Fire and Ice
Title: Fire and Ice
Author: orgy-of-death
Beta: lalazee
Artist: kymericl
Mixer: sullacat
Series: ST XI Hockey AU
Character/Pairing(s): Kirk/Spock, minor Pike/Winona
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 20,308
Warnings: Minor Violence, Swearing
Summary: Jim needed to be seen and Spock needed to find home, it took them spilling each others blood on the ice to find what they were looking for.
~~
We never really know who our heroes are going to be. Someone had once said that to Jim, and he can’t help but think of how true that statement is.
His older brother Sam-short for George Samuel Kirk-worshiped their father, the martyr of martyrs and the saver of lives. Jim had wanted to worship him too. He ached to be able to look up to his father with the same fierce admiration Sam did, but to Jim, his father was faceless-just a simple bedtime story his mother told him with tears in her eyes.
How could Jim worship a man who he had never seen, never hugged, never got a chance to love? How could little Jim, so alone in the world, look up to the man who had left him just as he was taking his first screaming breaths?
This was something Sam didn’t, or couldn’t, understand. Sam had years with his father that Jim hadn’t. So when Sam enlisted in Starfleet, Jim was furious. His brother, whom Jim had looked up to ever since Sam taught him to tie his shoes, was leaving him to fly off into some black void, never to been seen again.
“You’ll die up there-in space,” hurled a waif thin, ten year old Jim Kirk from the porch, as he watched his brother stuff his over-sized duffel bag into the back of a hover car.
Sam sighed and turned to look at Jim. Sam walked over to the porch, mounted the steps and swept his little brother into his arms for a tight hug. If he noticed the poignant sniffling and the growing wet spot on his t-shirt, he said nothing about it.
“It’s better than dying here in Iowa, Jimmy. Keep your nose clean, kiddo.” With one last tousle of Jim’s hair, George Samuel Kirk swept off the porch and sped off in the hover car, far away from Iowa and far away from Jim. Jim could only stare after his older brother, eyes burning from dust and tears, wondering why dying alone in space was better than living here on earth.
/They all leave me/
~~
Jim had nearly forgotten why he hated space, until his mother had sat him down with tears in her eyes, as she told him that his brother had been killed during an away mission on some far off alien planet.
Suddenly, that dark void that had filled Jim since his brother sped away in that hover car to go explore stranger new worlds, and go where no man had gone before, was filled with the soul-searing rage only grief could create. He felt as if his veins were pumping battery acid, burning through him as it thundered through his small body.
Jim had barely been aware that he was crying, and even more vaguely aware that he was no longer in the house sitting next to his crying mother while all he wanted to do wass rip apart the universe. But he had snapped back to reality and he could feel the razor-sharp winds whipping around the windshield of his step father’s old Corvette, as he pushed it as fast as the ancient car could go.
/They all leave me/
The little voice in his head was getting louder with every tear that fell and every breath that reminded him Sam wasn’t coming back. Sam died in Space. Sam left me, just like Dad left me and just like Mom leaves me all alone. I am alone. No one sees me. I am alone. THEY ALL LEAVE ME
/They all leave me/
He’s sped straight for the quarry, with only the voice the guide him.
/THEY ALL LEAVE, THEY ALL LEAVE, THEY ALL LEAVE, LEAVE, LEAVE, LEAVE, LEAVE-/
Then Jim heard it, clear as day, and clearer than any other voice in his head. It screamed at him with every fiber of his being-
/MAKE THEM SEE YOU/
So naturally, he did the only thing he could do while hurtling towards a cliff at 70 miles an hour… Jim threw himself out of the car. Hurling himself into the dirt, and clinging to the earth with a desperation Jim hadn’t felt since he threw those words at Sam before he went off to die in the black void of space.
As he hefted himself over the precipice, Jim simply relished the feeling of having the earth, solid and unmoving, beneath him. That was until the boot heels of his judiciary tail thudded heavily into the dirt in front of him. For a few moments Jim tried to draw the last bit of certainty and stead fast-ness from the ground beneath him before he stood, facing the imposing Robo-Cop staring blankly at him.
“Citizen, what is your name?”
“My name is James Tiberius Kirk.”
/They all leave me/
~~
In the months after the Corvette incident, Jim did everything he could to make his mother see him. But no matter what Jim did-whether it be burning down the shed, tipping the neighbor’s cow, cutting off little Rachel Cochrane’s ponytail in class, or even getting caught with a cigarette behind the gym, Winona Kirk gazed at her son with the same misted-over look of grief she looked at everything with since Sam died.
At the advisement of his teachers, principal and guidance counselor, Jim was put in therapy. With a cynicism that was startling for a boy of twelve, Jim wished he had stayed in the Corvette as it plummeted off the cliff.
The doctor seemed nice enough, but all she ever did was ask Jim, Why.
“Why do you act out in school, James?” Why did you drive your step father’s Corvette into the quarry, James?”
All day long, with the ‘Why’ questions and the insistence to call him ‘James’. Jim didn’t like being called ‘James’, and he despised the ‘Why’ questions.
They always hurt too much to answer.
After what felt like an eternity of running in circles and not getting anywhere, his doctor-Dr. Peterson was her name-wanted to meet with his mother to talk.
After an hour of hearing his doctor re-hash and paraphrase his sessions back to his mother, Dr. Peterson had come to one conclusion. Jim had, along with unresolved grief over his brother’s death, attention deficit disorder or A.D.D, as it was often called.
It was obvious. That was why he couldn’t concentrate in school. That was why he was acting out, that must be why.
Something deep down squeezed hard around his heart.
This was wrong. He acted out so his mom would see him, not just look at him-not just look past him, seeing all the faces of the Kirk men she had lost. He couldn’t concentrate because in the darkness and silence he felt like he didn’t exist. Jim couldn’t sit still because he just needed someone to see him.
As Dr. Peterson scribbled something down on a PADD, quietly murmuring things to his mom about dosing instructions and possible side effects, Jim simply tuned it out as he looked out the window.
/Make them see you/
~~
A few days later, Christopher Pike, an old friend of his dad’s, who insisted on being called ‘Uncle Chris’ showed up at the old Kirk farmhouse to visit. Jim was always a little star struck when it came to Uncle Chris. When he was young, before Sam joined Starfleet, Sam had shown him old holo-vids of their Uncle Chris playing hockey.
Christopher Pike had been one of the best hockey players of the decade. He had led all the NHL teams he had played with to Stanley Cup victories. Thanks to Christopher Pike, the one-hundred year Calgary Flames Stanley Cup drought had ended in a glorious hat-trick that sent the crowds screaming to their feet. Numerous teams from the New Jersey Devils, the New York Rangers and the Toronto Maple Leafs had Christopher to thank for their inspiring wins.
Jim had seen the footage-Pike had been unbeatable. He had been tough as nails, like Bobby Orr, with the scoring averages of Wayne Gretsky and the charm and love from the people that Sydney Crosby had. Jim was mesmerized by the sight of his Uncle whipping up and down the ice, stealing the puck away from an unsuspecting defenseman and, with a deft flick of the wrist, sending the puck flying at its maximum velocity past the goalie, sending the crowd into cheers of triumph or groans of defeat.
Uncle Chris had even represented Earth in the Federation Worlds Tournament of Hockey. Jim had never watched that footage.
In the final game of the tournament, Earth vs Romulus, Nero, Romulus’s secret weapon, came up from behind Chris and delivered a powerful body-check, sending Chris crashing to the ice, bringing several Romulan players crashing down with him and on top of him. The force of all that weight on top of him-plus the weakening from years of playing hockey, and the stress from previous injuries-had been too much.
His back had been broken in several places, and his spinal cord irreparably damaged. Christopher hadn’t walked, much less played hockey, since that day.
Nero, however, had only suffered minimally-a suspension and a public hearing, but the next year he returned to have is best season yet. Jim thought this was unfair, but Uncle Chris had seemed to make his peace with it.
Even after being confined to a wheelchair, he was still having an illustrious coaching career. Right now he was recruiting young players for the IIHF World Juniors. It was all so exciting and other-worldly to Jim.
If Jim had ever had a hero who he wanted to grow up to be like, it was his Uncle Chris. So when his Uncle wheeled up the porch-ramp, Jim had a million questions for him: Who had he signed? When did the games start? Was he coaching the Canadian Team or the American team this year? Where were they playing? Would Jim be able to see one of the games live?
“Woah, woah, woah, kiddo, slow down. Nothing is set in stone. It is still really early and we haven’t recruited anybody yet. As for actually coming to one of the games, that’s your mom’s call,” He said good-naturedly. Jim’s face fell a little bit, as he knew his mom would never let him go see a game scheduled outside of Riverside, and the likelihood of a game being in Riverside was close to zero. “Now, where’s your mom hiding?”
“She’s inside replicating iced-tea, I think.”
Uncle Chris and Jim pulled identical faces at the idea of replicating anything. Even in the 23rd Century, technology hadn’t caught up enough to make home replicators reliable and able to make anything that tasted remotely normal.
As his Uncle wheeled inside, Jim returned to his ancient comic books and vaguely entertained the idea that his Uncle was secretly the telepathic Leader of a group of mutant superheroes, or possibly worked recon for Batman.
~~
Half way through the newest issue of the Incredible X-Men, Jim heard raised voices. Curious, Jim set down his PADD and pressed his ear to the screen door, trying to catch the snippets of conversation.
“Really Winona? You are going to drug your son-“ Jim had never heard his Uncle so angry or judgmental, especially not towards Jim’s mother.
“I am not drugging him, Christopher!”
The sound of the fridge door being jerked open, thrust shut, and the angry slamming of the well worn juice jug, punctuated his mother’s anger more than the angry hiss of her voice. That juice jug had been his grandmother’s and his mother was always careful when handling it, afraid the ancient plastic would crack.
“That is exactly what you’re doing.”
“Well, I don’t know what to do anymore, Chris. He drove Frank’s car into the quarry last year - the quarry! He could have died , Chris, and ever since then he’s gotten worse. Burning down barns - smoking. I don’t know what to do anymore.” He could hear his mother’s voice edge just past the point of hysteria, and deep down something inside Jim clenched and he instantly regretted burning down the barn, smoking and driving the corvette into the quarry.
“Dosing him daily to keep him from acting out is not the answer.”
Jim was confused-dosing him? What had that doctor told his mother to do about him?
“Then what is, Chris? You seem to know everything about raising my children-tell me, what is the answer?”
Jim could hear the shrillness in his mother’s voice taper off as she choked out sobs. With baited breath, Jim eased the screen open and peeked around the corner to get a better look at his mother. Jim watched silently as his mother was bent over, in an awkward position-her shoulders jerking and shuddering as his Uncle Chris hugged her tenderly.
Bile rose in the back of his throat and Jim looked away, reminded that he couldn’t remember what a hug from his mom felt like. He pulled back and quietly shut the screen, trying to furiously blink away the rapidly forming tears.
“Look,” Chris said quietly. “Before you start giving Jim the medication, why don’t you let me try something?”
His mom sniffled “Something?” A pause. “Like what?”
“Let me coach him.” There was something in his voice suggesting that he had mentioned this before.
“Hockey? Chris-“ Jim could practically hear his mother rolling her eyes.
“Trust me, Winnie.” Jim wrinkled his nose. No one ever calls Mom, Winnie. “It will give him something to do besides get into trouble. Plus, he’ll socialize. Jim is an isolated boy-he needs interaction, not medication.”
There was a pause as his mom drew a shaky breath.
“Okay Chris, we’ll try this your way.” There was the brief shuffling sounds of another hug before his Uncle spoke again.
“It’s the right thing to do, Win. Trust me.”
Jim balked at the thought of playing hockey. Hours upon hours on the ice-learning to balance on tiny skates, as he attempted to move about with some measure of grace, without falling on his face. Nothing about long, painful workouts, and tedious conditioning appealed to him.
/Make them see you/
Then it flooded Jim as if someone had destroyed the Hoover Dam. The opportunity of being taught by one of the best coaches in Hockey history, being groomed to one day stand on the ice, accepting a gold medal or the Stanley Cup with thousands of fans cheering.
/Make them see you/
As Jim stood there, his pulse racing with his blood rushing to his ears and thundering through his veins, he felt much like the day he raced the Corvette into the quarry. The exhilaration of unhindered adrenalin coursing through him and the small twinge of fear in his gut as he hurtled toward something he could never go back from. Jim knew that this was no longer a childhood dream fueled by the need to be seen - this was the path on which he was supposed to be.
