ST Fic: Fantasy Island--Part 2 of 3
See Part 1 for Disclaimers; standard warnings apply
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It was late fall. The leaves were yellowed, and there was a nip in the air. They were in front of a tidy little white house with dark trim. There were flower beds neatly planted beside the concrete stairs that Jim bounded up, before he pounded vigorously on the front door.
Which opened, revealing … Winona Kirk.
“Damn it, Jim,” hissed McCoy, coming up behind Jim. “If this is some weird Oedipal thing, you can just forget it. I love you, but-“
“Bones. Shut up. She’ll hear us,” whispered Jim, desperation in his voice. And then Jim smiled, and his smile was so sweet and pure and open that McCoy wanted to cry. Had he ever seen Jim smile like that? “Mom!”
The Winona Kirk that stood before them looked young and blonde and pretty and very unlike the tired, faded woman that Leonard remembered from all the photos in Kirk’s quarters. Her face lit up as she saw them. “Jimmy! And is this Leonard? Welcome!” Then she turned her head and hollered, much to his surprise, and much like he’d seen Jim do on several unfortunate occasions, “Sammy! George! Jimmy’s here!” McCoy raised an assessing eyebrow. She had good lungs.
Two young boys came barreling out of the front door, skidding to a stop in front of Jim. McCoy supposed these were Sammy and George. The kids threw themselves at Jim, entirely ignoring McCoy, talking a mile a minute. “Uncle Jim! Uncle Jim! You’re here! Dad said you weren’t coming until tomorrow! You promised to take us up on your starship next time we saw you. You promised!”
A dark haired young woman, small but her belly swollen in what McCoy estimated was her seventh or eighth month of pregnancy, followed behind the boys, calling sternly. “Kevin! Matthew! Inside, now. You are supposed to wash your hands before dinner, and quit bothering your Uncle Jim. He’s just gotten here, and he’s tired. Jimmy, it’s good to see you.” She smiled and leaned up to kiss Jim’s cheek, pulling him inside; he turned his head to kiss her on the lips: a gentle, chaste, brotherly sort of kiss.
“Hi, Maddy,” Kirk grinned at her. “Sam been treating you ok?”
“Well, if he wouldn’t keep making me pregnant …”
“You need to move,” Jim told her seriously, frowning. “Away from Iowa. Winters are too cold here, and you’re so pretty …”
She giggled and swatted him on the arm, even as a tall, broad, very blond man came out of a doorway behind them, grunting questions and orders at both Jim and the kids, “Jimmy! Stop hitting on my wife, and come inside. Boys! Go wash up now. Glad you could make it, Jim. This your Len? D’you have more luggage?”
McCoy wondered if he’d ever been anyone’s Len. Not even Joss’s family had ever referred to him like that, and they’d been married. For years.
And Jim was still grinning like a fool, beaming at the world, juggling kids and luggage all while talking nonstop and dragging McCoy forward by the hand deeper into the house. McCoy was getting increasingly confused. Jim’s fantasy was … a dinner party? Wow. Some people had the strangest kinks.
And then Jim’s face light up with joy, and he looked so happy it hurt.
A tall, older man, still slender despite his age and almost as blue-eyed and blonde as Jim entered the now somewhat crowded living room. The man smiled as he saw Jim, before striding forward to wrap the younger man in a hug. “Happy Thanksgiving, son,” he murmured.
“Dad,” said Jim, practically clinging to what appeared to be his father before blurting, “I really missed you.” It almost looked like Jim was crying, and trying very hard not to.
Then the man stepped back, smiling fondly at Jim before ruffling his hair. Jim scowled, tears vanishing, and the man grinned broadly before turning to McCoy, Jim moving reluctantly away from his side.
The guy held out his hand to McCoy. “Welcome to our home,” he greeted warmly. “I’m George Kirk. Don’t worry about the Admiral stuff, we don’t bother with that kind of thing here.”
McCoy could only look up at Jim’s blue eyes in that familiar-yet-different face, clearly the same one he’d studied on Academy PADDs, and blink stupidly in return.
Jim was right when he warned him just before they beamed down. He really never could have imagined this. This, McCoy thought, was getting bloody weird.
***************************
They were given coffee and snacks and later, they were taken up to their room in the sprawling two-storey home. The room they were assigned was not fancy, it had a double bed covered in a crocheted coverlet, while the floor was covered by a shag carpet. A golden lab lounged at the foot of the bed, and when Jim saw the dog, he threw his bag on the floor and grinned as the dog bound up to him and jumped, begging to be petted with tail wagging wildly, even as Jim pushed him down.
“Hey boy, I wondered where you were; did you miss me?” Jim had crouched down, and was petting and rubbing, getting licked and laughing before looking up at McCoy. “So, Bones, what do you think? The bed’s a bit small, but we’ll manage, yeah?”
McCoy just looked at the room-it looked like it could have been the holo-vid stock setting for a typical middle class family. Which this family was. Warm and welcoming, loving and accepting. Everything the holo-vids told you a family should be. It was hard not to be lulled into the comfort of it.
“Jim,” McCoy said slowly, “can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Jim, still distracted by the dog, before he pushed him away and started unpacking his bag, throwing clothes and toiletries randomly across the bed.
“I thought your sister-in-law’s name was Aurelan?”
“It was.”
“Then, how come ….”
“Why Maddy? She was a family friend-she was my friend, and I showed her a photo of Sam one summer, and suddenly, she had a huge crush on him. I always liked Maddy, and we were friends even before she went to Tarsus; I thought she’d have been good for Sam. Sam only went to Deneva because Aurelan wanted him to, you know. She … well, I didn’t really get along with Aurelan, half the time, and I think Sam only married her because she became pregnant. Why?”
Aurelan was in her last trimester when she died, McCoy knew. That, as much as anything else, haunted Jim. “It was just, I remembered that …wait, Tarsus, Jim? Wasn’t that where …”
“Yeah, Bones, it was. Maddie went there with her parents in seventh grade, and they died there.” Jim’s face had grown shuttered and closed, but his voice remained unnaturally calm.
“I’m so sorry, Jim, but still you can’t-“ Bones was babbling, he could hear himself. He didn’t know that Jim had known anyone who’d died in that massacre. Jesus.
But Jim just looked at him with a distant half-smile. “Relax. This is a fantasy, Bones. None of it’s real. Maddy never saw her fifteenth birthday, and the real Sam died at Deneva, two months ago, and two weeks before I could get the Enterprise there, remember? They were going to have a boy, name the baby Peter. Peter George Samuel Kirk, after dad. Sam wanted me to be the godfather. You know what a godfather does, Bones? He protects a kid, if anything happens to them. There’s a whole thing in the christening-I’d have gone, I’d planned to go, it was why we were so close to Deneva in the first place, when the alarm came-“ Jim’s voice had been growing more disjointed, but he suddenly caught himself, swallowing, and then the tone went abruptly back to that deadly calm. “Anyway. Sam always wanted a large family, so, I figured, with Maddy, he--doesn’t matter.” Jim looked sharply at McCoy, although the smile widened. “Don’t over-think this, Bones. My family loves you, and the food tomorrow will be great. They’re even making pie, pecan and peach, just for you, because I told them you liked it. Don’t you like … “ Jim looked away again, but McCoy could hear the undertone of hesitance and doubt in his voice, even though he kept smiling. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”
McCoy had passed over from worry, to downright fear. He didn’t like the look on Jim’s face one bit. “Jim, let’s go back,” he said, making his words deliberate, willing Jim to look at him. “I don’t … I don’t think this is such a good idea for you, right now. Sam only died a few …”
“Ok,” said Jim calmly.
