Called You Friend (2/5)
Title: Called You Friend
Author: the_arc5
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, some sexual content, slash.
Summary: The Enterprise is sent to deal with a situation, and one of their own is taken. But this is not where the story begins.
Author's Notes: First of all, this fic is dedicated to my talented and hard-working beta, amaberis. None of this would have happened without her. The mistakes that remain are all mine. Secondly, a word on technicalities like stardates: I did my best, with assistance from Memory Alpha, but I also made a lot of stuff up. With stardates especially, I followed the grand TOS tradition of just stringing numbers together. As the number gets higher, more time has passed; that's about as technically accurate as I can be.
Private Communication
TtDT/PiSN: SD 2258.44
Sender: George S. Kirk
Recipient: Ensign James T. Kirk
[Audio Data Only; Text Transcription via Comm Unit]
James Tiberius Kirk. If you are conscious and free of criminal charges, you have exactly 48 hours to contact me. If you are dead, I will never, ever forgive you.
*
Private Communication
TtDT/USSE: SD 2258.44
Sender: Ensign James T. Kirk
Recipient: George S. Kirk
[Audio Data Only; Text Transcription via Comm Unit]
I'm alive. I'll explain later.
*
Private Communication
TtDT/PiSN: SD 2258.45
Sender: George S. Kirk
Recipient: Ensign James T. Kirk
[Audio Data Only; Text Transcription via Comm Unit]
Oh my god. Jim, I was just contacted by Starfleet. Oh my god. Please call me.
*
Private Communication
TtDT/USSE: SD 2258.48
Sender: Ensign James T. Kirk
Recipient: George S. Kirk
If you're reading this, you must've decrypted it. Congrats. I didn't know if you would remember our passcode or not. I guess Starfleet told you what happened; the bastard that killed Dad is dead, Sam. I kind of expected it to make me feel better, but it doesn't. So many people have died... I know that some of the escape pods made it to the Laurentian system, but we haven't heard any numbers one way or another. Right now, we're limping back to base on our temporary chief of engineering's ingenuity and a roll of duct tape. We've got a bunch of Vulcan refugees onboard, so everybody's kind of on top of each other; I'm sleeping in Bones' room, and when we're on shift, the space is used for two other people on the medical staff. That's how the whole ship is running, everybody just doing what they have to. Starfleet regs are sobbing in agony and no one actually gives a shit.
I'm captain, for the moment. Captain Pike is holed up in medbay; Bones is hellbent on fixing him, and after the past few days, I'll believe anything. I don't have the faintest idea what the fuck I'm doing, but we haven't blown up yet. I mostly walk around telling people we're going to be okay, and I poke them into doing their jobs when I need to. This whole thing is a prescription for trauma, but we're making it. Shit, we're better than making it. If Starfleet ever lets me out of the concrete block they're going to shove me in, I want a crew like this. Scotty, our temporary engineering man, is a fucking genius. Any other ship would be dead in the aether, but he's got her going at Warp 2, even as hurt as she is. Our navigator is this seventeen-year-old Russian, and not only is he steering with practically half of his instruments gone, he's like some sort of living teddy bear. People break down, and here comes Chekov, hugging and babbling in Russian. I have no idea what he says, but it works; ten minutes of Chekov therapy, and people catch their second wind. Basically, the horror of everything that happened has made everybody pull together in ways most crews never even dream of. I'm about 99.999% positive they're going to lock me up and throw away the key when we get back to 'Frisco, but for the three weeks we're stuck out here, I get to be captain of the finest damn crew that ever left spacedock. It's amazing, Sam. I could live my whole life like this.
When I get back, I'll call you, I promise. I can't get into everything now; our code is unbreakable, I know, but I don't want to risk this falling into unfriendly hands. In the meantime, though, I need you to stay ahead of what the Federation plans to do with the Vulcan refugees. I've got an orphan that's more or less attached herself to my leg. Vulcan or not, the kid has had enough trauma in her life without getting tossed into some institution, and if that means I need to keep her, I will. This may be difficult from prison. You'll help me out, though, right? She's awfully cute, even though she doesn't talk much. I think I'm getting better at Vulcan communication, though. The Enterprise's first officer is a Vulcan; we had kind of a rough start, but something tells me we're going to be friends, as long as I can refrain from pissing him off. He's got a hell of a grip.
