STXI Fic: Collecting Fallout from the Blast
Title: Collecting Fallout From the Blast
Author: northatlantic
Pairing(s)/Characters: Gen. Kirk-centric, James and introducing the infamous Man with Only A Name, Tiberius Kirk. Special guest shot from McCoy at the end.
Rating: PG-13 for language, adult themes
Summary: "Some day, you're going to tell me this story, right? I mean, with a name like Tiberius, there has to be a story."
Warnings: attempted rape, child abuse
Disclaimer: blah blah notminecakes.
2240.04, jim
He is seven years old when he has his first birthday party. He does not want one.
He knows what day it is. Before Frank, his mother would alternately lavish him with love and attention and disappear into her bedroom to cry; later in the evening there would be a bottle of wine and more tears, when she thought he and Sam were asleep. Grandma and Grandma McAllister would come and cook dinner and stay, before Grandpa Jim had the stroke and they went to live with Aunt Anna and Uncle Charles on Tarsus IV. And Grandpa Tiberius would be there, with his scowl and his loud, sharp voice and the cold blue eyes that Mom said were like Dad's and he was a little bit scary but if you stayed quiet and listened after you were supposed to go to bed he told the best stories, about his dad when he was a boy, and his grandma Kirk who died like his dad did before he ever got to see her, full of bad words and laughter and a kind of rough kindness for his mother that he didn't quite understand. Grandpa Tiberius stopped coming over when Frank moved in; his mother wouldn't say why. But Jim understands. He wouldn't come over either, if he lived somewhere else.
His mother thinks that the birthday party is a good sign, that Frank wants to do something nice for Jim. Jim knows the truth; Frank is simply trying to erase George Kirk from his mother's memory wherever possible. He looks at the cake and balloons and thinks, my father died today. He rescued the wedding pictures, among other pictures of his father, from the recycler three weeks ago; his mother never looks at those books any more, does not realize that they're gone. They are in Jim's backpack; he has not thought of a safe place yet to keep them but for now, that'll be fine. Frank never looks in there, that would require wondering how Jim is doing in school and he's pretty sure Frank could not possibly care less, as long as he's not getting in trouble. He may be only seven, but he's neither dumb nor a baby, no matter what Sam says. Sam says a lot of things, most of them angry. Jim is used to this; it's been this way as long as he can remember. It is still more comforting to crawl into Sam's bed late at night when he feels sick or has a bad dream than his mother's. Especially now that Frank is there.
He feels sick now, staring at colorful paper plates, turns before he consciously decides and runs for the door, a clamor of surprised voices behind him. He has no clear idea where he's going, just away, tearing over the field behind the house and he can hear Frank crashing after him. Runs like he didn't know he could, breath burning and sobbing in his lungs and he can hear Frank threatening, knows he's going to get it, get it with the belt like Sam and all he can do is run until he gets caught. He doesn't realize how far he has come until the old farmhouse looms out of the gathering dusk in front of him, familiar although he doesn't know why but it is too late. He is stumbling now, gasping, Frank's breath coming hard now too but too close behind and his voice scarier, low and hissing.
Until something speaks like thunder and throws up a clod of earth behind Jim. The smell of of something bitter and burnt rises in the air and the man in the doorway of the house does not lower the gun when Frank pulls up short, eyes wide and white with shock. "You crazy old bastard!"
"You're trespassing. Now get out before I have to scrub your brains off my driveway." That harsh bark of a voice floods over Jim and he realizes where he is, scrambles up the steps. Grandpa Tiberius' face is lined more sharply than he remembers, something in those shocking blue eyes bitter and tired but his hands are completely steady and Jim has no doubt whatsoever that he means exactly what he says.
Frank doesn't appear to have any doubts he means it either, starts backing up even as he snarls, "Son of a bitch. Losing your mind, pointing a gun at people. You should be locked up."
"And you should have a pair of balls, but life's funny with shoulds." Tiberius clicks the safety onto the gun, sets it down, steps down the stairs. "But if the piece is what's bothering you, I invite you to come kick my ass if you think you're up for a bigger challenge than a goddamn seven-year-old." He's old but he's tall, taller than Frank, big hands curling into fists and broad shoulders squared. Frank stares at him for a long moment but has to drop his eyes before Tiberius' burning glare, and Jim thinks of a nature program he saw once about wolves as Frank's shoulders drop and he spits a curse before turning to go.
Tiberius watches a long time to make sure he is really leaving before sighing out a breath, shoulders dropping a little as he comes scowling back up to the porch. "So. What the hell'd you do to get your mother's husband looking to beat the snot out of you?"
"I'm an ungrateful brat." Tiberius folds his arms, clearly waiting for more. "He got a birthday cake and it's supposed to be a PARTY and he thinks I'll forget he's not my dad if he takes everything that was his away." Jim is braced for anger, or disappointment, or any of the million adult responses that mean, you're just a dumb baby and you don't understand, even if you do.
Tiberius just sighs, blue eyes darkening unreadably. "Get inside, boy. I'll call your mother. Explain things to her. You'll stay here tonight. Better you're not there." His gaze is considering. "Your big brother teach you about kicking someone in the balls?" Jim nods, confused, and Tiberius grunts approval. "Good. But that doesn't work very well with someone as much taller than you as Frank. He manages to grab you, you go for his instep, right here." He points it out. "You stamp hard there, and then when he's off-balance, you turn into him, not away, and you don't kick, you punch. Right in the nuts, hard as you can."
Jim's mouth is hanging slightly open, less for the advice although it is not something he would have ever pictured an adult giving him, but because Grandpa Tiberius is not questioning his fear and dislike of Frank at all. "Ok, now, show me you were paying attention," Tiberius says crossly at his dumbfounded expression. "Just don't ACTUALLY nut-punch your ol' grandpa." Hard hands seize Jim's arms and he steps down on Tiberius' foot, pivots and feints the punch. "Good. That's good. You listen when I'm telling you something, better than most recruits. But you don't tuck your thumb in like that when you make a fist, that's a good way to get it broken. Outside, like this." He curls Jim's hand into a fist. "Practice doing it right."
He looks at the gun, looks at Tiberius, eyes full of something he doesn't know how to name, a warmth he hasn't felt for a long time, or maybe ever, at being listened to, taken seriously. "Will you teach me that too?"
Tiberius' eyes cloud, and he looks old and tired. "Later. You're too little for the rifle now, it'll knock you over. When you're twelve. I taught your daddy when he was twelve. But there's plenty to learn before that."
"Eleven," Jim bargains, eyes bright. "I'm tall for my age, Ms. Quigley says."
