FIC: If We Lived And Were Good (Part 1/4)
Chris had never stopped looking.
It'd been twenty-four years since George died, a blaze of light in the sky, and Chris had never forgotten Jim and Sam.
Jim wasn't easy to find. Chris had tracked the boy across the quadrants, stopping at dive bars and holes in the walls, looking. It was a stroke of luck that they'd both ended up at the Red Shirt that night, but it wasn't entirely unexpected. Chris had watched as the kid started the fight, watched as he started to lose, and fought off the guys who had Jim pinned. Then he calmly lifted the punch-drunk kid from the floor, tossed him over his shoulder and left. No one stopped him. They were mostly slavers themselves, Chris knew their types. They assumed he'd beaten them to some merchandise.
They couldn't have been more wrong.
Jim had spent the next week in the med bay of Enterprise, slowly detoxing under Boyce's watchful eye.
On the seventh day, Jim had looked Chris in the face and seemed lucid for the first time.
"I'm not gonna be your whore," the kid had growled, looking exhausted and angry.
"I don't want a whore," Chris replied, biting back a smile. "I want James T. Kirk."
"Winona doesn't pay ransoms."
"I don't want a ransom."
Jim had looked at him then, really looked at him. The silence had stretched out to where a normal person might have been uncomfortable. And then kept it going.
Finally, the kid spoke again. "So, who the fuck are you?"
Chris smiled, wide and easy. "They call me George Lowther."
"Bullshit. George Lowther isn't a graying old man, I've seen pictures."
"Of course you have," Chris said. "You've seen pictures of the man who they think is George Lowther. But here's a secret, and I'm going to trust you because by the time we're done you won't want to tell; there have been, to date, four George Lowthers. And if you let me, I'm going to make you number five."
Jim snorted. "Me? Who the fuck do you think I am?"
"Your father's son."
"My father was an idiot who transported himself and a load of hydrogen explosives onto a ship, and the Trader's Guild thinks he's a hero for it."
"Your father was the best captain I ever had."
"Who are you?" Jim's eyes were narrowed to slits. "When you're not Lowther."
"That," Chris said, rising from Jim's side, "is the big question." Chris started to leave, the non-answer lying heavy in the air. He hesitated at the door, expecting Jim to call him back. To the kid's credit, he was staring at the ceiling, not watching Chris leave.
"You can look through the rosters of Kelvin, if you want, but that's a loser's game. You should prove you're a worthy replacement, and earn the answer."
He turned again, actually intending to leave this time, when the kid's voice called him back.
"I remember you. You're Pike. George's old pilot. Helped him kill himself. You used to sniff around my m- around Winona, when I was a kid. You left before she left us with the Asshole."
Chris nodded. "Good memory."
"I haven't seen you since I was six."
"Time to fix that, kid." Chris said, grinning. This was actually going better than he had planned. "We're gonna spend a lot of time together."
---
Jim was a hard worker, once he accepted the idea that someday this would all be his. The name Lowther had been active for more than 30 years, and people tended to quake when Enterprise entered their orbit. Jim liked the attention, he liked the power. He didn't like the idea of being called George on a daily basis, but he could live with it for the time it would take to build his fortune. Chris had been looking for his replacement for a long time, and Jim was definitely the right man for the job.
Chris had built a name in his time, partially by running a fair crew, partially by staging assaults on Fleet headquarters. They knew he was Lowther and they couldn't prove it, so every year or so, he'd let them catch him, let his favorite Admiral, Number One, interview him for a few hours, and then stage a daring escape. Jim was pretty sure Pike was suicidal for it, but they planned one of these runs out for the two of them, planned it to officially end Chris's career.
After 18 months of working together, they discharged the crew and hired on a new one. Chris still hadn't told Jim where he'd be retiring to, or the exact nature of their frontal assault on Starfleet, but he would. There was time. There should have been time.
They'd needed to shanghai the doctor, which is always a negative, but the man quickly realized that he was on a good ship, with a good crew and a captain who had the potential to be great.
Jim also started sleeping with him, and the head nurse, which Chris thought was a little stupid.
"Troikas are more stable, Dad," Jim huffed when Chris explained his feelings. Jim had started calling Chris "dad" when he was angry, or hurt, or just really happy. So, most of the time. "And as a couple, no combination of us would work. Christine and I need Bones to keep us grounded. Bones and I need Christine to mediate us. And they need me to be the pretty one."