And here comes my little Vulcan now. The girl, not the first officer. That means I have to go be captain-y. I love you, Sam. I promise I'll call when I get back.
-Jim
***
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Spock, S. T.
Recipient: Pike, Christopher
Subject: Request for Clarification
Admiral Pike,
I was taking lunch in the staff lounge this afternoon when I overheard Admiral Brossmer and Professor Rhada talking about the upcoming launch of the Enterprise. It was not my intention to eavesdrop, but I did hear them say that the Enterprise would be crashed into a moon within a month. This seems a most illogical waste of Starfleet resources and contrary to the recent crew appointment to the ship. I must have misunderstood, and I would be grateful if you would elucidate the matter for me.
Spock
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Christopher Pike
Recipient: Spock, S. T.
Subject: Re: Request for Clarification
Spock,
You just happened to run across one of the nastier forms of gossip, I'm afraid. Not everybody is happy that Kirk's recommendation passed muster. Brossmer and Rhada are in that company.
Pike
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Spock, S. T.
Recipient: Pike, Christopher
Subject: Re: Re: Request for Clarification
Admiral Pike,
I don't wish to trouble you, sir, but what does dissatisfaction with Captain Kirk have to do with the Enterprise crashing into a moon? Admiral Brossmer and Professor Rhada are surely not planning sabotage.
Spock
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Christopher Pike
Recipient: Spock, S. T.
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Request for Clarification
Spock,
Oh, nothing like that. The scuttlebutt just has it that Kirk's recommendation was a fluke, the deranged ramblings of an ailing captain (a.k.a. myself). It wasn't a popular decision, but now that it's made, the disgruntled are making themselves feel better by recommending the misfits of their classes for Kirk's crew. Take Sulu, for instance. You and I both know he's a damned good pilot, never mind that hiccup when we pulled out, but turns out he got a little daring with a shuttle outing once and crashed the thing. It didn't endear him to his professors, I'll tell you that. And Chekov may be a prodigy, but he also drives his teachers crazy, poor kid. I don't have to tell you that Archer is fit to piss over Montgomery Scott's assignment, and McCoy's afraid of flying, did you know that? Of course, Kirk can't blame the brass for that one; he chose McCoy himself. The point is, this is the Enterprise crew, and they are a bunch of misfits. I think they'll be fine, but not everybody does, and a lot of people are saying the "flying loony bin" will hit a moon within a month. The idea is it won't be a great loss, because the people on board weren't really good enough to represent Starfleet to begin with. Nasty gossip, like I said, but there you have it.
Pike
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Spock, S. T.
Recipient: Pike, Christopher
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Request for Clarification
Admiral Pike,
I understand. Thank you for that clarification.
The post of the Enterprise's First Officer seems to be vacant. Is this correct?
Spock
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Christopher Pike
Recipient: Spock, S. T.
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re:Request for Clarification
Spock,
That's correct. You thinking of applying? I understood you were going to help with the Vulcan colony.
Pike
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Spock, S. T.
Recipient: Pike, Christopher
Subject: Re/...: Request for Clarification
Admiral Pike,
I was informed that my presence there is not as necessary as I originally perceived. Perhaps I would be better suited as a member of the Enterprise crew. May I utilize you as a character reference, if required?
Spock
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Christopher Pike
Recipient: Spock, S. T.
Subject: Re/...:Request for Clarification
Spock,
Anything you need, just ask. Starfleet would be pretty upset to lose you. The Academy is going to have fits as it is, with you joining the misfit crew.
Pike
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Spock, S. T.