“Ok?” repeated McCoy, a bit confused by the quick capitulation. He had expected Jim to fight. Jim always fought. But after a brief moment of silence, McCoy didn’t care-he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Thanks, Jim,” he said quickly, moving to pick up his bag. “I know you paid a lot of money, but I’ll make it up to …”
“Oh, don’t look so worried,” said Jim, waving a hand airily. But he wasn’t looking at McCoy, and his smile was now painfully forced. “I don’t mind. I didn’t even know you’d come, when I planned this, although I was kind of hoping you would. I’d have told them you were at a medical conference on Catalus or something if you’d said no, so it’s no big deal. We’re on shore leave, you didn’t think I would force you to stay or anything if you didn’t want, did you? I know this is weird, and you probably think … “ Jim’s voice caught and faltered, for a split second, before he continued, “well, whatever. This isn’t your thing, I get it. I just … I kind of wanted to come with you, and you did that for me, you let them meet you-Sam couldn’t believe I managed to land a doctor!” and Jim turned and flashed him a real grin now, so sweet and pure that it made McCoy want to scream, “Anyway, you came, and I am so, so grateful, don’t think I’m not. I’m sure there’s a beach somewhere with your name on it, or a ranch, or something-I’ll see you back at the ship?” And Jim was back to unpacking, relaxed and happy again.
“Jim, that’s not what I mean. I’m not leaving you here.” Fear was spiking, and he wasn’t sure why he was so goddamned scared. When Jim had gotten shore-leave approval, well over a month ago, McCoy had applauded the decision. But this, this was … not healthy. Not good. Not good at all.
But Jim was being obtuse, and his face was set into stubborn lines. There would be no budging him, not in this mood, McCoy knew. And all McCoy really had to go on was instinct, anyway-he knew lots of people besides Jim came and saw loved ones in this place; it was part of the draw. It just felt … wrong.
Besides, McCoy may have been a medical doctor, and a man of science; but he had also learnt to trust his instincts.
And still Jim smiled, although now it was faintly annoyed. “Don’t worry, Bones. Didn’t you read the pamphlets? It’s perfectly safe. Tomorrow there’ll be Thanksgiving dinner-and these holo-deck things are programmed so that anything you eat will taste just like the real thing, plus give you nutrients, so I won’t starve or get fat, don’t worry about that either-and then I’ll be back at the ship, as scheduled. No fuss, no muss. I won’t even get into trouble. Really. I’m with my family, and they’ll look after me.” He paused a second, and his grin widened disturbingly, before he came over, and dropped a light kiss on McCoy’s lips, smiling reassuringly before moving away again. “Don’t worry.”
It was easy for him to say, thought McCoy, as anxiety and fear for Jim burned, hot and strong, in the pit of his stomach. He could almost feel the ulcer forming.
And then Jim looked at him again, and now he did look visibly nervous, and couldn’t hide it. “Just … just remember, you promised you wouldn’t tell anyone about this, and we won’t talk about it again, ok?”
And wow, Jim really thought that he could get away with that, McCoy thought. He really thought a waiver--a waiver that McCoy had signed when he’d thought that this was all some weird kinky sex fantasy, although what McCoy wouldn’t have given for all this to revert to some uncomfortable, simple sex fantasy--would protect him.
Jim’s blue eyes beseeched McCoy, though. Because Jim was vulnerable now. Jim would never have admitted anything-because hell, yes, this was an admission--except that he felt marginally safe here, McCoy realized. Because Jim had never even so much as shed a tear in McCoy’s presence over his brother’s death, or admitted to missing the father he never knew; he’d never admitted to that kind of need. No, Jim had revealed so much only because he felt he could hide behind the security and protection that signed and sealed legal documents could provide.
And that was the heart of the issue, wasn’t it? Nothing, and no one, had ever protected James T. Kirk from anything, and McCoy knew that his next words meant that Leonard H. McCoy wouldn’t be the one to start, either.
Because McCoy was about to give in.
“It’s ok, Jim,” McCoy said gently, before raising an eybrow. “I really can’t talk you into that beach?” At Jim’s shaking head, he sighed. “Alright. I’ll stay.”
He couldn’t help but smile in response to the joy and relief on Jim’s face. He couldn’t help it, even though he knew how wrong it was. How dangerous this all was.
“Just do me one favour, though, ok?”
“Anything, Bones. You know that. You don’t know how much this means to …”
McCoy cut him off. “Remember that I love you. I will always love you.”
“Sure, Bones,” responded Jim, too-quickly. “I love you too.”
Had it always been that easy, that rote? McCoy was starting to feel desperate, not sure what he could say; not sure what, if anything, would get through. He was starting to feel like he had in the last days of his marriage, before --
Then Jim paused, and looked up at McCoy, and the look in his eyes now was hard and edged, interrupting the tumbling thoughts. “You’re not part of the fantasy, you know. You don’t have to tell me stuff--you never have to tell me stuff, just because you think I want to hear it. I thought you knew that. Don’t stay for that.”
“I’m not,” protested McCoy, unprepared for the abrupt mood shift. It was like walking through a minefield, he thought suddenly. “When have I ever blown smoke up your ass just for the sake of it?” But McCoy could see it now, the knowledge in Jim that McCoy’s love, like anything else, was fleeting and easy and could certainly be earned, but could not be relied on.
Could not be trusted, and would disappear just as soon as Jim relaxed.
He couldn’t blame Jim, either. McCoy was divorced. Sometimes, he doubted the strength of his own love as well. Because he’d made Joss all kinds of promises, once upon a time. Promises that fell apart and crumpled into sawdust, only a few years later. He didn’t know that he could promise Jim things would be different. He didn’t know that he could do that. He’d always been honest with Jim about that-his belief that there was nothing in the world that was certain. Hadn’t he told Jim that, time and again, that nothing was certain, and only fools promised eternity, because who the hell knew what would happen tomorrow?
He’d been such an idiot, and now, now he didn’t know what to say. He kissed Jim, then, letting his actions speak for him, feeling Jim relax into it after a moment. It was all he had to offer. But when he looked up into Jim’s face, that eerie smile was back. McCoy wasn’t sure that was an improvement.
This whole thing was fucked up. McCoy suddenly and desperately wished himself and Jim far, far away. God. What had Starfleet been thinking?
Because the only positive thing here, as far as McCoy could tell, was the knowledge that he’d recently stocked the Enterprise’s supplies with the strongest and latest headache and ulcer medications.
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The next day, they did not, as Bones had hoped, sleep in. Instead, two boys bounced into their room at a little past 7 a.m. and asked, in whispers too loud to not be meant to wake them, if they were awake yet and if Uncle Jim could please take them to visit the Enterprise today, please, they’d been really good, please?
Jim, who had been drooling all over McCoy’s chest (which, honestly, was disgusting but McCoy had long since given up trying to push Jim off of him in the dead of night, and by now had just learnt to, as with all annoying Jim things, tolerate this too) naturally didn’t even twitch. He just cracked open one eye, said “I’m sleeping, boys,” and then proceeded to start snoring. Again.
McCoy shook his head in disbelief. He knew how lightly Jim slept, and how quickly Jim could go from deep sleep to profoundly and distractingly awake, but it always kind of disturbed him. Especially because McCoy himself couldn’t-he needed his rituals and routines and once awake, he couldn’t fall asleep again if you paid him.
“Jim,” he said, once the boys had sadly, and with a great show of reluctance, closed the door and left them alone again. “Jim, wake up.” He shifted and moved, jostling Jim until he finally slid out from under, letting Jim fall onto the mattress beneath. Jim, predictably, twitched and frowned, but kept right on snoring.
“Jim!” McCoy called again, shaking the other man roughly. With bright sunlight beaming in through the eyelet curtains and over the crocheted coverlet, and everything looking so normal, this seemed even more wrong. Especially because Jim seemed so comfortable with it all, like he’d grown up here, like he belonged here, like this was the life he should have had.