/Make them see you!/
~~
After his Uncle returned from Canada with a rare loss under his belt, Jim’s frustrations began to mount in the first early months of training. When Jim laced up his skates and etched the first skate lines into the ice, his Uncle ceased being good ol’ Uncle Chris, and started being Coach Pike . Soon Jim hated ‘Coach Pike’ with a passion, Pike demanded more from Jim, more than Jim thought he could give. Normally, when Jim was obstinate and dug in his heels, the receiving party usually gave in but not Pike. Pike just kept pushing and pushing Jim. Making him skate faster, put more force in his slap shots, and use more power in his forearms. Flick his wrists this way and not that way, better accuracy, more force, more speed. This equally frustrated and exhilarated him. Jim was so used to being ignored, pacified and brushed off as nothing more than a troublemaker that he had forgotten what it felt like to have his limits tested, and to learn more than how to cause the most collateral damage. So with the added pressure and the constant push of his Coach’s guidance started to carve and mold Jim into a strong, young hockey player, like the river that carved the Grand Canyon.
Jim was quickly finding his stride-a steadfast determination sparking somewhere dark inside of him; somewhere deeper and more powerful than the voices. Soon the weight of Coach Pike’s expectations no longer grated against him igniting the urge to dig in his heels and resist; but it was like a rock striking flint, lighting a wildfire in Jim that he’d never felt before.
~~
Jim excelled rapidly, surpassing the other kids his age and systematically skating circles around his teammates until he had developed his skills enough to leave the minor leagues and try out for his first WHL team. The coaches and trainers were just as taken with Jim’s big scoring averages and even bigger attitude, as were the fans-and soon they signed Jim to his first contract.
His Uncle Chris who, upon Jim’s contract signing, had reverted from Coach Pike back to good ol’ Uncle Chris, watched on proudly as Jim packed his bags for Boston and his first WHL game. Jim stood awkwardly by the hover-cab, looking up at the porch where his mom stood. He remembered the day, so long ago, when he stood on that same porch trying to convince Sam to stay in Iowa. He stared at his mom, neither of them knowing the right words to say in these moments, and he simply smiled.
“Bye Mom.”
Winona looked down at her only son,
“Bye, Jimmy. I love you, be safe.”
Jim nodded curtly to his Uncle and waved awkwardly to his mom. He stuffed himself into the backseat, alongside his duffel bag. As he watched Iowa roll past his window, Jim tried his best to will the lump in his throat away as he thought of his father, his brother and his mother.
/Make them see you/
~~
Boston was unlike anything Jim had experienced. (Jim felt this was clichéd, but he was never a man of words so he had no way to adequately describe it).
The players were so unlike those in Iowa. Every guy longed for a spot on the Bruin’s bench and played like they could achieve it. Everyone trained until there was no ice bath cold enough to ease their muscles. They were Clydesdales on ice-stubborn workhorses hell-bent on proving themselves as true athletes worthy of an NHL jersey.
But even on a team with such impressive young talent, Jim was without a doubt the best player on his team. By the middle of the season, scouts from the World Juniors were showing up at his games. All eyes were on Jim as he slid deftly up and down the ice, hammering away at the offensive line, streaking past the idle defensemen, slamming a forward into the boards with a mighty clap of thunder from the shuddering glass, and weaving and following the puck until he possessed it.
His legs burned with exertion, his lungs shuddered against his ribs and his blood surged through his veins and he never felt so alive. Jim broke past the crop of offense trying valiantly to deny him the puck, and as he raced across the blue-line, he was once again reminded of the old Corvette and that day at the quarry.
/The wind whipping harshly about his face/
The defensive line struggling to catch him-
/The voice screaming inside of him/
The roar of the crowd at its feet-
/”Citizen, what is your name?”/
“And Kirk gets the breakaway! Kirk shoots-!”
/MAKE THEM SEE YOU/
“HE SCORES!”
The crowd erupts again, and his teammates skate over to him. They all but hoist him onto their shoulders, reveling in their collective victory, but Kirk feels none of it. He’s looking up at the stands, along with the IIHF World Juniors scout and GM, his Uncle Chris is seated, cheering and shaking the hands of his colleagues. But more important than that, his mom is at her feet, smiling and cheering for him.
Something is shaking inside of Jim and he lets loose a smile, feeling happier than he had since before he was standing on his porch telling Sam he’d die in space. Even with his mom smiling at him, the chance to represent his country on the world stage practically cemented, the voice still hummed in the back of his mind.
/Make them all see you/
~~
Training camp was different than what Jim had expected. His ego had led him to believe that he had been on the team the second the Juniors Head Coach, a harsh woman who everyone simply acknowledged as ‘Number One’, had said ‘training camp’. However, this camp was merely a preliminary measure, to weed out the weak links. Jim was standing next to some of the best hockey players under twenty, all vying for a limited spot on a team that could springboard them into a fruitful NHL career.
Needless to say, that summer while other kids his age were swimming, lounging on the beach and having their first taste of both alcohol and love, Kirk was sweating for entirely different reasons. He spent all of June and July preparing for the three-day camp that determined whether or not he would be admitted to the American Junior team.
Everyday, Jim rose at an ungodly hour, ingested questionably green and fresh-looking food to keep up with his calorie demand, pushing himself to his limits at the gym and spent hour after hour on the ice, practicing his stick handling, whipping about the ice and generally doing everything in his power to gain the upper hand.
When August rolled around, Jim was pretty secure in his abilities. However, his confidence waned when he looked down at the ice and saw the sheer number of young talent all attempting to secure a spot on one of the best teams in the world. There must have been more than forty guys, standing nervously on the ice waiting for the practice to start.
Down the line, towering above the others, standing perfectly still and looking intensely calm amongst the nervous shifting of his competition, stood the tallest drink of water Jim had ever laid eyes on. He must have been 6’4’’ at least, without skates, long, thick legs and broad shoulders that spoke of a man, not a boy.
Jim’s muscles itched to slide along the ice and plow into him at full speed to see what it would take to knock this man, who looked more suited to the football field than the ice, off his feet. As Jim’s eyes left Mr. Colossus, he was struck with an odd thought; the dark eyebrows, peeking just below the visor of the tallest player on the ice, slanted upward, not unlike the brows of Vulcan’s. He discarded the thought instantly and laughed to himself, ‘Vulcan’s don’t play hockey. It’s much too barbaric for such a logical race.’
Suddenly, the woman Jim recognized as Number One slid onto the ice with the two associate coaches and began the practice. They were split into two teams and summarily put through their paces. Jim came to two simultaneous conclusions: One, this was not going to be as easy as he’d thought. Two, he hated playing against Mr. Colossus. Every time he made a move with the puck, Colossus was there, covering him, dogging him up and down the ice, stealing the puck out from under him.
Jim gritted his teeth and pushed back, hard. He became the unstoppable shadow, battering him waiting for an opening and taking advantage of it, trying to use his smaller stature to evade the towering giant in his quest to the net. Point for point, Jim and ‘Colossus’ were matching each other.
Every face-off was a battle for the puck-it was as if no one else there was a threat to either of them. They had set their sights on each other ever since Jim flashed his trademark cocky smirk and was met with the twitch of a dark, Vulcan-like brow as they slid into place for the start of the game.
By the end of the training weekend, Jim hurt in places he hadn’t previously discovered. As Jim returned to Boston with more bruises than ever, the familiar ache brought him back to the day at the quarry. But this exhilaration was greater than before. At age ten when Jim had hauled himself up from the dirt, he had come up with a lust for rebellion and a greed for freedom. Now, at sixteen, Jim walked away with something finite - something that quelled the obsession to prove himself.
This time Jim walked away with a Team USA jersey fisted tightly in his hands, and the knowledge that someone saw him for just what he was.
However, Jim’s ego was slightly damaged; always being told he was one of the best had convinced Jim he was the best and as such, he would be the best team Captain. But the role of Captain was filled by Colossus, whose name was Spock and was, puzzlingly, half-Vulcan.
The knowledge that Colossus or, T'schn T'gai Spock as he was formally known, was startling and admittedly baffling to Jim. It was universally understood that Vulcans were
a race whose dedication to logic and order superseded all other desires yet, Spock had glided along the ice like he had owned it.
Jim had known that something was unusual about the hulking player but he had suspected steroids, not Vulcan genealogy, had something to do with the near unnatural strength and speed Spock exhibited on the ice. So after the last day of the training camp Jim had asked around the locker room to see if anyone knew anything about the mysterious player.
“All I know about the guy is that he's played for the Team for the last couple of years or so.” Gary Mitchell, an arrogant hot-shot goalie coming fresh off a championship win in Atlanta, supplied uselessly.
Everyone else that Jim interrogated seemed to know as little about Spock as he did so, when Jim finally returned to the small hotel, he vowed to find out everything about the stoic player.
When Jim had finally found his PADD and began to scrounge around the Nets for information, he nearly spat out his Gatorade. Spock was Vulcan. Or, more accurately, half Vulcan. Jim was a little dumbstruck, Vulcans were seen as the elitists of the Federation and, as far as anyone knew, were hesitant about sharing their culture with any race, let alone Humans.
'Apparently they aren't as tight-lipped as they have led us to believe.' Jim thought as he scoured another article about Spock, who was proving to be exceedingly interesting.
The son of the Vulcan Ambassador and some big-wig politician, it was clear the from the start, Spock had been groomed to follow in his parent's footsteps but, here he was playing junior hockey with a bunch of blue collar trouble-makers. Huh.
'A riddle, wrapped in and enigma.'
Normally, Vulcans, as a race, prided themselves on logic and reason-they did not participate in full contact sports like hockey. Part of it had to do with the fact that Vulcans were three times stronger than Humans were, and stronger than most races in the Federation Worlds Tournament of Hockey. But the bigger part was that the purpose of sports was sheer entertainment. Vulcans, as an emotionally repressed species, did not see the value or need for things like television or sports once childhood had passed. Therefore, Jim was puzzled as to why Spock would be actively pursuing a career in professional hockey.
However, none of that mattered to Jim, not the white collar and certainly not the Vulcan heritage. All that really mattered was that Spock was Captain and Jim wasn’t. That bugged the hell out of Jim. But at this point, Jim couldn’t do much more than rejoice in the fact that he made the team.
This brought him back to Iowa, sitting in his mother’s kitchen, sipping the most horrible tasting booze you could imagine with his Mother and his Uncle, celebrating his accomplishment. Jim coughed hoarsely in retaliation to the burn of whiskey down his throat. Uncle Chris clapped him on the back and laughed.
“I can’t believe I’m letting my sixteen year-old delinquent son drink,” Winona said with a sigh as she grimaced at the taste of the regrettable alcohol. “And drink such terrible whiskey, at that. Chris, where the hell did you get this?”
Uncle Chris laughed. “It’s from McCoy-he’s trying his hand at moonshine. It’s better than the first batch.”
“I find it hard to believe that this is better than anything. How’s Len doing, anyway?”
“He’s doing okay; the wife’s taking everything from him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s drinking the damn stuff as fast as he’s making it.” Uncle Chris shook his head, finished the dregs of his drink and filled the empty glasses around the table.
“Who’s Len McCoy?” Jim piped in, trying to ignore the terrible taste of the substandard whiskey sloshing around his mouth.
“Leonard McCoy is an old friend of your Mom and me. I’m surprised you don’t recognize the name, Jim. He’s the USA Team Doctor.”
“Oh, you mean the crotchety old guy who gave me the physical? I just call him Bones.”
This got a giggle out of his mother, and Jim couldn’t help but grin in return.
“Bones. That’s a good one, Jimmy.” His Mom paused, and ran her fingers through his hair, her eyes going a little watery. “I’m proud of you, honey. I know that I have not always said it, but I’m so proud of you.” She exhaled shakily and looked down, seemingly trying to gather the pieces of herself together. “And I know that your father would be too.”
Jim looked at his mom for a moment, before surging across the table and hugging her; holding her more tightly than he had clutched at the ledge of the quarry. He did his best to try to convince himself that the tears were an unfortunate side effect of the acrid aftertaste of the bad whiskey. “Thanks Mom.”
He could feel his mother’s shoulders shaking slightly as he hugged her over the table. “I love you, Jimmy.”
“Love you, Mom.”
