fic: Walk Away a Fool or a King (Star Trek: Reboot)
Title: Walk Away a Fool or a King
Fandom: Star Trek: Reboot
Word count: 2,400
Rating: teen (barely - for language)
Pairing(s): Kirk/McCoy, Spock
Summary: McCoy has trouble coping after Jim is badly injured on a mission. Spock helps him put things in perspective.
Notes: For kinderjedi, for help_nz. I’m so sorry this is so late!
Jim Kirk is, in no particular order:
A genius
A goddamn idiot
The cockiest little bastard in the United Federation of Planets
A screwed up kid from Middle-of-Nowhere, Iowa, with daddy issues
The best friend Leonard McCoy has ever had
The best lay Leonard McCoy has ever had
The biggest headache Leonard McCoy has ever had
A self-sacrificing, shit-for-brains, goddamn altruist who’s lucky just to be breathing right now
Leonard McCoy’s commanding officer
A patient, like any other
An asshole
An infant
An unfeeling, unthinking little jerk
A life-ruiner and the bane of McCoy’s existence
The man who’ll drive McCoy to an early grave (Jim’s just a few years too late to drive him to drink or to give him his first gray hairs)
Very likely the great love of McCoy’s life
Jim is all these things and so much more. Right now it’s the patient facet that concerns McCoy the most, and he tries without much success to banish all the other things from his mind as he rechecks Jim’s vitals. Everything looks good, or as good as can be expected, considering. Pulse is steady at 48 beats per minute; a little low, but not abnormal for Jim. Blood pressure looks good, and he’s breathing on his own. He should be waking up shortly.
And then what? McCoy thinks, his gaze sliding down Jim’s bruised arm to the lax fingers with their broken nails. On to the next mission, the next adventure. The next opportunity for Jim to play the hero and get himself seriously injured - or worse.
McCoy shakes his head. He didn’t sign up for this.
Didn’t you? a small voice, which sounds about two parts Jim and one part his ex-wife - which is completely weird - asks in an insinuating tone. You’re a doctor…
Yes, but one who prefers to keep his feet on solid earth, thank you.
…and a Starfleet officer…
Many of whom serve on and never leave terra firma.
But where’s the fun in that?
Okay, now the imaginary voice in McCoy’s head sounds entirely like Jim, which is admittedly less weird than the Jim-Jocelyn hybrid, but still damned annoying.
He’s tired. He’s been on his feet for a long time today: first hanging around the transporter room with Scotty, waiting for the away team’s return; then fighting to save Jim’s life in the OR; then checking on the less severely injured patients … consulting with the other medical personnel, then with Spock, who was Acting Captain while Jim lay unconscious; finally ending up back at Jim’s bedside, watching him breathe, occasionally brushing the hair that shadowed his brow.
It’s been a long day and he needs some sleep.
And a hot shower.
And a strong drink.
Preferably not in that order.
He manages to get about half of each. First there’s the sonic shower, which is effective and sometimes relaxing, but which - in McCoy’s considered opinion - doesn’t compare with a real, old-fashioned cascade of scalding water. Then there’s the finger of bourbon that he pours for himself, but only half-consumes before setting it down on his nightstand and flopping face-first onto his bed.
Hell, he thinks as he wraps his arms around his pillow, his own consciousness dissolving rapidly, I only have half my pajamas on…
Fortunately, it’s the bottom half, which spares him some embarrassment when Spock wakes him only four hours later. Not that McCoy is visible, but he’s always suspected that Spock somehow knows when he’s answering his comm in just a towel. Or in nothing at all. Or whatever. Jim thinks he’s crazy and it’s entirely possible that he’s right, but McCoy can’t shake the feeling. Spock’s uncanny. And he has those ears.
“What?” McCoy barks into the comm unit. “Damn it, I’m off-duty.”
“I am aware,” Spock says placidly, and McCoy can picture him standing with his feet shoulder-width apart, his hands clasped behind his back, one eyebrow cocked. “Forgive me for interrupting your sleep, Doctor, but there is a small matter I need to discuss with you.”
That doesn’t sound like it’s a medical emergency. Besides, if anything had happened to Jim or anyone else, someone in Sickbay would have alerted him, not Spock. McCoy rubs his forehead with the heel of his palm. “It couldn’t wait a few more hours?”