"Not your height that matters, it's your weight and you're a damn beanpole. Speaking of which, you eat yet?" Jim shakes his head. "You go get washed up then. While you do that, I'm going to call your mother. And I'm going to tell her you need lessons in discipline, manners, how to be a man. And you're going to learn all those things, and Frank is gonna think I'm teaching them to you like he would, with the back of his hand, because he's a mean dumb son of a bitch. And you don't tell him different or he'll try and stop you coming over here. It's the truth, not a lie. Just not the truth he thinks it is. You let dumb people think what the hell they want, it makes life a lot easier."
"Mom says swearing is bad manners." He freezes as that comes out, waiting for the smack for being a smart mouth.
Tiberius' eyes go icy at that, but instead of swatting, he reaches out to rumple Jim's hair, his tone easy. "'Course she does. She's a lady. It's bad manners to curse in front of a lady. Just like it's bad manners to give someone something they don't want and then act like it's their fault they're not grateful. It's not bad manners to ask a question or point out something that doesn't seem right, but you should be careful how you do it so the person you're asking doesn't think you're trying to make them look stupid."
"Oh." Jim takes this in, turns it over. "That makes sense." He smiles up at his grandfather before going to wash and wonders why Tiberius' eyes shine as he turns away and reaches for the phone, if he just imagined the too-bright look of tears because he can't imagine that tough old man crying.
2245.61, tiberius
The one phone call rule doesn't apply to juvenile offenders, but Jim charms and blandishes and pleads and when they learn it's to his grandfather a sympathetic dispatcher allows it. Tiberius shows up at the same time Frank does, and there's a hackling fury spitting between them as Frank points out he has no legal rights in this instance. Tiberius coolly points out that the wrecked car's title is still in his name, and that he chooses not to press charges. Which is true; he had purchased it for his son and Winona had never had the heart or the interest in dealing with the undone paperwork of the transfer when she came back from the Kelvin. He walks out with them as Frank tows Jim by a forearm, points out equally coolly when out of audio range of the station that while Jim is certainly due some punishment for the day's activities, if he has any reason to believe this has been administered with fists or a belt they will never find Frank's body, and that he will assume this has become necessary if he doesn't see Jim first thing in the morning.
When Jim trudges up the steps in the morning, Tiberius is ready to carry out his promise even though there's not a mark on him. But it's more important both to make sure Jim is all right and to find out why the hell he did something so dangerous and stupid in the first place. "What the hell were you thinking, Jim?"
"They're sending me away," he whispers, ignoring the question, eyes wide and glassy. "To Tarsus to stay with Aunt Anna and Uncle Charles. I'm out of control, and you're a bad influence on me. Frank said it. And Mom just listened, and said she'd call her sister."
Tiberius closes his eyes and swallows on the agony. Watching Jim grow and fight and struggle has been--well, not like having George back, George had been a sunny-tempered, easy boy who loved everyone. More like watching himself as a youngster might have been and it's maybe given him more reason to keep going than if Jim had that happy, easy childhood George had had, if he didn't need him so damn much. "Listen, Jim," he said gently. "I want you to tell me what happened yesterday, straight out, like a man, and then we'll talk about this. It may not be as bad as you think it will be."
Jim's eyes fill with furious tears. "Frank was going to sell Dad's car. Someone was there looking at it, said he'd pick it up on Saturday. It's not his. It's ours. When Sam said something, Frank smacked him and said when he was putting food on the table and paying bills, he had some goddamn say in the house. In the morning, Sam was gone. Again. And I couldn't...he ruins everything he touches, and Mom just...Somebody had to do something. He wasn't going to get away with it."
Tiberius blows out a breath. "Did it occur to you that you could have killed yourself, you idiot? That a car, even a special car, a memory, isn't worth you getting hurt? Not to me, not to your mother. I remember how happy your dad was, how he'd take your mother and Sam for rides before they left. And I would still have let Frank sell that car a hundred damn times before hearing ONCE that you jumped out of a moving vehicle and almost fell off a cliff! Do you understand, boy? You're all I've got left!" His voice has risen to a shout, is trembling with emotion.
"They're sending me away," Jim whispers, angry almost-adolescent becoming terrified child again as he slides out of his chair with a thump, comes to clamber into Tiberius' lab all knees and elbows. "they're sending me away, don't let them..."
Tiberius holds onto him hard. "I can't stop them," he whispers, because Jim deserves the truth. "But listen, Jim. Tarsus might be the best thing that could have happened to you. You and Frank keep butting heads, you're going to get hurt and dammit, I can't protect you from him when you live in his house. Your mother's people, I've met them, they're good, kind folks. You give them a fair shake and they'll give you one. You can just be a kid, instead of my little recruit." He ran his hand over his head. "It won't be forever, Jim. Your mother's got to wise up sometime. And you'll have an adventure, someplace new, someplace where people value smart and independent and tough-minded instead of calling you a smartass brat and trying to smash you into what they think you should be."
"Can you come?" Jim clings tight, head against his chest.
"No," Tiberius says, closing his eyes. "Jim, they won't let me come, I can't pass the colonist's physical any more and I don't have people there to get the family waiver until you're of age. But I promise I'll write you, call you. I won't forget."
Jim studies his face and Tiberius looks at him steadily, lets him see that love and fear and grief. Jim puts his head back down. "You said you'd teach me to shoot the rifle when I was twelve."
Startled, he chuckles. "You have the damnedest memory, kid. Well, we have till they send you and that won't be till the end of the week at the earliest. We'll just have to see how fast you learn."
Jim has a good eye and he is unafraid of pain; although he startles the first time he feels the kick of the old gun, he doesn't flinch the second time. Jim has taken a lot of blows without flinching; it has been Tiberius' bitter pleasure to teach him how to absorb them, to not telegraph pain or intentions, to strike back effectively to defend himself and others. Perhaps he has been a bad influence on Jim; he would not be the person best suited to teach anyone how to bend, compromise, get along. It is why he needs to let go of the most precious thing in his life, the part that has made it fun again. He needs to think about Jim, not himself.
2246.08 elaina b'renn, rn
Jim opens his eyes dully at the sound of approaching footsteps, and then blinks wildly as he registers the presence; the duty nurse puts her hand to her mouth because it is the first response anyone has gotten from him, the lanky kid with the dust-colored hair and she had privately wondered if anything would ever bring him back from whatever private hell he'd descended into. But the tall old man in an ancient Fleet uniform with those same extraordinary eyes sits down next to him and Jim's hand curls into his, his whole body shifting in that direction and he's almost fourteen, should be too heavy to be picked up the way the old man does. But he's still painfully thin, almost delicate, and the old man cradles him in his lap like a much smaller child. Jim still hasn't made a sound but he hides his face agaist him, bony fingers like talons clinging desperately into his shirt. The harsh breaths shake him back and forth as the old man rocks him, that same survivor's grief and guilt stark on his face.