Recipient: Pike, Christopher
Subject: Re/...: Request for Clarification
Admiral Pike,
As a half-breed Vulcan, I believe I fit the crew's general profile. I also believe that I am capable of ensuring the Enterprise does not crash into a moon.
Spock
***
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.61
Sender: Pike, Christopher
Recipient: Archer, Jonathan
Subject:
Archer,
Don't be an ass. I know what you think of my recommendation, and I know you're going to do your damnedest to get it waved aside as the ramblings of the heavily-medicated. I also know that it'll work. So I'm asking you, as a friend and a reasonable man, to at least listen to what I've got to say.
Under ordinary circumstances, we could give the kid a medal and get him out of our hair. But we can't do that now, Archer; there's too much at stake. We lost a lot of people out there, people that shouldn't have been there at all. We lost a lot of cadets, fresh out of the gate. I'm not trying to blame anybody, but the simple fact is, Starfleet needs a hero right now, and Jim Kirk is it. He's the poster boy we're looking for. We both know that the reality of James T. Kirk isn't quite so romantic, but in the eyes of the Federation public, he's the underdog that single-handedly saved Earth, avenged their lost loved ones, and rescued his doddering old teacher to boot. It's ridiculous as hell, but they need to hear that. They need someone to look up to. We've got to give them that. We put Kirk on the Enterprise, we reward him for saving our asses, no matter how accidentally, and we get some much needed PR.
And Archer? The kid'll make a fine captain. He's not there yet, doesn't have a clue what he's doing, but he'll make it. I watched him with his crew: he works with them, not over them. One week, and the bridge was running like a dream, in-tune like you wouldn't believe. And I have to say, any cocky, arrogant, brand-spanking-new hero that will let a little Vulcan girl sit on his lap when he comes off his shift and has eighteen other places he'd rather be... Damn it, Archer, men like that don't grow on trees.
I know you're going to say that we can do better; I'm telling you, we could do a lot worse.
-Chris Pike
***
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Pike, Christopher
Recipient: Kirk, James T.
Subject: Happy Birthday
Kirk,
Guess who wants to be your First Officer? Spock. I can hardly believe it, after what McCoy told me about the two of you. He heard the flying loony bin talk, though, and I think he's kind of pissed about it. He told me that he was capable of ensuring you didn't crash into a moon; I take that as a certified guarantee that the Enterprise will be one of the single most accomplished ships in the 'Fleet. You'd better play nice, Kirk. That's an order. Spock's a hardass and no mistake, but he's earned the right to be. From what I gather, nobody really wants him, unless it's to pick his brain. He's about the most loyal officer I know, though. You're getting something good here.
Pike
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Kirk, James T.
Recipient: Pike, Christopher
Subject: Re: Happy Birthday
Pike,
That's the best news I've had all week. Thanks for letting me know; now I have a reason to tell that idiot Thomas no. And trust me, I know he's an asset. I'll take good care of him.
Kirk
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Pike, Christopher
Recipient: Kirk, James T.
Subject: Re: Re: Happy Birthday
I hope to god that "take care of him" does not translate to "fuck him over a console."
Pike
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Kirk, James T.
Recipient: Pike, Christopher
Subject: WTF
I can't decide whether to be flattered by your high estimation of my seduction skills, or creeped out that you think of them at all. I'm not going to fuck him over a console, sir. I'm a captain now; I'm practically upstanding.
Kirk
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Pike, Christopher
Recipient: Kirk, James T.
Subject: Re: WTF
I'm old and crippled, son, not deaf. I've heard the stories. I'm glad you're taking the high road here, though. It confirms that faith in you isn't a side effect of the painkillers. Keep this up and you might just make something of yourself.
And tell that CMO of yours he owes me a poker game. I need a few extra pocket credits. You're invited, but only if you bring something decent to drink. Once your crew ships out, I'll have to go back to playing with Archer, and that man only drinks cheap vodka. Disgrace.