“Perhaps it could have,” Spock allows after a brief pause.
Is McCoy losing his mind, or does Spock sound slightly … playful? Better not to ask. Still, McCoy thinks, if this call turns out to be some sort of prank, Spock is going to find himself due for a whole battery of physical exams, much sooner than he’d probably like. Which he’d likely submit to without complaint, or any expression at all. Which would render the whole thing rather pointless. Ah, well.
“Doctor?” says Spock.
McCoy shakes himself. “Still here. What is it?”
“I have reviewed your most recent medical log entry-”
McCoy bristles.
Not that Spock doesn’t have the right, as First Officer, to go over just about everything the crew submits to Starfleet. Sometimes it’s actually good to have a second, arguably more objective assessing the situation. Though they’d seemed to be in agreement - or as close to agreement as they ever came - during the debriefing a few hours back. Damn it, if this is about some grammatical error McCoy made…
“…And I could not help noticing that your references to the captain were rather more … colorful than protocol dictates.”
“Huh?” Now McCoy’s confused. He was tired and angry when he made that log entry, but as far as he recalls… Oh, wait.
“Was it, for example, your intention to refer to the captain - three times - as ‘that reckless, unthinking little jerk’?” Coming from Spock, the words sound completely bizarre, like they’re part of a made up language.
For a few seconds McCoy simply lies there, blinking in the semi-darkness. Then groans wearily, “If you’re smirking-”
“I assure you, my expression is quite neutral.”
“Oh, is it?”
No response from Spock.
McCoy sighs and hangs his head. His uncombed hair flops down over his eyes. In annoyance, he flicks it away with the back of his hand. “Fine. Obviously, that’s not what I meant to write. Go ahead and change it. You have my permission. You didn’t need to ask, you know. And you certainly didn’t have to wake me up. I let my emotions get the better of me, blah blah, I’m going back to sleep.”
He starts to push the comm unit away but stops when Spock says in a low, measured tone, “Please do not take this the wrong way. I am concerned that your personal feelings for the captain may be undermining your professional objectivity.”
The words sink in slowly, which is odd because the chill that snakes up McCoy’s spine seems to come in a rush. He shivers and it’s a long moment before he can spit out, “Don’t take this the wrong way? Is there a right way to take a statement like that?”
“Yes,” Spock replies. “As a Starfleet officer.” A beat. “And as a friend.”
A friend? McCoy opens his mouth, but for some reason, the automatic retort just doesn't come. At a loss, he rolls over onto his back, draping his forearm across his eyes. Distantly, he hears himself say, "Oh."
"Indeed," Spock continues in that same bland tone. "Though I am sure you will take this as an insult, it is not intended to be one. Human emotions are complex, often needlessly so." He pauses, and again McCoy can picture him, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he considers his next words. "They complicate situations such as these."
"How profound," McCoy drawls.
"They put me in a difficult position as well," says Spock. "As captain of this ship, however temporarily, I should reprimand you. As your friend and Jim's, I am inclined to be more lenient. Seeing him hurt affects me as well. Knowing that you harbor some anger toward him … causes me consternation."
He's being so careful now, as he names his emotions. He's trying hard not to give too much away. McCoy can tell, despite the fact that they aren't even standing face to face. There's a part of him that wants to pounce and shout "Ah-ha!" But the desire is surprisingly weak, for once.
"I know it wasn't Jim's fault." The words trudge out of him, dragging their heels. This conversation has taken on a surreal quality, which makes McCoy wonder if he isn't actually dreaming it. "Our intelligence was flawed. We didn't know about the Orions. Couldn’t’ve known…” He lets his hand drop to his side and stares at the ceiling. “It’s nobody’s fault. Well, ‘cept the Orions, I guess.” Instead of the bulkhead, he sees Jim’s face, pale and bruised, his lower lip split and caked crusted with dried blood. He tries to feel angry - a part of him really wants to be angry with Jim because anger is his fuel - but he can’t. The emotion just isn’t there anymore.
Spock says, “You agree, then, that the captain is not, in fact, a ‘reckless, unthinking little jerk’?”
“No,” McCoy says bluntly, but without rancor. “But … not today.”
“Good,” says Spock, and it’s impossible to tell whether he’s pleased or not. “As I am sure you are aware, Jim will be waking up shortly. When he does, it is my hope that you will - to paraphrase Lieutenant Sulu - refrain from behaving in a manner typically associated with the male sexual organ.”