Except it wasn’t. It was too perfect. All this was only a dream in Jim’s head. McCoy needed to remember that. Remember that it was all smoke and mirrors, despite how real it all looked, despite how real it all felt, if they were to both get through this day.
It became hard to remember, though, as they both got up, and had to deal with the mundane tasks of brushing teeth and changing clothes, although the sex in the cramped shower stall that Jim induced him to-much against his will, because there were children right outside and just because Jim was immature and lost to all human decency and shame didn’t mean that McCoy was, too, but his protests were lost somewhere between Jim’s mouth and his tongue, and his hand on him rubbing gently, roughly, and oh so perfectly under the hot spray-was not exactly what McCoy would consider precisely mundane.
It was hard to remember as he drank hot coffee, a dark roast perfectly brewed, and buttered toast with apricot preserve; as the children called and shouted as they drank their milk and played with the dog (whose name, incongruously, was Petunia) and hugged their parents, as Mrs. Kirk (Winona, she’d said to call her, Winona, she’d said with a smile) worked on trussing a very large turkey, while Maddy waddled around putting together the pastry dough.
It was hard to remember as they bundled up the kids to go outside, to the gratification of both women (thank you so much for taking them for a few hours so we can get all this food done!) with the Admiral and Sam along for the ride. The kids clearly worshipped Jim-McCoy wondered if Jim had programmed that, or if even virtual kids naturally gravitated to that which was merely a taller version of themselves-and fell all over themselves to show every leaf and pebble and insect they found to their laughing Uncle Jim.
It was hard to remember during the mock fight involving fists of crinkly dry leaves (McCoy wasn’t quite sure how that began or ended, and wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know, except that he shouldn’t have been surprised since Jim was involved and realized this truth as soon as the other two men said as much, while he mostly tried to make sure too many leaves didn’t end up in places no leaf ought to be), it was hard to remember as they came in to sweet tea and chicken sandwiches and sports matches on the vidscreen, with Sam teasing Jim and Jim blushing in such an un-Jim-like way during the breaks it made McCoy grin from ear to ear, especially when his parents chimed in and Jim began to squirm in embarrassment, it was hard to remember when he could smell the turkey roasting in the oven and the pie baking and it was particularly hard to remember as he found himself with Jim’s hand in his left, a six year old’s chubby hand clutching his fingers on his other side, sitting in front of a table laden with all manner of food-sweet potato and carrots and string beans and a turkey looking even larger than it had set in the middle of the table--while the Admiral’s steady voice recited a quiet, heartfelt grace.
And as he looked up, and everyone smiled, Winona turned and looked around the room. “So,” she smiled, “now comes the good part. What are you grateful for, this year?”
The room was perfectly silent for a heartbeat. McCoy glanced up at Jim’s face, and it was perfectly, absolutely blank. Everything froze and shimmered for a split second and, looking around the room, McCoy felt the anxiety he’d felt all day sharpen into cold fear.
Then McCoy blinked, and the images stilled. Still, the silence stretched a moment too long. The kids shifted and eyed the food. One small hand let go of his and reached towards a dish. McCoy raised an eyebrow, and the boy’s hand retracted, but it was clenched tightly and quickly hidden under the table, rather than being replaced in McCoy’s.
Finally, Sam cleared his throat, and just like that, the tension-and McCoy’s sudden fear-dissipated. Somewhat. “Yeah, ok, I’ll start. I’m grateful for my boys-and you will not throw those peas, Kevin Augustus, if you want dessert--and for whoever we’re going to meet in January, and I’m grateful, every damn day, that Maddie said yes. I’m also grateful that Jimmy brought his doctor here, so she only threw up and cursed my name for a few minutes this morning-“ and there was a pause as he chuckled and ducked a punch from the woman in question “--and that she made me cherry pie.” Sam barked all of this out in a rather gruff voice, with the air of someone reciting a confession he’d rather not, but he was holding Maddy’s hand tenderly and grinning, McCoy noted. “Ok, that’s me. Maddy?”
And so it went. McCoy watched the people sitting around the table, listened to snatches of conversation, listened to whoever was speaking at the moment, and kept an eye on Jim.
None of this was real, he reminded himself. This was all some elaborate fabrication, a fantasy-oddly wholesome though it was, considering it was Jim--created out of Jim’s over-active imagination.
Still, it felt all too real, and too damn comfortable. If it was affecting him so much, all of this, what was this doing to Jim? What did it mean that Jim had asked him to be here, to hear all of this? And so he worried. He worried about afterwards. He worried about Jim.
He refused to worry about them.
“ … well, I’m also thankful for Leonard’s presence-the medication is safe for the baby, right?”
Maddy turned her head to look at him, and he inclined his own, just slightly, and smiled reassuringly. “Of course, darlin’. I’ll write you a prescription before I leave.”
Maddie beamed back at him and he saw, in that instant, how the stern Sam could fall so much in love with this tiny woman, “but I’m more grateful that this baby will be out of me in less than two months, and I’m grateful that my husband has agreed to wake up with the baby at night, right, sweetie?” Sam, McCoy noted with an inward grin, looked both chagrined and defeated. It was clear who wore the pants in that family, no matter Sam’s height and heft and Maddy’s petite frame. “… and of course, I’m grateful that our Jimmy’s found someone. Your mother was starting to worry, Jimmy.” Jim blushed, Winona looked slightly guilty, and Sam grinned wickedly at his squirming younger brother, while Maddie continued serenely. “And I’m grateful that Matthew has gotten straight A’s this year,” the older boy, normally the quieter one, beamed at the recognition, “… and I’m grateful that Kevin scored six goals this year …” the younger one played soccer, McCoy recalled, or so he’d gathered from the non-stop babble that was their afternoon.
Suddenly, he missed Joanna with a pang, wondered what she was doing, and thought of how much she’d have enjoyed this kind of thing. Because this was exactly the kind of thing she used to enjoy, he remembered with the mixture of love, longing, and guilt that he felt whenever he thought of his baby girl. His family used to do Thanksgiving big, every year, and he and Joss and Jo, when she’d arrived, had always gone to his parents’ place, even the year after his father had died.
His mother still did Thanksgiving, he knew, even though he hadn’t gone there for dinner since the divorce. He wondered if Joanna missed it.
Maybe she didn’t, he realized suddenly. He knew his mother still invited Joss and Jo, every year. He wondered if they went without him. He wondered if they went, even after he’d chosen to exile himself. He wouldn’t know. His family never mentioned Jocelyn, or Joanna, even though he knew they saw them.
He’s never asked.
Kevin was speaking now, in his trademark non-stop ramble, as he forcibly drew his attention back to the conversation at hand. “… I’m gwateful for my twucks and for the leaves and for mommy and daddy and yeah I guess I’m thank - thankful for Matt too, and because Uncle Jimmy let me have extwa candy when Mommy wasn’t looking this morning and for Santa and for …
Bones grinned to himself as he watched Sam kick Jim under the table. Jim deserved it, the brat, thought McCoy and laughed openly at the equally chagrined and guilty expression on Jim’s face, although he wasn’t able to resist drawing a knuckle across Jim’s cheek in apology, even as Jim scowled. It also didn’t escape him how Winona managed to notice the exchange and quirk a rebuking eyebrow at both her sons, causing Sam to glare and Jim to pout like the five year old he still remained.
Sam, of course, for all his glaring at Jim, had already pulled McCoy aside that morning for the express purpose of pretty much threatening him with painful and lingering death if he so much as hurt a hair on his younger brother’s shiny blond head. But Bones wasn’t going to tell Jim about that. Jim didn’t need to know that his fantasy brother was an over-protective macho man, especially when the real one had gone off and left him behind, so many years ago.
Especially when the real one had just died in pain, far from help, and far from home, and well before Jim could save him, despite what could only be considered heroic efforts.