Pike
***
This is how you fall in love:
You wind up in Iowa, looking for Martha, the cousin you haven't seen in seven years, hoping to find a place to stay until you can get back on your feet, maybe get a job in a clinic or something. You'll even take veterinary work, if that's what it takes. You don't really care at this point. Life has narrowed to a series of generous strangers' backseats, the backpack that holds everything you own, the papers that say your own flesh and blood isn't yours anymore. It didn't even take that long, week at the most, for the whole universe to collapse into the streaks of passing streetlights, town after town, movement that doesn't mean anything.
You have a destination, but you have no idea where you're going.
And Martha's got problems of her own, and your mama raised you better than to take advantage of a woman with three kids, bills to pay, and a divorce story with a lot more blood on it than yours. You take her up on a meal and a shower, laugh about that family reunion in Tennessee when you were both eight and rode that pony with an attitude problem. What was its name? Snowbell or something.
Martha helps, a little. Her accent gets thicker as you talk; the coffee is strong and plentiful; Laertes, her youngest, draws you a picture of the bat they found in the barn. She gives you a slender flask of bourbon, squeezing your fingers because she understands, really understands. You hug her tight when you leave, because she's the first good thing to happen in eight months. She also gives you a god-awful flier, shiny and clearly overcompensating, but she heard doctors are in high demand. You know it's the best she can offer, so you take it.
They won't let you hide in the bathroom when the shuttle takes off, and you take it out on some kid that looks like he caught the wrong end of somebody's fist. You offer him a sip of the bourbon by way of apology. When the shuttle shudders into motion and your lungs close up and your brain starts to melt out of your ears, he throws an easy arm around you, like you're best friends already, and starts telling a complicated story about an Andorian, a pair of leather restraints, and a very unsanitary way to use a hayloft. You try to explain why anybody who would try that is clearly certifiably insane, and the urge to vomit recedes until you realize you've stopped moving.
Then you start to panic again.
The kid looks you up and down like he knows something you don't. He asks if you'll go to the quartermaster's with him, since he didn't sign up early. You wind up in a room together with a bunch of standard issue boxes and a real headache. He takes one look, wrinkles his nose, and says, "Come on, Bones. Let's see how Starfleet cadets handle their drinking problems." So you go with him, and that's that.
You've always been a sucker for lost causes, from kittens to your own doomed marriage, and Jim Kirk is a lost cause and a half. He's also a lost cause with pretty blue eyes, a smile to die for, and the unnerving habit of walking around naked. You're perpetually torn between wanting to beat him about the head and shoulders for his latest idiotic stunt (and there is always an idiotic stunt) and wanting to curl around him and hold him until all his problems and issues and insecurities don't matter anymore. Until it's just you and him, and that's enough.
You're not stupid enough to do anything, of course. Jim is Jim, which means you patch him up when he gets hurt, follow him around while he looks for ways to get hurt, and surreptitiously watch him when he reads, when he stretches, when he lets the whirlwind quiet down for a few minutes. You love him loud and you love him quiet, and most of all, you love him in secret. You know how he works, and you'd rather be his best friend forever than his lover for a few hours. So you follow, you bitch, and you watch.
And you drag him with you when you're sent into the black, because he's still being a lost cause, all hopeless and pathetic, and if you're honest, the idea of going up without him scares you to death. He pulls something stupid, as usual, but this time he saves a planet and a few billion lives while he's at it. You see, in those tense, burning moments, the passion and life of the kid you know added to some iron determination of a man you don't, but would like to. They give him a captaincy, and when Jim asks if you'll come with him, you don't even have to think. He's where you belong now.
So while you watch him try to piece together the puzzle of his life, putting all that rebellious energy into learning to lead, putting that genius IQ to work for something real, flashing that familiar smile at the one person onboard who hasn't fallen for him yet, you fall just a little harder. He's not your lost cause anymore, but you've found new reasons to love him, and they keep cropping up, day after day. He'll never be yours; you don't deserve him, anyway. But you'll be damned if it keeps you from watching, from loving him even while he practically begs to catch the attention of someone else.
You're the lost cause now, and you're pretty sure nobody alive can fix you.