At that, McCoy snorts a laugh. “Don’t be a dick? Sure, Spock. For you.”
“Good night, Doctor.”
“Night, Spock.”
As he drops the comm unit back onto his nightstand, McCoy thoughtfully considers his Vulcan crewmate. Mister Spock is many things, including but not limited to:
An insufferable know-it-all
A walking, breathing computer
A real pain in the ass
The most alien member of the Enterprise crew (which includes a sentient rock, so you can imagine)
An emotionless (not really), logic-worshipping, coldly analytical block of ice
A good man to butt heads with
A good man to have on your side
All right, all right, a pretty good friend.
~*~
McCoy is there when Jim regains consciousness three hours later. He was dozing on and off in the chair beside Jim’s bio-bed, half-dreaming that Spock was lecturing him again, using only mangled colloquialisms from the early twenty-first century, but he snorts and comes fully awake when a slight movement from the bed catches his attention.
Jim’s eyelashes flutter, and his hand moves hesitantly across the thin blanket, like he’s seeking something. McCoy catches Jim’s hand and holds it, stroking the pad of his thumb gently across the knuckle, careful to avoid the IV line.
Jim’s cracked lips part in a half-smile. “Hey, Bones.” His voice is a whisper.
“Hey,” McCoy echoes, his own voice thick and heavy.
“Everyone make it out okay?”
“Yeah,” McCoy assures him, leaning close. “Nel suffered some minor burns, and Travers is off his feet with a busted ankle, but they’ll be fine. You took the worst of it. As usual,” he can’t help adding somewhat sourly.
“Had to get ‘em all out,” Jim says. “Knew you’d handle the rest.”
“Yeah, well…” McCoy looks away from Jim’s face for a moment. Squeezing his fingers, he says gruffly, “You have a lot of faith in my ability to bring you back from…” He can’t finish the sentence. “I mean,” he rushes on, hoping Jim’s too out of it to notice the way he faltered, “this time wasn’t so bad. You’ll be back on your feet in another day or two.”
Jim is quiet.
McCoy looks back at his face and sees the blue eyes watching him blearily.
“So, anyway,” McCoy continues after an awkward couple of beats, his cheeks flushing. “You’ll be right as rain. Are you thirsty? Got some water for you right here.” With his free hand, he starts to reach for the cup.
Jim lets himself be helped up to a sitting position, with McCoy’s arm supporting his shoulders. He really doesn’t have much choice in the matter. He doesn’t protest or even make any faces when the plastic straw is inserted gently between his lips; he simply takes three obedient sips and then closes his eyes, relaxing against McCoy.
He looks as if he’s gone to sleep again. McCoy knows he really hasn’t, but he’s still quiet and careful as he sets the cup of water down again and starts to ease Jim back against the pillows.
He almost jumps when Jim says in a weak, conversational tone, “So, how badly did you freak out this time?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re being way too nice. You obviously freaked out and feel guilty about it.”
“You’re deluded. You’re talkin’ outta your ass.”
“Go ahead, try to salvage your dignity. I hope it was epic. I hope it took the combined efforts of Scotty, Sulu, and a whole bottle of Kentucky’s finest to talk you down off your ledge this time.”
McCoy considers. “Actually, it was just Spock.”
Jim cracks an eyelid. “Really?”
“Swear to God.”
“Huh.” The faint smile returns.
“Jim-”
“Yeah?”
But McCoy doesn’t really have anything to say. For now, he’s over it. Jim is going to keep taking risks because that’s what he does. It’s what they all do; it’s their business, as Jim himself likes to say. And McCoy’s going to keep worrying, and putting him back together, and nagging him about the dangers of space exploration, because that’s what he does.
And Jim knows that. God damn him, he knows.
Because there’s nothing to say, McCoy kisses Jim’s forehead and strokes his hair. Jim makes a small, comfortable sound that wriggles against McCoy’s heart.
Leonard McCoy is, in no particular order:
Entirely predictable (apparently)
Overly emotional (which is not a bad thing, except when it is)
Overly invested
Bad at saying what he means and how he feels
A worrywart
A grouch
Prematurely old (thanks to one Jim Kirk)
Too far from home
Exactly where he belongs
Madly in love (emphasis on madly)
Not going anywhere.