Maybe it was the booze, or maybe it was the re-connection with his mother, but Jim suddenly felt more intensely excited about playing hockey than he ever had. For the first time in a long time, there was no voice inside of him tugging at his heart-there was only excitement and anticipation for the events to come.
~~
Before the playoff rounds started, Jim killed himself training. He knew that being one of the youngest players on the team gave him something to prove; not only to himself and the team, but also to Spock. During the three-day training camp, a rivalry had sparked deep in Jim’s gut. Maybe it was Spock’s demeanor-the way he looked down on Jim, both literally and figuratively-that made Jim’s jaw clench and stature turn defiant. Jim hated being brushed off, so the flippant way Spock disregarded him instantly made Jim want to force Spock to realize his potential. All of this cultivated Jim’s ferocious attitude toward his training.
The first tier of his regimen involved building muscle mass. Jokingly, Jim had asked his Uncle Chris if he had an extra wheelchair hanging around in case he pushed himself too hard and couldn’t walk afterwards. Unfortunately, Chris did not have an extra for him to borrow because Jim really could have used it. Despite being unable to provide an aid for his weary muscles, his Uncle helped coach him with his training as well as spotting him while Jim weight trained.
Slowly,despite the protest of his muscles, Jim inched up his weight load, until he was benching and squatting nearly three-hundred pounds. But his Uncle reminded him that training wasn’t all about muscle-strength, but flexibility-so, begrudgingly, Jim started to practice yoga.
Sure, the idea of yoga had often seemed appealing-especially when Jim strolled by store windows, peering inside to see an attractive blond bending and flexing in more obscene ways than Jim could ever imagine, but yoga lost it’s luster when Jim was being poked, prodded and flexed by a crotchety old sports physician. His Uncle had used his connections and friendship to convince Leonard McCoy to also help Jim with his training. In theory, this was a good idea; a trained sports physician helping Jim realize his body’s full potential without risk of injury. In practice, it was a very bad idea.
“Bones, I swear to god this is completely undignified and down right just, wrong-“ Jim whined as the cranky medic tried to aid Jim in stretching thoroughly.
“Since when have you had dignity? Now shut up and stretch. If you don’t adequately stretch your groin, you’ll pull a muscle and you won’t be able to walk properly let alone play. So stretch.”
“I don’t see why I have to do this, my groin got a good stretch last night-“
“Good God, man!” Leonard sputtered and pulled a little tighter on Jim’s leg, causing Jim’s laughter to cut off with a slight grunt of discomfort.
After another two hours of intense yoga Jim’s hunger made itself known, his stomach growling loudly over the drone of McCoy’s lecture. As Jim stood and left the gym, he did his best to ignore the awkward pulling of his recently-stretched muscles.
Despite Jim’s hunger, when the suspiciously green looking plate of food was set down in front of him, he attempted to snub his nose at it. The attempt was promptly foiled by another long-winded nutrition speech from McCoy.
“-and you will never make the gains you need if you don't eat right. All that muscles mass you’ve spent your youth obtaining? It’ll be gone faster than you can say ‘gravy’. So eat your damn vegetables.”
Jim rolled his eyes and groaned as he begrudgingly ate the leafy green-ness, trying to build up the courage to eat the small square of tofu sitting ominously in the center. Soy, yuck.
With his muscles stretched and stomach quieted, Jim prepared for his interval running. With music thundering through the gym, Jim started his low impact warm up with a slow jog; gradually increasing his speed and stride length. When Jim fell into step with lunges, he was suddenly ever glad for Leonard helping him stretch his groin.
Finally, Jim was able to do what he liked best: run. His interval runs began at 600 meters, then 800 meters, then dropped off into shorter sprints and sled pulls. Jim liked the 600 and 800 meter runs the best-he was able to pop the clutch and just run at top speed, burning off all his frustrations and excess energy. With the heavy bass vibrating beneath his feet and guitar riffs squealing in his ears, Jim could just imagine he was on the ice, fierce and unstoppable, as brash and powerful as a thundering drum solo. Every day Chris and Leonard cautioned him:
“Watch your speed Jim, don’t top out so quickly.”
“Careful or you’ll blow a damn knee! Your body can’t keep up with the power you’re putting behind it; it’s a horrible injury waiting to happen!”
But Jim pressed on, pushing his body to its limits.
By the end of the most intense training, Jim was a completely different player. His body had lost all of its adolescence, and Jim grinned at the slab of manhood he now represented.
Jim had lost fifteen pounds in the first five weeks. Two months before the tournament, at the team training camp in Colorado, he did his fitness testing. His body fat had dropped six percent, and he had added three pounds of muscle mass. He was, literally, a new man.
As he left the medical exam room, Jim caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of a towering figure that Jim could only assume was Spock. He snapped his head to the side, hoping to get a better look at Colossus himself. If Jim had been in awe of Spock before, he was completely dumbstruck now.
Training had obviously been as good to Spock as it had been to Jim. Jim was willing to bet that underneath Spock’s plain white t-shirt lay tight, defined shoulder muscles that paved the way for the defined, somewhat muscular arms covered in coarse, dark hair. He gawked a little bit at Spock’s broadened chest, which tugged slightly at the snug t-shirt, and then tapered to a slightly narrowed waist.
The hormones wrecking havoc in Jim easily supplied him with the picture of Spock doing push-ups, shoulders tensing, pectorals straining with effort-and Jim had to forcibly drag his gaze away from Spock’s chest. While Spock’s torso was impressive, it was the legs, clad in black yoga pants, that Jim was having a hard time grasping. They seemed to go on forever, and unlike Jim, Spock had gained very little bulk in his thighs. Everything about Spock just seemed leaner, more svelte. Spock was built for speed and Jim was built for power.
Oh god, mental image.
Seeing Spock again made Jim forget why he disliked him in the first place, so he did his best to shove away the uncomfortable homo-erotic thoughts and go over to say a quick hello to his teammate. As Jim closed in on his target, the Kirk charm turned up to eleven and he let a smile slip across his face as he waved towards Spock.
“Hey Spock, how’s it-“ Jim was cut off as Spock, in all his Amazonian glory-Amazonian glory? What is he Wonder Woman now? Get a grip Jim!-simply brushed past him, ignoring the outstretched hand and friendly greeting. Jim instantly remembered why he disliked Spock. The inadequate feeling Jim got from being snubbed made his face heat and his jaw clench. He threw a glare over his shoulder at Spock’s form, now retreating into the exam room and the voice that had quieted, roared to life with a viciousness that nearly took Jim aback.
/Make him see you!/
~~
The first couple of weeks, practicing with the new team was chaos. After months and months of mostly solitary training, gathering the young, egotistical talent together and getting them to work cohesively as a team was a challenge-made all the more difficult by Spock’s cold demeanor and Jim’s frequent outbursts. Jim had made fast friends with one of the team’s defensemen Hikaru Sulu, but Spock’s constant criticism and holier-than-thou attitude constantly grated on Jim.
The frequent bickering between Jim and the Team’s Captain was rapidly causing the tension to mount until one day, during a shirts vs skins practice game, Jim lost it.
“What the hell was that? Why was that not called?” Jim shouted angrily as he hefted himself up of the ice. From the bench, Number One blew her whistle sharply.
“What the hell now, Kirk?” She asked sharply.
“That asshole-“ Jim spat, pointing directly at Spock, who was now leisurely skating back to center ice “-tripped me. It was so clearly a penalty.”
Number One sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose harshly. “Goddamnit, Kirk-“
“I did not trip you,” Spock said harshly, looking down upon Jim, annoyance slipping through his normally blank façade.
“Yeah, so that was why your stick found itself between my skates, effectively tripping me-“
“Perhaps if you spent more time practicing your skating technique and less time instigating pointless arguments-“
“I need to practice more? Do you know how many fucking hours I spend practicing?”
“Apparently, not enough,” Spock said sharply.
Jim’s blood began to boil and he could hear Number One shouting across the ice, but Jim didn’t pay her any heed. He was intent on wiping the smug look from Spock’s too-pretty face. So he wound up and swung his fist as hard as he could at the side of Spock’s helmet. The helmet made a loud clatter as it hit the ice, and Spock had the decency to look surprised right before Jim dropped his gloves and swung again. This time Spock was able to deflect his blow and returned with one of his own.
As soon as Spock’s fist made the connection with Jim’s face, he saw stars. As Jim tried to blink away the white spots, he threw punch after punch, some connecting, some blocked and for every punch Jim landed, two more landed on him.
It was chaos; Number One flew across the ice as other members of the team struggled to separate the two feuding players, her voice going hoarse from shouting. When the team had finally separated them, Jim and Spock were heaving and covered in each other’s blood, their jerseys streaked brilliant red and dark green.
Jim felt his nose throb harshly and knew it was broken, as he felt blood drip across his lips, down his chin and onto the mural of brutality on his jersey. Spock had faired no better, as Jim furiously blinked through the tears-which were purely reflexive, really-he saw Spock gently prod his cheekbone and wince. Jim couldn't help but feel the slightest bit smug with his handiwork. Both licked at their swollen, split and bleeding lips as they tried to regain their breath.
By the time Number One had reached them, she looked positively livid.
“I want both of you off the ice now!” She barked. “Go to the medic, then pack up your shit and go home. I’ll see you both in my office bright and early to discuss what disciplinary action will be taken.”
Jim opened his mouth to protest but Number One beat him to it.
“Not another fucking word, Kirk. Get off my ice.”
Jim disentangled himself from his teammates, picked up his discarded equipment and left the ice, ignoring Spock’s stony presence just behind him. After the quick pit stop in the dressing room to shed his soiled jersey and gear, Jim booked it out of the building. He quickly punched in a call to McCoy, stating he needed medical assistance and a ride back to the hotel the team was being put up at during their stay in Colorado.
“Dammit Jim, I’m, a doctor not a chauffeur.” This was the Bones equivalent of ‘I’ll do it, but I reserve the right to lecture you the entire drive.’
While Jim waited, he tried to breathe deeply and ignore the throbbing mass of pain that was his face. As Jim practiced the breathing exercises he had learned in yoga, Jim felt the air next to him get heavier and he cracked an eye open, instantly wishing he hadn’t.
There was Spock-small butterfly enclosures keeping his split lip and split knuckles closed, left eye bruised as hell-standing next to him clearly waiting for a ride as well. Jim tried to grit his teeth, but his damaged nose screamed in protest, so he did he best to simply pretend Spock wasn’t there-which was hard because Spock started talking.
“Your broken nose requires medical attention,” Spock said evenly.
“No shit,” Jim replied bitterly.
“Yet you do not seek out the medic.” Jim could practically hear Spock roll his eyes.
Jim huffed. “I’m waiting for my physical therapist. He happens to have an M.D, he doesn’t trust the nurses here not to disfigure me.”
“Illogical, as all the medical staff here are registered nurses-“
“Gee, look at that, my ride’s here-hate to cut this lovely chat short but I have bones that need to be reset,” Jim said, the acidity in his voice rising when he turned back to Spock and saw the briefest flash of smugness in his eyes. For a second Jim contemplated throwing his duffel bag down and punching the self-satisfaction out of Spock’s eyes again, but Bones began to lay on the horn, so Jim turned his back on Spock and got into the car.
“Good God, man! What happened to your face?” Bones hands flew off the wheel and to Jim’s face.
“Fucking ow!” Jim winced and flinched away from Bones. Bones retracted his hands and stared at Jim harshly. “What? I got into a fight, is all. It happens all the time.”
“Not usually with your own teammates! Jesus Jim, is there a person in this world you haven’t pissed off?” McCoy turned back to the steering wheel and stomped on the gas, pulling out of the parking lot.
Jim sighed angrily, “Can you just drop it please? Are you going to be able to fix my nose or not?”
“Of course I can fix your nose, I am a doctor. But what am I going to tell your moth-“
“Nothing-do not tell my mother about this!” Jim said frantically, rummaging through the glove compartment and swiping the small package of tissues. He winced again as he wadded small pieces and shoved them up his nose to stop the bleeding. “I mean it Bones-I am invoking Doctor patient confidentiality.”
McCoy grumbled to himself and turned into the hotel parking lot.
“You’re damn lucky I brought my big kit.”
Jim grinned. “Somehow, I don’t think luck had anything to do with it.”
“Actually, you’re right. I knew someone would wise-up and beat your smart-ass face in.” Bones locked his hybrid and motioned for Kirk. “C’mon kid, let’s get that nose fixed.”
~~
Crunch.