Kevin was still rambling. He’d grow out of the minor speech impediment, McCoy knew, especially when his teeth came in properly, but he wasn’t sure that the asthma meds he was on were the best ones for a child of his age; he’d make a couple of suggestions to Maddie, things to discuss with the boy’s paediatrician.
Or he would have, he corrected himself, if any of this were real.
They eventually had to cut Kevin off, to allow his older brother-Matthew, solemn and dark-eyed-a turn. Matthew’s list was much more deliberate, McCoy noticed, each word pronounced carefully and precisely. McCoy’s lips quirked, before he sighed inwardly. Almost like a Vulcan child, he bet Spock would have said, before everything.
Vulcan children were a rare and precious thing, now.
He watched Winona, more than listening to the words, as she spoke. She radiated happiness, he realized, and that was the biggest change from the woman he knew, from photographs and one brief meeting, as Jim’s mother. He let the flow of her voice, as she thanked God for her sons, for the fact that her family was healthy and all together, for the food, for …
“…and, as always, I’m grateful that George talked me out of sending you boys to Tarsus, that summer.”
Jim had gotten very quiet, McCoy noticed. The entire family had.
Admiral Kirk-McCoy could call him George, but couldn’t really think about Jim’s father as a mere George-turned to Winona and pulled up their joined hands to his mouth, turning hers over and dropping a kiss on his wife’s palm. The look between them made McCoy’s heart ache, and when he dared a glance at Jim, he was surprised by the emotions in Jim’s expression, not the least of which was anger.
McCoy hadn’t known that Jim had ever been to Tarsus. He wondered whether it was possible-whether it could be true-but watching Jim’s face he knew, somewhere, even as he wanted to deny the knowledge, that it was. As little puzzle pieces-missing information in Jim’s medical file, certain idiosyncrasies and allergies Jim, had-fell into place, he knew. Knew that this was the kind of detail the simulation wouldn’t invent, or the kind of information that Jim would play around with. And he knew-he knew that Jim had included the information because it mattered.
Maddy was crying. Sam was holding her hand. McCoy wondered if her family had died in this fantasy, if Jim had forgotten to fix that part.
He wondered if Jim meant for him to find out, this way. Wondered why this information-clearly relevant, clearly significant--wasn’t in Jim’s file. Wondered what, if anything, Jim would say about it, after.
And then he wondered what Jim would say when it was his turn. He wondered what he himself would say, should say, when it was time for his own.
The Admiral cleared his throat, and said into the silence, still looking at his wife, “You coming home for your birthday in March, there, Jimmy?”
“Uh, I don’t know, dad …” Jim was staring at the table, not looking up. There was a strange, sad tension around the table, the boys were becoming upset at the adults’ distress, and Winona had tears in her eyes.
“We’ll see what we can do,” said McCoy, finding Jim’s hand again under the table, because Jim had pulled it away some time ago. McCoy wasn’t surprised to feel it balled into a fist. He worked to open it, then laced their fingers together tightly and squeezed. Jim’s fingers were cold.
The Admiral turned to smile at McCoy, and said simply, “See that you do. Jimmy hasn’t missed a year yet, and it would be a shame to start.”
And then the table erupted in calls of, “What do you want to do this year, Jimmy?” “How about coming to our place this year, Jimmy?” “Can you come visit for my birthday too, Uncle Jim? You said you’d let me ride on your motorcycle when I was older, and I’ll be seven!” “Is there something special you want this year, sweetheart?”
Gradually the hullabaloo died down, and then it was the Admiral’s turn. His voice was steady and clear, as he spoke of gratitude for his family, his health, their presence here this day. He laughed as he spoke of being grateful for Sam, his first born, and the scrapes he got into as a boy; his misbehaviour and ultimately, his settling down into responsible adulthood. He spoke of his grandchildren, and how proud they all were of them, while his parents smiled and smirked and Matthew blushed while Kevin squirmed.
The grinning tow-headed Kevin, McCoy decided, with his gap-toothed smile, was a young Jim Kirk in the making. Heaven help them all.
And then the Admiral spoke of Jimmy, who he laughingly referred to as the miracle space-baby, sharing a smile with Winona that had layers of unspoken history, “who was born healthy, despite all the odds, on that extremely shaky shuttle. But we arrived safely, and all I could think was--thank god that the auto-pilot was still working!”
Winona leaned over and kissed her husband’s cheek, her hand still held tight in his.
But Admiral Kirk wasn’t done, speaking of family mishaps survived, and McCoy was struck by how much family history there was here, in this telling.
Of course, family history was kind of the point of Thanksgiving. He glanced askance at Jim, trying for subtlety-which he’d never been very good at. Jim was better at subtlety, and that was really saying something.
He wondered what kind of family history Jim really had.
“I’m sorry about your car, dad,” Jim was saying, in a voice worryingly subdued, and very un-Jim-like. McCoy started paying close attention, fast.
“I’m just glad you survived, son,” replied what McCoy reminded himself was Not-George. “Not that I was happy about your behaviour at the time, mind. But you were a boy. When Sam told us what you’d done, your mother and I were beside ourselves. We didn’t know what else to do, other than call the police, and then it was a trick to get them not to lay charges. Against us, for letting an eleven-year-old drive.”
Winona and George were smiling fondly, but Jim wasn’t, McCoy noticed. He wasn’t even looking up. He’d pulled his hand away, again, too, in favour of shredding his napkin.
“I’m sorry … I’m sorry I was so difficult when I was younger. I know, you only even thought about Tarsus because I was being so difficult that summer, and I...” The words were laced with guilt, and it was McCoy who kicked Jim under the table, this time, not entirely sure what Jim was going on about, but not liking the look in Jim’s eyes, or the self-recriminating tone. Jim’s voice cut off, but he didn’t look up, staring fixedly at the tablecloth. Even the kids were still, reacting to the tension. Kevin looked like he was going to cry, and McCoy put an arm around the little boy, pulling him into his side.
“Jimmy?” Winona’s voice was somewhat confused, but gentle and firm. “You were never difficult. You got good grades, and were so quiet I sometimes wished you would misbehave. One of your teachers was even worried about you, I remember … “
“Jim.” The Admiral’s voice was deep and strong and commanding. It was a voice that brooked no disobedience, no doubt. The unyielding voice of a Starfleet Admiral. “Look at me.” And Jim did, raising his eyes to his father’s, and the need in them was so raw and open that McCoy wanted to-
He didn’t know what he wanted to. But it was too much. Too much, and -
The Admiral started to speak, in a clear, steady voice, and McCoy knew, just knew, that these were the words that Jim needed to hear, the words that Jim had probably always needed to hear, “Your mother and I have always been -“
Everything and everyone abruptly blinked out.
“The time is now 14:00 hours, Stardate 2262.39. Your session has been terminated. We hope you have enjoyed your Experience with us, and we look forward to visiting with you again.” The voice was robotic, impersonal, and final.
The people around them had disappeared and the food table before them had dissolved, leaving them sitting on bare metal chairs in a white, sterile room. McCoy blinked at the sudden change. It was jarring. It was disconcerting.
The voice overhead was still speaking, telling them to exit to the right.
McCoy stood, and looked over at Jim. Jim hadn’t moved. “Come on, Jim,” he said, nudging the other man. “It’s time to go.”
Jim didn’t respond. He sat unmoving, still staring straight ahead, at where his “father” had been, moments ago. McCoy was almost about to speak when Jim stood abruptly. “Huh? Yeah. I guess. Sorry you didn’t get any food.” Jim’s voice was toneless, and the smile plastered on his face made McCoy itch to shake him.
“Come on,” McCoy repeated, helplessly, grabbing Jim’s elbow, and dragging him towards the exit door. He didn’t like the look in Jim’s eyes. Not one bit. “You owe me some pie.”
Because Jim’s eyes, those eyes that had been the brightest of blue seconds before, were now dark with devastation and despair.
It was almost worse than when they’d left Deneva.
No, scratch that. It was worse.