Chris rolled his eyes. "I'm just saying, it's a bad-"
"What do you know?" Jim snapped, tired of the calm judgment. "When's the last time you had a relationship?"
To his credit, Chris didn't backhand the little shit. "I'm having a baby," he shot back. "So I think I know a fair bit about-" Chris lost the steam of his anger when Jim's face crumpled.
"A baby? But- why do you-"
Chris pulled Jim into a tight hug. "It wasn't planned. But she's pregnant and in about seven months, I'm going to have a baby."
Jim nodded dumbly. "And who is she?"
The Big Reveal. Chris had been dreading this. In truth, he almost didn't know how it had happened, how he and Number One had ended up as expectant parents. Logic dictated that the quadrant's most wanted pirate shouldn't fall for the woman running the hunt for him. But she was fierce and beautiful and she broke his nose the first time he stole a kiss in one of his snatch-and-grab runs to headquarters. He didn't see how he could not love her.
It was complicated. It was so, so complicated. One wasn't just the woman who was hunting Chris, she was the woman who hunted Winona, and by extension Jim and Sam, through the first 16 years of Jim's life. Jim hated her more than his former step father, the man Chris left with a hole in his head, dying in a ditch on Rukbat III after Jim told him what the bottom-dweller had done to him.
But Jim asked, and Chris had never not answered one of Jim's questions. "It's- Jim, it's Number One."
Jim got up and left the room, back straight and fist balled at his sides. It wasn't theatrical, it was quiet and painful and all Chris could do was watch him leave. They'd had this crew for two months and Chris might have just ruined everything he had built with Jim.
---
Chris lay on the bed in an out of the way hotel on an out of the way planet, trying to figure out exactly what the fuck he was doing.
Number One was stretched next to him, close but not touching. She wasn't a snuggler - neither of them was. After sex, she said, her body felt raw and overworked, and she needed a moment, an hour, a lifetime, to come back to herself, some time to not be about him.
He respected that.
But it was morning, and she was leaving.
This had been going on for a long time, now. Nearly fifteen years since he met her, ten since they started - whatever this was.
It wasn't easy. It had never been easy, and it wasn't going to get easy, so Chris told himself to fucking deal.
But the fact remained that he was George Lowther, and she was the agent in charge of catching him and they were sleeping together and he loved her and she loved him. And it was easy to forget it all, in the throes of sweat and skin and passion, but it was there, the complexities burning just under the love, love like a plasma fire. It ate the air from the room, leaving noting for him to breathe but her.
He kinda loved it. Complications and all.
She stirred and turned over to look at him, sleep clouding her eyes. He reached a hand out to caress her cheek, still trying to get a handle on the idea that this was real, this was happening, this was his. She laid a kiss on the heel of his hand, and slowly stretched, stood and walked to the bathroom. They weren't going to be able to meet again until the capture, and Chris hated himself a little, for leaving the Fleet, for living in this universe, for loving someone when it was so hard to be together.
And then there was Jim.
They had been planning a long time, Chris and One, that she would come and take him away from his life of crime, that they'd go live somewhere with a sky and stars and raise horses. He'd had her pick the place last night, going through pictures and files until he had five candidates, and asking her to choose the winner. She'd picked a ranch called Yorktown and secretly, he had rejoiced. It was his favorite, too, and now it could be theirs. He was wealthy enough for retirement, and she was tired of the cruelty and hypocrisy that ran rampant through the Fleet.
When Chris had found Jim, when he named him as heir, the pieces seemed to be coming together. One was laying the framework for their capture, getting closer each time, and Chris was getting just that much sloppier. They'd talked "Giant Slayer" Giotto into playing along, taking the reward and fucking off when he was done.
But Jim.
Jim trusted Chris, the way babies and puppies trust. The way Chris remembered trusting his mother, with warmth and sweetness. And Chris was lying about where he was, what he was doing, all of it. He hated lying to Jim.
They'd be setting out in a few days, his triumphant return to the name he'd abandoned 13 years ago, becoming Chris Pike, first officer to a young hotshot called George Lowther. This was the last time Lowther would ship out, though Jim didn't know that yet.
He would, he would know all of it, and soon.
But for now, Chris eased his aching body off the bed and padded silently over to the bathroom, over to One, and wrapped his arms around her as she brushed her teeth.