“FUCKING JESUS,” Jim bellowed, pitch high from the pain.
“I warned you it would hurt. Maybe this will be a lesson to you not to pick fights with Vulcan hockey players bigger than you.”
“I didn’t pick a fight with him-he started it!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep your mouth shut for a minute so I can close your split lip.” Bones carefully pinched the split skin together and applied the butterfly enclosures. “There, your face is all patched up. Lemme see your hands.” Jim obediently presented his hands to McCoy for repair. Carefully the Doctor swabbed antiseptic over the cuts and abrasions. “So what’s the deal, why’d you tangle with a six foot five Vulcan giant?”
“He’s only six foot four, and I told you, he started it.” Jim felt an odd tugging where the butterfly held his lip closed. “He just…gets under my skin, that’s all.”
“Helluvah reason to punch someone. Use your words, Jimmy boy.” McCoy said jokingly as he wrapped Jim’s hands in bandages.
“Easier said than done, when arguing with a Vulcan,” Jim muttered under his breath.
McCoy laughed slightly as he finished the wrap up job on Jim’s hands. “Okay Jim, I think you’re done. Just don’t go getting into anymore fights with people bigger than you.”
“Thanks, Bones.”
“I’ll be by in a couple’a days to make sure everything’s healed alright. Bye, Jim.” McCoy ruffled Jim’s hair affectionately as he left-which he knew Jim hated.
Jim sighed and swallowed two aspirin, willing the throbbing in his nose to dissipate so he could fall asleep. As Jim lay on the bed trying to fall asleep, he was greeted with fleeting images of his fight with Spock; the fire in his eyes when he had laid the punch to Jim’s nose, the green blood rolling over his lips after Jim had split it open. And for a minute, right before he drifted off to sleep, Jim couldn’t help but think how much he like seeing that fire in his eyes.
~~
The next morning was hell. Jim’s head swam and throbbed as the alarm on his chronometer buzzed harshly on his end table. He slammed his hand down on the bedside table and groped for the beeping device. When he finally shut off the alarm and sat up, his vision swam, so Jim pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. The sharp stab of pain reminded Jim that broken noses don’t heal over night.
As he waited for the pain to subside, Jim went through his yoga breathing exercises, and when all that was left was a dull throb, he stood and rushed to get dressed. He grabbed his duffel bag, after nearly tripping over it, and rushed out of the hotel room. He held his hand up to block the harsh glare of the sun and bounded down the stairs towards his crappy car.
He had carpooled with Sulu the day before-Jim was so, all about saving the planet. Not.-which was why Jim had called Bones the day before, and why Jim’s baby was still parked in the lot. Even though it was a piece of shit, it was still Jim’s first hover car, so he felt a strong sentimental attachment to it.
He shoved his duffel bag into the back, got in the car and rolled the engine over. He smiled broadly, as the engine started and the quiet rumble was quickly drowned out by the thunder of Jim’s music. Despite knowing that he was about to face the firing squad when he got to the rink, Jim couldn’t help but smile a little. With the haze wearing off and the throbbing rapidly dissipating, Jim couldn’t wait for another day of Hockey, even if Number One shit down his throat and Spock wanted to re-break his nose.
~~
The second he opened the door to Number One’s office, that warm fuzzy feeling disappeared instantly. Spock was sitting ramrod straight in one of the chairs across from her desk. Jim swallowed as Number One shot him a glare and a sharp order to “Sit.”. Jim dropped his bag and sat down next to Spock.
“So, we are going to talk about the consequences of yesterday. Unsportsmanlike conduct is not permitted-“
Jim laughed harshly. “Oh, give me a break. Fights break out all the time-this is hockey for godsakes!”
“Jim, shut it. Unsportsmanlike conduct against players on other teams is tolerated, but unsportsmanlike conduct against your own teammate; your Team Captain no less, is insubordination and is grounds for removal from the team.”
Jim flew up from the chair, nearly upending it. “What? This is bogus-I wasn’t the only one throwing punches-“
“Sit down right now Jim, I swear to god, or I will have you thrown out!” Number One yelled at Jim. Number One rarely raised her voice like that, so Jim sat down, shocked. “Now,” She said, voice going calmer, more even. “I am aware that while you instigated the fight, you were not the only one involved.” She looked poignantly at Spock, whose eyebrow tipped up slightly . “And under normal circumstances, I would not hesitate to have you both removed-not only from the Team, but from the League as well. However, seeing as the tournament starts in a few weeks and you two are without a doubt the most infuriatingly talented young players I have encountered, it is not logical or beneficial to the Team, the League or either of you to remove you. So, both of you are hereby suspended from practice for the next three days. I really did expect more from both of you. Another act of violence or insubordinate behavior towards each other and I will remove you, regardless of how talented you are. Now get out of my office and think about how your bad behavior would reflect on your careers and every facet of the Hockey Leagues you represent.”
Jim and Spock nodded in tandem, both avoiding looking at one another as they gathered their things and left Number One’s office, like scolded schoolboys. Jim gritted his teeth and he strolled back to his car. As he passed through the hallways he could hear his teammates hollering and carrying on in the dressing rooms, and Jim longed to be with them.
What was he going to do for three days in a strange town with all his friends practicing and getting ready for the tournament? As Jim shoved his duffel bag in his car, he caught a glimpse of Spock in his window’s reflection. He threw a glance over his shoulder and saw Spock just standing at the curb, gear bag at his feet, looking like a lost puppy. Jim grit his teeth, ‘Don’t do it Jim, you’ll end up punching him again’, he thought.
But the conscience that Jim had developed for little lost puppies kicked in, and he turned to face Spock.
“Spock, do you need a ride somewhere?”
Even from across the parking lot, Jim could see Spock’s eyebrows shoot skyward.
“I do not require a ride. A taxi-cab should be here momentarily,” Spock said evenly.
Jim sifted his weight awkwardly.
“Look, I have nothing better to do right now anyway. Let me give you a ride. I promise I won’t even punch you.” Jim put his hands up to show he was not a threat.
“I have no fear of physical retaliation.”
Jim rolled his eyes.
“Spock, c’mon, get in the car. I’m trying to call a truce, here.” Jim and Spock looked at each other for a long moment before Spock picked up his bag and walked stiffly towards the car. “Good. You can stick your bag in the back seat beside mine.”
Spock nodded and rounded the other side of the car. Jim started the hover car and immediately turned his music down to a low level. Jim stifled a laugh as Spock tried to fold himself into the front seat.
“There’s a little lever on the side, pull it up and the seat should slide back.”
Spock nodded stiffly and pushed the seat back as far as it would go. It was still a tight fit, but it was marginally more comfortable for Spock.
“So, where to, Spock?” Jim asked, pulling out of the parking lot.
“Just the hotel, thank you,” Spock replied tightly.
“Alright.”
As Jim drove, he lightly hummed along to the music playing softly in his car as a distraction to the awkwardness of the situation. If anyone had told him that the day after Jim had punched Spock square in that pretty face, he would offer him a ride out of charity and would be quietly sitting with him in the car as he drove, he would have pissed himself laughing. Jim resisted the urge to shake his head at the weirdness of the situation. After several, long minutes of silence between the pair, they arrived at the hotel.
“Well, here we are.” Jim said anxiously, attempting to break the silence. Spock merely looked blandly at him. Jim’s grin faltered as he exited the car. It returned, however, as Spock struggled to climb out of the car, and Jim was instantly reminded of clowns piling in and out of tiny clown cars. Jim hauled his bag out of his back seat and turned to Spock. “See ya around, Spock.” Jim nodded and started off towards his room after he locked his car doors.
“Jim,” Spock said suddenly. Jim stopped, turned around and was slightly puzzled at the look on Spock’s face. “I appreciate your gesture of kindness, and I regret my actions yesterday. You are a talented player with very proficient skills in skating.”
Jim grinned and walked back towards Spock. “Thanks Spock. I’m sorry for, ya know, punching you in the face and all. Truce?” Jim stuck out his hand for a friendly handshake. He was confused when Spock’s cheeks flushed deep green.
“Jim, while the touching of hands in your culture is a friendly gesture, in my culture it is much more…intimate.” Spock said tightly, trying to avoid Jim’s gaze.
“Oh, oh! Shit sorry, my bad.” Jim retracted his hand awkwardly.
“But I am amicable to a truce, despite your many infuriating qualities.”
Jim’s eyebrow twitched slightly. This truce was going to be harder than he thought. “Good. I will see you in a couple days, Spock.”
“Goodbye, Jim.” Spock nodded and headed in the opposite direction towards his hotel room, on the other end of the complex.
Jim sighed. Three days was a long time to sit around watching porn. He was going to need to find some way to occupy himself.
~~
Jim had quickly gotten bored of porn, and so, he moved onto the next best thing. He opened his suitcase, pulled out his grandfathers old reading glasses, several antique copies of Stephen King’s greatest novels, and sat down to read.
Eight hours and two and a half books down, the door swung open and an exhausted looking Sulu strolled through the door, dropping his bag on the floor and flopping down on the bed. Jim looked over the top of his book,
“Tough practice?”
Sulu moaned and rolled over.
“Yes. God that woman was evil. I mean, you and Spock were the ones brawling on the ice and we were the ones who got punished. It’s so not fair. If I could move I would be really tempted to beat you right now.”
“Sorry, but Spock already beat you to it, dude.” Jim chuckled as he flipped the page.
“Yeah, he really messed your face up.”
“Hey, I got him pretty good too. He ain’t so pretty anymore,” Jim replied indignantly.
Sulu laughed heartily, then winced and placed a hand to his aching abdomen.
“Oooh, Jim thinks Spock is pretty.” Sulu teased, making kissy faces at Jim, who responded in turn, by whipping a pillow at his friend.
“Shut up. Now sit up and prepare to get your ass handed to you at Halo for Xbox 360 Classic.” Jim pulled off his glasses and shoved his dog-eared book in the top drawer of his beside table.
“Ugh. If I didn’t have to defend my manhood, making any physical movements would be out of the question.” Sulu hefted himself up, grunting in discomfort.
“Stop being a baby, practice isn’t that hard,” Jim replied, turning on the near-ancient gaming console Sulu had toted from home.
“Yeah well, not all of us spent the entire summer training and doing yoga seven days a week.”
“Yeah, yeah. Shut up and prepare to feel my wrath!”
~~
While Jim and Sulu took turns trash talking and beating each other into the ground, Spock was sitting in his room, the lights dimmed, meditating on the anomaly that was James T. Kirk.
Spock had never met anyone as maddening as James. James, who insisted that Spock call him ‘Jim’-who was loud, brash, and tactless. Who never had a strategy, but somehow managed to become one of the best Hockey players under eighteen. Jim, who assaulted him, was not worth his time, and yet still demanded Spock’s utmost attention-even when he was nowhere near Spock.
Spock had spent hours meditating over it, but he was just as ignorant as to why Jim’s presence lingered and Spock felt some part of him, unreachable through his meditations, become undeniably dedicated to figuring out just why Jim Kirk was. It was like an insatiable itch Spock needed to scratch-an unwanted curiosity he needed to satisfy, even if meant sporting another cracked orbital bone, courtesy of the most infuriating man on the ice. Spock sighed, a human gesture he desperately tried to smother, as this was a distraction he did not need, but he could not deny himself.
Oh, how he had tried. His mother had always attested to Spock’s infallible curiosity and nurtured it, while his father frowned upon it. His mother encouraged the ‘why’ questions while his father insisted life was not about why, but ‘how’. To his father, ‘why’ represented the Human’s psychological need for the justification of desire, which was incongruent with the teachings of Surak and thus, un-Vulcan. So, as Spock learned the teachings of Surak, he no longer allowed himself to indulge in the child-like curiosity and wonder his mother nurtured.
But there were times, not unlike now, when Spock could not bury his curiosity beneath a mask of logic. He needed to figure out what caused his consciousness to dwell on James Tiberius Kirk when there were more pressing matters at hand. Like the looming tournament.
As he rose and stretched languidly, Spock’s consciousness shifted from ruminating over the anomaly of James. T. Kirk, and to his strategy for the tournament. A strategy that, no doubt, Jim would blatantly ignore.
Spock pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Even now, with so much riding on his strategy and his leadership skills, Jim still managed to wedge his way into Spock’s thoughts. Spock took a moment to center himself; gather his thoughts and attempt to banish Jim from his mind as he, again, started to strategize for the first round.