*****************************************************
On to the last part!
**********************************************
It was late fall. The leaves were yellowed, and there was a nip in the air. They were in front of a tidy little white house with dark trim. There were flower beds neatly planted beside the concrete stairs that Jim bounded up, before he pounded vigorously on the front door.
Which opened, revealing … Winona Kirk.
“Damn it, Jim,” hissed McCoy, coming up behind Jim. “If this is some weird Oedipal thing, you can just forget it. I love you, but-“
“Bones. Shut up. She’ll hear us,” whispered Jim, desperation in his voice. And then Jim smiled, and his smile was so sweet and pure and open that McCoy wanted to cry. Had he ever seen Jim smile like that? “Mom!”
The Winona Kirk that stood before them looked young and blonde and pretty and very unlike the tired, faded woman that Leonard remembered from all the photos in Kirk’s quarters. Her face lit up as she saw them. “Jimmy! And is this Leonard? Welcome!” Then she turned her head and hollered, much to his surprise, and much like he’d seen Jim do on several unfortunate occasions, “Sammy! George! Jimmy’s here!” McCoy raised an assessing eyebrow. She had good lungs.
Two young boys came barreling out of the front door, skidding to a stop in front of Jim. McCoy supposed these were Sammy and George. The kids threw themselves at Jim, entirely ignoring McCoy, talking a mile a minute. “Uncle Jim! Uncle Jim! You’re here! Dad said you weren’t coming until tomorrow! You promised to take us up on your starship next time we saw you. You promised!”
A dark haired young woman, small but her belly swollen in what McCoy estimated was her seventh or eighth month of pregnancy, followed behind the boys, calling sternly. “Kevin! Matthew! Inside, now. You are supposed to wash your hands before dinner, and quit bothering your Uncle Jim. He’s just gotten here, and he’s tired. Jimmy, it’s good to see you.” She smiled and leaned up to kiss Jim’s cheek, pulling him inside; he turned his head to kiss her on the lips: a gentle, chaste, brotherly sort of kiss.
“Hi, Maddy,” Kirk grinned at her. “Sam been treating you ok?”
“Well, if he wouldn’t keep making me pregnant …”
“You need to move,” Jim told her seriously, frowning. “Away from Iowa. Winters are too cold here, and you’re so pretty …”
She giggled and swatted him on the arm, even as a tall, broad, very blond man came out of a doorway behind them, grunting questions and orders at both Jim and the kids, “Jimmy! Stop hitting on my wife, and come inside. Boys! Go wash up now. Glad you could make it, Jim. This your Len? D’you have more luggage?”
McCoy wondered if he’d ever been anyone’s Len. Not even Joss’s family had ever referred to him like that, and they’d been married. For years.
And Jim was still grinning like a fool, beaming at the world, juggling kids and luggage all while talking nonstop and dragging McCoy forward by the hand deeper into the house. McCoy was getting increasingly confused. Jim’s fantasy was … a dinner party? Wow. Some people had the strangest kinks.
And then Jim’s face light up with joy, and he looked so happy it hurt.
A tall, older man, still slender despite his age and almost as blue-eyed and blonde as Jim entered the now somewhat crowded living room. The man smiled as he saw Jim, before striding forward to wrap the younger man in a hug. “Happy Thanksgiving, son,” he murmured.
“Dad,” said Jim, practically clinging to what appeared to be his father before blurting, “I really missed you.” It almost looked like Jim was crying, and trying very hard not to.
Then the man stepped back, smiling fondly at Jim before ruffling his hair. Jim scowled, tears vanishing, and the man grinned broadly before turning to McCoy, Jim moving reluctantly away from his side.
The guy held out his hand to McCoy. “Welcome to our home,” he greeted warmly. “I’m George Kirk. Don’t worry about the Admiral stuff, we don’t bother with that kind of thing here.”
McCoy could only look up at Jim’s blue eyes in that familiar-yet-different face, clearly the same one he’d studied on Academy PADDs, and blink stupidly in return.
Jim was right when he warned him just before they beamed down. He really never could have imagined this. This, McCoy thought, was getting bloody weird.
***************************
They were given coffee and snacks and later, they were taken up to their room in the sprawling two-storey home. The room they were assigned was not fancy, it had a double bed covered in a crocheted coverlet, while the floor was covered by a shag carpet. A golden lab lounged at the foot of the bed, and when Jim saw the dog, he threw his bag on the floor and grinned as the dog bound up to him and jumped, begging to be petted with tail wagging wildly, even as Jim pushed him down.
“Hey boy, I wondered where you were; did you miss me?” Jim had crouched down, and was petting and rubbing, getting licked and laughing before looking up at McCoy. “So, Bones, what do you think? The bed’s a bit small, but we’ll manage, yeah?”
McCoy just looked at the room-it looked like it could have been the holo-vid stock setting for a typical middle class family. Which this family was. Warm and welcoming, loving and accepting. Everything the holo-vids told you a family should be. It was hard not to be lulled into the comfort of it.
“Jim,” McCoy said slowly, “can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Jim, still distracted by the dog, before he pushed him away and started unpacking his bag, throwing clothes and toiletries randomly across the bed.
“I thought your sister-in-law’s name was Aurelan?”
“It was.”
“Then, how come ….”
“Why Maddy? She was a family friend-she was my friend, and I showed her a photo of Sam one summer, and suddenly, she had a huge crush on him. I always liked Maddy, and we were friends even before she went to Tarsus; I thought she’d have been good for Sam. Sam only went to Deneva because Aurelan wanted him to, you know. She … well, I didn’t really get along with Aurelan, half the time, and I think Sam only married her because she became pregnant. Why?”
Aurelan was in her last trimester when she died, McCoy knew. That, as much as anything else, haunted Jim. “It was just, I remembered that …wait, Tarsus, Jim? Wasn’t that where …”
“Yeah, Bones, it was. Maddie went there with her parents in seventh grade, and they died there.” Jim’s face had grown shuttered and closed, but his voice remained unnaturally calm.
“I’m so sorry, Jim, but still you can’t-“ Bones was babbling, he could hear himself. He didn’t know that Jim had known anyone who’d died in that massacre. Jesus.
But Jim just looked at him with a distant half-smile. “Relax. This is a fantasy, Bones. None of it’s real. Maddy never saw her fifteenth birthday, and the real Sam died at Deneva, two months ago, and two weeks before I could get the Enterprise there, remember? They were going to have a boy, name the baby Peter. Peter George Samuel Kirk, after dad. Sam wanted me to be the godfather. You know what a godfather does, Bones? He protects a kid, if anything happens to them. There’s a whole thing in the christening-I’d have gone, I’d planned to go, it was why we were so close to Deneva in the first place, when the alarm came-“ Jim’s voice had been growing more disjointed, but he suddenly caught himself, swallowing, and then the tone went abruptly back to that deadly calm. “Anyway. Sam always wanted a large family, so, I figured, with Maddy, he--doesn’t matter.” Jim looked sharply at McCoy, although the smile widened. “Don’t over-think this, Bones. My family loves you, and the food tomorrow will be great. They’re even making pie, pecan and peach, just for you, because I told them you liked it. Don’t you like … “ Jim looked away again, but McCoy could hear the undertone of hesitance and doubt in his voice, even though he kept smiling. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”
McCoy had passed over from worry, to downright fear. He didn’t like the look on Jim’s face one bit. “Jim, let’s go back,” he said, making his words deliberate, willing Jim to look at him. “I don’t … I don’t think this is such a good idea for you, right now. Sam only died a few …”
“Ok,” said Jim calmly.
