fic: Time to Go, Pike/Jim Kirk, PG13
Title: Time to Go
Author: waxbean
Gift recipient:
possibly_thrice
A/N: A pinch hit for Round #1 of the Trek_exchange!
Pairing, Rating & Genre: Pike/Jim Kirk; PG13 (pre-slash)
Summary: Written for this prompt: Pike's in therapy, and totally NOT getting along with his doctor (not Bones!) and then pretty much grabbing onto Kirk and going GET ME THE FUCK OUTTA HERE
"Tell me how you feel right now, Christopher."
Chris Pike doesn't roll his eyes. Just like he doesn't sigh. And he certainly doesn't tell the highly-regarded and equally highly-oblivious military psychologist with the old fashioned notebook how he feels right this goddamned second.
"I feel," Chris pauses, reconsidering his strategy, "frustrated." He pauses again, this time for effect, and allows himself the pleasure of thrumming his fingers against of the side of his leg. "But I know that being frustrated and even resentful is healthy. And that in the near future, all of this will be behind me."
It's not untrue, either, and that's the problem, Chris thinks. He is frustrated, he is resentful, and he could easily use a whole bunch of other ugly words. He's lost so much -- check that, so much has been stolen from him. His body, his mind, his ship. He wishes that he believed Dr. Kase's bullshit, though, that all of this anger is healthy, that soon it will be behind him. But he doesn't.
Dr. Kase smiles, putting down her notebook and pen, and Chris can almost taste the small victory of a shortened session. In this current horror that is his life, he'll take whatever victories he can get.
"Well, I think that's enough for today, don't you?"
Chris wants to scream, "Hell yes, it's enough," but he doesn't. He's learned. Eagerness to leave one of his required "mental rehabilitation" sessions is never rewarded. He takes a shallow breath and forces his lips into a friendly smile.
"Of course I defer to your opinion, Doctor, but perhaps I could use the remainder of our time in thoughtful meditation."
"What a wonderful idea, Christopher. I must say, I am so pleased with your progress. You've come so far in these last three months."
Chris swallows hateful words about the squandering of more than 12 weeks of his life. He broadens his smile. "I couldn't have done it without you, Dr. Kase."
Her expression falters for a second and Chris silently curses himself. Had the sarcasm seeped through? Will she now make him stay while she subjects him to further torture under the poorly-veiled guise of rehabilitation?
He needn't have worried. It was only the pity that she probably wasn't supposed to show. "Do you need help getting out of your chair?"
Not for the first time, Chris wonders if the person in charge of assessing his sanity and rehabilitation and consequently reporting them back to Starfleet stays current with his files. He's been able to walk, albeit with forearm crutches, for almost three weeks now. And he's certainly been able to get out of his own damn chair for longer than that.
"No, I can manage, Doctor. But thank you."
"Of course, of course, Christopher. I'll just be in my office should you need something." Dr. Kase regards him for a few seconds longer, her annoyingly beatific smile in place, before she finally turns to leave.
Chris doesn't move. She always comes back with some forgotten tidbit. He's sure she does it on purpose in an attempt to catalog post-session responses. This is one trick he's never been called out on -- he learned a similar tactic in his diplomacy classes.
Dr. Kase pops her head back through her office door. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I forgot to tell you. Your visitor arrived."
It takes considerable effort to mask his surprise. Vaguely, Chris remembers that it's Family Visitation Day, but Chris's family, the ones who might have cared anyway, are all dead.
There's really only one person who could pull it off because this place is about as easy to break into as a Ferengi vault. Chris smiles and nods his head because Dr. Kase is clearly waiting to catalog his official Response to a Family Member.
"Ah, my nephew. Yes, I've been looking forward to his visit."
"Yes, James. Such a gentleman."
****
James T. Pike, the only child of Admiral Christopher Pike's long-dead sister, or so he told a half a dozen robots masking for rehab doctors, paces back and forth along the long hall of the main visitation area. He's only been waiting for about fifteen minutes but he feels like it's been a week. Really, it has been a week since that last comm from Pike, so Jim doesn't beat himself up about the pacing.
Though Jim sends Pike regular correspondence, purposefully mixing both personal and professional issues, Pike never reciprocates. Jim always asks about Pike's rehab, but Pike keeps his pithy remarks to work issues, and on a good day, Starfleet's politics.
Thus, when Pike's last comm, dated one week ago today, closed with, "I hate it here," Jim couldn't ignore it. He showed it to Bones ("Anger's part of the healing process, no two ways about it. Give him more time."). He showed it Spock ("While I share your concern for Admiral Pike's well-being, Captain, he has not indicated that we should "spring him," as you put it."). He asked Uhura for her opinion ("Have you considered a face-to-face comm link? Kidnapping Starfleet Admirals is not going to help anyone."). He forwarded it to Sulu ("We could be there in one week, sir.") and Chekov ("I've placed a temporary file in their records indicating that Admiral Pike has a nephew.") and then Scotty ("Beaming from the shuttle to the surface will misdirect them long enough for us to get out of here with the Admiral.").