It has been a week since the families of the survivors of what the media is beginning to call "the Tarsus IV massacre," were notified. She has recieved a single, harried transmission from the boy's mother halfway across the galaxy, and nothing from her husband. Which is why, even though it carries a risk of disciplinary action, when Dr. April comes through on rounds and two sets of bleak and terribly beautiful blue eyes implore her, she tells her that Jim belongs to his grandfather. It may not be documented in his file, but it's clearly the truth.
It is two weeks until Jim is physically stable enough to leave, two weeks complicated by the fact that now that he is aware again he is a mass of terror and fury whenever anyone unfamiliar touches him. He is more wild animal than adolescent, and he will not speak, no matter what, retreats until frantic when the therapist tries to talk to him about what happened. But she is willing to believe that the only being more stubborn in the universe is the one who coaxes one more piece of normal behavior out of him, each day, enough to have him dressed and groomed and if not happy about the people around him, not terrified, at least not as long as Tiberius is within sight.
She hopes there is more healing in him, for both their sakes.
2247.04, jim
Since the disaster at Tarsus, Jim has stayed with Tiberius; it is the only place he feels safe. It was almost three months until he could bring himself to speak again, and he is more than grateful that unlike his mother and Frank, Tiberius neither treated it as a mental defect that he couldn't or like a sign of normality when he could. They were just Jim and Tiberius, as usual, or unusual. His lips curve a little bit at that thought. More like unusual, on reflection.
"Boy." Tiberius settles in across from him. "You take care of that mess out in the backyard, then?" Jim nods. "Good. Let's see your schoolwork." That had been one of their rare battles, but Tiberius had been right, after the initial panic of being surrounded by voices and activity, it got easier. He hands over his math with a little smirk and Tiberius scowls back at him. "Puppy, I used to have to do my own damn ephemerides on the Constitution. As a matter of fact, I might haul out my old textbook for you. Computers are only as good as the brain programming them."
Jim's eyes light with amusement and challenge. "Yes, sir."
It is well into the evening when they tire of problem and solution, when Tiberius looks at the rising stars and gets up. Jim assumes he is going to get something else to read that doesn't involve vector algebra, but instead he comes back with a bottle of bourbon and...two glasses?
Tiberius sits down and pours a measure into each glass as Jim looks at him questioningly. "I don't want to hear about underage drinking--either that you've done it tonight or that you do it tomorrow," he says, a snap of temper. "This isn't booze tonight. This is an offering. For the ones we've lost, for the ones we still have. For the sacred trust we have to live as hard and as strong as we can for the ones who can't."
Jim feels a cold shudder down his spine, licks his lips uneasily and reaches for the glass. It is bitter and burning and sweet and smoky all at once, almost chokes on it but manages to swallow, the tears it brings to his eyes only partly from the sting of it in his nose and throat. Looks up and sees Tiberius' eyes glistening with it too. "Remembrance Day," Tiberius says huskily. "For Knowles and Tenfoot and X'Tanna and Mirless. For the Constitution, magnificent old bitch." He takes another swallow. "For my Lizbeth." Closes his eyes. "For my George."
Jim takes another swallow. "Remembrance Day. For Anna and Charles and Mina and Tay a-and all the ones I c-can't remember their names." Another burning gulp, and his voice cracks as he whispers, "For Grandma Lizbeth. For the Kelvin. For my dad." Finishes it, puts his head down on the table and cries as Tiberius strokes his hair, something both broken and free there, like it's been so long since he could take a deep breath he's forgotten how it feels.
"Remember, Jim," Tiberius whispers, pouring himself another three fingers, "to grieve but be alive. They deserve that, the ones who didn't get the chance."
Jim understands, for the first time, how his mother could grab for any shelter from that weight.
2249.57, winona
She doesn't know what started the fight. It seems like more and more things do, these days. But this time he slaps her, an openhanded crack of his palm across her cheek and she stumbles into the dresser, little bottles falling and rolling and stars are exploding across her vision.
The downstairs door opens, and Jim's voice calls out. "Mom?"
All she can think, in that moment, with Frank staring at her, is no. No, Jim can't see this, can't be hurt by this. "Jim, I'm busy. Come back." She sounds strange to herself, prays that she doesn't to him.
Frank smirks, comes to jerk her to her feet and she tries to kick out at him but he twists to take it on his hip, eyes going ugly and avid at the same time and she closes her eyes as he catches her clawing hands. She can feel herself coming to pieces, watching another disaster happen as a passenger. Helpless.
He rips Frank off of her, silent as the ghost he resembles except George's eyes had never held that deep cold rage, something as inhuman there as a black hole and a storm in space as Jim methodically lands punch after punch, the only sound the occasional gasp or grunt from Frank. Stands over him, finally, Frank's labored breathing the only evidence he's still alive. "If you're still here tomorrow, you'll wish you weren't," Jim says, with as much emotion as he'd discuss the weather before he looks up at her, on the bed. "Mom. You need ice on that eye, and someone should look at your cheek." She is speechless, and the pitiless blue takes on a duller tone. "You can't see me without seeing him, can you?" he whispers.
She shakes her head, tears coming to her eyes. Jim sighs, steps past Frank and comes to take her by the hand, he the steady one and she the frightened child as much by him as by Frank. He sponges off her face and gets her ice, tries to convince her to go to the ER, which she won't, and to call the police, which she does, terrified that Frank will call first and convince them her son attacked him for no reason. She is slightly appalled that the report does not seem to surprise the cop at all, only that she is the one making it.
She is relieved that her next trip offworld will be in less than a week, and it will be easier not to think. Easier not to think that her boy has grown into a stranger with his father's eyes, and that she let it happen without her.
2251.23, tiberius
He is grateful that since the divorce, Winona and Jim seem to be a little easier with each other. It will make this easier for the kid. "So, what does that mean in English, Doctor?" She is young, pretty in a scrubbed and intent sort of way.
"We'll need to schedule some more tests to confirm the diagnosis," she says, earnest. "If it is delta-ray related MSA, we've caught it early, and there are medications that will slow the progression of the disease."
"Slow, but not stop." He doesn't have time for platitudes and hand-holding. He's done the reading; he knows that the damage done by delta rays is resistant to even the best regen technology available, and that he and too many of his peers in the Klingon and Romulan actions of the last century went out into them with woefully inadequate shielding. "How long until I can't take care of myself?"