“Ok?” repeated McCoy, a bit confused by the quick capitulation. He had expected Jim to fight. Jim always fought. But after a brief moment of silence, McCoy didn’t care-he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Thanks, Jim,” he said quickly, moving to pick up his bag. “I know you paid a lot of money, but I’ll make it up to …”
“Oh, don’t look so worried,” said Jim, waving a hand airily. But he wasn’t looking at McCoy, and his smile was now painfully forced. “I don’t mind. I didn’t even know you’d come, when I planned this, although I was kind of hoping you would. I’d have told them you were at a medical conference on Catalus or something if you’d said no, so it’s no big deal. We’re on shore leave, you didn’t think I would force you to stay or anything if you didn’t want, did you? I know this is weird, and you probably think … “ Jim’s voice caught and faltered, for a split second, before he continued, “well, whatever. This isn’t your thing, I get it. I just … I kind of wanted to come with you, and you did that for me, you let them meet you-Sam couldn’t believe I managed to land a doctor!” and Jim turned and flashed him a real grin now, so sweet and pure that it made McCoy want to scream, “Anyway, you came, and I am so, so grateful, don’t think I’m not. I’m sure there’s a beach somewhere with your name on it, or a ranch, or something-I’ll see you back at the ship?” And Jim was back to unpacking, relaxed and happy again.
“Jim, that’s not what I mean. I’m not leaving you here.” Fear was spiking, and he wasn’t sure why he was so goddamned scared. When Jim had gotten shore-leave approval, well over a month ago, McCoy had applauded the decision. But this, this was … not healthy. Not good. Not good at all.
But Jim was being obtuse, and his face was set into stubborn lines. There would be no budging him, not in this mood, McCoy knew. And all McCoy really had to go on was instinct, anyway-he knew lots of people besides Jim came and saw loved ones in this place; it was part of the draw. It just felt … wrong.
Besides, McCoy may have been a medical doctor, and a man of science; but he had also learnt to trust his instincts.
And still Jim smiled, although now it was faintly annoyed. “Don’t worry, Bones. Didn’t you read the pamphlets? It’s perfectly safe. Tomorrow there’ll be Thanksgiving dinner-and these holo-deck things are programmed so that anything you eat will taste just like the real thing, plus give you nutrients, so I won’t starve or get fat, don’t worry about that either-and then I’ll be back at the ship, as scheduled. No fuss, no muss. I won’t even get into trouble. Really. I’m with my family, and they’ll look after me.” He paused a second, and his grin widened disturbingly, before he came over, and dropped a light kiss on McCoy’s lips, smiling reassuringly before moving away again. “Don’t worry.”
It was easy for him to say, thought McCoy, as anxiety and fear for Jim burned, hot and strong, in the pit of his stomach. He could almost feel the ulcer forming.
And then Jim looked at him again, and now he did look visibly nervous, and couldn’t hide it. “Just … just remember, you promised you wouldn’t tell anyone about this, and we won’t talk about it again, ok?”
And wow, Jim really thought that he could get away with that, McCoy thought. He really thought a waiver--a waiver that McCoy had signed when he’d thought that this was all some weird kinky sex fantasy, although what McCoy wouldn’t have given for all this to revert to some uncomfortable, simple sex fantasy--would protect him.
Jim’s blue eyes beseeched McCoy, though. Because Jim was vulnerable now. Jim would never have admitted anything-because hell, yes, this was an admission--except that he felt marginally safe here, McCoy realized. Because Jim had never even so much as shed a tear in McCoy’s presence over his brother’s death, or admitted to missing the father he never knew; he’d never admitted to that kind of need. No, Jim had revealed so much only because he felt he could hide behind the security and protection that signed and sealed legal documents could provide.
And that was the heart of the issue, wasn’t it? Nothing, and no one, had ever protected James T. Kirk from anything, and McCoy knew that his next words meant that Leonard H. McCoy wouldn’t be the one to start, either.
Because McCoy was about to give in.
“It’s ok, Jim,” McCoy said gently, before raising an eybrow. “I really can’t talk you into that beach?” At Jim’s shaking head, he sighed. “Alright. I’ll stay.”
He couldn’t help but smile in response to the joy and relief on Jim’s face. He couldn’t help it, even though he knew how wrong it was. How dangerous this all was.
“Just do me one favour, though, ok?”
“Anything, Bones. You know that. You don’t know how much this means to …”
McCoy cut him off. “Remember that I love you. I will always love you.”
“Sure, Bones,” responded Jim, too-quickly. “I love you too.”
Had it always been that easy, that rote? McCoy was starting to feel desperate, not sure what he could say; not sure what, if anything, would get through. He was starting to feel like he had in the last days of his marriage, before --
Then Jim paused, and looked up at McCoy, and the look in his eyes now was hard and edged, interrupting the tumbling thoughts. “You’re not part of the fantasy, you know. You don’t have to tell me stuff--you never have to tell me stuff, just because you think I want to hear it. I thought you knew that. Don’t stay for that.”
“I’m not,” protested McCoy, unprepared for the abrupt mood shift. It was like walking through a minefield, he thought suddenly. “When have I ever blown smoke up your ass just for the sake of it?” But McCoy could see it now, the knowledge in Jim that McCoy’s love, like anything else, was fleeting and easy and could certainly be earned, but could not be relied on.
Could not be trusted, and would disappear just as soon as Jim relaxed.
He couldn’t blame Jim, either. McCoy was divorced. Sometimes, he doubted the strength of his own love as well. Because he’d made Joss all kinds of promises, once upon a time. Promises that fell apart and crumpled into sawdust, only a few years later. He didn’t know that he could promise Jim things would be different. He didn’t know that he could do that. He’d always been honest with Jim about that-his belief that there was nothing in the world that was certain. Hadn’t he told Jim that, time and again, that nothing was certain, and only fools promised eternity, because who the hell knew what would happen tomorrow?
He’d been such an idiot, and now, now he didn’t know what to say. He kissed Jim, then, letting his actions speak for him, feeling Jim relax into it after a moment. It was all he had to offer. But when he looked up into Jim’s face, that eerie smile was back. McCoy wasn’t sure that was an improvement.
This whole thing was fucked up. McCoy suddenly and desperately wished himself and Jim far, far away. God. What had Starfleet been thinking?
Because the only positive thing here, as far as McCoy could tell, was the knowledge that he’d recently stocked the Enterprise’s supplies with the strongest and latest headache and ulcer medications.
****************************
The next day, they did not, as Bones had hoped, sleep in. Instead, two boys bounced into their room at a little past 7 a.m. and asked, in whispers too loud to not be meant to wake them, if they were awake yet and if Uncle Jim could please take them to visit the Enterprise today, please, they’d been really good, please?
Jim, who had been drooling all over McCoy’s chest (which, honestly, was disgusting but McCoy had long since given up trying to push Jim off of him in the dead of night, and by now had just learnt to, as with all annoying Jim things, tolerate this too) naturally didn’t even twitch. He just cracked open one eye, said “I’m sleeping, boys,” and then proceeded to start snoring. Again.
McCoy shook his head in disbelief. He knew how lightly Jim slept, and how quickly Jim could go from deep sleep to profoundly and distractingly awake, but it always kind of disturbed him. Especially because McCoy himself couldn’t-he needed his rituals and routines and once awake, he couldn’t fall asleep again if you paid him.
“Jim,” he said, once the boys had sadly, and with a great show of reluctance, closed the door and left them alone again. “Jim, wake up.” He shifted and moved, jostling Jim until he finally slid out from under, letting Jim fall onto the mattress beneath. Jim, predictably, twitched and frowned, but kept right on snoring.
“Jim!” McCoy called again, shaking the other man roughly. With bright sunlight beaming in through the eyelet curtains and over the crocheted coverlet, and everything looking so normal, this seemed even more wrong. Especially because Jim seemed so comfortable with it all, like he’d grown up here, like he belonged here, like this was the life he should have had.
Except it wasn’t. It was too perfect. All this was only a dream in Jim’s head. McCoy needed to remember that. Remember that it was all smoke and mirrors, despite how real it all looked, despite how real it all felt, if they were to both get through this day.