Part Two
Continue to Part Two
Author: orgy-of-death
Beta: lalazee
Artist: kymericl
Mixer: sullacat
Series: ST XI Hockey AU
Character/Pairing(s): Kirk/Spock, minor Pike/Winona
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 20,308
Warnings: Minor Violence, Swearing
Summary: Jim needed to be seen and Spock needed to find home, it took them spilling each others blood on the ice to find what they were looking for.
~~
We never really know who our heroes are going to be. Someone had once said that to Jim, and he can’t help but think of how true that statement is.
His older brother Sam-short for George Samuel Kirk-worshiped their father, the martyr of martyrs and the saver of lives. Jim had wanted to worship him too. He ached to be able to look up to his father with the same fierce admiration Sam did, but to Jim, his father was faceless-just a simple bedtime story his mother told him with tears in her eyes.
How could Jim worship a man who he had never seen, never hugged, never got a chance to love? How could little Jim, so alone in the world, look up to the man who had left him just as he was taking his first screaming breaths?
This was something Sam didn’t, or couldn’t, understand. Sam had years with his father that Jim hadn’t. So when Sam enlisted in Starfleet, Jim was furious. His brother, whom Jim had looked up to ever since Sam taught him to tie his shoes, was leaving him to fly off into some black void, never to been seen again.
“You’ll die up there-in space,” hurled a waif thin, ten year old Jim Kirk from the porch, as he watched his brother stuff his over-sized duffel bag into the back of a hover car.
Sam sighed and turned to look at Jim. Sam walked over to the porch, mounted the steps and swept his little brother into his arms for a tight hug. If he noticed the poignant sniffling and the growing wet spot on his t-shirt, he said nothing about it.
“It’s better than dying here in Iowa, Jimmy. Keep your nose clean, kiddo.” With one last tousle of Jim’s hair, George Samuel Kirk swept off the porch and sped off in the hover car, far away from Iowa and far away from Jim. Jim could only stare after his older brother, eyes burning from dust and tears, wondering why dying alone in space was better than living here on earth.
/They all leave me/
~~
Jim had nearly forgotten why he hated space, until his mother had sat him down with tears in her eyes, as she told him that his brother had been killed during an away mission on some far off alien planet.
Suddenly, that dark void that had filled Jim since his brother sped away in that hover car to go explore stranger new worlds, and go where no man had gone before, was filled with the soul-searing rage only grief could create. He felt as if his veins were pumping battery acid, burning through him as it thundered through his small body.
Jim had barely been aware that he was crying, and even more vaguely aware that he was no longer in the house sitting next to his crying mother while all he wanted to do wass rip apart the universe. But he had snapped back to reality and he could feel the razor-sharp winds whipping around the windshield of his step father’s old Corvette, as he pushed it as fast as the ancient car could go.
/They all leave me/
The little voice in his head was getting louder with every tear that fell and every breath that reminded him Sam wasn’t coming back. Sam died in Space. Sam left me, just like Dad left me and just like Mom leaves me all alone. I am alone. No one sees me. I am alone. THEY ALL LEAVE ME
/They all leave me/
He’s sped straight for the quarry, with only the voice the guide him.
/THEY ALL LEAVE, THEY ALL LEAVE, THEY ALL LEAVE, LEAVE, LEAVE, LEAVE, LEAVE-/
Then Jim heard it, clear as day, and clearer than any other voice in his head. It screamed at him with every fiber of his being-
/MAKE THEM SEE YOU/
So naturally, he did the only thing he could do while hurtling towards a cliff at 70 miles an hour… Jim threw himself out of the car. Hurling himself into the dirt, and clinging to the earth with a desperation Jim hadn’t felt since he threw those words at Sam before he went off to die in the black void of space.
As he hefted himself over the precipice, Jim simply relished the feeling of having the earth, solid and unmoving, beneath him. That was until the boot heels of his judiciary tail thudded heavily into the dirt in front of him. For a few moments Jim tried to draw the last bit of certainty and stead fast-ness from the ground beneath him before he stood, facing the imposing Robo-Cop staring blankly at him.
“Citizen, what is your name?”
“My name is James Tiberius Kirk.”
/They all leave me/
~~
In the months after the Corvette incident, Jim did everything he could to make his mother see him. But no matter what Jim did-whether it be burning down the shed, tipping the neighbor’s cow, cutting off little Rachel Cochrane’s ponytail in class, or even getting caught with a cigarette behind the gym, Winona Kirk gazed at her son with the same misted-over look of grief she looked at everything with since Sam died.
At the advisement of his teachers, principal and guidance counselor, Jim was put in therapy. With a cynicism that was startling for a boy of twelve, Jim wished he had stayed in the Corvette as it plummeted off the cliff.
The doctor seemed nice enough, but all she ever did was ask Jim, Why.
“Why do you act out in school, James?” Why did you drive your step father’s Corvette into the quarry, James?”
All day long, with the ‘Why’ questions and the insistence to call him ‘James’. Jim didn’t like being called ‘James’, and he despised the ‘Why’ questions.
They always hurt too much to answer.
After what felt like an eternity of running in circles and not getting anywhere, his doctor-Dr. Peterson was her name-wanted to meet with his mother to talk.
After an hour of hearing his doctor re-hash and paraphrase his sessions back to his mother, Dr. Peterson had come to one conclusion. Jim had, along with unresolved grief over his brother’s death, attention deficit disorder or A.D.D, as it was often called.
It was obvious. That was why he couldn’t concentrate in school. That was why he was acting out, that must be why.
Something deep down squeezed hard around his heart.
This was wrong. He acted out so his mom would see him, not just look at him-not just look past him, seeing all the faces of the Kirk men she had lost. He couldn’t concentrate because in the darkness and silence he felt like he didn’t exist. Jim couldn’t sit still because he just needed someone to see him.
As Dr. Peterson scribbled something down on a PADD, quietly murmuring things to his mom about dosing instructions and possible side effects, Jim simply tuned it out as he looked out the window.
/Make them see you/
~~
A few days later, Christopher Pike, an old friend of his dad’s, who insisted on being called ‘Uncle Chris’ showed up at the old Kirk farmhouse to visit. Jim was always a little star struck when it came to Uncle Chris. When he was young, before Sam joined Starfleet, Sam had shown him old holo-vids of their Uncle Chris playing hockey.
Christopher Pike had been one of the best hockey players of the decade. He had led all the NHL teams he had played with to Stanley Cup victories. Thanks to Christopher Pike, the one-hundred year Calgary Flames Stanley Cup drought had ended in a glorious hat-trick that sent the crowds screaming to their feet. Numerous teams from the New Jersey Devils, the New York Rangers and the Toronto Maple Leafs had Christopher to thank for their inspiring wins.
Jim had seen the footage-Pike had been unbeatable. He had been tough as nails, like Bobby Orr, with the scoring averages of Wayne Gretsky and the charm and love from the people that Sydney Crosby had. Jim was mesmerized by the sight of his Uncle whipping up and down the ice, stealing the puck away from an unsuspecting defenseman and, with a deft flick of the wrist, sending the puck flying at its maximum velocity past the goalie, sending the crowd into cheers of triumph or groans of defeat.
Uncle Chris had even represented Earth in the Federation Worlds Tournament of Hockey. Jim had never watched that footage.
In the final game of the tournament, Earth vs Romulus, Nero, Romulus’s secret weapon, came up from behind Chris and delivered a powerful body-check, sending Chris crashing to the ice, bringing several Romulan players crashing down with him and on top of him. The force of all that weight on top of him-plus the weakening from years of playing hockey, and the stress from previous injuries-had been too much.
His back had been broken in several places, and his spinal cord irreparably damaged. Christopher hadn’t walked, much less played hockey, since that day.
Nero, however, had only suffered minimally-a suspension and a public hearing, but the next year he returned to have is best season yet. Jim thought this was unfair, but Uncle Chris had seemed to make his peace with it.
Even after being confined to a wheelchair, he was still having an illustrious coaching career. Right now he was recruiting young players for the IIHF World Juniors. It was all so exciting and other-worldly to Jim.
If Jim had ever had a hero who he wanted to grow up to be like, it was his Uncle Chris. So when his Uncle wheeled up the porch-ramp, Jim had a million questions for him: Who had he signed? When did the games start? Was he coaching the Canadian Team or the American team this year? Where were they playing? Would Jim be able to see one of the games live?
“Woah, woah, woah, kiddo, slow down. Nothing is set in stone. It is still really early and we haven’t recruited anybody yet. As for actually coming to one of the games, that’s your mom’s call,” He said good-naturedly. Jim’s face fell a little bit, as he knew his mom would never let him go see a game scheduled outside of Riverside, and the likelihood of a game being in Riverside was close to zero. “Now, where’s your mom hiding?”
“She’s inside replicating iced-tea, I think.”
Uncle Chris and Jim pulled identical faces at the idea of replicating anything. Even in the 23rd Century, technology hadn’t caught up enough to make home replicators reliable and able to make anything that tasted remotely normal.
As his Uncle wheeled inside, Jim returned to his ancient comic books and vaguely entertained the idea that his Uncle was secretly the telepathic Leader of a group of mutant superheroes, or possibly worked recon for Batman.
~~
Half way through the newest issue of the Incredible X-Men, Jim heard raised voices. Curious, Jim set down his PADD and pressed his ear to the screen door, trying to catch the snippets of conversation.
“Really Winona? You are going to drug your son-“ Jim had never heard his Uncle so angry or judgmental, especially not towards Jim’s mother.
“I am not drugging him, Christopher!”
The sound of the fridge door being jerked open, thrust shut, and the angry slamming of the well worn juice jug, punctuated his mother’s anger more than the angry hiss of her voice. That juice jug had been his grandmother’s and his mother was always careful when handling it, afraid the ancient plastic would crack.
“That is exactly what you’re doing.”
“Well, I don’t know what to do anymore, Chris. He drove Frank’s car into the quarry last year - the quarry! He could have died , Chris, and ever since then he’s gotten worse. Burning down barns - smoking. I don’t know what to do anymore.” He could hear his mother’s voice edge just past the point of hysteria, and deep down something inside Jim clenched and he instantly regretted burning down the barn, smoking and driving the corvette into the quarry.
“Dosing him daily to keep him from acting out is not the answer.”
Jim was confused-dosing him? What had that doctor told his mother to do about him?
“Then what is, Chris? You seem to know everything about raising my children-tell me, what is the answer?”
Jim could hear the shrillness in his mother’s voice taper off as she choked out sobs. With baited breath, Jim eased the screen open and peeked around the corner to get a better look at his mother. Jim watched silently as his mother was bent over, in an awkward position-her shoulders jerking and shuddering as his Uncle Chris hugged her tenderly.
Bile rose in the back of his throat and Jim looked away, reminded that he couldn’t remember what a hug from his mom felt like. He pulled back and quietly shut the screen, trying to furiously blink away the rapidly forming tears.
“Look,” Chris said quietly. “Before you start giving Jim the medication, why don’t you let me try something?”
His mom sniffled “Something?” A pause. “Like what?”
“Let me coach him.” There was something in his voice suggesting that he had mentioned this before.
“Hockey? Chris-“ Jim could practically hear his mother rolling her eyes.
“Trust me, Winnie.” Jim wrinkled his nose. No one ever calls Mom, Winnie. “It will give him something to do besides get into trouble. Plus, he’ll socialize. Jim is an isolated boy-he needs interaction, not medication.”
There was a pause as his mom drew a shaky breath.
“Okay Chris, we’ll try this your way.” There was the brief shuffling sounds of another hug before his Uncle spoke again.
“It’s the right thing to do, Win. Trust me.”
Jim balked at the thought of playing hockey. Hours upon hours on the ice-learning to balance on tiny skates, as he attempted to move about with some measure of grace, without falling on his face. Nothing about long, painful workouts, and tedious conditioning appealed to him.
/Make them see you/
Then it flooded Jim as if someone had destroyed the Hoover Dam. The opportunity of being taught by one of the best coaches in Hockey history, being groomed to one day stand on the ice, accepting a gold medal or the Stanley Cup with thousands of fans cheering.
/Make them see you/
As Jim stood there, his pulse racing with his blood rushing to his ears and thundering through his veins, he felt much like the day he raced the Corvette into the quarry. The exhilaration of unhindered adrenalin coursing through him and the small twinge of fear in his gut as he hurtled toward something he could never go back from. Jim knew that this was no longer a childhood dream fueled by the need to be seen - this was the path on which he was supposed to be.