She blinks, reevaluates, lifts her chin. "It's difficult to say, and that's simple truth," she said at his impatient expression. "You're in good physical condition; you seem to be a strong personality. It could be as long as five years. It could be as few as two. It depends on the rate of your deterioration, the discipline with which you pursue physical therapy and how well you're able to tolerate the medications that slow the process. Until we have a baseline and a measure of progression, I can't tell you."
Tiberius in his turn revises his opinion of her upwards a little bit; there's steel under the fair skin, and flexibility too, the ability to see him as a person and not just a patient. That will make this easier, too. "That's fair. How soon can we get these tests scheduled, then?"
That evening, at home, Jim whoops with joy at the letters in the mailbox, acceptances to both Northwestern and University of Chicago. They discuss the particulars and possibilities of each over a celebratory pizza.
He'll last long enough. He has to.
2253.09, jim
"When were you going to tell me?" He wants to be cool, wants to understand. His voice, however, is a fucking traitor and it trembles. He'd intended the visit as a surprise, and it sure as hell was for both of them when he turned up on the doorstep to a cheerful home health aide on the way out calling in to Tiberius that he had a visitor.
Veiled blue eyes look up at him from the bed. "When it became your business."
"Tiberius, that is such BULLSHIT. How is this not my business?!"
"Don't need a babysitter, in case you haven't noticed I have one who's better looking. Chris's stuck on some damn doctor she's working with, but I bet if you put your mind to it--"
"Jesus Christ, I can get laid without a fixup and you were more honest with me when I was seven. Tell me what's wrong with you right now, or I hack your medical records and find out for myself." He's trembling as hard as Tiberius is as he reaches for the glass of water next to the bed, curses as he knocks it over.
"I'm dying," Tiberius says after a long moment, looking at the pool of water on the table. "Bit sooner than I'd planned on, seems like. I'll still probably make your graduation, but it'll be in a wheelchair and dammit, I wanted to walk."
"Dying? Are you fucking kidding me? Of what?"
"MSA. Nerve degenerative disorder, kind of like Parkinson's. Comes from exposure to delta radiation. See a lot of it in Starfleet vets my age, apparently. Shields weren't then what they are now, didn't block as much of the spectrum as they do now."
"Have you been anywhere else? Even gotten a second opinion? It's Iowa City, for Christ's sake. There's better centers, better doctors, things being discovered all the time, you're only seventy-eight--"
"Jim."
There is iron and calm in Tiberius' voice both, and Jim breaks against them, closes his eyes and begs, head resting against Tiberius' shoulder. "Please. Please, Tiberius, come to Chicago."
"All right, Jim. I'll see the doctors at Northwestern. But I don't want you to get your hopes up. In case you missed the great big shipyard," he softens the words with a big hand cupping Jim's head and when he feels how that hand trembles it's all Jim can do not to shake himself, "they know Starfleet, here. They know what they're doing, Jim."
It's not hope, burning crazily in his chest, a fire in his head. It's love and terror and the certain knowledge that every minute he has now he'll have to fight for, make Tiberius fight for. And if there's one thing he knows how to do, it's fight.
2255.71, pike
George Kirk's son, a genius, a heavy-fisted brawler, a drunk, a cynic. A trainwreck. But there's something desperate and bright beneath it, something that refused to acknowledge something as plebian as odds, as mortal as getting the shit kicked out of him. Intrigued, Pike looks up his file. The boy's early years are sealed; in his later years, he went through both periods of shining ability and troubling wildness. Double major in history and comp. sci, top of his class until the last year. Glowing recommendations, and a jacket full of warnings but no serious criminal missteps.
He can't figure it out. But he recognizes potential when he sees it and the kid is shining with it, with the need to do more, be more before he blows up like an overloaded phaser. He throws out his challenge, not entirely sure why; he seems like a bad risk if he even accepts in the first place. But Chris Pike has not gotten as far as he has without learning when to trust his gut and his gut is telling him there is more to this kid than a rebellious streak a mile wide and a fist like a brick.
2255.71, tiberius
"You're killing both of us." Tiberius' voice is thick and slurred, the paralysis of his vocal chords more profound all the time as he reaches with trembling fingers to touch Jim's raw cheek, the black eye. "Think I don' know how you spen' your time? Meant you f'r better tha' this, boy."
"I don't want to go," Jim whispers, a lonely kid again and this time he knows how Tarsus turns out.
"Be with you. Let me go, kid. Let us both go. Get...stories to tell me. M'tired of the same shit in Riversi'."
Jim shivers all over, looks at him with fever-bright eyes, yearning and terrified both. "An adventure."
"This tim' you'll fly."
2256.04, jim
"So then he says, 'space is disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence.' and I say, 'uh, you do know Starfleet operates in space, right?' But he's not that crazy. He's actually pretty funny when he's got his feet on the ground." Jim's voice is raw and quiet. "And there's a real honest-to-god Orion cadet, like, escaped from a seraglio, and she smells like a whole field of flowers. Made of cake. Um. I'm in a hand-to-hand class with the guys who handed me my ass in the Shipyard. That's awkward. And as if it's not bad enough most of them haven't even been to college there's a cadet there that's 13. 13! Jesus, I don't know, Tiberius..."
Tiberius smiles, squeezes Jim's hand. Closes his eyes and sometime in the middle of gamma watch when it's no longer technically Remembrance Day Jim pulls out the flask McCoy inadvertently loaned him. "For Tiberius Kirk." Drinks and feels the tears slide down his face. And remembers he needs to live.
2261.05, mccoy
Jim sneezes as they step into the dim interior of the farmhouse, and McCoy absently hands him a histamine blocker. "You and your allergies. How did you survive adolescence?"
"This was a big part of it." Jim's eyes are lucent and far away; he told McCoy earlier that this is the first time he's been back since his grandfather's funeral. "Kind of a wreck, huh?"
"Mostly cosmetic," McCoy disagrees, looking at the stairs. "Probably need a new roof, and the barn is a hopeless catastrophe. But the house sits decently square, and the floors are level. Shit, Jim, it's one more house than I've got, I wouldn't complain."
"How do you feel about spending shore leave painting?"
McCoy bestows a withering glare on him for that idiocy. "I'm a doctor, not a contractor." He relents, however, at the look on Jim's face. "If we can get one of those sprayer things. I hate rollers."
Jim rolls his eyes. "You hate everything."
"Keep talking and you'll earn yourself all the cutting-in. We are going to need a shitload of painter's tape," he sighs, eying the woodwork. "Some day, you're going to tell me this story, right? I mean, with a name like Tiberius, there has to be a story."