Part Three
Author: the_arc5
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, some sexual content, slash.
Summary: The Enterprise is sent to deal with a situation, and one of their own is taken. But this is not where the story begins.
Author's Notes: First of all, this fic is dedicated to my talented and hard-working beta, amaberis. None of this would have happened without her. The mistakes that remain are all mine. Secondly, a word on technicalities like stardates: I did my best, with assistance from Memory Alpha, but I also made a lot of stuff up. With stardates especially, I followed the grand TOS tradition of just stringing numbers together. As the number gets higher, more time has passed; that's about as technically accurate as I can be.
Private Communication
TtDT/PiSN: SD 2258.44
Sender: George S. Kirk
Recipient: Ensign James T. Kirk
[Audio Data Only; Text Transcription via Comm Unit]
James Tiberius Kirk. If you are conscious and free of criminal charges, you have exactly 48 hours to contact me. If you are dead, I will never, ever forgive you.
*
Private Communication
TtDT/USSE: SD 2258.44
Sender: Ensign James T. Kirk
Recipient: George S. Kirk
[Audio Data Only; Text Transcription via Comm Unit]
I'm alive. I'll explain later.
*
Private Communication
TtDT/PiSN: SD 2258.45
Sender: George S. Kirk
Recipient: Ensign James T. Kirk
[Audio Data Only; Text Transcription via Comm Unit]
Oh my god. Jim, I was just contacted by Starfleet. Oh my god. Please call me.
*
Private Communication
TtDT/USSE: SD 2258.48
Sender: Ensign James T. Kirk
Recipient: George S. Kirk
If you're reading this, you must've decrypted it. Congrats. I didn't know if you would remember our passcode or not. I guess Starfleet told you what happened; the bastard that killed Dad is dead, Sam. I kind of expected it to make me feel better, but it doesn't. So many people have died... I know that some of the escape pods made it to the Laurentian system, but we haven't heard any numbers one way or another. Right now, we're limping back to base on our temporary chief of engineering's ingenuity and a roll of duct tape. We've got a bunch of Vulcan refugees onboard, so everybody's kind of on top of each other; I'm sleeping in Bones' room, and when we're on shift, the space is used for two other people on the medical staff. That's how the whole ship is running, everybody just doing what they have to. Starfleet regs are sobbing in agony and no one actually gives a shit.
I'm captain, for the moment. Captain Pike is holed up in medbay; Bones is hellbent on fixing him, and after the past few days, I'll believe anything. I don't have the faintest idea what the fuck I'm doing, but we haven't blown up yet. I mostly walk around telling people we're going to be okay, and I poke them into doing their jobs when I need to. This whole thing is a prescription for trauma, but we're making it. Shit, we're better than making it. If Starfleet ever lets me out of the concrete block they're going to shove me in, I want a crew like this. Scotty, our temporary engineering man, is a fucking genius. Any other ship would be dead in the aether, but he's got her going at Warp 2, even as hurt as she is. Our navigator is this seventeen-year-old Russian, and not only is he steering with practically half of his instruments gone, he's like some sort of living teddy bear. People break down, and here comes Chekov, hugging and babbling in Russian. I have no idea what he says, but it works; ten minutes of Chekov therapy, and people catch their second wind. Basically, the horror of everything that happened has made everybody pull together in ways most crews never even dream of. I'm about 99.999% positive they're going to lock me up and throw away the key when we get back to 'Frisco, but for the three weeks we're stuck out here, I get to be captain of the finest damn crew that ever left spacedock. It's amazing, Sam. I could live my whole life like this.
When I get back, I'll call you, I promise. I can't get into everything now; our code is unbreakable, I know, but I don't want to risk this falling into unfriendly hands. In the meantime, though, I need you to stay ahead of what the Federation plans to do with the Vulcan refugees. I've got an orphan that's more or less attached herself to my leg. Vulcan or not, the kid has had enough trauma in her life without getting tossed into some institution, and if that means I need to keep her, I will. This may be difficult from prison. You'll help me out, though, right? She's awfully cute, even though she doesn't talk much. I think I'm getting better at Vulcan communication, though. The Enterprise's first officer is a Vulcan; we had kind of a rough start, but something tells me we're going to be friends, as long as I can refrain from pissing him off. He's got a hell of a grip.