Now, decked out in civies (borrowed from someone in engineering because his own civies didn't pass muster, according to Gaila), Jim paces. He's got a tiny communicator in his pocket. Checkov and Scotty have repeatedly assured him that they can beam both him and Pike out of the 10x10 meter area of the visitation room without incident. Spock is waiting in the shuttle. Bones is, too. And at Jim's insistence, Bones has brought along the smallest tricorder Jim has ever seen ("Does this damn thing even work, Jim?" "You can't be poking that horrible one in his face, Bones!").
The plan is solid but Jim's still nervous. It's not about busting out a Starfleet Admiral from a mandated rehabilitation program, either. If he's honest with himself, it's because he isn't going to just bust Pike out. He's going to ask Pike if he wants to leave - with Jim, on the Enterprise. Jim's not naive about the aftermath of torture. No one on the command track is. This whole thing will spell a court martial hearing if Pike doesn't want to be rescued.
Jim sees Pike then. Pike is clearly struggling to walk with his crutches. Jim represses the urge to help him, to speed along his progress. Instead he stands his ground even though he feels helpless and awkward. But then the closer Pike gets, the less nervous Jim is. The determination is there - it's in each graceless thrust of Pike's legs, in the set of his jaw, in the brightness of his eyes. Pike wants out.
****
Some days Dr Laurina Kase loves her job. Surprisingly, this is turning out to be one of those days.
Admiral Christopher Pike's post-traumatic stress disorder treatment is one of the most difficult cases she's had in years. She watches him struggle with his anger, his resentment, his frustration. She sees him valiantly reclaim his legs, his mind, and his emotions. She knows he's accepting the things he won't get back, like his ship. She's treated enough captains to know that no one really wants to make Admiral. It's a lousy concession prize.
From her office, she watches the live-vid feed from the visitation hall. She's lucky the techs keep such an ancient camera in working condition since someone ("From that starship in geosynchronous," another doctor had helpfully suggested) is currently jamming all other electronic recording devices in this wing of the complex.
While she waits for Admiral Pike to come into view on the feed, she brings up his file. Her letter to Starfleet, clearing Pike for duty, has been ready for almost two weeks. She signs it with her clearance code, dates it, and sends it to Starfleet Medical Administration.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Pike's nephew, the thought of which makes her giggle, has stopped pacing. She's curious about what's going to happen next. Pike's talked about Captain James T. Kirk a number of times in his sessions. Plus, she knows that he's entered Kirk's name more than any other in every search field that he's had access to. What that all means remains a bit ambiguous, though. She's never got him to nail down his thoughts and feelings about Kirk. She suspects it's simply because Pike hasn't been ready for that particular task.
After meeting Kirk this morning (As if she wouldn't recognize him!), she's completely certain about how he feels. That one wears his heart on his sleeve, in fantastically bright colors with flashing lights. She smiles to herself because that doesn't necessarily mean that he knows how he feels. Hence, her curiosity -- Pike is ready to go, Kirk is ready to take him, but what else? What else are they ready for?
She sees Pike when he's about two meters away from Kirk. Kirk's been standing still, waiting. It might have looked awkward on anyone else - but not Kirk. She wishes she could hear them. She can see Kirk's face most clearly. He's speaking rather animatedly, gesturing now with both hands. Pike's nodding, and she can tell, even from this angle, that he's wearing that half-smile, half-smirk that she's only seen in the feeds from chess night in the main ward.
She's pretty sure that they're going to beam away any second now. She leans forward in her chair, watching the feed intently. She knows what she's waiting to see and she hopes that the two won't let her down.
Kirk pulls something out of his pocket, a communicator, she guesses. The security scan picked one up on him just before they all stopped working. Whatever it is, it's so tiny that she can't see it clearly. He brings it near his mouth. Then he reaches for Pike -- and this is it, this is what she's been most curious about ever since James T. Pike's entry showed up in Pike's file a week ago.
Kirk reaches for Pike and Pike leans into his touch. She knows that while they don't have to touch to beam, it'll be easier to lock on their coordinates if the person holding the communicator is touching the other person. But the touch doesn't have to be much -- and this, it's not quite a hug but it's definitely an embrace. Kirk's arms grip Pike harder than necessary and Pike's hands are definitively lingering on Kirk's forearms. There's nothing else. No kiss. No smoldering looks. But the potential is there, and now her curiosity is satisfied.
A few seconds more, and then she wishes them well as she watches the shimmery light show of their molecules dissipating in the transporter beam.
