He'd been charmed.
Now he felt disgusted. Disgusted with himself.
He leaned forward, and rubbed his forehead. There was one thing he could do. One thing, he mused, that could eradicate this.
His opponent was not dead.
He was only in stasis.
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