And here comes my little Vulcan now. The girl, not the first officer. That means I have to go be captain-y. I love you, Sam. I promise I'll call when I get back.
-Jim
***
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Spock, S. T.
Recipient: Pike, Christopher
Subject: Request for Clarification
Admiral Pike,
I was taking lunch in the staff lounge this afternoon when I overheard Admiral Brossmer and Professor Rhada talking about the upcoming launch of the Enterprise. It was not my intention to eavesdrop, but I did hear them say that the Enterprise would be crashed into a moon within a month. This seems a most illogical waste of Starfleet resources and contrary to the recent crew appointment to the ship. I must have misunderstood, and I would be grateful if you would elucidate the matter for me.
Spock
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Christopher Pike
Recipient: Spock, S. T.
Subject: Re: Request for Clarification
Spock,
You just happened to run across one of the nastier forms of gossip, I'm afraid. Not everybody is happy that Kirk's recommendation passed muster. Brossmer and Rhada are in that company.
Pike
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Spock, S. T.
Recipient: Pike, Christopher
Subject: Re: Re: Request for Clarification
Admiral Pike,
I don't wish to trouble you, sir, but what does dissatisfaction with Captain Kirk have to do with the Enterprise crashing into a moon? Admiral Brossmer and Professor Rhada are surely not planning sabotage.
Spock
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Christopher Pike
Recipient: Spock, S. T.
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Request for Clarification
Spock,
Oh, nothing like that. The scuttlebutt just has it that Kirk's recommendation was a fluke, the deranged ramblings of an ailing captain (a.k.a. myself). It wasn't a popular decision, but now that it's made, the disgruntled are making themselves feel better by recommending the misfits of their classes for Kirk's crew. Take Sulu, for instance. You and I both know he's a damned good pilot, never mind that hiccup when we pulled out, but turns out he got a little daring with a shuttle outing once and crashed the thing. It didn't endear him to his professors, I'll tell you that. And Chekov may be a prodigy, but he also drives his teachers crazy, poor kid. I don't have to tell you that Archer is fit to piss over Montgomery Scott's assignment, and McCoy's afraid of flying, did you know that? Of course, Kirk can't blame the brass for that one; he chose McCoy himself. The point is, this is the Enterprise crew, and they are a bunch of misfits. I think they'll be fine, but not everybody does, and a lot of people are saying the "flying loony bin" will hit a moon within a month. The idea is it won't be a great loss, because the people on board weren't really good enough to represent Starfleet to begin with. Nasty gossip, like I said, but there you have it.
Pike
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Spock, S. T.
Recipient: Pike, Christopher
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Request for Clarification
Admiral Pike,
I understand. Thank you for that clarification.
The post of the Enterprise's First Officer seems to be vacant. Is this correct?
Spock
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Christopher Pike
Recipient: Spock, S. T.
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re:Request for Clarification
Spock,
That's correct. You thinking of applying? I understood you were going to help with the Vulcan colony.
Pike
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Spock, S. T.
Recipient: Pike, Christopher
Subject: Re/...: Request for Clarification
Admiral Pike,
I was informed that my presence there is not as necessary as I originally perceived. Perhaps I would be better suited as a member of the Enterprise crew. May I utilize you as a character reference, if required?
Spock
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Christopher Pike
Recipient: Spock, S. T.
Subject: Re/...:Request for Clarification
Spock,
Anything you need, just ask. Starfleet would be pretty upset to lose you. The Academy is going to have fits as it is, with you joining the misfit crew.
Pike
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Spock, S. T.
Recipient: Pike, Christopher
Subject: Re/...: Request for Clarification
Admiral Pike,
As a half-breed Vulcan, I believe I fit the crew's general profile. I also believe that I am capable of ensuring the Enterprise does not crash into a moon.