/Make them see you!/
~~
After his Uncle returned from Canada with a rare loss under his belt, Jim’s frustrations began to mount in the first early months of training. When Jim laced up his skates and etched the first skate lines into the ice, his Uncle ceased being good ol’ Uncle Chris, and started being Coach Pike . Soon Jim hated ‘Coach Pike’ with a passion, Pike demanded more from Jim, more than Jim thought he could give. Normally, when Jim was obstinate and dug in his heels, the receiving party usually gave in but not Pike. Pike just kept pushing and pushing Jim. Making him skate faster, put more force in his slap shots, and use more power in his forearms. Flick his wrists this way and not that way, better accuracy, more force, more speed. This equally frustrated and exhilarated him. Jim was so used to being ignored, pacified and brushed off as nothing more than a troublemaker that he had forgotten what it felt like to have his limits tested, and to learn more than how to cause the most collateral damage. So with the added pressure and the constant push of his Coach’s guidance started to carve and mold Jim into a strong, young hockey player, like the river that carved the Grand Canyon.
Jim was quickly finding his stride-a steadfast determination sparking somewhere dark inside of him; somewhere deeper and more powerful than the voices. Soon the weight of Coach Pike’s expectations no longer grated against him igniting the urge to dig in his heels and resist; but it was like a rock striking flint, lighting a wildfire in Jim that he’d never felt before.
~~
Jim excelled rapidly, surpassing the other kids his age and systematically skating circles around his teammates until he had developed his skills enough to leave the minor leagues and try out for his first WHL team. The coaches and trainers were just as taken with Jim’s big scoring averages and even bigger attitude, as were the fans-and soon they signed Jim to his first contract.
His Uncle Chris who, upon Jim’s contract signing, had reverted from Coach Pike back to good ol’ Uncle Chris, watched on proudly as Jim packed his bags for Boston and his first WHL game. Jim stood awkwardly by the hover-cab, looking up at the porch where his mom stood. He remembered the day, so long ago, when he stood on that same porch trying to convince Sam to stay in Iowa. He stared at his mom, neither of them knowing the right words to say in these moments, and he simply smiled.
“Bye Mom.”
Winona looked down at her only son,
“Bye, Jimmy. I love you, be safe.”
Jim nodded curtly to his Uncle and waved awkwardly to his mom. He stuffed himself into the backseat, alongside his duffel bag. As he watched Iowa roll past his window, Jim tried his best to will the lump in his throat away as he thought of his father, his brother and his mother.
/Make them see you/
~~
Boston was unlike anything Jim had experienced. (Jim felt this was clichéd, but he was never a man of words so he had no way to adequately describe it).
The players were so unlike those in Iowa. Every guy longed for a spot on the Bruin’s bench and played like they could achieve it. Everyone trained until there was no ice bath cold enough to ease their muscles. They were Clydesdales on ice-stubborn workhorses hell-bent on proving themselves as true athletes worthy of an NHL jersey.
But even on a team with such impressive young talent, Jim was without a doubt the best player on his team. By the middle of the season, scouts from the World Juniors were showing up at his games. All eyes were on Jim as he slid deftly up and down the ice, hammering away at the offensive line, streaking past the idle defensemen, slamming a forward into the boards with a mighty clap of thunder from the shuddering glass, and weaving and following the puck until he possessed it.
His legs burned with exertion, his lungs shuddered against his ribs and his blood surged through his veins and he never felt so alive. Jim broke past the crop of offense trying valiantly to deny him the puck, and as he raced across the blue-line, he was once again reminded of the old Corvette and that day at the quarry.
/The wind whipping harshly about his face/
The defensive line struggling to catch him-
/The voice screaming inside of him/
The roar of the crowd at its feet-
/”Citizen, what is your name?”/
“And Kirk gets the breakaway! Kirk shoots-!”
/MAKE THEM SEE YOU/
“HE SCORES!”
The crowd erupts again, and his teammates skate over to him. They all but hoist him onto their shoulders, reveling in their collective victory, but Kirk feels none of it. He’s looking up at the stands, along with the IIHF World Juniors scout and GM, his Uncle Chris is seated, cheering and shaking the hands of his colleagues. But more important than that, his mom is at her feet, smiling and cheering for him.
Something is shaking inside of Jim and he lets loose a smile, feeling happier than he had since before he was standing on his porch telling Sam he’d die in space. Even with his mom smiling at him, the chance to represent his country on the world stage practically cemented, the voice still hummed in the back of his mind.
/Make them all see you/
~~
Training camp was different than what Jim had expected. His ego had led him to believe that he had been on the team the second the Juniors Head Coach, a harsh woman who everyone simply acknowledged as ‘Number One’, had said ‘training camp’. However, this camp was merely a preliminary measure, to weed out the weak links. Jim was standing next to some of the best hockey players under twenty, all vying for a limited spot on a team that could springboard them into a fruitful NHL career.
Needless to say, that summer while other kids his age were swimming, lounging on the beach and having their first taste of both alcohol and love, Kirk was sweating for entirely different reasons. He spent all of June and July preparing for the three-day camp that determined whether or not he would be admitted to the American Junior team.
Everyday, Jim rose at an ungodly hour, ingested questionably green and fresh-looking food to keep up with his calorie demand, pushing himself to his limits at the gym and spent hour after hour on the ice, practicing his stick handling, whipping about the ice and generally doing everything in his power to gain the upper hand.
When August rolled around, Jim was pretty secure in his abilities. However, his confidence waned when he looked down at the ice and saw the sheer number of young talent all attempting to secure a spot on one of the best teams in the world. There must have been more than forty guys, standing nervously on the ice waiting for the practice to start.
Down the line, towering above the others, standing perfectly still and looking intensely calm amongst the nervous shifting of his competition, stood the tallest drink of water Jim had ever laid eyes on. He must have been 6’4’’ at least, without skates, long, thick legs and broad shoulders that spoke of a man, not a boy.
Jim’s muscles itched to slide along the ice and plow into him at full speed to see what it would take to knock this man, who looked more suited to the football field than the ice, off his feet. As Jim’s eyes left Mr. Colossus, he was struck with an odd thought; the dark eyebrows, peeking just below the visor of the tallest player on the ice, slanted upward, not unlike the brows of Vulcan’s. He discarded the thought instantly and laughed to himself, ‘Vulcan’s don’t play hockey. It’s much too barbaric for such a logical race.’
Suddenly, the woman Jim recognized as Number One slid onto the ice with the two associate coaches and began the practice. They were split into two teams and summarily put through their paces. Jim came to two simultaneous conclusions: One, this was not going to be as easy as he’d thought. Two, he hated playing against Mr. Colossus. Every time he made a move with the puck, Colossus was there, covering him, dogging him up and down the ice, stealing the puck out from under him.
Jim gritted his teeth and pushed back, hard. He became the unstoppable shadow, battering him waiting for an opening and taking advantage of it, trying to use his smaller stature to evade the towering giant in his quest to the net. Point for point, Jim and ‘Colossus’ were matching each other.
Every face-off was a battle for the puck-it was as if no one else there was a threat to either of them. They had set their sights on each other ever since Jim flashed his trademark cocky smirk and was met with the twitch of a dark, Vulcan-like brow as they slid into place for the start of the game.
By the end of the training weekend, Jim hurt in places he hadn’t previously discovered. As Jim returned to Boston with more bruises than ever, the familiar ache brought him back to the day at the quarry. But this exhilaration was greater than before. At age ten when Jim had hauled himself up from the dirt, he had come up with a lust for rebellion and a greed for freedom. Now, at sixteen, Jim walked away with something finite - something that quelled the obsession to prove himself.
This time Jim walked away with a Team USA jersey fisted tightly in his hands, and the knowledge that someone saw him for just what he was.
However, Jim’s ego was slightly damaged; always being told he was one of the best had convinced Jim he was the best and as such, he would be the best team Captain. But the role of Captain was filled by Colossus, whose name was Spock and was, puzzlingly, half-Vulcan.
The knowledge that Colossus or, T'schn T'gai Spock as he was formally known, was startling and admittedly baffling to Jim. It was universally understood that Vulcans were
a race whose dedication to logic and order superseded all other desires yet, Spock had glided along the ice like he had owned it.
Jim had known that something was unusual about the hulking player but he had suspected steroids, not Vulcan genealogy, had something to do with the near unnatural strength and speed Spock exhibited on the ice. So after the last day of the training camp Jim had asked around the locker room to see if anyone knew anything about the mysterious player.
“All I know about the guy is that he's played for the Team for the last couple of years or so.” Gary Mitchell, an arrogant hot-shot goalie coming fresh off a championship win in Atlanta, supplied uselessly.
Everyone else that Jim interrogated seemed to know as little about Spock as he did so, when Jim finally returned to the small hotel, he vowed to find out everything about the stoic player.
When Jim had finally found his PADD and began to scrounge around the Nets for information, he nearly spat out his Gatorade. Spock was Vulcan. Or, more accurately, half Vulcan. Jim was a little dumbstruck, Vulcans were seen as the elitists of the Federation and, as far as anyone knew, were hesitant about sharing their culture with any race, let alone Humans.
'Apparently they aren't as tight-lipped as they have led us to believe.' Jim thought as he scoured another article about Spock, who was proving to be exceedingly interesting.
The son of the Vulcan Ambassador and some big-wig politician, it was clear the from the start, Spock had been groomed to follow in his parent's footsteps but, here he was playing junior hockey with a bunch of blue collar trouble-makers. Huh.
'A riddle, wrapped in and enigma.'
Normally, Vulcans, as a race, prided themselves on logic and reason-they did not participate in full contact sports like hockey. Part of it had to do with the fact that Vulcans were three times stronger than Humans were, and stronger than most races in the Federation Worlds Tournament of Hockey. But the bigger part was that the purpose of sports was sheer entertainment. Vulcans, as an emotionally repressed species, did not see the value or need for things like television or sports once childhood had passed. Therefore, Jim was puzzled as to why Spock would be actively pursuing a career in professional hockey.
However, none of that mattered to Jim, not the white collar and certainly not the Vulcan heritage. All that really mattered was that Spock was Captain and Jim wasn’t. That bugged the hell out of Jim. But at this point, Jim couldn’t do much more than rejoice in the fact that he made the team.
This brought him back to Iowa, sitting in his mother’s kitchen, sipping the most horrible tasting booze you could imagine with his Mother and his Uncle, celebrating his accomplishment. Jim coughed hoarsely in retaliation to the burn of whiskey down his throat. Uncle Chris clapped him on the back and laughed.
“I can’t believe I’m letting my sixteen year-old delinquent son drink,” Winona said with a sigh as she grimaced at the taste of the regrettable alcohol. “And drink such terrible whiskey, at that. Chris, where the hell did you get this?”
Uncle Chris laughed. “It’s from McCoy-he’s trying his hand at moonshine. It’s better than the first batch.”
“I find it hard to believe that this is better than anything. How’s Len doing, anyway?”
“He’s doing okay; the wife’s taking everything from him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s drinking the damn stuff as fast as he’s making it.” Uncle Chris shook his head, finished the dregs of his drink and filled the empty glasses around the table.
“Who’s Len McCoy?” Jim piped in, trying to ignore the terrible taste of the substandard whiskey sloshing around his mouth.
“Leonard McCoy is an old friend of your Mom and me. I’m surprised you don’t recognize the name, Jim. He’s the USA Team Doctor.”
“Oh, you mean the crotchety old guy who gave me the physical? I just call him Bones.”
This got a giggle out of his mother, and Jim couldn’t help but grin in return.
“Bones. That’s a good one, Jimmy.” His Mom paused, and ran her fingers through his hair, her eyes going a little watery. “I’m proud of you, honey. I know that I have not always said it, but I’m so proud of you.” She exhaled shakily and looked down, seemingly trying to gather the pieces of herself together. “And I know that your father would be too.”
Jim looked at his mom for a moment, before surging across the table and hugging her; holding her more tightly than he had clutched at the ledge of the quarry. He did his best to try to convince himself that the tears were an unfortunate side effect of the acrid aftertaste of the bad whiskey. “Thanks Mom.”
He could feel his mother’s shoulders shaking slightly as he hugged her over the table. “I love you, Jimmy.”
“Love you, Mom.”