It became hard to remember, though, as they both got up, and had to deal with the mundane tasks of brushing teeth and changing clothes, although the sex in the cramped shower stall that Jim induced him to-much against his will, because there were children right outside and just because Jim was immature and lost to all human decency and shame didn’t mean that McCoy was, too, but his protests were lost somewhere between Jim’s mouth and his tongue, and his hand on him rubbing gently, roughly, and oh so perfectly under the hot spray-was not exactly what McCoy would consider precisely mundane.
It was hard to remember as he drank hot coffee, a dark roast perfectly brewed, and buttered toast with apricot preserve; as the children called and shouted as they drank their milk and played with the dog (whose name, incongruously, was Petunia) and hugged their parents, as Mrs. Kirk (Winona, she’d said to call her, Winona, she’d said with a smile) worked on trussing a very large turkey, while Maddy waddled around putting together the pastry dough.
It was hard to remember as they bundled up the kids to go outside, to the gratification of both women (thank you so much for taking them for a few hours so we can get all this food done!) with the Admiral and Sam along for the ride. The kids clearly worshipped Jim-McCoy wondered if Jim had programmed that, or if even virtual kids naturally gravitated to that which was merely a taller version of themselves-and fell all over themselves to show every leaf and pebble and insect they found to their laughing Uncle Jim.
It was hard to remember during the mock fight involving fists of crinkly dry leaves (McCoy wasn’t quite sure how that began or ended, and wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know, except that he shouldn’t have been surprised since Jim was involved and realized this truth as soon as the other two men said as much, while he mostly tried to make sure too many leaves didn’t end up in places no leaf ought to be), it was hard to remember as they came in to sweet tea and chicken sandwiches and sports matches on the vidscreen, with Sam teasing Jim and Jim blushing in such an un-Jim-like way during the breaks it made McCoy grin from ear to ear, especially when his parents chimed in and Jim began to squirm in embarrassment, it was hard to remember when he could smell the turkey roasting in the oven and the pie baking and it was particularly hard to remember as he found himself with Jim’s hand in his left, a six year old’s chubby hand clutching his fingers on his other side, sitting in front of a table laden with all manner of food-sweet potato and carrots and string beans and a turkey looking even larger than it had set in the middle of the table--while the Admiral’s steady voice recited a quiet, heartfelt grace.
And as he looked up, and everyone smiled, Winona turned and looked around the room. “So,” she smiled, “now comes the good part. What are you grateful for, this year?”
The room was perfectly silent for a heartbeat. McCoy glanced up at Jim’s face, and it was perfectly, absolutely blank. Everything froze and shimmered for a split second and, looking around the room, McCoy felt the anxiety he’d felt all day sharpen into cold fear.
Then McCoy blinked, and the images stilled. Still, the silence stretched a moment too long. The kids shifted and eyed the food. One small hand let go of his and reached towards a dish. McCoy raised an eyebrow, and the boy’s hand retracted, but it was clenched tightly and quickly hidden under the table, rather than being replaced in McCoy’s.
Finally, Sam cleared his throat, and just like that, the tension-and McCoy’s sudden fear-dissipated. Somewhat. “Yeah, ok, I’ll start. I’m grateful for my boys-and you will not throw those peas, Kevin Augustus, if you want dessert--and for whoever we’re going to meet in January, and I’m grateful, every damn day, that Maddie said yes. I’m also grateful that Jimmy brought his doctor here, so she only threw up and cursed my name for a few minutes this morning-“ and there was a pause as he chuckled and ducked a punch from the woman in question “--and that she made me cherry pie.” Sam barked all of this out in a rather gruff voice, with the air of someone reciting a confession he’d rather not, but he was holding Maddy’s hand tenderly and grinning, McCoy noted. “Ok, that’s me. Maddy?”
And so it went. McCoy watched the people sitting around the table, listened to snatches of conversation, listened to whoever was speaking at the moment, and kept an eye on Jim.
None of this was real, he reminded himself. This was all some elaborate fabrication, a fantasy-oddly wholesome though it was, considering it was Jim--created out of Jim’s over-active imagination.
Still, it felt all too real, and too damn comfortable. If it was affecting him so much, all of this, what was this doing to Jim? What did it mean that Jim had asked him to be here, to hear all of this? And so he worried. He worried about afterwards. He worried about Jim.
He refused to worry about them.
“ … well, I’m also thankful for Leonard’s presence-the medication is safe for the baby, right?”
Maddy turned her head to look at him, and he inclined his own, just slightly, and smiled reassuringly. “Of course, darlin’. I’ll write you a prescription before I leave.”
Maddie beamed back at him and he saw, in that instant, how the stern Sam could fall so much in love with this tiny woman, “but I’m more grateful that this baby will be out of me in less than two months, and I’m grateful that my husband has agreed to wake up with the baby at night, right, sweetie?” Sam, McCoy noted with an inward grin, looked both chagrined and defeated. It was clear who wore the pants in that family, no matter Sam’s height and heft and Maddy’s petite frame. “… and of course, I’m grateful that our Jimmy’s found someone. Your mother was starting to worry, Jimmy.” Jim blushed, Winona looked slightly guilty, and Sam grinned wickedly at his squirming younger brother, while Maddie continued serenely. “And I’m grateful that Matthew has gotten straight A’s this year,” the older boy, normally the quieter one, beamed at the recognition, “… and I’m grateful that Kevin scored six goals this year …” the younger one played soccer, McCoy recalled, or so he’d gathered from the non-stop babble that was their afternoon.
Suddenly, he missed Joanna with a pang, wondered what she was doing, and thought of how much she’d have enjoyed this kind of thing. Because this was exactly the kind of thing she used to enjoy, he remembered with the mixture of love, longing, and guilt that he felt whenever he thought of his baby girl. His family used to do Thanksgiving big, every year, and he and Joss and Jo, when she’d arrived, had always gone to his parents’ place, even the year after his father had died.
His mother still did Thanksgiving, he knew, even though he hadn’t gone there for dinner since the divorce. He wondered if Joanna missed it.
Maybe she didn’t, he realized suddenly. He knew his mother still invited Joss and Jo, every year. He wondered if they went without him. He wondered if they went, even after he’d chosen to exile himself. He wouldn’t know. His family never mentioned Jocelyn, or Joanna, even though he knew they saw them.
He’s never asked.
Kevin was speaking now, in his trademark non-stop ramble, as he forcibly drew his attention back to the conversation at hand. “… I’m gwateful for my twucks and for the leaves and for mommy and daddy and yeah I guess I’m thank - thankful for Matt too, and because Uncle Jimmy let me have extwa candy when Mommy wasn’t looking this morning and for Santa and for …
Bones grinned to himself as he watched Sam kick Jim under the table. Jim deserved it, the brat, thought McCoy and laughed openly at the equally chagrined and guilty expression on Jim’s face, although he wasn’t able to resist drawing a knuckle across Jim’s cheek in apology, even as Jim scowled. It also didn’t escape him how Winona managed to notice the exchange and quirk a rebuking eyebrow at both her sons, causing Sam to glare and Jim to pout like the five year old he still remained.
Sam, of course, for all his glaring at Jim, had already pulled McCoy aside that morning for the express purpose of pretty much threatening him with painful and lingering death if he so much as hurt a hair on his younger brother’s shiny blond head. But Bones wasn’t going to tell Jim about that. Jim didn’t need to know that his fantasy brother was an over-protective macho man, especially when the real one had gone off and left him behind, so many years ago.
Especially when the real one had just died in pain, far from help, and far from home, and well before Jim could save him, despite what could only be considered heroic efforts.
Kevin was still rambling. He’d grow out of the minor speech impediment, McCoy knew, especially when his teeth came in properly, but he wasn’t sure that the asthma meds he was on were the best ones for a child of his age; he’d make a couple of suggestions to Maddie, things to discuss with the boy’s paediatrician.
