Title: My Place
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Sarek
Rating/Genre: K, Gen.
Word Count: 2587
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for The Voyage Home, The Search for Spock, and The Wrath of Khan. Title swiped from Spock's words to Sybok in ST:V (so sue me, I loved the god-awful movie. :P)
Summary: The planet Vulcan and Ambassador Sarek owe Kirk and his crew, even if they don't show it overtly. If Starfleet is foolish enough to discharge their youngest Admiral over what he did, then Vulcan's exploratory science vessels are perfectly open to accepting him.
Alternate Summary: Triumvirate puppy-pile. No, really. What, you don't think they were entitled to a little schmoop after all that mess?
A/N: My fill for the exhaustion space on my H/C Bingo Card. Began as introspection and somehow degenerated into brain-melting fluff, I dunno how. Blame TWOK for it, I always say; I just watched it trying to get inspired for my startrekbigbang fic and bawled my way through the death scene yet again...*sigh*

For about fifteen glorious minutes, it had been the pure euphoria of triumph.

The clouds had lifted, the probe had departed, George and Gracie were making their way deeper into the 'Bay, his crew was all together and safe after their risky trip, the sun was shining brilliantly, and a 'Fleet shuttle was no doubt on its way to retrieve them all from the slowly-sinking Bird of Prey.

Spock's small wail as he was tackled mischievously into the thrice-detested water (he couldn't help it, but he was just too happy that they had all survived to care if he got a glare of not-quite-pure hatred when the dark head surfaced) was just the crowning moment to what was probably going to be the last pleasant memories he would have for a long while.

It didn't really hit him until they were almost to the landing pad on top of 'Fleet Headquarters, that he had finally risked his career for one of his crew…and lost, this time. He'd gone too far, after so many years of skirting the edge.

"Kirk, if you go through with this, you'll never sit in the captain's chair again."

An odd choice of threat, since he was still stuck as an Admiral anyway, but he had heard the unusual implications and realized them. He'd entertained hopes that someday he'd be able to ditch the desk job and return to active duty abroad, but when he gave the order to engage the engines on the Enterprise that evening he'd shot that hope down with one well-aimed blow.

He wouldn't be able to sit in a captain's chair on the Enterprise anyway, now that she had gone up with David and the Genesis experiment, and any other ship wouldn't carry the same weight with him; but the hopelessness still struck him like a bolt from the blue, just before they disembarked from the shuttle.

He was finished in Starfleet. He probably could get his crew off with only minor repercussions, and no one was going to have the guts to even think about touching Spock – but Admiral James Tiberius Kirk was done for. The shuttle door hissed, beginning to open on the smallish crowd waiting outside, and he sighed.

Wet and shivering, but still caught up in the glee of the moment, his crew were still laughing, talking with Dr. Taylor and each other about the parties that were sure to be thrown to Earth's saviors, for they were still that even if they received honorable discharges for their mutinous actions to save their friend and commander.

The others exited first, grinning at the cheers and applause that greeted them and waving at people they recognized, but also formed an impassive ring around the shuttle door; he wanted to hug them all for their continued protectiveness of Spock, uncertain as he still was with his world half-remembered.

Adrenaline was fast leaving his exhausted body, leaving him reeling from the effects of stress, very little sleep for over a week, extremely poor nutrition for that time, and the as-yet unaddressed grief over losing so much (it wasn't like he could properly deal with it on a planet full of Vulcans, could he?). His head spun slightly for a moment as McCoy shot him a wry grin and favored Spock with an eye-roll before climbing down out of the shuttle, but then the world settled back into its normal position.

"After you, captain," a quiet voice spoke just as he braced himself to exit once Spock had.

He half-turned, wide-eyed, for it was the first time the Vulcan had referred to him as such rather than as the admiral Spock had been told he was.

But they didn't have time to discuss the implications of that, unfortunately. His lips twisted in bitter, ironic deprecation. "I'm no one's captain now, Spock. Will never be again; they told me that when I left Earth to come after you," he said. Not accusatory, simply matter-of-fact.

Spock's brows knitted. "I do not understand."

He managed a smile. "You will. Now come on, there's probably a whole host of people waiting to see you."

The applause increased when his head appeared in the doorway of the shuttle (aided quite a bit by his crew, bless them), and for a moment he allowed himself the pleasant glow of knowing that if he were to be demoted for something, he would prefer it come about over something so important as this.

And then Spock appeared close at his shoulder, a half-pace behind and to his left as he always had been, and his crew promptly, proudly, formed a protective ring in front of them, daring anyone in the audience to even think about ruining the moment.