Maybe it was the booze, or maybe it was the re-connection with his mother, but Jim suddenly felt more intensely excited about playing hockey than he ever had. For the first time in a long time, there was no voice inside of him tugging at his heart-there was only excitement and anticipation for the events to come.
~~
Before the playoff rounds started, Jim killed himself training. He knew that being one of the youngest players on the team gave him something to prove; not only to himself and the team, but also to Spock. During the three-day training camp, a rivalry had sparked deep in Jim’s gut. Maybe it was Spock’s demeanor-the way he looked down on Jim, both literally and figuratively-that made Jim’s jaw clench and stature turn defiant. Jim hated being brushed off, so the flippant way Spock disregarded him instantly made Jim want to force Spock to realize his potential. All of this cultivated Jim’s ferocious attitude toward his training.
The first tier of his regimen involved building muscle mass. Jokingly, Jim had asked his Uncle Chris if he had an extra wheelchair hanging around in case he pushed himself too hard and couldn’t walk afterwards. Unfortunately, Chris did not have an extra for him to borrow because Jim really could have used it. Despite being unable to provide an aid for his weary muscles, his Uncle helped coach him with his training as well as spotting him while Jim weight trained.
Slowly,despite the protest of his muscles, Jim inched up his weight load, until he was benching and squatting nearly three-hundred pounds. But his Uncle reminded him that training wasn’t all about muscle-strength, but flexibility-so, begrudgingly, Jim started to practice yoga.
Sure, the idea of yoga had often seemed appealing-especially when Jim strolled by store windows, peering inside to see an attractive blond bending and flexing in more obscene ways than Jim could ever imagine, but yoga lost it’s luster when Jim was being poked, prodded and flexed by a crotchety old sports physician. His Uncle had used his connections and friendship to convince Leonard McCoy to also help Jim with his training. In theory, this was a good idea; a trained sports physician helping Jim realize his body’s full potential without risk of injury. In practice, it was a very bad idea.
“Bones, I swear to god this is completely undignified and down right just, wrong-“ Jim whined as the cranky medic tried to aid Jim in stretching thoroughly.
“Since when have you had dignity? Now shut up and stretch. If you don’t adequately stretch your groin, you’ll pull a muscle and you won’t be able to walk properly let alone play. So stretch.”
“I don’t see why I have to do this, my groin got a good stretch last night-“
“Good God, man!” Leonard sputtered and pulled a little tighter on Jim’s leg, causing Jim’s laughter to cut off with a slight grunt of discomfort.
After another two hours of intense yoga Jim’s hunger made itself known, his stomach growling loudly over the drone of McCoy’s lecture. As Jim stood and left the gym, he did his best to ignore the awkward pulling of his recently-stretched muscles.
Despite Jim’s hunger, when the suspiciously green looking plate of food was set down in front of him, he attempted to snub his nose at it. The attempt was promptly foiled by another long-winded nutrition speech from McCoy.
“-and you will never make the gains you need if you don't eat right. All that muscles mass you’ve spent your youth obtaining? It’ll be gone faster than you can say ‘gravy’. So eat your damn vegetables.”
Jim rolled his eyes and groaned as he begrudgingly ate the leafy green-ness, trying to build up the courage to eat the small square of tofu sitting ominously in the center. Soy, yuck.
With his muscles stretched and stomach quieted, Jim prepared for his interval running. With music thundering through the gym, Jim started his low impact warm up with a slow jog; gradually increasing his speed and stride length. When Jim fell into step with lunges, he was suddenly ever glad for Leonard helping him stretch his groin.
Finally, Jim was able to do what he liked best: run. His interval runs began at 600 meters, then 800 meters, then dropped off into shorter sprints and sled pulls. Jim liked the 600 and 800 meter runs the best-he was able to pop the clutch and just run at top speed, burning off all his frustrations and excess energy. With the heavy bass vibrating beneath his feet and guitar riffs squealing in his ears, Jim could just imagine he was on the ice, fierce and unstoppable, as brash and powerful as a thundering drum solo. Every day Chris and Leonard cautioned him:
“Watch your speed Jim, don’t top out so quickly.”
“Careful or you’ll blow a damn knee! Your body can’t keep up with the power you’re putting behind it; it’s a horrible injury waiting to happen!”
But Jim pressed on, pushing his body to its limits.
By the end of the most intense training, Jim was a completely different player. His body had lost all of its adolescence, and Jim grinned at the slab of manhood he now represented.
Jim had lost fifteen pounds in the first five weeks. Two months before the tournament, at the team training camp in Colorado, he did his fitness testing. His body fat had dropped six percent, and he had added three pounds of muscle mass. He was, literally, a new man.
As he left the medical exam room, Jim caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of a towering figure that Jim could only assume was Spock. He snapped his head to the side, hoping to get a better look at Colossus himself. If Jim had been in awe of Spock before, he was completely dumbstruck now.
Training had obviously been as good to Spock as it had been to Jim. Jim was willing to bet that underneath Spock’s plain white t-shirt lay tight, defined shoulder muscles that paved the way for the defined, somewhat muscular arms covered in coarse, dark hair. He gawked a little bit at Spock’s broadened chest, which tugged slightly at the snug t-shirt, and then tapered to a slightly narrowed waist.
The hormones wrecking havoc in Jim easily supplied him with the picture of Spock doing push-ups, shoulders tensing, pectorals straining with effort-and Jim had to forcibly drag his gaze away from Spock’s chest. While Spock’s torso was impressive, it was the legs, clad in black yoga pants, that Jim was having a hard time grasping. They seemed to go on forever, and unlike Jim, Spock had gained very little bulk in his thighs. Everything about Spock just seemed leaner, more svelte. Spock was built for speed and Jim was built for power.
Oh god, mental image.
Seeing Spock again made Jim forget why he disliked him in the first place, so he did his best to shove away the uncomfortable homo-erotic thoughts and go over to say a quick hello to his teammate. As Jim closed in on his target, the Kirk charm turned up to eleven and he let a smile slip across his face as he waved towards Spock.
“Hey Spock, how’s it-“ Jim was cut off as Spock, in all his Amazonian glory-Amazonian glory? What is he Wonder Woman now? Get a grip Jim!-simply brushed past him, ignoring the outstretched hand and friendly greeting. Jim instantly remembered why he disliked Spock. The inadequate feeling Jim got from being snubbed made his face heat and his jaw clench. He threw a glare over his shoulder at Spock’s form, now retreating into the exam room and the voice that had quieted, roared to life with a viciousness that nearly took Jim aback.
/Make him see you!/
~~
The first couple of weeks, practicing with the new team was chaos. After months and months of mostly solitary training, gathering the young, egotistical talent together and getting them to work cohesively as a team was a challenge-made all the more difficult by Spock’s cold demeanor and Jim’s frequent outbursts. Jim had made fast friends with one of the team’s defensemen Hikaru Sulu, but Spock’s constant criticism and holier-than-thou attitude constantly grated on Jim.
The frequent bickering between Jim and the Team’s Captain was rapidly causing the tension to mount until one day, during a shirts vs skins practice game, Jim lost it.
“What the hell was that? Why was that not called?” Jim shouted angrily as he hefted himself up of the ice. From the bench, Number One blew her whistle sharply.
“What the hell now, Kirk?” She asked sharply.
“That asshole-“ Jim spat, pointing directly at Spock, who was now leisurely skating back to center ice “-tripped me. It was so clearly a penalty.”
Number One sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose harshly. “Goddamnit, Kirk-“
“I did not trip you,” Spock said harshly, looking down upon Jim, annoyance slipping through his normally blank façade.
“Yeah, so that was why your stick found itself between my skates, effectively tripping me-“
“Perhaps if you spent more time practicing your skating technique and less time instigating pointless arguments-“
“I need to practice more? Do you know how many fucking hours I spend practicing?”
“Apparently, not enough,” Spock said sharply.
Jim’s blood began to boil and he could hear Number One shouting across the ice, but Jim didn’t pay her any heed. He was intent on wiping the smug look from Spock’s too-pretty face. So he wound up and swung his fist as hard as he could at the side of Spock’s helmet. The helmet made a loud clatter as it hit the ice, and Spock had the decency to look surprised right before Jim dropped his gloves and swung again. This time Spock was able to deflect his blow and returned with one of his own.
As soon as Spock’s fist made the connection with Jim’s face, he saw stars. As Jim tried to blink away the white spots, he threw punch after punch, some connecting, some blocked and for every punch Jim landed, two more landed on him.
It was chaos; Number One flew across the ice as other members of the team struggled to separate the two feuding players, her voice going hoarse from shouting. When the team had finally separated them, Jim and Spock were heaving and covered in each other’s blood, their jerseys streaked brilliant red and dark green.
Jim felt his nose throb harshly and knew it was broken, as he felt blood drip across his lips, down his chin and onto the mural of brutality on his jersey. Spock had faired no better, as Jim furiously blinked through the tears-which were purely reflexive, really-he saw Spock gently prod his cheekbone and wince. Jim couldn't help but feel the slightest bit smug with his handiwork. Both licked at their swollen, split and bleeding lips as they tried to regain their breath.
By the time Number One had reached them, she looked positively livid.
“I want both of you off the ice now!” She barked. “Go to the medic, then pack up your shit and go home. I’ll see you both in my office bright and early to discuss what disciplinary action will be taken.”
Jim opened his mouth to protest but Number One beat him to it.
“Not another fucking word, Kirk. Get off my ice.”
Jim disentangled himself from his teammates, picked up his discarded equipment and left the ice, ignoring Spock’s stony presence just behind him. After the quick pit stop in the dressing room to shed his soiled jersey and gear, Jim booked it out of the building. He quickly punched in a call to McCoy, stating he needed medical assistance and a ride back to the hotel the team was being put up at during their stay in Colorado.
“Dammit Jim, I’m, a doctor not a chauffeur.” This was the Bones equivalent of ‘I’ll do it, but I reserve the right to lecture you the entire drive.’
While Jim waited, he tried to breathe deeply and ignore the throbbing mass of pain that was his face. As Jim practiced the breathing exercises he had learned in yoga, Jim felt the air next to him get heavier and he cracked an eye open, instantly wishing he hadn’t.
There was Spock-small butterfly enclosures keeping his split lip and split knuckles closed, left eye bruised as hell-standing next to him clearly waiting for a ride as well. Jim tried to grit his teeth, but his damaged nose screamed in protest, so he did he best to simply pretend Spock wasn’t there-which was hard because Spock started talking.
“Your broken nose requires medical attention,” Spock said evenly.
“No shit,” Jim replied bitterly.
“Yet you do not seek out the medic.” Jim could practically hear Spock roll his eyes.
Jim huffed. “I’m waiting for my physical therapist. He happens to have an M.D, he doesn’t trust the nurses here not to disfigure me.”
“Illogical, as all the medical staff here are registered nurses-“
“Gee, look at that, my ride’s here-hate to cut this lovely chat short but I have bones that need to be reset,” Jim said, the acidity in his voice rising when he turned back to Spock and saw the briefest flash of smugness in his eyes. For a second Jim contemplated throwing his duffel bag down and punching the self-satisfaction out of Spock’s eyes again, but Bones began to lay on the horn, so Jim turned his back on Spock and got into the car.
“Good God, man! What happened to your face?” Bones hands flew off the wheel and to Jim’s face.
“Fucking ow!” Jim winced and flinched away from Bones. Bones retracted his hands and stared at Jim harshly. “What? I got into a fight, is all. It happens all the time.”
“Not usually with your own teammates! Jesus Jim, is there a person in this world you haven’t pissed off?” McCoy turned back to the steering wheel and stomped on the gas, pulling out of the parking lot.
Jim sighed angrily, “Can you just drop it please? Are you going to be able to fix my nose or not?”
“Of course I can fix your nose, I am a doctor. But what am I going to tell your moth-“
“Nothing-do not tell my mother about this!” Jim said frantically, rummaging through the glove compartment and swiping the small package of tissues. He winced again as he wadded small pieces and shoved them up his nose to stop the bleeding. “I mean it Bones-I am invoking Doctor patient confidentiality.”
McCoy grumbled to himself and turned into the hotel parking lot.
“You’re damn lucky I brought my big kit.”
Jim grinned. “Somehow, I don’t think luck had anything to do with it.”
“Actually, you’re right. I knew someone would wise-up and beat your smart-ass face in.” Bones locked his hybrid and motioned for Kirk. “C’mon kid, let’s get that nose fixed.”
~~
Crunch.