"I love you," he whispered, still shocked that she managed to make the very mundane acts of everyday life stunning and vivid just by living them. He laid a kiss on her neck, and she leaned forward to spit, purposefully rolling her hips against him.
This was so hard.
And it was so worth it.
---
The baby was a girl. Jim hated that it was a girl but he thought he would hate it more if the baby was a boy.
A girl he could live with. If he had to.
---
Two months before the scheduled attack on Fleet headquarters, three months after Jim found out about Number One, he and Chris had a meeting to discuss the details. There weren't many; they'd rendezvous with "Giant Slayer" Giotto, be ferried to Earth where Giotto would collect the reward, they would hang out with some Admirals and be tortured for a few days, and then Giant Slayer would pick them up and take them back to Enterprise with Number One in tow and dead admirals in their wake.
They'd also be retiring the Lowther name.
Jim agreed that if you're going to go out, you have to go out big. But parts of this, big parts, were scary and bad, and he couldn't control them.
"My allergies," he asked Pike. "They dose me with the wrong thing, feed me something bad, and it's not even worth it."
Chris smiled. "It won't happen. One has the list, and they'll do a full workup once they know who you are. Have to be in top shape if you're going to give them the information they want before they kill you."
"This is a terrible idea," Jim sighed, not for the first time.
"We're prepared, son. We're prepared and we've got multiple ways out. We kill Barnett, Komack, and Archer and no one will ever confuse you with George Kirk ever again. Or George Lowther. People will know you for who you are."
Jim nodded and fiddled with the PADD in his lap. "I wish Sam were here."
"Me too."
"You know where he is?"
Pike shook his head sadly. Finding Jim had been hard, but not impossible. Finding Sam- well, Sam had run away when he was 14, and disappeared somewhere around Vulcan, working on a freighter. The trail just went cold, and Chris had never been able to find him. But he had Jim, and most days, that was more than enough.
---
The plan was simple, Jim knew it and Chris knew it. The problem was mostly that they were supposed to rendezvous with the Giant Slayer the next day and Jim couldn't sleep.
He was tucked securely between Christine and Bones, one of her small hands twined in his, and one of Bones' arms thrown protectively across his torso.
In retrospect, he should have told them sooner.
Jim couldn't help but feel this was all Pike's fault; the plan had been for Jim to be captain for a year or two before they pulled this, but then Pike got that woman pregnant, and it was all downhill.
You know she has a brand, Jimmy? It's the shape of a number one. If she ever catches us, she'll brand us, and make us her slaves.
Jim knew, in his grown-up mind, Sam had just been making noise, that One was harmless to him. But a small part of him, the part that would always be a scared 11-year-old hiding from his stepfather, still thought she might be lurking under the bed with various implements of torture.
He'd spoken with her twice over secure channels, talked about the plan and Pike and the kid. What he hadn't done was ask the questions he wanted to, like "Why did you stop chasing us?" That was the big one. He remembered hearing on the feeds that the Fleet was calling off the manhunt for Winona, remembered being swept into a tearful hug. But he didn't know why and he still didn't trust it.
The other big question, the one Jim thought One knew the answer to, was "Where is Sam?" But he knew that Pike must have asked, knew that Pike still scanned every feed and monitored most of the comm channels for mention of George Samuel Kirk, Jr. But there was nothing, and the silence hurt more than any bar fight ever did.
The One that Jim remembered, the nightmare of his childhood, was a harpy and a harridan who burned numbers into her victim's front doors when she took them, and their flesh once she had them. He spent years coming home from school, terrified that he'd find his family gone, the only calling card a telltale numeral.
And if it never happened, well, that didn't make it any easier to deliver himself to her.
Christine had cried, when he told her what he was doing. Bones had looked furious and terrified and annoyed, which is something Jim would never entirely understand, the way Bones could feel all those things at the same time. But he did, and he wore it all over his face.
"No, Jim," Bones had said, shaking his head. Jim had told them who he really was early in their relationship, when he realized exactly how weird it was going to be to have them call him George in bed. "No."
But Christine, eyes watering, had taken Bones' hands. "He has to. Look at him. He has to."
Jim just sat, palms sweaty on his knees, waiting for them to decide they didn't want to put up with this. Bones snorted, but then turned and leaned into Jim, pressing their mouths together in a kiss that could only be called possessive.