Author: waxbean
Gift recipient:
possibly_thrice
A/N: A pinch hit for Round #1 of the Trek_exchange!
Pairing, Rating & Genre: Pike/Jim Kirk; PG13 (pre-slash)
Summary: Written for this prompt: Pike's in therapy, and totally NOT getting along with his doctor (not Bones!) and then pretty much grabbing onto Kirk and going GET ME THE FUCK OUTTA HERE
"Tell me how you feel right now, Christopher."
Chris Pike doesn't roll his eyes. Just like he doesn't sigh. And he certainly doesn't tell the highly-regarded and equally highly-oblivious military psychologist with the old fashioned notebook how he feels right this goddamned second.
"I feel," Chris pauses, reconsidering his strategy, "frustrated." He pauses again, this time for effect, and allows himself the pleasure of thrumming his fingers against of the side of his leg. "But I know that being frustrated and even resentful is healthy. And that in the near future, all of this will be behind me."
It's not untrue, either, and that's the problem, Chris thinks. He is frustrated, he is resentful, and he could easily use a whole bunch of other ugly words. He's lost so much -- check that, so much has been stolen from him. His body, his mind, his ship. He wishes that he believed Dr. Kase's bullshit, though, that all of this anger is healthy, that soon it will be behind him. But he doesn't.
Dr. Kase smiles, putting down her notebook and pen, and Chris can almost taste the small victory of a shortened session. In this current horror that is his life, he'll take whatever victories he can get.
"Well, I think that's enough for today, don't you?"
Chris wants to scream, "Hell yes, it's enough," but he doesn't. He's learned. Eagerness to leave one of his required "mental rehabilitation" sessions is never rewarded. He takes a shallow breath and forces his lips into a friendly smile.
"Of course I defer to your opinion, Doctor, but perhaps I could use the remainder of our time in thoughtful meditation."
"What a wonderful idea, Christopher. I must say, I am so pleased with your progress. You've come so far in these last three months."
Chris swallows hateful words about the squandering of more than 12 weeks of his life. He broadens his smile. "I couldn't have done it without you, Dr. Kase."
Her expression falters for a second and Chris silently curses himself. Had the sarcasm seeped through? Will she now make him stay while she subjects him to further torture under the poorly-veiled guise of rehabilitation?
He needn't have worried. It was only the pity that she probably wasn't supposed to show. "Do you need help getting out of your chair?"
Not for the first time, Chris wonders if the person in charge of assessing his sanity and rehabilitation and consequently reporting them back to Starfleet stays current with his files. He's been able to walk, albeit with forearm crutches, for almost three weeks now. And he's certainly been able to get out of his own damn chair for longer than that.
"No, I can manage, Doctor. But thank you."
"Of course, of course, Christopher. I'll just be in my office should you need something." Dr. Kase regards him for a few seconds longer, her annoyingly beatific smile in place, before she finally turns to leave.
Chris doesn't move. She always comes back with some forgotten tidbit. He's sure she does it on purpose in an attempt to catalog post-session responses. This is one trick he's never been called out on -- he learned a similar tactic in his diplomacy classes.
Dr. Kase pops her head back through her office door. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I forgot to tell you. Your visitor arrived."
It takes considerable effort to mask his surprise. Vaguely, Chris remembers that it's Family Visitation Day, but Chris's family, the ones who might have cared anyway, are all dead.
There's really only one person who could pull it off because this place is about as easy to break into as a Ferengi vault. Chris smiles and nods his head because Dr. Kase is clearly waiting to catalog his official Response to a Family Member.
"Ah, my nephew. Yes, I've been looking forward to his visit."
"Yes, James. Such a gentleman."
****
James T. Pike, the only child of Admiral Christopher Pike's long-dead sister, or so he told a half a dozen robots masking for rehab doctors, paces back and forth along the long hall of the main visitation area. He's only been waiting for about fifteen minutes but he feels like it's been a week. Really, it has been a week since that last comm from Pike, so Jim doesn't beat himself up about the pacing.
Though Jim sends Pike regular correspondence, purposefully mixing both personal and professional issues, Pike never reciprocates. Jim always asks about Pike's rehab, but Pike keeps his pithy remarks to work issues, and on a good day, Starfleet's politics.
Thus, when Pike's last comm, dated one week ago today, closed with, "I hate it here," Jim couldn't ignore it. He showed it to Bones ("Anger's part of the healing process, no two ways about it. Give him more time."). He showed it Spock ("While I share your concern for Admiral Pike's well-being, Captain, he has not indicated that we should "spring him," as you put it."). He asked Uhura for her opinion ("Have you considered a face-to-face comm link? Kidnapping Starfleet Admirals is not going to help anyone."). He forwarded it to Sulu ("We could be there in one week, sir.") and Chekov ("I've placed a temporary file in their records indicating that Admiral Pike has a nephew.") and then Scotty ("Beaming from the shuttle to the surface will misdirect them long enough for us to get out of here with the Admiral.").