"All of them, Bones. I'll tell you all of them."
Author: northatlantic
Pairing(s)/Characters: Gen. Kirk-centric, James and introducing the infamous Man with Only A Name, Tiberius Kirk. Special guest shot from McCoy at the end.
Rating: PG-13 for language, adult themes
Summary: "Some day, you're going to tell me this story, right? I mean, with a name like Tiberius, there has to be a story."
Warnings: attempted rape, child abuse
Disclaimer: blah blah notminecakes.
2240.04, jim
He is seven years old when he has his first birthday party. He does not want one.
He knows what day it is. Before Frank, his mother would alternately lavish him with love and attention and disappear into her bedroom to cry; later in the evening there would be a bottle of wine and more tears, when she thought he and Sam were asleep. Grandma and Grandma McAllister would come and cook dinner and stay, before Grandpa Jim had the stroke and they went to live with Aunt Anna and Uncle Charles on Tarsus IV. And Grandpa Tiberius would be there, with his scowl and his loud, sharp voice and the cold blue eyes that Mom said were like Dad's and he was a little bit scary but if you stayed quiet and listened after you were supposed to go to bed he told the best stories, about his dad when he was a boy, and his grandma Kirk who died like his dad did before he ever got to see her, full of bad words and laughter and a kind of rough kindness for his mother that he didn't quite understand. Grandpa Tiberius stopped coming over when Frank moved in; his mother wouldn't say why. But Jim understands. He wouldn't come over either, if he lived somewhere else.
His mother thinks that the birthday party is a good sign, that Frank wants to do something nice for Jim. Jim knows the truth; Frank is simply trying to erase George Kirk from his mother's memory wherever possible. He looks at the cake and balloons and thinks, my father died today. He rescued the wedding pictures, among other pictures of his father, from the recycler three weeks ago; his mother never looks at those books any more, does not realize that they're gone. They are in Jim's backpack; he has not thought of a safe place yet to keep them but for now, that'll be fine. Frank never looks in there, that would require wondering how Jim is doing in school and he's pretty sure Frank could not possibly care less, as long as he's not getting in trouble. He may be only seven, but he's neither dumb nor a baby, no matter what Sam says. Sam says a lot of things, most of them angry. Jim is used to this; it's been this way as long as he can remember. It is still more comforting to crawl into Sam's bed late at night when he feels sick or has a bad dream than his mother's. Especially now that Frank is there.
He feels sick now, staring at colorful paper plates, turns before he consciously decides and runs for the door, a clamor of surprised voices behind him. He has no clear idea where he's going, just away, tearing over the field behind the house and he can hear Frank crashing after him. Runs like he didn't know he could, breath burning and sobbing in his lungs and he can hear Frank threatening, knows he's going to get it, get it with the belt like Sam and all he can do is run until he gets caught. He doesn't realize how far he has come until the old farmhouse looms out of the gathering dusk in front of him, familiar although he doesn't know why but it is too late. He is stumbling now, gasping, Frank's breath coming hard now too but too close behind and his voice scarier, low and hissing.
Until something speaks like thunder and throws up a clod of earth behind Jim. The smell of of something bitter and burnt rises in the air and the man in the doorway of the house does not lower the gun when Frank pulls up short, eyes wide and white with shock. "You crazy old bastard!"
"You're trespassing. Now get out before I have to scrub your brains off my driveway." That harsh bark of a voice floods over Jim and he realizes where he is, scrambles up the steps. Grandpa Tiberius' face is lined more sharply than he remembers, something in those shocking blue eyes bitter and tired but his hands are completely steady and Jim has no doubt whatsoever that he means exactly what he says.
Frank doesn't appear to have any doubts he means it either, starts backing up even as he snarls, "Son of a bitch. Losing your mind, pointing a gun at people. You should be locked up."
"And you should have a pair of balls, but life's funny with shoulds." Tiberius clicks the safety onto the gun, sets it down, steps down the stairs. "But if the piece is what's bothering you, I invite you to come kick my ass if you think you're up for a bigger challenge than a goddamn seven-year-old." He's old but he's tall, taller than Frank, big hands curling into fists and broad shoulders squared. Frank stares at him for a long moment but has to drop his eyes before Tiberius' burning glare, and Jim thinks of a nature program he saw once about wolves as Frank's shoulders drop and he spits a curse before turning to go.
Tiberius watches a long time to make sure he is really leaving before sighing out a breath, shoulders dropping a little as he comes scowling back up to the porch. "So. What the hell'd you do to get your mother's husband looking to beat the snot out of you?"
"I'm an ungrateful brat." Tiberius folds his arms, clearly waiting for more. "He got a birthday cake and it's supposed to be a PARTY and he thinks I'll forget he's not my dad if he takes everything that was his away." Jim is braced for anger, or disappointment, or any of the million adult responses that mean, you're just a dumb baby and you don't understand, even if you do.
Tiberius just sighs, blue eyes darkening unreadably. "Get inside, boy. I'll call your mother. Explain things to her. You'll stay here tonight. Better you're not there." His gaze is considering. "Your big brother teach you about kicking someone in the balls?" Jim nods, confused, and Tiberius grunts approval. "Good. But that doesn't work very well with someone as much taller than you as Frank. He manages to grab you, you go for his instep, right here." He points it out. "You stamp hard there, and then when he's off-balance, you turn into him, not away, and you don't kick, you punch. Right in the nuts, hard as you can."
Jim's mouth is hanging slightly open, less for the advice although it is not something he would have ever pictured an adult giving him, but because Grandpa Tiberius is not questioning his fear and dislike of Frank at all. "Ok, now, show me you were paying attention," Tiberius says crossly at his dumbfounded expression. "Just don't ACTUALLY nut-punch your ol' grandpa." Hard hands seize Jim's arms and he steps down on Tiberius' foot, pivots and feints the punch. "Good. That's good. You listen when I'm telling you something, better than most recruits. But you don't tuck your thumb in like that when you make a fist, that's a good way to get it broken. Outside, like this." He curls Jim's hand into a fist. "Practice doing it right."
He looks at the gun, looks at Tiberius, eyes full of something he doesn't know how to name, a warmth he hasn't felt for a long time, or maybe ever, at being listened to, taken seriously. "Will you teach me that too?"
Tiberius' eyes cloud, and he looks old and tired. "Later. You're too little for the rifle now, it'll knock you over. When you're twelve. I taught your daddy when he was twelve. But there's plenty to learn before that."
"Eleven," Jim bargains, eyes bright. "I'm tall for my age, Ms. Quigley says."