"You come back to us, you hear?" Christine said, as Bones pulled back. "If you don't we will break into headquarters and drag you back. And you won't like it." She smiled, though the tears were still running down her cheeks, and leaned in to kiss Jim's forehead. "We need you."
Jim found himself surprised. He knew why he needed them, why he needed their brilliance and their caring and all the rest. But he'd never thought too hard about why they needed him. Bones, always freakishly perceptive, read the look on his face and laughed weakly.
"Because you keep us fun, Jim. Without you, Christine and I would be serious all the time. We need you to remind us to be alive."
Jim smiled then, and finally looked up. "So can we have please-don't-die sex?"
Bones barked a short laugh. "Jesus, kid. You got no damper on your libido, do you?" But he was stripping, and pushing Jim onto the bed, and Christine was kissing him and Bones was inside him with Christine beneath him, each stroke of the other man propelling Jim into her, hot and close and, unbidden, a thought crested in Jim's mind, This is love.
But he didn't say it. He knew better than to scare Christine and Bones with thoughts of love and forever and all the rest of that sentimental pap because Christine had run from Earth rather than have it, and Bones had lost it and love or not, Jim wasn't going to ruin it with these two.
So when Christine panted and whined beneath him, short spasms of yes and Jim and please he kissed her rather than say the words, and when Bones stiffened and came, if he muttered "Ours, all ours" against the back of Jim's neck, well, then it was love, and it was okay.
---
Jim was sleeping fitfully when Christine awoke, thoughts of Roger Korby and the flight from Earth and the months of uncertainty before Enterprise and Jim and Leonard falling from her mind as she floated back to reality. It was early - the chronometer read 0424 - and she was wrapped around Jim in a way that was quickly becoming sweaty and uncomfortable. She stirred and stretched, freeing her sleeping right arm from under Jim's shoulders and padded to the bathroom to relieve her aching bladder.
She noticed Leonard when she returned, lying still on Jim's right, staring into the ceiling.
"Leonard?" she whispered, afraid to wake her sleeping captain.
"Hey, darlin'," he smiled, sleep and accent warring for dominance in his voice.
"Can I tell you something?" She slid into his side of the bed, and he pulled her down into a tight embrace.
"Anything."
"I think I- I think I love him," she buried her face in Leonard's chest, embarrassed that she didn't realize it before Jim was going off to be brave and stupid and probably dead.
Leonard stroked her hair softly, his long fingers twining through her curls. "I know, me too."
She stiffened a little then, and he chuckled, feeling her move against him.
"And me?" She didn't want to ask, but Christine was apparently a masochist in more than a sexual way.
"I ain't gonna say, 'Course I love you, you handful,' if that's what you want. You think I could say that?"
She shook her head, feeling a sob well up in her throat.
"But if I could say it, I would. You- you and Trouble there- are the best things that've happened to me since Jo was born."
Christine nodded, the hair of his chest scratchy against her cheek.
"And I don't want him to go any more than you do."
She smiled then, breathing in the smell of sweat and her boys off Leonard's skin, and looked up at him. "We could tie him to the bed."
"Or break his legs."
"Or hide all his pants."
A low groan sounded next to them, and Jim rolled over, his blue eyes sparkling. "Yes on the first one, no on the second, and you think taking my pants would stop me?"
Against her will, Christine laughed. Leonard scowled.
"How long you been listening?"
"Long enough to know you both love me," he whispered, scooting closer to the two of them.
"And what if we do?"
"I love you, too. I love you two. I just didn't want to scare you away."
This time it was Leonard's turn to laugh. "You couldn't, kid, not in a million years."
---
The problem with morning is that is always came, whether Jim wanted it to or not.
And the problem with a secret mission was that there was no reason for Christine and Leonard to follow Jim to the transporter room for goodbyes, so instead they sat in his quarters in silence, not saying all the things begging to be said.
---
The feeds started covering the approach of the Coronet when it was six hours out from Earth, after he'd been onboard for a day and a half. They were all abuzz with the idea of Lowther, the George Lowther, finally coming into Fleet custody.
Jim didn't know if he wanted to laugh or cry or vomit.
He chose vomit. Pike was there, rubbing his back as he heaved nothing into the bowl.