Now, decked out in civies (borrowed from someone in engineering because his own civies didn't pass muster, according to Gaila), Jim paces. He's got a tiny communicator in his pocket. Checkov and Scotty have repeatedly assured him that they can beam both him and Pike out of the 10x10 meter area of the visitation room without incident. Spock is waiting in the shuttle. Bones is, too. And at Jim's insistence, Bones has brought along the smallest tricorder Jim has ever seen ("Does this damn thing even work, Jim?" "You can't be poking that horrible one in his face, Bones!").
The plan is solid but Jim's still nervous. It's not about busting out a Starfleet Admiral from a mandated rehabilitation program, either. If he's honest with himself, it's because he isn't going to just bust Pike out. He's going to ask Pike if he wants to leave - with Jim, on the Enterprise. Jim's not naive about the aftermath of torture. No one on the command track is. This whole thing will spell a court martial hearing if Pike doesn't want to be rescued.
Jim sees Pike then. Pike is clearly struggling to walk with his crutches. Jim represses the urge to help him, to speed along his progress. Instead he stands his ground even though he feels helpless and awkward. But then the closer Pike gets, the less nervous Jim is. The determination is there - it's in each graceless thrust of Pike's legs, in the set of his jaw, in the brightness of his eyes. Pike wants out.
****
Some days Dr Laurina Kase loves her job. Surprisingly, this is turning out to be one of those days.
Admiral Christopher Pike's post-traumatic stress disorder treatment is one of the most difficult cases she's had in years. She watches him struggle with his anger, his resentment, his frustration. She sees him valiantly reclaim his legs, his mind, and his emotions. She knows he's accepting the things he won't get back, like his ship. She's treated enough captains to know that no one really wants to make Admiral. It's a lousy concession prize.
From her office, she watches the live-vid feed from the visitation hall. She's lucky the techs keep such an ancient camera in working condition since someone ("From that starship in geosynchronous," another doctor had helpfully suggested) is currently jamming all other electronic recording devices in this wing of the complex.
While she waits for Admiral Pike to come into view on the feed, she brings up his file. Her letter to Starfleet, clearing Pike for duty, has been ready for almost two weeks. She signs it with her clearance code, dates it, and sends it to Starfleet Medical Administration.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Pike's nephew, the thought of which makes her giggle, has stopped pacing. She's curious about what's going to happen next. Pike's talked about Captain James T. Kirk a number of times in his sessions. Plus, she knows that he's entered Kirk's name more than any other in every search field that he's had access to. What that all means remains a bit ambiguous, though. She's never got him to nail down his thoughts and feelings about Kirk. She suspects it's simply because Pike hasn't been ready for that particular task.
After meeting Kirk this morning (As if she wouldn't recognize him!), she's completely certain about how he feels. That one wears his heart on his sleeve, in fantastically bright colors with flashing lights. She smiles to herself because that doesn't necessarily mean that he knows how he feels. Hence, her curiosity -- Pike is ready to go, Kirk is ready to take him, but what else? What else are they ready for?
She sees Pike when he's about two meters away from Kirk. Kirk's been standing still, waiting. It might have looked awkward on anyone else - but not Kirk. She wishes she could hear them. She can see Kirk's face most clearly. He's speaking rather animatedly, gesturing now with both hands. Pike's nodding, and she can tell, even from this angle, that he's wearing that half-smile, half-smirk that she's only seen in the feeds from chess night in the main ward.
She's pretty sure that they're going to beam away any second now. She leans forward in her chair, watching the feed intently. She knows what she's waiting to see and she hopes that the two won't let her down.
Kirk pulls something out of his pocket, a communicator, she guesses. The security scan picked one up on him just before they all stopped working. Whatever it is, it's so tiny that she can't see it clearly. He brings it near his mouth. Then he reaches for Pike -- and this is it, this is what she's been most curious about ever since James T. Pike's entry showed up in Pike's file a week ago.
Kirk reaches for Pike and Pike leans into his touch. She knows that while they don't have to touch to beam, it'll be easier to lock on their coordinates if the person holding the communicator is touching the other person. But the touch doesn't have to be much -- and this, it's not quite a hug but it's definitely an embrace. Kirk's arms grip Pike harder than necessary and Pike's hands are definitively lingering on Kirk's forearms. There's nothing else. No kiss. No smoldering looks. But the potential is there, and now her curiosity is satisfied.
A few seconds more, and then she wishes them well as she watches the shimmery light show of their molecules dissipating in the transporter beam.