6/3/2012
Fandom: Star Trek: Reboot
Word count: 2,400
Rating: teen (barely - for language)
Pairing(s): Kirk/McCoy, Spock
Summary: McCoy has trouble coping after Jim is badly injured on a mission. Spock helps him put things in perspective.
Notes: For kinderjedi, for help_nz. I’m so sorry this is so late!
Jim Kirk is, in no particular order:
A genius
A goddamn idiot
The cockiest little bastard in the United Federation of Planets
A screwed up kid from Middle-of-Nowhere, Iowa, with daddy issues
The best friend Leonard McCoy has ever had
The best lay Leonard McCoy has ever had
The biggest headache Leonard McCoy has ever had
A self-sacrificing, shit-for-brains, goddamn altruist who’s lucky just to be breathing right now
Leonard McCoy’s commanding officer
A patient, like any other
An asshole
An infant
An unfeeling, unthinking little jerk
A life-ruiner and the bane of McCoy’s existence
The man who’ll drive McCoy to an early grave (Jim’s just a few years too late to drive him to drink or to give him his first gray hairs)
Very likely the great love of McCoy’s life
Jim is all these things and so much more. Right now it’s the patient facet that concerns McCoy the most, and he tries without much success to banish all the other things from his mind as he rechecks Jim’s vitals. Everything looks good, or as good as can be expected, considering. Pulse is steady at 48 beats per minute; a little low, but not abnormal for Jim. Blood pressure looks good, and he’s breathing on his own. He should be waking up shortly.
And then what? McCoy thinks, his gaze sliding down Jim’s bruised arm to the lax fingers with their broken nails. On to the next mission, the next adventure. The next opportunity for Jim to play the hero and get himself seriously injured - or worse.
McCoy shakes his head. He didn’t sign up for this.
Didn’t you? a small voice, which sounds about two parts Jim and one part his ex-wife - which is completely weird - asks in an insinuating tone. You’re a doctor…
Yes, but one who prefers to keep his feet on solid earth, thank you.
…and a Starfleet officer…
Many of whom serve on and never leave terra firma.
But where’s the fun in that?
Okay, now the imaginary voice in McCoy’s head sounds entirely like Jim, which is admittedly less weird than the Jim-Jocelyn hybrid, but still damned annoying.
He’s tired. He’s been on his feet for a long time today: first hanging around the transporter room with Scotty, waiting for the away team’s return; then fighting to save Jim’s life in the OR; then checking on the less severely injured patients … consulting with the other medical personnel, then with Spock, who was Acting Captain while Jim lay unconscious; finally ending up back at Jim’s bedside, watching him breathe, occasionally brushing the hair that shadowed his brow.
It’s been a long day and he needs some sleep.
And a hot shower.
And a strong drink.
Preferably not in that order.
He manages to get about half of each. First there’s the sonic shower, which is effective and sometimes relaxing, but which - in McCoy’s considered opinion - doesn’t compare with a real, old-fashioned cascade of scalding water. Then there’s the finger of bourbon that he pours for himself, but only half-consumes before setting it down on his nightstand and flopping face-first onto his bed.
Hell, he thinks as he wraps his arms around his pillow, his own consciousness dissolving rapidly, I only have half my pajamas on…
Fortunately, it’s the bottom half, which spares him some embarrassment when Spock wakes him only four hours later. Not that McCoy is visible, but he’s always suspected that Spock somehow knows when he’s answering his comm in just a towel. Or in nothing at all. Or whatever. Jim thinks he’s crazy and it’s entirely possible that he’s right, but McCoy can’t shake the feeling. Spock’s uncanny. And he has those ears.
“What?” McCoy barks into the comm unit. “Damn it, I’m off-duty.”
“I am aware,” Spock says placidly, and McCoy can picture him standing with his feet shoulder-width apart, his hands clasped behind his back, one eyebrow cocked. “Forgive me for interrupting your sleep, Doctor, but there is a small matter I need to discuss with you.”
That doesn’t sound like it’s a medical emergency. Besides, if anything had happened to Jim or anyone else, someone in Sickbay would have alerted him, not Spock. McCoy rubs his forehead with the heel of his palm. “It couldn’t wait a few more hours?”
“Perhaps it could have,” Spock allows after a brief pause.