"Not your height that matters, it's your weight and you're a damn beanpole. Speaking of which, you eat yet?" Jim shakes his head. "You go get washed up then. While you do that, I'm going to call your mother. And I'm going to tell her you need lessons in discipline, manners, how to be a man. And you're going to learn all those things, and Frank is gonna think I'm teaching them to you like he would, with the back of his hand, because he's a mean dumb son of a bitch. And you don't tell him different or he'll try and stop you coming over here. It's the truth, not a lie. Just not the truth he thinks it is. You let dumb people think what the hell they want, it makes life a lot easier."
"Mom says swearing is bad manners." He freezes as that comes out, waiting for the smack for being a smart mouth.
Tiberius' eyes go icy at that, but instead of swatting, he reaches out to rumple Jim's hair, his tone easy. "'Course she does. She's a lady. It's bad manners to curse in front of a lady. Just like it's bad manners to give someone something they don't want and then act like it's their fault they're not grateful. It's not bad manners to ask a question or point out something that doesn't seem right, but you should be careful how you do it so the person you're asking doesn't think you're trying to make them look stupid."
"Oh." Jim takes this in, turns it over. "That makes sense." He smiles up at his grandfather before going to wash and wonders why Tiberius' eyes shine as he turns away and reaches for the phone, if he just imagined the too-bright look of tears because he can't imagine that tough old man crying.
2245.61, tiberius
The one phone call rule doesn't apply to juvenile offenders, but Jim charms and blandishes and pleads and when they learn it's to his grandfather a sympathetic dispatcher allows it. Tiberius shows up at the same time Frank does, and there's a hackling fury spitting between them as Frank points out he has no legal rights in this instance. Tiberius coolly points out that the wrecked car's title is still in his name, and that he chooses not to press charges. Which is true; he had purchased it for his son and Winona had never had the heart or the interest in dealing with the undone paperwork of the transfer when she came back from the Kelvin. He walks out with them as Frank tows Jim by a forearm, points out equally coolly when out of audio range of the station that while Jim is certainly due some punishment for the day's activities, if he has any reason to believe this has been administered with fists or a belt they will never find Frank's body, and that he will assume this has become necessary if he doesn't see Jim first thing in the morning.
When Jim trudges up the steps in the morning, Tiberius is ready to carry out his promise even though there's not a mark on him. But it's more important both to make sure Jim is all right and to find out why the hell he did something so dangerous and stupid in the first place. "What the hell were you thinking, Jim?"
"They're sending me away," he whispers, ignoring the question, eyes wide and glassy. "To Tarsus to stay with Aunt Anna and Uncle Charles. I'm out of control, and you're a bad influence on me. Frank said it. And Mom just listened, and said she'd call her sister."
Tiberius closes his eyes and swallows on the agony. Watching Jim grow and fight and struggle has been--well, not like having George back, George had been a sunny-tempered, easy boy who loved everyone. More like watching himself as a youngster might have been and it's maybe given him more reason to keep going than if Jim had that happy, easy childhood George had had, if he didn't need him so damn much. "Listen, Jim," he said gently. "I want you to tell me what happened yesterday, straight out, like a man, and then we'll talk about this. It may not be as bad as you think it will be."
Jim's eyes fill with furious tears. "Frank was going to sell Dad's car. Someone was there looking at it, said he'd pick it up on Saturday. It's not his. It's ours. When Sam said something, Frank smacked him and said when he was putting food on the table and paying bills, he had some goddamn say in the house. In the morning, Sam was gone. Again. And I couldn't...he ruins everything he touches, and Mom just...Somebody had to do something. He wasn't going to get away with it."
Tiberius blows out a breath. "Did it occur to you that you could have killed yourself, you idiot? That a car, even a special car, a memory, isn't worth you getting hurt? Not to me, not to your mother. I remember how happy your dad was, how he'd take your mother and Sam for rides before they left. And I would still have let Frank sell that car a hundred damn times before hearing ONCE that you jumped out of a moving vehicle and almost fell off a cliff! Do you understand, boy? You're all I've got left!" His voice has risen to a shout, is trembling with emotion.
"They're sending me away," Jim whispers, angry almost-adolescent becoming terrified child again as he slides out of his chair with a thump, comes to clamber into Tiberius' lab all knees and elbows. "they're sending me away, don't let them..."
Tiberius holds onto him hard. "I can't stop them," he whispers, because Jim deserves the truth. "But listen, Jim. Tarsus might be the best thing that could have happened to you. You and Frank keep butting heads, you're going to get hurt and dammit, I can't protect you from him when you live in his house. Your mother's people, I've met them, they're good, kind folks. You give them a fair shake and they'll give you one. You can just be a kid, instead of my little recruit." He ran his hand over his head. "It won't be forever, Jim. Your mother's got to wise up sometime. And you'll have an adventure, someplace new, someplace where people value smart and independent and tough-minded instead of calling you a smartass brat and trying to smash you into what they think you should be."
"Can you come?" Jim clings tight, head against his chest.
"No," Tiberius says, closing his eyes. "Jim, they won't let me come, I can't pass the colonist's physical any more and I don't have people there to get the family waiver until you're of age. But I promise I'll write you, call you. I won't forget."
Jim studies his face and Tiberius looks at him steadily, lets him see that love and fear and grief. Jim puts his head back down. "You said you'd teach me to shoot the rifle when I was twelve."
Startled, he chuckles. "You have the damnedest memory, kid. Well, we have till they send you and that won't be till the end of the week at the earliest. We'll just have to see how fast you learn."
Jim has a good eye and he is unafraid of pain; although he startles the first time he feels the kick of the old gun, he doesn't flinch the second time. Jim has taken a lot of blows without flinching; it has been Tiberius' bitter pleasure to teach him how to absorb them, to not telegraph pain or intentions, to strike back effectively to defend himself and others. Perhaps he has been a bad influence on Jim; he would not be the person best suited to teach anyone how to bend, compromise, get along. It is why he needs to let go of the most precious thing in his life, the part that has made it fun again. He needs to think about Jim, not himself.
2246.08 elaina b'renn, rn
Jim opens his eyes dully at the sound of approaching footsteps, and then blinks wildly as he registers the presence; the duty nurse puts her hand to her mouth because it is the first response anyone has gotten from him, the lanky kid with the dust-colored hair and she had privately wondered if anything would ever bring him back from whatever private hell he'd descended into. But the tall old man in an ancient Fleet uniform with those same extraordinary eyes sits down next to him and Jim's hand curls into his, his whole body shifting in that direction and he's almost fourteen, should be too heavy to be picked up the way the old man does. But he's still painfully thin, almost delicate, and the old man cradles him in his lap like a much smaller child. Jim still hasn't made a sound but he hides his face agaist him, bony fingers like talons clinging desperately into his shirt. The harsh breaths shake him back and forth as the old man rocks him, that same survivor's grief and guilt stark on his face.