"I'm not ready," Jim sighed shakily, when he was sure his stomach was free of mucus and bile, that his body couldn't find anything else to expel. "This is a bad idea."
Pike hummed, low in this throat, and sat on the floor next to him.
"All the best ideas are bad ideas, son." Jim hated him in that moment, hated him more than he ever hated Frank or Number One or Winona or Sam. "But we're building a world. Your little sister - we named her, Emily Kestra - Emily is gonna grow up in a world without those bastards who chased you across half the galaxy."
Jim heaved again, air and misery, at the thought of that baby. Number One was seven months along, huge and glowing. And they chose a name.
"Christine's going to cry," he rasped, his throat burning, and Pike stood to get him water. "When they see the feeds, Christine is going to cry."
He and Pike were both rough looking, as self-respecting pirates should be when they were captured. Rope burn circled their wrists, and both sported bruised faces and bodies and unevenly shaved heads. Pike had a lovely set of chipped teeth, and Jim would soon be sporting a broken arm. Giotto had promised him that. But Christine was going to cry, seeing her Golden Boy in pieces.
Pike handed Jim the glass of water and settled down again. "Rinse your mouth out," he ordered. "And Christine has McCoy. He'll take care of her."
Jim didn't ask who would take care of him, but he thought it. Hard.
---
Chris had done his best to prepare Jim, explaining the Admirals and their proclivities; Archer and his knives, Komack and his drugs, One and her calm, unwavering questioning, Barnett and the brutal beatings.
But Jim wasn't ready. Jim was letting his nerves win, and it looked pathetic.
They stood on the transporter pad, preparing to go down to their little adventure, and Chris was worried that Jim was gonna puke again. The kid looked wrecked. Not that Chris looked better, but the pale sliver of bone peeking through the skin of Jim's broken arm was brutal and he was starting to hyperventilate.
Well, you have to do what you have to do. Chris signaled Giotto's heavy to hold off on the handcuffs, hauled back, and slapped Jim across the face, as hard as he could.
"THE FUCK?" Jim roared, turning on Chris.
"Good, you're angry. Stay angry," Chris nodded at the goon, placing his hands behind his back. "They're gonna hurt you, they're going to get psychological. We talked about that. But you stay angry, and they can't crawl under your skin, hear me? Let them work you up, and you lose. The only way to win-"
"-is not to play," Jim finished. "I know." Chris nodded, and felt a rush of relief as Jim straightened his posture and seemed a little more himself for a moment. Chris was almost sure he saw a smile playing across his lips. "I'm gonna do a back flip," Jim murmured. "On the feeds, while being escorted."
Chris smiled, too. "You do that, son. You do that."
Twenty-five minutes later, being frog marched into Fleet HQ by Giotto himself, Jim did his back flip. Chris, to his great credit, didn't laugh.
---
Jim hurt. Every part of him hurt. The first thing they did when they brought him in was heal all his hurts, and set about giving him new ones. They'd worked him over six or seven times, and all he'd done was swear and insult and bleed. He bled a lot. Archer had cut off his thumbs - one for insisting his name was Inigo Montoya, one for asking if Archer fucked anything besides beagles. They'd asked him, over and over, who George Lowther was. He gave all the names he could think of, until Archer produced an actual hot poker and threatened to burn his tongue out if he wouldn't talk. Then Jim had given his own name, and Archer had smiled.
"Good boy, Jimmy."
Jim, crouched on all fours where they'd dropped him, spat blood at the Admiral's feet. "Why do you care? Isn't it enough to have George Kirk's son?"
"You don't get it, do you?" Archer smiled, and Jim thought it was more a bearing of teeth than anything with warmth. "You, Mr. Kirk, are a pirate. Your father was a pirate, your mother probably still is a pirate. You rob people. You kill people. You rape and pillage. Me? I'm the good guy."
"I never raped anyone and I never killed anyone who didn't deserve it."
"Isn't that nice for you?" Archer was still grinning his predator's grin. "Meanwhile I uphold the peace and I sleep soundly at night-" he stopped to kick Jim in the stomach "-knowing that the people I love are safe from you."
They'd patched Jim up half-heartedly then, and thrown him back in his cell, still seeping blood from the poor job they did on his thumbs, told him he could have water if he begged. So he begged for a blowjob until some anonymous Fleeter came and kicked him in the face. He'd had a nice nap then, but then he woke up and he hurt.