Is McCoy losing his mind, or does Spock sound slightly … playful? Better not to ask. Still, McCoy thinks, if this call turns out to be some sort of prank, Spock is going to find himself due for a whole battery of physical exams, much sooner than he’d probably like. Which he’d likely submit to without complaint, or any expression at all. Which would render the whole thing rather pointless. Ah, well.
“Doctor?” says Spock.
McCoy shakes himself. “Still here. What is it?”
“I have reviewed your most recent medical log entry-”
McCoy bristles.
Not that Spock doesn’t have the right, as First Officer, to go over just about everything the crew submits to Starfleet. Sometimes it’s actually good to have a second, arguably more objective assessing the situation. Though they’d seemed to be in agreement - or as close to agreement as they ever came - during the debriefing a few hours back. Damn it, if this is about some grammatical error McCoy made…
“…And I could not help noticing that your references to the captain were rather more … colorful than protocol dictates.”
“Huh?” Now McCoy’s confused. He was tired and angry when he made that log entry, but as far as he recalls… Oh, wait.
“Was it, for example, your intention to refer to the captain - three times - as ‘that reckless, unthinking little jerk’?” Coming from Spock, the words sound completely bizarre, like they’re part of a made up language.
For a few seconds McCoy simply lies there, blinking in the semi-darkness. Then groans wearily, “If you’re smirking-”
“I assure you, my expression is quite neutral.”
“Oh, is it?”
No response from Spock.
McCoy sighs and hangs his head. His uncombed hair flops down over his eyes. In annoyance, he flicks it away with the back of his hand. “Fine. Obviously, that’s not what I meant to write. Go ahead and change it. You have my permission. You didn’t need to ask, you know. And you certainly didn’t have to wake me up. I let my emotions get the better of me, blah blah, I’m going back to sleep.”
He starts to push the comm unit away but stops when Spock says in a low, measured tone, “Please do not take this the wrong way. I am concerned that your personal feelings for the captain may be undermining your professional objectivity.”
The words sink in slowly, which is odd because the chill that snakes up McCoy’s spine seems to come in a rush. He shivers and it’s a long moment before he can spit out, “Don’t take this the wrong way? Is there a right way to take a statement like that?”
“Yes,” Spock replies. “As a Starfleet officer.” A beat. “And as a friend.”
A friend? McCoy opens his mouth, but for some reason, the automatic retort just doesn't come. At a loss, he rolls over onto his back, draping his forearm across his eyes. Distantly, he hears himself say, "Oh."
"Indeed," Spock continues in that same bland tone. "Though I am sure you will take this as an insult, it is not intended to be one. Human emotions are complex, often needlessly so." He pauses, and again McCoy can picture him, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he considers his next words. "They complicate situations such as these."
"How profound," McCoy drawls.
"They put me in a difficult position as well," says Spock. "As captain of this ship, however temporarily, I should reprimand you. As your friend and Jim's, I am inclined to be more lenient. Seeing him hurt affects me as well. Knowing that you harbor some anger toward him … causes me consternation."
He's being so careful now, as he names his emotions. He's trying hard not to give too much away. McCoy can tell, despite the fact that they aren't even standing face to face. There's a part of him that wants to pounce and shout "Ah-ha!" But the desire is surprisingly weak, for once.
"I know it wasn't Jim's fault." The words trudge out of him, dragging their heels. This conversation has taken on a surreal quality, which makes McCoy wonder if he isn't actually dreaming it. "Our intelligence was flawed. We didn't know about the Orions. Couldn’t’ve known…” He lets his hand drop to his side and stares at the ceiling. “It’s nobody’s fault. Well, ‘cept the Orions, I guess.” Instead of the bulkhead, he sees Jim’s face, pale and bruised, his lower lip split and caked crusted with dried blood. He tries to feel angry - a part of him really wants to be angry with Jim because anger is his fuel - but he can’t. The emotion just isn’t there anymore.
Spock says, “You agree, then, that the captain is not, in fact, a ‘reckless, unthinking little jerk’?”
“No,” McCoy says bluntly, but without rancor. “But … not today.”
“Good,” says Spock, and it’s impossible to tell whether he’s pleased or not. “As I am sure you are aware, Jim will be waking up shortly. When he does, it is my hope that you will - to paraphrase Lieutenant Sulu - refrain from behaving in a manner typically associated with the male sexual organ.”