It has been a week since the families of the survivors of what the media is beginning to call "the Tarsus IV massacre," were notified. She has recieved a single, harried transmission from the boy's mother halfway across the galaxy, and nothing from her husband. Which is why, even though it carries a risk of disciplinary action, when Dr. April comes through on rounds and two sets of bleak and terribly beautiful blue eyes implore her, she tells her that Jim belongs to his grandfather. It may not be documented in his file, but it's clearly the truth.
It is two weeks until Jim is physically stable enough to leave, two weeks complicated by the fact that now that he is aware again he is a mass of terror and fury whenever anyone unfamiliar touches him. He is more wild animal than adolescent, and he will not speak, no matter what, retreats until frantic when the therapist tries to talk to him about what happened. But she is willing to believe that the only being more stubborn in the universe is the one who coaxes one more piece of normal behavior out of him, each day, enough to have him dressed and groomed and if not happy about the people around him, not terrified, at least not as long as Tiberius is within sight.
She hopes there is more healing in him, for both their sakes.
2247.04, jim
Since the disaster at Tarsus, Jim has stayed with Tiberius; it is the only place he feels safe. It was almost three months until he could bring himself to speak again, and he is more than grateful that unlike his mother and Frank, Tiberius neither treated it as a mental defect that he couldn't or like a sign of normality when he could. They were just Jim and Tiberius, as usual, or unusual. His lips curve a little bit at that thought. More like unusual, on reflection.
"Boy." Tiberius settles in across from him. "You take care of that mess out in the backyard, then?" Jim nods. "Good. Let's see your schoolwork." That had been one of their rare battles, but Tiberius had been right, after the initial panic of being surrounded by voices and activity, it got easier. He hands over his math with a little smirk and Tiberius scowls back at him. "Puppy, I used to have to do my own damn ephemerides on the Constitution. As a matter of fact, I might haul out my old textbook for you. Computers are only as good as the brain programming them."
Jim's eyes light with amusement and challenge. "Yes, sir."
It is well into the evening when they tire of problem and solution, when Tiberius looks at the rising stars and gets up. Jim assumes he is going to get something else to read that doesn't involve vector algebra, but instead he comes back with a bottle of bourbon and...two glasses?
Tiberius sits down and pours a measure into each glass as Jim looks at him questioningly. "I don't want to hear about underage drinking--either that you've done it tonight or that you do it tomorrow," he says, a snap of temper. "This isn't booze tonight. This is an offering. For the ones we've lost, for the ones we still have. For the sacred trust we have to live as hard and as strong as we can for the ones who can't."
Jim feels a cold shudder down his spine, licks his lips uneasily and reaches for the glass. It is bitter and burning and sweet and smoky all at once, almost chokes on it but manages to swallow, the tears it brings to his eyes only partly from the sting of it in his nose and throat. Looks up and sees Tiberius' eyes glistening with it too. "Remembrance Day," Tiberius says huskily. "For Knowles and Tenfoot and X'Tanna and Mirless. For the Constitution, magnificent old bitch." He takes another swallow. "For my Lizbeth." Closes his eyes. "For my George."
Jim takes another swallow. "Remembrance Day. For Anna and Charles and Mina and Tay a-and all the ones I c-can't remember their names." Another burning gulp, and his voice cracks as he whispers, "For Grandma Lizbeth. For the Kelvin. For my dad." Finishes it, puts his head down on the table and cries as Tiberius strokes his hair, something both broken and free there, like it's been so long since he could take a deep breath he's forgotten how it feels.
"Remember, Jim," Tiberius whispers, pouring himself another three fingers, "to grieve but be alive. They deserve that, the ones who didn't get the chance."
Jim understands, for the first time, how his mother could grab for any shelter from that weight.
2249.57, winona
She doesn't know what started the fight. It seems like more and more things do, these days. But this time he slaps her, an openhanded crack of his palm across her cheek and she stumbles into the dresser, little bottles falling and rolling and stars are exploding across her vision.
The downstairs door opens, and Jim's voice calls out. "Mom?"
All she can think, in that moment, with Frank staring at her, is no. No, Jim can't see this, can't be hurt by this. "Jim, I'm busy. Come back." She sounds strange to herself, prays that she doesn't to him.
Frank smirks, comes to jerk her to her feet and she tries to kick out at him but he twists to take it on his hip, eyes going ugly and avid at the same time and she closes her eyes as he catches her clawing hands. She can feel herself coming to pieces, watching another disaster happen as a passenger. Helpless.
He rips Frank off of her, silent as the ghost he resembles except George's eyes had never held that deep cold rage, something as inhuman there as a black hole and a storm in space as Jim methodically lands punch after punch, the only sound the occasional gasp or grunt from Frank. Stands over him, finally, Frank's labored breathing the only evidence he's still alive. "If you're still here tomorrow, you'll wish you weren't," Jim says, with as much emotion as he'd discuss the weather before he looks up at her, on the bed. "Mom. You need ice on that eye, and someone should look at your cheek." She is speechless, and the pitiless blue takes on a duller tone. "You can't see me without seeing him, can you?" he whispers.
She shakes her head, tears coming to her eyes. Jim sighs, steps past Frank and comes to take her by the hand, he the steady one and she the frightened child as much by him as by Frank. He sponges off her face and gets her ice, tries to convince her to go to the ER, which she won't, and to call the police, which she does, terrified that Frank will call first and convince them her son attacked him for no reason. She is slightly appalled that the report does not seem to surprise the cop at all, only that she is the one making it.
She is relieved that her next trip offworld will be in less than a week, and it will be easier not to think. Easier not to think that her boy has grown into a stranger with his father's eyes, and that she let it happen without her.
2251.23, tiberius
He is grateful that since the divorce, Winona and Jim seem to be a little easier with each other. It will make this easier for the kid. "So, what does that mean in English, Doctor?" She is young, pretty in a scrubbed and intent sort of way.
"We'll need to schedule some more tests to confirm the diagnosis," she says, earnest. "If it is delta-ray related MSA, we've caught it early, and there are medications that will slow the progression of the disease."
"Slow, but not stop." He doesn't have time for platitudes and hand-holding. He's done the reading; he knows that the damage done by delta rays is resistant to even the best regen technology available, and that he and too many of his peers in the Klingon and Romulan actions of the last century went out into them with woefully inadequate shielding. "How long until I can't take care of myself?"