They left him his PADD, and weakly, he reached out and tapped up one of the messages he knew Pike recorded ahead of time. The familiar, worn face filled his screen, a tired smile and blue eyes.
"I ever tell you how I met your dad?" Pike's voice warmed Jim, and the idea of the story caused a weak smile to break across his face. "I didn't have shit to my name once I ran off from the Fleet. Made it out to Cygnet XIV, figured I could find some work at the docks or something. I had the flight training, one thing I can thank the Fleet for. But I had no real proof or references, I was young, and the Fleet had put out a notice on me.
"My third month there, I'm barely scraping by and your dad and his ship passed through. Your mom and dad were finishing a deal in this bar I frequented, cheap back alley place. They were getting payout for some job or another. A fight broke out, bad one, the owner ran all kinds of dangerous shit. We all ended up behind the bar and George passes me an extra phaser.'Think you can handle it kid?' I nailed a guy to show I could." Pike laughed warmly, and Jim laughed with him, wishing he could have seen them, young and alive and vibrant. "We all fought for a bit. Then I showed them the best way out before the patrols came. We managed to make it out with the cash.
"So we laughed like hell and ended up on a roof drinking crap gin. We talked for a couple hours and before they left your dad leans in and says,'0900, dock 6, you're gonna show me if you can fly as well as you say, stud.' So after about 2 hours of sleep, still buzzed mind you, I show up and he put me through the paces. Rest is history."
Jim laughed weakly. Pike always was a shit storyteller, but still, the presence in his cell was better than water. And that was good, because it would be a long time before he would have anything like comfort.
---
Jonathan Archer was proud a few things in his life.
He was proud of the work he'd done to make the Fleet what it was when he was a young man, shipping out on one of the first ships to see the galaxy. He was proud of the capture and execution of Jacques Moineau, the first Fleeter to go rogue, the man who founded the fucking Guild. He was proud of the son he and Komack had raised, the man he had become as he aged.
But catching James Kirk, getting him to admit to years of piracy and murder and mayhem? That was the crown jewel in a glittering life. All he needed was a conviction for Pike and the location of Winona, and Archer knew he could retire as a happy man.
It was all so close.
---
Jim was high as a fucking starship. In the days after, when he'd healed and recouped and all that, Jim would remember what he frantically tapped into the PADD, and laugh at the half-remembered verses of "The Jabberwocky" and conversations with the floor. But in the moment, it was all manic energy and frantic heartbeats and trying to keep his lungs steady. They'd had a few sessions where Archer had carved words into his stomach, "GEORGE" and "PIRATE" and worse. Erasing every time until he settled on "SCUM" and every time Jim looked down he saw their seething hatred staring back up. He'd laughed at Archer, who took his ear in retribution.
It hurt, it hurt like a blade of fire, and Jim screamed his agony through a raw throat as the skin parted and tendons tore. Jim felt sick as blood began to gush down his cheek and neck, felt the sobs well up as Archer tenderly - a mockery of tenderness, a farce of caring - brushed gauze to the gaping wound and tossed his ear on the ground.
Jim was reeling in the sickening squelch his flesh made when, swiftly, Archer brought the cauterizer up to the hole in the side of Jim's head.
To his credit, Jim didn't black out when he smelled his own flesh burning. He took deep breaths, and he tried to remember what Pike told him, about visualizing.
The beach on Omicron Theta. Building a sandcastle with Christine, laughing at Bones, who's under the umbrella, scowling and muttering about freckles. He's fully dressed - a pair of khaki Bermuda shorts and a t-shirt that has the name of some drug. It's dusky green, and he looks beautiful. Dark zinc sunblock on his nose.
Christine is wearing that sweet blue bikini, more thread than fabric. In a minute, she'll tackle Jim into the surf and command him to make out with her like a music video.
When night falls, Bones'll start a fire, and he'll grill peaches over it, and chicken, and bake potatoes in the ashes. Best meal of Kirk's life.
And they'll watch the galaxy move through the sky after that, while the fire dies, holding on to each other. They won't even bother to have sex, they'll just be close, and in love.
It doesn't help a lot, but at least he can pretend that the burning is sunlight, that the pain is rocks, and that he has two people who love him, people who want to see him again, and eat grilled peaches on a beach on Omicron Theta.