“FUCKING JESUS,” Jim bellowed, pitch high from the pain.
“I warned you it would hurt. Maybe this will be a lesson to you not to pick fights with Vulcan hockey players bigger than you.”
“I didn’t pick a fight with him-he started it!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep your mouth shut for a minute so I can close your split lip.” Bones carefully pinched the split skin together and applied the butterfly enclosures. “There, your face is all patched up. Lemme see your hands.” Jim obediently presented his hands to McCoy for repair. Carefully the Doctor swabbed antiseptic over the cuts and abrasions. “So what’s the deal, why’d you tangle with a six foot five Vulcan giant?”
“He’s only six foot four, and I told you, he started it.” Jim felt an odd tugging where the butterfly held his lip closed. “He just…gets under my skin, that’s all.”
“Helluvah reason to punch someone. Use your words, Jimmy boy.” McCoy said jokingly as he wrapped Jim’s hands in bandages.
“Easier said than done, when arguing with a Vulcan,” Jim muttered under his breath.
McCoy laughed slightly as he finished the wrap up job on Jim’s hands. “Okay Jim, I think you’re done. Just don’t go getting into anymore fights with people bigger than you.”
“Thanks, Bones.”
“I’ll be by in a couple’a days to make sure everything’s healed alright. Bye, Jim.” McCoy ruffled Jim’s hair affectionately as he left-which he knew Jim hated.
Jim sighed and swallowed two aspirin, willing the throbbing in his nose to dissipate so he could fall asleep. As Jim lay on the bed trying to fall asleep, he was greeted with fleeting images of his fight with Spock; the fire in his eyes when he had laid the punch to Jim’s nose, the green blood rolling over his lips after Jim had split it open. And for a minute, right before he drifted off to sleep, Jim couldn’t help but think how much he like seeing that fire in his eyes.
~~
The next morning was hell. Jim’s head swam and throbbed as the alarm on his chronometer buzzed harshly on his end table. He slammed his hand down on the bedside table and groped for the beeping device. When he finally shut off the alarm and sat up, his vision swam, so Jim pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. The sharp stab of pain reminded Jim that broken noses don’t heal over night.
As he waited for the pain to subside, Jim went through his yoga breathing exercises, and when all that was left was a dull throb, he stood and rushed to get dressed. He grabbed his duffel bag, after nearly tripping over it, and rushed out of the hotel room. He held his hand up to block the harsh glare of the sun and bounded down the stairs towards his crappy car.
He had carpooled with Sulu the day before-Jim was so, all about saving the planet. Not.-which was why Jim had called Bones the day before, and why Jim’s baby was still parked in the lot. Even though it was a piece of shit, it was still Jim’s first hover car, so he felt a strong sentimental attachment to it.
He shoved his duffel bag into the back, got in the car and rolled the engine over. He smiled broadly, as the engine started and the quiet rumble was quickly drowned out by the thunder of Jim’s music. Despite knowing that he was about to face the firing squad when he got to the rink, Jim couldn’t help but smile a little. With the haze wearing off and the throbbing rapidly dissipating, Jim couldn’t wait for another day of Hockey, even if Number One shit down his throat and Spock wanted to re-break his nose.
~~
The second he opened the door to Number One’s office, that warm fuzzy feeling disappeared instantly. Spock was sitting ramrod straight in one of the chairs across from her desk. Jim swallowed as Number One shot him a glare and a sharp order to “Sit.”. Jim dropped his bag and sat down next to Spock.
“So, we are going to talk about the consequences of yesterday. Unsportsmanlike conduct is not permitted-“
Jim laughed harshly. “Oh, give me a break. Fights break out all the time-this is hockey for godsakes!”
“Jim, shut it. Unsportsmanlike conduct against players on other teams is tolerated, but unsportsmanlike conduct against your own teammate; your Team Captain no less, is insubordination and is grounds for removal from the team.”
Jim flew up from the chair, nearly upending it. “What? This is bogus-I wasn’t the only one throwing punches-“
“Sit down right now Jim, I swear to god, or I will have you thrown out!” Number One yelled at Jim. Number One rarely raised her voice like that, so Jim sat down, shocked. “Now,” She said, voice going calmer, more even. “I am aware that while you instigated the fight, you were not the only one involved.” She looked poignantly at Spock, whose eyebrow tipped up slightly . “And under normal circumstances, I would not hesitate to have you both removed-not only from the Team, but from the League as well. However, seeing as the tournament starts in a few weeks and you two are without a doubt the most infuriatingly talented young players I have encountered, it is not logical or beneficial to the Team, the League or either of you to remove you. So, both of you are hereby suspended from practice for the next three days. I really did expect more from both of you. Another act of violence or insubordinate behavior towards each other and I will remove you, regardless of how talented you are. Now get out of my office and think about how your bad behavior would reflect on your careers and every facet of the Hockey Leagues you represent.”
Jim and Spock nodded in tandem, both avoiding looking at one another as they gathered their things and left Number One’s office, like scolded schoolboys. Jim gritted his teeth and he strolled back to his car. As he passed through the hallways he could hear his teammates hollering and carrying on in the dressing rooms, and Jim longed to be with them.
What was he going to do for three days in a strange town with all his friends practicing and getting ready for the tournament? As Jim shoved his duffel bag in his car, he caught a glimpse of Spock in his window’s reflection. He threw a glance over his shoulder and saw Spock just standing at the curb, gear bag at his feet, looking like a lost puppy. Jim grit his teeth, ‘Don’t do it Jim, you’ll end up punching him again’, he thought.
But the conscience that Jim had developed for little lost puppies kicked in, and he turned to face Spock.
“Spock, do you need a ride somewhere?”
Even from across the parking lot, Jim could see Spock’s eyebrows shoot skyward.
“I do not require a ride. A taxi-cab should be here momentarily,” Spock said evenly.
Jim sifted his weight awkwardly.
“Look, I have nothing better to do right now anyway. Let me give you a ride. I promise I won’t even punch you.” Jim put his hands up to show he was not a threat.
“I have no fear of physical retaliation.”
Jim rolled his eyes.
“Spock, c’mon, get in the car. I’m trying to call a truce, here.” Jim and Spock looked at each other for a long moment before Spock picked up his bag and walked stiffly towards the car. “Good. You can stick your bag in the back seat beside mine.”
Spock nodded and rounded the other side of the car. Jim started the hover car and immediately turned his music down to a low level. Jim stifled a laugh as Spock tried to fold himself into the front seat.
“There’s a little lever on the side, pull it up and the seat should slide back.”
Spock nodded stiffly and pushed the seat back as far as it would go. It was still a tight fit, but it was marginally more comfortable for Spock.
“So, where to, Spock?” Jim asked, pulling out of the parking lot.
“Just the hotel, thank you,” Spock replied tightly.
“Alright.”
As Jim drove, he lightly hummed along to the music playing softly in his car as a distraction to the awkwardness of the situation. If anyone had told him that the day after Jim had punched Spock square in that pretty face, he would offer him a ride out of charity and would be quietly sitting with him in the car as he drove, he would have pissed himself laughing. Jim resisted the urge to shake his head at the weirdness of the situation. After several, long minutes of silence between the pair, they arrived at the hotel.
“Well, here we are.” Jim said anxiously, attempting to break the silence. Spock merely looked blandly at him. Jim’s grin faltered as he exited the car. It returned, however, as Spock struggled to climb out of the car, and Jim was instantly reminded of clowns piling in and out of tiny clown cars. Jim hauled his bag out of his back seat and turned to Spock. “See ya around, Spock.” Jim nodded and started off towards his room after he locked his car doors.
“Jim,” Spock said suddenly. Jim stopped, turned around and was slightly puzzled at the look on Spock’s face. “I appreciate your gesture of kindness, and I regret my actions yesterday. You are a talented player with very proficient skills in skating.”
Jim grinned and walked back towards Spock. “Thanks Spock. I’m sorry for, ya know, punching you in the face and all. Truce?” Jim stuck out his hand for a friendly handshake. He was confused when Spock’s cheeks flushed deep green.
“Jim, while the touching of hands in your culture is a friendly gesture, in my culture it is much more…intimate.” Spock said tightly, trying to avoid Jim’s gaze.
“Oh, oh! Shit sorry, my bad.” Jim retracted his hand awkwardly.
“But I am amicable to a truce, despite your many infuriating qualities.”
Jim’s eyebrow twitched slightly. This truce was going to be harder than he thought. “Good. I will see you in a couple days, Spock.”
“Goodbye, Jim.” Spock nodded and headed in the opposite direction towards his hotel room, on the other end of the complex.
Jim sighed. Three days was a long time to sit around watching porn. He was going to need to find some way to occupy himself.
~~
Jim had quickly gotten bored of porn, and so, he moved onto the next best thing. He opened his suitcase, pulled out his grandfathers old reading glasses, several antique copies of Stephen King’s greatest novels, and sat down to read.
Eight hours and two and a half books down, the door swung open and an exhausted looking Sulu strolled through the door, dropping his bag on the floor and flopping down on the bed. Jim looked over the top of his book,
“Tough practice?”
Sulu moaned and rolled over.
“Yes. God that woman was evil. I mean, you and Spock were the ones brawling on the ice and we were the ones who got punished. It’s so not fair. If I could move I would be really tempted to beat you right now.”
“Sorry, but Spock already beat you to it, dude.” Jim chuckled as he flipped the page.
“Yeah, he really messed your face up.”
“Hey, I got him pretty good too. He ain’t so pretty anymore,” Jim replied indignantly.
Sulu laughed heartily, then winced and placed a hand to his aching abdomen.
“Oooh, Jim thinks Spock is pretty.” Sulu teased, making kissy faces at Jim, who responded in turn, by whipping a pillow at his friend.
“Shut up. Now sit up and prepare to get your ass handed to you at Halo for Xbox 360 Classic.” Jim pulled off his glasses and shoved his dog-eared book in the top drawer of his beside table.
“Ugh. If I didn’t have to defend my manhood, making any physical movements would be out of the question.” Sulu hefted himself up, grunting in discomfort.
“Stop being a baby, practice isn’t that hard,” Jim replied, turning on the near-ancient gaming console Sulu had toted from home.
“Yeah well, not all of us spent the entire summer training and doing yoga seven days a week.”
“Yeah, yeah. Shut up and prepare to feel my wrath!”
~~
While Jim and Sulu took turns trash talking and beating each other into the ground, Spock was sitting in his room, the lights dimmed, meditating on the anomaly that was James T. Kirk.
Spock had never met anyone as maddening as James. James, who insisted that Spock call him ‘Jim’-who was loud, brash, and tactless. Who never had a strategy, but somehow managed to become one of the best Hockey players under eighteen. Jim, who assaulted him, was not worth his time, and yet still demanded Spock’s utmost attention-even when he was nowhere near Spock.
Spock had spent hours meditating over it, but he was just as ignorant as to why Jim’s presence lingered and Spock felt some part of him, unreachable through his meditations, become undeniably dedicated to figuring out just why Jim Kirk was. It was like an insatiable itch Spock needed to scratch-an unwanted curiosity he needed to satisfy, even if meant sporting another cracked orbital bone, courtesy of the most infuriating man on the ice. Spock sighed, a human gesture he desperately tried to smother, as this was a distraction he did not need, but he could not deny himself.
Oh, how he had tried. His mother had always attested to Spock’s infallible curiosity and nurtured it, while his father frowned upon it. His mother encouraged the ‘why’ questions while his father insisted life was not about why, but ‘how’. To his father, ‘why’ represented the Human’s psychological need for the justification of desire, which was incongruent with the teachings of Surak and thus, un-Vulcan. So, as Spock learned the teachings of Surak, he no longer allowed himself to indulge in the child-like curiosity and wonder his mother nurtured.
But there were times, not unlike now, when Spock could not bury his curiosity beneath a mask of logic. He needed to figure out what caused his consciousness to dwell on James Tiberius Kirk when there were more pressing matters at hand. Like the looming tournament.
As he rose and stretched languidly, Spock’s consciousness shifted from ruminating over the anomaly of James. T. Kirk, and to his strategy for the tournament. A strategy that, no doubt, Jim would blatantly ignore.
Spock pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Even now, with so much riding on his strategy and his leadership skills, Jim still managed to wedge his way into Spock’s thoughts. Spock took a moment to center himself; gather his thoughts and attempt to banish Jim from his mind as he, again, started to strategize for the first round.
Part Two
Continue to Part Two