She blinks, reevaluates, lifts her chin. "It's difficult to say, and that's simple truth," she said at his impatient expression. "You're in good physical condition; you seem to be a strong personality. It could be as long as five years. It could be as few as two. It depends on the rate of your deterioration, the discipline with which you pursue physical therapy and how well you're able to tolerate the medications that slow the process. Until we have a baseline and a measure of progression, I can't tell you."
Tiberius in his turn revises his opinion of her upwards a little bit; there's steel under the fair skin, and flexibility too, the ability to see him as a person and not just a patient. That will make this easier, too. "That's fair. How soon can we get these tests scheduled, then?"
That evening, at home, Jim whoops with joy at the letters in the mailbox, acceptances to both Northwestern and University of Chicago. They discuss the particulars and possibilities of each over a celebratory pizza.
He'll last long enough. He has to.
2253.09, jim
"When were you going to tell me?" He wants to be cool, wants to understand. His voice, however, is a fucking traitor and it trembles. He'd intended the visit as a surprise, and it sure as hell was for both of them when he turned up on the doorstep to a cheerful home health aide on the way out calling in to Tiberius that he had a visitor.
Veiled blue eyes look up at him from the bed. "When it became your business."
"Tiberius, that is such BULLSHIT. How is this not my business?!"
"Don't need a babysitter, in case you haven't noticed I have one who's better looking. Chris's stuck on some damn doctor she's working with, but I bet if you put your mind to it--"
"Jesus Christ, I can get laid without a fixup and you were more honest with me when I was seven. Tell me what's wrong with you right now, or I hack your medical records and find out for myself." He's trembling as hard as Tiberius is as he reaches for the glass of water next to the bed, curses as he knocks it over.
"I'm dying," Tiberius says after a long moment, looking at the pool of water on the table. "Bit sooner than I'd planned on, seems like. I'll still probably make your graduation, but it'll be in a wheelchair and dammit, I wanted to walk."
"Dying? Are you fucking kidding me? Of what?"
"MSA. Nerve degenerative disorder, kind of like Parkinson's. Comes from exposure to delta radiation. See a lot of it in Starfleet vets my age, apparently. Shields weren't then what they are now, didn't block as much of the spectrum as they do now."
"Have you been anywhere else? Even gotten a second opinion? It's Iowa City, for Christ's sake. There's better centers, better doctors, things being discovered all the time, you're only seventy-eight--"
"Jim."
There is iron and calm in Tiberius' voice both, and Jim breaks against them, closes his eyes and begs, head resting against Tiberius' shoulder. "Please. Please, Tiberius, come to Chicago."
"All right, Jim. I'll see the doctors at Northwestern. But I don't want you to get your hopes up. In case you missed the great big shipyard," he softens the words with a big hand cupping Jim's head and when he feels how that hand trembles it's all Jim can do not to shake himself, "they know Starfleet, here. They know what they're doing, Jim."
It's not hope, burning crazily in his chest, a fire in his head. It's love and terror and the certain knowledge that every minute he has now he'll have to fight for, make Tiberius fight for. And if there's one thing he knows how to do, it's fight.
2255.71, pike
George Kirk's son, a genius, a heavy-fisted brawler, a drunk, a cynic. A trainwreck. But there's something desperate and bright beneath it, something that refused to acknowledge something as plebian as odds, as mortal as getting the shit kicked out of him. Intrigued, Pike looks up his file. The boy's early years are sealed; in his later years, he went through both periods of shining ability and troubling wildness. Double major in history and comp. sci, top of his class until the last year. Glowing recommendations, and a jacket full of warnings but no serious criminal missteps.
He can't figure it out. But he recognizes potential when he sees it and the kid is shining with it, with the need to do more, be more before he blows up like an overloaded phaser. He throws out his challenge, not entirely sure why; he seems like a bad risk if he even accepts in the first place. But Chris Pike has not gotten as far as he has without learning when to trust his gut and his gut is telling him there is more to this kid than a rebellious streak a mile wide and a fist like a brick.
2255.71, tiberius
"You're killing both of us." Tiberius' voice is thick and slurred, the paralysis of his vocal chords more profound all the time as he reaches with trembling fingers to touch Jim's raw cheek, the black eye. "Think I don' know how you spen' your time? Meant you f'r better tha' this, boy."
"I don't want to go," Jim whispers, a lonely kid again and this time he knows how Tarsus turns out.
"Be with you. Let me go, kid. Let us both go. Get...stories to tell me. M'tired of the same shit in Riversi'."
Jim shivers all over, looks at him with fever-bright eyes, yearning and terrified both. "An adventure."
"This tim' you'll fly."
2256.04, jim
"So then he says, 'space is disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence.' and I say, 'uh, you do know Starfleet operates in space, right?' But he's not that crazy. He's actually pretty funny when he's got his feet on the ground." Jim's voice is raw and quiet. "And there's a real honest-to-god Orion cadet, like, escaped from a seraglio, and she smells like a whole field of flowers. Made of cake. Um. I'm in a hand-to-hand class with the guys who handed me my ass in the Shipyard. That's awkward. And as if it's not bad enough most of them haven't even been to college there's a cadet there that's 13. 13! Jesus, I don't know, Tiberius..."
Tiberius smiles, squeezes Jim's hand. Closes his eyes and sometime in the middle of gamma watch when it's no longer technically Remembrance Day Jim pulls out the flask McCoy inadvertently loaned him. "For Tiberius Kirk." Drinks and feels the tears slide down his face. And remembers he needs to live.
2261.05, mccoy
Jim sneezes as they step into the dim interior of the farmhouse, and McCoy absently hands him a histamine blocker. "You and your allergies. How did you survive adolescence?"
"This was a big part of it." Jim's eyes are lucent and far away; he told McCoy earlier that this is the first time he's been back since his grandfather's funeral. "Kind of a wreck, huh?"
"Mostly cosmetic," McCoy disagrees, looking at the stairs. "Probably need a new roof, and the barn is a hopeless catastrophe. But the house sits decently square, and the floors are level. Shit, Jim, it's one more house than I've got, I wouldn't complain."
"How do you feel about spending shore leave painting?"
McCoy bestows a withering glare on him for that idiocy. "I'm a doctor, not a contractor." He relents, however, at the look on Jim's face. "If we can get one of those sprayer things. I hate rollers."
Jim rolls his eyes. "You hate everything."
"Keep talking and you'll earn yourself all the cutting-in. We are going to need a shitload of painter's tape," he sighs, eying the woodwork. "Some day, you're going to tell me this story, right? I mean, with a name like Tiberius, there has to be a story."
"All of them, Bones. I'll tell you all of them."