AN: *Spoilers for Into Darkness-but only in this note*

So apparently Christine Chapel transferred off the Enterprise after the 2009 movie. Oops. So...for our purposes, she totally got re-tranferred, but she's not happy about it.

...Yep. Let's go with that.

Enjoy!

Chapter Four

McCoy, Jim was sure, would have asked him about the incident, had he not left earlier than the Captain himself. Thirty minutes before they usually had to get up, the doctor was hailed. Medical emergency. Jim was barely lucid at the time. Fifteen minutes later, Jim took a shower, got dressed, and went to the bridge early.

The first half of the day passed with no incidents. Smooth as silk; the ship was right on course to arrive at the planet right on time. But for some reason, Jim left the bridge for lunch with a vague, ominous feeling in his stomach.

For lunch, the generator spat out something different from the usual salad—a heaping pile of spaghetti and meatballs and a side of steaming toast. Grinning, Jim trotted off to Sick Bay.

"CPR at 05:00?" Jim said as he strutted in.

"Shut up." He fired back.

"Thanks for lunch."

"Welcome."

Leonard was sitting at a table, hunched over a PADD, dealing with some sort of paperwork. Distractedly, he was eating from a tray of generated fruit. He looked up at Jim and slid the PADD over. "Here you go. Need to see it anyway."

Jim put down the tray and quickly sat. He took a bite of garlicky toast and perused the medical report. Someone had had a seizure, lasting a couple of hours. When the crew member became conscious again, he reported that he had been dreaming of a memory…

"And no," he said. "I did not do CPR at 05:00 this morning."

"How does one dream of a memory?" asked Jim, sliding it back.

"Very easily, in fact. Ever heard of PTSD? DID?"

"Point taken," he agreed reluctantly.

"Sometimes," McCoy said, concentrated more on eating now, "Our subconscious is more willing to admit things that happen than we are."

He considered this, thinking back to the night before. Maybe he'd been dreaming of a memory too. He swallowed hard.

"Is there any way to tell?"

"Jim," the doctor said, his voice taking on an almost soft quality, "I'm a doctor, not a psychologist." Did he know? Maybe he knew. But how could that be possible?

A significant silence occurred. Jim stuck a fork into his noodles. He decided a subject change would be in order. "So how come you're just now feeding me well?"

"Don't count on it for long."

"Awww, come on."

McCoy gave him a look. Jim gave his best puppy dog look.

The doctor looked to his plate. "Fine," he conceded. "Maybe a couple more times."

Jim smiled and returned to his food.

After lunch, Jim went back to the bridge. He didn't have much to do there, so after checking in with Scotty on the condition of the engine ("its purring like a tom cat") and with Glenn on the progress of cargo preparation ("Smoothly, sir, nearly finished"), he mostly played checkers on the PADD and sent faux sappy messages to Bones. After he got bored with this, he started an I-Spy game with Lt. Uhura.

"I spy something white," Jim said.

Uhura fixed him with an incredulous look. Everyone knew that everything on the bridge was white. "I spy something stupid," she fired back.

Jim thought for a few minutes. "I spy something infatuated." He said smugly. He wasn't dumb—although it wouldn't take much of a genius to see how often Scotty and Uhura had been hanging out lately. Either Uhura had taken a sudden and complete interest in engineering, or a sudden and complete interest in the person who was in charge of it.

Her cheeks puffed out the slightest bit. "I spy a homophile," she said.

Jim looked at his, confused.

"You know, a…" she waved her hand. "Whatever." She turned back around.

Jim spent the next few minutes looking up the word. When he did, his ears heated so much that he swore they would catch on fire. Yep. She'd gotten him.

A couple beats later, Jim heard somebody snoring. Slowly, he spun around, searching. Checkov, Sulu and Uhura stared at Stinson, who was fast asleep at his work center.

Jim got up, wielding his PADD. These things were pretty sturdy, right?

He crept up behind him. Everyone's eyes were on him as he lifted the PADD above his head and brought it down to the table.

BANG!

Stinson's head flew up, red hair disheveled. "Wha—" he began.

Jim launched into him. "The hell are you doing falling asleep?!" he shook his head. "You ought to be…"

He was going to stop with the word 'ashamed', but then his eyes landed on the screen in front of him. Something was very, very wrong.

"Stinson," he said, clearing his throat. He felt very irritated, now. But he was not going to rail into him. He would remain calm. "Why are we off course?"

Stinson, sleepy, looked at the screen as if he'd never seen such a thing. "I don't know," he said. "I don't remember…"

"Listen," Jim said, leaning into the work station. "You'd better get us back on track. Soon. You've been here for three months. It's about time you—"

"Keptin!" that was Checkov.

"What?" he turned.

The curly haired Russian appeared sheepish. He picked at his blue shirt. "May I take a look?"

"Sure," he said, moving away. "But Stinson?"

"Yes sir?"

"Your shit. Get it together. Soon."