The crowd went silent, stunned, at the sight of the pronounced-dead Captain Spock standing calmly alive and well beside his former commander.

Head aching, Kirk sighed. It was going to be a long evening.

He was glad 'Fleet officials got them settled after a short debriefing into temporary custodial suites before his body finally decided it had had enough and simply shut down, scaring Bones half to death when he couldn't keep his dinner down and half-fainted after being sick in their attached bathroom.

Spock had been whisked away by the Vulcan Embassy, the delegation headed by a grim-faced Sarek, and he had no doubt that his friend was being received like the scientific-miracle-twice-over that he was, while the rest of them were being told very kindly and very sternly that it would be…unwise to leave the Starfleet compound before their tribunal the following morning.

"Not wasting any time about busting us back to Lieutenants, are they?" the physician had groused, though no one heard him complaining about the magnificent dinner they had been provided with.

Kirk himself was too exhausted to care, and after not being able to stomach the majority of the meal in their shared living room area was too sick to even think about what he would do tomorrow other than to get his crew off the hook to the best of his ability.

Understandably, then, he wasn't all that thrilled when Bones poked his head into his bedroom and told him Sarek was here to see him.

He managed, after two attempts, to haul himself to his feet and regain some semblance of dignity, before moving out into the living area of what amounted to a very comfortable jail cell.

Bones looked slightly terrified of the austere ambassador, which was understandable; after the fal-tor-pan, he'd been poked and prodded and examined by every Vulcan healer and scientist in the entire Vulcan Science Academy it had seemed like, for he was the first human to ever successfully (and unknowingly) carry a katra and one of the extremely few people to participate in a successful fal-tor-pan in Vulcan's entire centuries-old history, including their folklore and legend.

Ironic, Kirk had thought at the time with a twinge of regret that it couldn't have been him – all his life the man had been wary of Vulcans in general and of their telepathic abilities, and now he was regarded as both a curiosity and a scientific wonder, even as a reluctant hero, by that same race he was so leery of.

Right now, though, he had to smile, because the doctor had retreated from the dignified ambassador's scrutiny to the relative safety of talking to Spock, who stood awkwardly just inside the door.

Sarek's eyes flickered briefly when he appeared in the doorway, taking in his disheveled appearance (while he'd thrown on a change of clothing and showered after being sick following dinner, he still probably looked like death itself), and then darkened.

But, true to form, the Vulcan graciously said nothing but a quiet "Admiral," in greeting.

"I'm no admiral any more, Ambassador Sarek," he sighed, not wanting the reminder that tomorrow he'd have no title other than Mister.

The Vulcan's head inclined. "As you wish. I am aware that you and your crew no doubt are exhausted, James, but I do have a matter of some urgency to discuss with you if you will grant me an audience for a few moments only."

"Of course, Ambassador…" The floor tilted dizzily under him, and he hastily groped for the back of the plush sofa before he did something embarrassing like tumbling into a heap at the Vulcan's feet.

"Jim!" Bones's voice from across the room but drawing nearer, tinged with concern.

The grey haze poking around the edges of his vision receded, and he raised a hand in protest before lifting his eyes to Sarek. "I'm fine, Bones. My apologies, Ambassador…it's been a long few days."

"Months," Sarek corrected sternly. "James, sit down."

Rubbing his eyes, he bristled at the fatherly tone. "I'll be perfectly fine, sir."

"No doubt, eventually," was the dry reply. "Nevertheless, to remain upright out of sheer human stubbornness when unsteady on one's feet, suffering from severe mental and physical exhaustion, is not logical."

"Whoever said the human race was logical?" The murmur from across the room was faint as the memory resurfaced, but he heard it anyway, and flicked Spock an amused glance before turning a defiant glare back toward the ambassador.

"You said you had something to discuss with me, sir?" The dismissal was clear, and no diplomat would have been foolish enough to push the issue, much less the most proficient diplomat in the Federation.

Sarek wisely moved on. "I have used whatever sway I may have over the Federation council to plead your case in your absence, Admiral Kirk. I regret to tell you, however, that they will give me no hint of what their verdict will be regarding you; for despite all you have done, your actions do constitute overt insubordination. It is a serious compilation of offences, and given your history of creative interpretation of Starfleet regulations…"

"I was aware of my history when I made my decisions," he replied dryly, wishing now that he'd taken the ambassador's well-meant advice and sat down.

"Your crew most likely will be given only a minor reprimand, however, from what I was able to gather from the council's deliberations," Sarek continued, his expression relaxing slightly.