---
Komack's men had brought him food. Real food, a fucking hamburger. Food he could eat. The first food he'd had in two days, or maybe six hours. He didn't even think about it, he just ate.
It took almost no time for him to realize the mistake, realize he'd been dosed. The floor had started telling him secrets, which seemed uncharacteristic for a floor, and his fingers got numb. So he did what Pike said he should, what he'd been prepared for. He jogged in place, he moved. He tried to burn through it. He was starting to feel normal, he guessed it was somewhere between 15 minutes and an hour later - time was weird in that place, so weird - when the videos started.
The whispers started first, low and cruel. Just the suggestions of voices. And then the walls started flickering.
Soon enough, Jim was huddled on the floor, trying not to hear his mother laugh while Pike was beaten on one wall, and the other three showed clips from various high-profile pirate executions. He was trying to tune it out, he really was. Trying and failing.
It should have been a relief when it stopped. But Jim was too smart - or too dumb - to trust it.
Archer came and kicked him in the ribs a bit, but Jim was finding he cared less and less. If the steel toes cracked bones, if breathing was fucking agony, who gave a shit? Eventually it would be over. They'd kill him, and he'd be able to rest, be able to breathe without being stabbed with every gasp.
"Goodbye."
Jim looked up. The voice had echoed in his small cell, but there was no source. More games, then.
"Goodbye."
It was a familiar voice.
"Hello, boys. And, I guess, goodbye."
This time the whole phrase. And then, sickeningly, an explosion.
Oh. Oh.
The walls flickered to life and there, surrounded by explosives on a transporter pad, was George S. Kirk, Sr. He smiled, and Jim retched, the drugged hamburger reemerging as a puddle on the floor. "Hello, boys. And, I guess, goodbye." And the display flared and whited out.
Over. And. Over.
Jim lost count of how many times his father died before he couldn't take it anymore. "Turn it off!" He was screaming at no one, his fractured ribs burning with the effort, but he knew he was being watched. The stink of his own vomit, the sour bile in his mouth and the feeling of a thousand eyes on him seemed to crawl all over his skin with soft spider feet while his father became stardust on every wall.
"Hello, boys. And, I guess, goodbye."
"TURN IT THE FUCK OFF! ARCHER! KOMACK!"
Jim clutched at his sides from the power of his own breath, but he didn't care. There was no reply, but he didn't expect one. He didn't expect much. This was fucking unfair.
Good, you're angry. Stay angry.
The thought came from nowhere, but Jim grabbed at it frantically. Stay angry. He could do that. Without thinking, he moved his hand to his cheek, feeling the bruise Pike had left. He could stay angry.
"Hello, boys," George grinned, in stereo.
"And I guess," Jim whispered, staring at the PADD they had left him, "goodbye."
---
When they found out Jim had hacked the feeds and replaced them with cartoons, Archer used Jim's face to smash the PADD and pulled the toenails off both his feet.
Jim just laughed. He was angry. He could stay angry.
---
He'd been in holding for what was either a week or a day and a half when they fucked up.
He'd decided not to eat anything they gave him - yes, he was hungry, but it was what Pike would call a loser's game - fast or fly. So he drank the water and chewed on the buttons from his stylish prison outfit. It was working.
Well, it had been working. Until Komack caught wise, marched into the room, and shoved a hypo into Jim's neck.
It was fun for a while. Chasing the high, moving like Pike had instructed him, keeping himself calm. And then his skin started to itch at the injection site.
Fuck.
"HEY!" Jim knew they were watching. They were always watching. His ribs were still cracked or broken or whatever, and the yelling hurt, but he was starting to itch in his veins, and he knew he only had a few minutes before his lungs began to constrict.
"HEY! Whatever this is, I'm allergic!" He was yelling towards the ceiling, towards the traitorous walls.
"Stupid boy," Komack's mocking voice echoed in the small cell. "You're fine."
Jim bared his neck, where he was sure an angry red welt was rising. "This look fine to you, Komack? It looks like fucking anaphylaxis to me!"
The silence stretched into infinity as Jim began to scratch at his skin, breaths coming hard with each jagged gasp.
Finally, Komack's voice returned, as Jim's heart rate crested from allegrissimo to presto. "Face the wall, prisoner Kirk. Place your hands against it. Medical assistance is coming."