At that, McCoy snorts a laugh. “Don’t be a dick? Sure, Spock. For you.”
“Good night, Doctor.”
“Night, Spock.”
As he drops the comm unit back onto his nightstand, McCoy thoughtfully considers his Vulcan crewmate. Mister Spock is many things, including but not limited to:
An insufferable know-it-all
A walking, breathing computer
A real pain in the ass
The most alien member of the Enterprise crew (which includes a sentient rock, so you can imagine)
An emotionless (not really), logic-worshipping, coldly analytical block of ice
A good man to butt heads with
A good man to have on your side
All right, all right, a pretty good friend.
~*~
McCoy is there when Jim regains consciousness three hours later. He was dozing on and off in the chair beside Jim’s bio-bed, half-dreaming that Spock was lecturing him again, using only mangled colloquialisms from the early twenty-first century, but he snorts and comes fully awake when a slight movement from the bed catches his attention.
Jim’s eyelashes flutter, and his hand moves hesitantly across the thin blanket, like he’s seeking something. McCoy catches Jim’s hand and holds it, stroking the pad of his thumb gently across the knuckle, careful to avoid the IV line.
Jim’s cracked lips part in a half-smile. “Hey, Bones.” His voice is a whisper.
“Hey,” McCoy echoes, his own voice thick and heavy.
“Everyone make it out okay?”
“Yeah,” McCoy assures him, leaning close. “Nel suffered some minor burns, and Travers is off his feet with a busted ankle, but they’ll be fine. You took the worst of it. As usual,” he can’t help adding somewhat sourly.
“Had to get ‘em all out,” Jim says. “Knew you’d handle the rest.”
“Yeah, well…” McCoy looks away from Jim’s face for a moment. Squeezing his fingers, he says gruffly, “You have a lot of faith in my ability to bring you back from…” He can’t finish the sentence. “I mean,” he rushes on, hoping Jim’s too out of it to notice the way he faltered, “this time wasn’t so bad. You’ll be back on your feet in another day or two.”
Jim is quiet.
McCoy looks back at his face and sees the blue eyes watching him blearily.
“So, anyway,” McCoy continues after an awkward couple of beats, his cheeks flushing. “You’ll be right as rain. Are you thirsty? Got some water for you right here.” With his free hand, he starts to reach for the cup.
Jim lets himself be helped up to a sitting position, with McCoy’s arm supporting his shoulders. He really doesn’t have much choice in the matter. He doesn’t protest or even make any faces when the plastic straw is inserted gently between his lips; he simply takes three obedient sips and then closes his eyes, relaxing against McCoy.
He looks as if he’s gone to sleep again. McCoy knows he really hasn’t, but he’s still quiet and careful as he sets the cup of water down again and starts to ease Jim back against the pillows.
He almost jumps when Jim says in a weak, conversational tone, “So, how badly did you freak out this time?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re being way too nice. You obviously freaked out and feel guilty about it.”
“You’re deluded. You’re talkin’ outta your ass.”
“Go ahead, try to salvage your dignity. I hope it was epic. I hope it took the combined efforts of Scotty, Sulu, and a whole bottle of Kentucky’s finest to talk you down off your ledge this time.”
McCoy considers. “Actually, it was just Spock.”
Jim cracks an eyelid. “Really?”
“Swear to God.”
“Huh.” The faint smile returns.
“Jim-”
“Yeah?”
But McCoy doesn’t really have anything to say. For now, he’s over it. Jim is going to keep taking risks because that’s what he does. It’s what they all do; it’s their business, as Jim himself likes to say. And McCoy’s going to keep worrying, and putting him back together, and nagging him about the dangers of space exploration, because that’s what he does.
And Jim knows that. God damn him, he knows.
Because there’s nothing to say, McCoy kisses Jim’s forehead and strokes his hair. Jim makes a small, comfortable sound that wriggles against McCoy’s heart.
Leonard McCoy is, in no particular order:
Entirely predictable (apparently)
Overly emotional (which is not a bad thing, except when it is)
Overly invested
Bad at saying what he means and how he feels
A worrywart
A grouch
Prematurely old (thanks to one Jim Kirk)
Too far from home
Exactly where he belongs
Madly in love (emphasis on madly)
Not going anywhere.
6/3/2012