Spock
***
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.61
Sender: Pike, Christopher
Recipient: Archer, Jonathan
Subject:
Archer,
Don't be an ass. I know what you think of my recommendation, and I know you're going to do your damnedest to get it waved aside as the ramblings of the heavily-medicated. I also know that it'll work. So I'm asking you, as a friend and a reasonable man, to at least listen to what I've got to say.
Under ordinary circumstances, we could give the kid a medal and get him out of our hair. But we can't do that now, Archer; there's too much at stake. We lost a lot of people out there, people that shouldn't have been there at all. We lost a lot of cadets, fresh out of the gate. I'm not trying to blame anybody, but the simple fact is, Starfleet needs a hero right now, and Jim Kirk is it. He's the poster boy we're looking for. We both know that the reality of James T. Kirk isn't quite so romantic, but in the eyes of the Federation public, he's the underdog that single-handedly saved Earth, avenged their lost loved ones, and rescued his doddering old teacher to boot. It's ridiculous as hell, but they need to hear that. They need someone to look up to. We've got to give them that. We put Kirk on the Enterprise, we reward him for saving our asses, no matter how accidentally, and we get some much needed PR.
And Archer? The kid'll make a fine captain. He's not there yet, doesn't have a clue what he's doing, but he'll make it. I watched him with his crew: he works with them, not over them. One week, and the bridge was running like a dream, in-tune like you wouldn't believe. And I have to say, any cocky, arrogant, brand-spanking-new hero that will let a little Vulcan girl sit on his lap when he comes off his shift and has eighteen other places he'd rather be... Damn it, Archer, men like that don't grow on trees.
I know you're going to say that we can do better; I'm telling you, we could do a lot worse.
-Chris Pike
***
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Pike, Christopher
Recipient: Kirk, James T.
Subject: Happy Birthday
Kirk,
Guess who wants to be your First Officer? Spock. I can hardly believe it, after what McCoy told me about the two of you. He heard the flying loony bin talk, though, and I think he's kind of pissed about it. He told me that he was capable of ensuring you didn't crash into a moon; I take that as a certified guarantee that the Enterprise will be one of the single most accomplished ships in the 'Fleet. You'd better play nice, Kirk. That's an order. Spock's a hardass and no mistake, but he's earned the right to be. From what I gather, nobody really wants him, unless it's to pick his brain. He's about the most loyal officer I know, though. You're getting something good here.
Pike
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Kirk, James T.
Recipient: Pike, Christopher
Subject: Re: Happy Birthday
Pike,
That's the best news I've had all week. Thanks for letting me know; now I have a reason to tell that idiot Thomas no. And trust me, I know he's an asset. I'll take good care of him.
Kirk
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Pike, Christopher
Recipient: Kirk, James T.
Subject: Re: Re: Happy Birthday
I hope to god that "take care of him" does not translate to "fuck him over a console."
Pike
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Kirk, James T.
Recipient: Pike, Christopher
Subject: WTF
I can't decide whether to be flattered by your high estimation of my seduction skills, or creeped out that you think of them at all. I'm not going to fuck him over a console, sir. I'm a captain now; I'm practically upstanding.
Kirk
*
Private Communication
VtT/SCG: SD 2258.92
Sender: Pike, Christopher
Recipient: Kirk, James T.
Subject: Re: WTF
I'm old and crippled, son, not deaf. I've heard the stories. I'm glad you're taking the high road here, though. It confirms that faith in you isn't a side effect of the painkillers. Keep this up and you might just make something of yourself.
And tell that CMO of yours he owes me a poker game. I need a few extra pocket credits. You're invited, but only if you bring something decent to drink. Once your crew ships out, I'll have to go back to playing with Archer, and that man only drinks cheap vodka. Disgrace.