Or he would have, he corrected himself, if any of this were real.
They eventually had to cut Kevin off, to allow his older brother-Matthew, solemn and dark-eyed-a turn. Matthew’s list was much more deliberate, McCoy noticed, each word pronounced carefully and precisely. McCoy’s lips quirked, before he sighed inwardly. Almost like a Vulcan child, he bet Spock would have said, before everything.
Vulcan children were a rare and precious thing, now.
He watched Winona, more than listening to the words, as she spoke. She radiated happiness, he realized, and that was the biggest change from the woman he knew, from photographs and one brief meeting, as Jim’s mother. He let the flow of her voice, as she thanked God for her sons, for the fact that her family was healthy and all together, for the food, for …
“…and, as always, I’m grateful that George talked me out of sending you boys to Tarsus, that summer.”
Jim had gotten very quiet, McCoy noticed. The entire family had.
Admiral Kirk-McCoy could call him George, but couldn’t really think about Jim’s father as a mere George-turned to Winona and pulled up their joined hands to his mouth, turning hers over and dropping a kiss on his wife’s palm. The look between them made McCoy’s heart ache, and when he dared a glance at Jim, he was surprised by the emotions in Jim’s expression, not the least of which was anger.
McCoy hadn’t known that Jim had ever been to Tarsus. He wondered whether it was possible-whether it could be true-but watching Jim’s face he knew, somewhere, even as he wanted to deny the knowledge, that it was. As little puzzle pieces-missing information in Jim’s medical file, certain idiosyncrasies and allergies Jim, had-fell into place, he knew. Knew that this was the kind of detail the simulation wouldn’t invent, or the kind of information that Jim would play around with. And he knew-he knew that Jim had included the information because it mattered.
Maddy was crying. Sam was holding her hand. McCoy wondered if her family had died in this fantasy, if Jim had forgotten to fix that part.
He wondered if Jim meant for him to find out, this way. Wondered why this information-clearly relevant, clearly significant--wasn’t in Jim’s file. Wondered what, if anything, Jim would say about it, after.
And then he wondered what Jim would say when it was his turn. He wondered what he himself would say, should say, when it was time for his own.
The Admiral cleared his throat, and said into the silence, still looking at his wife, “You coming home for your birthday in March, there, Jimmy?”
“Uh, I don’t know, dad …” Jim was staring at the table, not looking up. There was a strange, sad tension around the table, the boys were becoming upset at the adults’ distress, and Winona had tears in her eyes.
“We’ll see what we can do,” said McCoy, finding Jim’s hand again under the table, because Jim had pulled it away some time ago. McCoy wasn’t surprised to feel it balled into a fist. He worked to open it, then laced their fingers together tightly and squeezed. Jim’s fingers were cold.
The Admiral turned to smile at McCoy, and said simply, “See that you do. Jimmy hasn’t missed a year yet, and it would be a shame to start.”
And then the table erupted in calls of, “What do you want to do this year, Jimmy?” “How about coming to our place this year, Jimmy?” “Can you come visit for my birthday too, Uncle Jim? You said you’d let me ride on your motorcycle when I was older, and I’ll be seven!” “Is there something special you want this year, sweetheart?”
Gradually the hullabaloo died down, and then it was the Admiral’s turn. His voice was steady and clear, as he spoke of gratitude for his family, his health, their presence here this day. He laughed as he spoke of being grateful for Sam, his first born, and the scrapes he got into as a boy; his misbehaviour and ultimately, his settling down into responsible adulthood. He spoke of his grandchildren, and how proud they all were of them, while his parents smiled and smirked and Matthew blushed while Kevin squirmed.
The grinning tow-headed Kevin, McCoy decided, with his gap-toothed smile, was a young Jim Kirk in the making. Heaven help them all.
And then the Admiral spoke of Jimmy, who he laughingly referred to as the miracle space-baby, sharing a smile with Winona that had layers of unspoken history, “who was born healthy, despite all the odds, on that extremely shaky shuttle. But we arrived safely, and all I could think was--thank god that the auto-pilot was still working!”
Winona leaned over and kissed her husband’s cheek, her hand still held tight in his.
But Admiral Kirk wasn’t done, speaking of family mishaps survived, and McCoy was struck by how much family history there was here, in this telling.
Of course, family history was kind of the point of Thanksgiving. He glanced askance at Jim, trying for subtlety-which he’d never been very good at. Jim was better at subtlety, and that was really saying something.
He wondered what kind of family history Jim really had.
“I’m sorry about your car, dad,” Jim was saying, in a voice worryingly subdued, and very un-Jim-like. McCoy started paying close attention, fast.
“I’m just glad you survived, son,” replied what McCoy reminded himself was Not-George. “Not that I was happy about your behaviour at the time, mind. But you were a boy. When Sam told us what you’d done, your mother and I were beside ourselves. We didn’t know what else to do, other than call the police, and then it was a trick to get them not to lay charges. Against us, for letting an eleven-year-old drive.”
Winona and George were smiling fondly, but Jim wasn’t, McCoy noticed. He wasn’t even looking up. He’d pulled his hand away, again, too, in favour of shredding his napkin.
“I’m sorry … I’m sorry I was so difficult when I was younger. I know, you only even thought about Tarsus because I was being so difficult that summer, and I...” The words were laced with guilt, and it was McCoy who kicked Jim under the table, this time, not entirely sure what Jim was going on about, but not liking the look in Jim’s eyes, or the self-recriminating tone. Jim’s voice cut off, but he didn’t look up, staring fixedly at the tablecloth. Even the kids were still, reacting to the tension. Kevin looked like he was going to cry, and McCoy put an arm around the little boy, pulling him into his side.
“Jimmy?” Winona’s voice was somewhat confused, but gentle and firm. “You were never difficult. You got good grades, and were so quiet I sometimes wished you would misbehave. One of your teachers was even worried about you, I remember … “
“Jim.” The Admiral’s voice was deep and strong and commanding. It was a voice that brooked no disobedience, no doubt. The unyielding voice of a Starfleet Admiral. “Look at me.” And Jim did, raising his eyes to his father’s, and the need in them was so raw and open that McCoy wanted to-
He didn’t know what he wanted to. But it was too much. Too much, and -
The Admiral started to speak, in a clear, steady voice, and McCoy knew, just knew, that these were the words that Jim needed to hear, the words that Jim had probably always needed to hear, “Your mother and I have always been -“
Everything and everyone abruptly blinked out.
“The time is now 14:00 hours, Stardate 2262.39. Your session has been terminated. We hope you have enjoyed your Experience with us, and we look forward to visiting with you again.” The voice was robotic, impersonal, and final.
The people around them had disappeared and the food table before them had dissolved, leaving them sitting on bare metal chairs in a white, sterile room. McCoy blinked at the sudden change. It was jarring. It was disconcerting.
The voice overhead was still speaking, telling them to exit to the right.
McCoy stood, and looked over at Jim. Jim hadn’t moved. “Come on, Jim,” he said, nudging the other man. “It’s time to go.”
Jim didn’t respond. He sat unmoving, still staring straight ahead, at where his “father” had been, moments ago. McCoy was almost about to speak when Jim stood abruptly. “Huh? Yeah. I guess. Sorry you didn’t get any food.” Jim’s voice was toneless, and the smile plastered on his face made McCoy itch to shake him.
“Come on,” McCoy repeated, helplessly, grabbing Jim’s elbow, and dragging him towards the exit door. He didn’t like the look in Jim’s eyes. Not one bit. “You owe me some pie.”
Because Jim’s eyes, those eyes that had been the brightest of blue seconds before, were now dark with devastation and despair.
It was almost worse than when they’d left Deneva.
No, scratch that. It was worse.
*****************************************************
On to the last part!