Relief poured through him like a wave of liquid warmth, pooling in his brain into a happy puddle and draining the tension from his body. The grey haze curled slightly into his vision for a moment, promising uninterrupted sleep if he gave in.

"Jim, please sit down," a voice close to his ear spoke softly. How Spock had sneaked up on him while he was distracted he didn't know, but the open concern and warm brown puppy-eyes he had thrown away his career, his ship, and almost his life to save were hardly fair tactics.

The fact that he was starting to shake slightly from lack of sleep and probably dehydration was also a contributing factor.

He sat, heavily, and only then realized that he had a Vulcan attached leech-like to one arm and a scowling Georgia physician gripping the other.

"Thank you, Ambassador Sarek," he finally said, hoping his weariness didn't show in his voice. "I would not see their careers ruined out of loyalty to myself and your son."

"From what your Montgomery Scott informed me, in quite colorful terms, they seem to consider the risk a worthy one," Sarek told him dryly.

He chuckled, and leaned back into the soft cushions of the couch. "They are a magnificent crew – the best the 'Fleet has ever seen," he agreed with open fondness.

"I reserve my judgment regarding Dr. McCoy on that count," Spock ventured, with uncertain – adorable, really – slyness from beside him.

He threw back his head and laughed until his stomach ached, careless that two Vulcans were watching his borderline-manic emotional display, and for a moment basked in the shocked spluttering emanating from the physician on his other side. It had been far too long…

Finally subsiding into some very embarrassing giggles, he rubbed a hand over his eyes and shook his head. "I'm…sorry, Ambassador," he managed, hiccupping as he swallowed a round of hysteria. "This is welcome news you've brought me, though. Thank you for all you've done for us."

Sarek's face was grave. "The debt which both I and Vulcan owe you, Admiral, Doctor, and your crew, is not even close to being repaid."

Warmth filtered into his fuzzy brain, and not from being sandwiched in between Spock and McCoy (though that was nice too).
Sarek bowed respectfully, and turned to depart. Spock made no move to follow his father, and he wasn't about to suggest one of his two living hot-water-bottles leave; he was far too comfortable. His eyelids seemed to weigh ten kilos, so hard was it for him to keep them from closing; but it was rude to not say goodbye to the guy who'd been trying to save your hide from the Starfleet tribunal Council…

But the Vulcan paused before the door, and turned, as if only just remembering something. "One additional thing, Admiral," he said.

"Hmm?" McCoy snickered from his other side, and his warm, happy brain belatedly told him his response hadn't been very professional. "I mean, what is it, Ambassador?" he corrected himself, red-faced.

Sarek drew himself up into stiff attention, turning that piercing gaze upon the three squished together on the small reclining sofa. "If your Starfleet should be so foolish as to discharge you from service, James Kirk, then rest assured you will promptly be offered a position as captain aboard one of Vulcan's exploratory science vessels. I will bid you good eve, Admiral, Doctor."

And with a nod to Spock, the ambassador left, leaving him slack-jawed and staring after his retreating figure.

His mushy brain finally pulled itself back into some semblance of order. "Did he just say what I think he said?"

McCoy grunted sleepily. "Who knows. Derned Vulcans never do speak plain Standard."

"If by plain, you mean your usual crude profanity, then I entirely agree, Doctor."

"Who asked you? And gimme one of those afghans, 's not like you need all four of 'em."

"Are you planning on sleeping in this location for the remainder of the night, Doctor?"

"Maybe."

"It is hardly a suitable place for restful repose. The amount of space left on this reclining sofa if we are all three to remain here is less than seven square inches."

"So squoosh together, or don't move in your sleep."

"Vulcans do not move in their sleep."

"Speakin' of which, I think Jim's already out." Something warm and soft draped gently over him, tucked securely around his weary frame in a cocoon of warmth.

He didn't bother to correct them.

A short silence. "Was nice of your father to come here tonight, try to put his mind at rest about the crew. And offer him a ship, to boot."

"'Nice'ness had nothing to do with it, Doctor. To repay one's debts is but logical."

"Yeah, sure. And stayin' here the rest of the night to comfort him is, too?"

A small, hesitant expulsion of breath. "I somehow believe…no, I know…it is my place, Doctor."

McCoy's voice betrayed his wide smile. "So it is, hobgoblin. So it is."

In the comfortable silence that followed, he smiled, wiggled his toes under the afghan, and gently drifted off.

Sarek's eyebrows the next morning, when he came to fetch the three of them for their tribunal and found them still sound asleep in that position, were a sight to behold.