Pike
***
This is how you fall in love:
You wind up in Iowa, looking for Martha, the cousin you haven't seen in seven years, hoping to find a place to stay until you can get back on your feet, maybe get a job in a clinic or something. You'll even take veterinary work, if that's what it takes. You don't really care at this point. Life has narrowed to a series of generous strangers' backseats, the backpack that holds everything you own, the papers that say your own flesh and blood isn't yours anymore. It didn't even take that long, week at the most, for the whole universe to collapse into the streaks of passing streetlights, town after town, movement that doesn't mean anything.
You have a destination, but you have no idea where you're going.
And Martha's got problems of her own, and your mama raised you better than to take advantage of a woman with three kids, bills to pay, and a divorce story with a lot more blood on it than yours. You take her up on a meal and a shower, laugh about that family reunion in Tennessee when you were both eight and rode that pony with an attitude problem. What was its name? Snowbell or something.
Martha helps, a little. Her accent gets thicker as you talk; the coffee is strong and plentiful; Laertes, her youngest, draws you a picture of the bat they found in the barn. She gives you a slender flask of bourbon, squeezing your fingers because she understands, really understands. You hug her tight when you leave, because she's the first good thing to happen in eight months. She also gives you a god-awful flier, shiny and clearly overcompensating, but she heard doctors are in high demand. You know it's the best she can offer, so you take it.
They won't let you hide in the bathroom when the shuttle takes off, and you take it out on some kid that looks like he caught the wrong end of somebody's fist. You offer him a sip of the bourbon by way of apology. When the shuttle shudders into motion and your lungs close up and your brain starts to melt out of your ears, he throws an easy arm around you, like you're best friends already, and starts telling a complicated story about an Andorian, a pair of leather restraints, and a very unsanitary way to use a hayloft. You try to explain why anybody who would try that is clearly certifiably insane, and the urge to vomit recedes until you realize you've stopped moving.
Then you start to panic again.
The kid looks you up and down like he knows something you don't. He asks if you'll go to the quartermaster's with him, since he didn't sign up early. You wind up in a room together with a bunch of standard issue boxes and a real headache. He takes one look, wrinkles his nose, and says, "Come on, Bones. Let's see how Starfleet cadets handle their drinking problems." So you go with him, and that's that.
You've always been a sucker for lost causes, from kittens to your own doomed marriage, and Jim Kirk is a lost cause and a half. He's also a lost cause with pretty blue eyes, a smile to die for, and the unnerving habit of walking around naked. You're perpetually torn between wanting to beat him about the head and shoulders for his latest idiotic stunt (and there is always an idiotic stunt) and wanting to curl around him and hold him until all his problems and issues and insecurities don't matter anymore. Until it's just you and him, and that's enough.
You're not stupid enough to do anything, of course. Jim is Jim, which means you patch him up when he gets hurt, follow him around while he looks for ways to get hurt, and surreptitiously watch him when he reads, when he stretches, when he lets the whirlwind quiet down for a few minutes. You love him loud and you love him quiet, and most of all, you love him in secret. You know how he works, and you'd rather be his best friend forever than his lover for a few hours. So you follow, you bitch, and you watch.
And you drag him with you when you're sent into the black, because he's still being a lost cause, all hopeless and pathetic, and if you're honest, the idea of going up without him scares you to death. He pulls something stupid, as usual, but this time he saves a planet and a few billion lives while he's at it. You see, in those tense, burning moments, the passion and life of the kid you know added to some iron determination of a man you don't, but would like to. They give him a captaincy, and when Jim asks if you'll come with him, you don't even have to think. He's where you belong now.
So while you watch him try to piece together the puzzle of his life, putting all that rebellious energy into learning to lead, putting that genius IQ to work for something real, flashing that familiar smile at the one person onboard who hasn't fallen for him yet, you fall just a little harder. He's not your lost cause anymore, but you've found new reasons to love him, and they keep cropping up, day after day. He'll never be yours; you don't deserve him, anyway. But you'll be damned if it keeps you from watching, from loving him even while he practically begs to catch the attention of someone else.
You're the lost cause now, and you're pretty sure nobody alive can fix you.
Part Three