Jim smiled ruefully. "Too fucking late," he gasped, sinking to his knees. He lay there for what might have been thirty seconds or five years, darkness encroaching and air sparse. The last thing he saw, before the sharpness in his neck and the calming grip of unconsciousness, were shiny black boots.
---
Chris underestimated how hard this would be.
It wasn't the torture, being held under water until he was clawing desperately at their hands, it wasn't being chained to the wall and kept awake, it wasn't even the uncertainty and worry about Jim. The hardest part, by leaps and bounds, was sitting in the same room as the woman carrying his child and not being able to touch her.
"Tell me who did that to you?" he sneered, jerking his chin towards her belly.
"None of your business, Mr. Lowther."
"Oh, are you fat AND forgetful? The name's Pike."
She smiled, something cold and predatory. "Right. Pike. That makes the young man - James Kirk? He's Lowther, then?"
Pike raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
"The young man you were brought in with, Mr. Pike."
"You'd be pretty if you weren't fat."
"And you'd be less obnoxious if you weren't a pirate."
Pike laughed. "Not a pirate. A legitimate small businessman."
One rolled her eyes and flipped her comm open. "Mitchell? Mr. Pike isn't feeling like talking. Why don't you come convince him?"
Pike laughed, a harsh sound, drowning out Mitchell's response.
"Marry me," he shot. It was stupid, he knew, but she was beautiful and strong and goddamnit, he was tired.
She broke his cheekbone with the resulting punch, but when she stood over him, proud and glowing, she gave the slightest nod.
It was so fucking hard.
---
Jim was sore and tired and cold.
Sore and tired and cold and still in fucking prison.
He was lying on the floor, still in his cell, but he was breathing. So he had that going for him, which was nice.
He ached, though, and there was something beeping. Slowly, he reached out for the noise, and his fingers connected with a PADD lying just within his reach. He pulled it to him slowly, and read the file asking for his attention.
Not that it will do you any good, but you're allergic to Trihexyphenidyl. It's not a common drug, but it's a short acting mood-elevator with euphoriant effects and a muscle relaxant. Used to be a treatment for Parkinson's.
I healed as much as they let me. Your left rotator cuff was shredded, you had 6 broken ribs, a broken nose, fractured eye socket, shitty patching on your ear and thumbs, and were missing the toenails on your feet. I also took that word off you.
I'll be back in 3 hours, and they've been ordered not to fuck with you for 24. Try to keep your heart rate down and your spirits up, son.
-Rich Kepis, MD
Jim skimmed it a few times before he noticed the name. It was- it had to be. An anagram. For Chris Pike. Whoever really healed him, whoever was there, was from Pike. Or One. And there were three hours to go.
Three hours were nothing.
---
When the door opened, Jim expected Pike or Number One to hand him a phaser and tell him to go nuts.
He was ready.
Instead, Admirals Archer and Komack entered, flanked by a number of large, dumb-looking Fleeters.
"Little Jimmy," Komack's voice was sticky sweet. "How are you feeling?"
Jim coughed, dryly. Always let them underestimate you. "Okay, I guess."
"We're not allowed to hurt you much." Archer was actually pouting as he said it, but it still ran shivers up Jim's spine. He gave into them, trying to look defeated. "But we can still hurt you a little. Tell us the whereabouts of Winona Kirk."
"Up your ass, dick. She's dead."
Komack made a motion, and two of the goons surged forward to grab Jim and haul him to his feet. Archer smiled his serpent's grin and flexed his fingers. Jim noticed, for the first time, he was wearing gloves. With- oh fuck.
The first slap across his face was hard, and it sung like hornets. Fucking gloves wrapped in fucking razor wire. What the fuck was wrong with these people? Jim didn't cry out, but he let a small groan escape his lips.
"It's so strong," Komack purred, moving closer to Jim, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Doesn't scream. Where is Winona Kirk?"
"Fucking dead! Orbiting some planet as space dust!"
Without warning, Komack grabbed Jim's right arm and yanked, pulling it out of the socket again. He felt the arm go numb, and actually yelped at the suddenness of the attack.
"Oh, there it goes." Archer smiled, stepping in to punch Jim in the gut. He groaned. "Reminds me of his brother."
Komack nodded and laughed at the flash in Jim's eyes. "Oh, you didn't know? We've had him for ages. Picked up a tip from your darling uncle - Francis de Soto? You knew him as Frank?"
Jim said nothing, but winced at the feeling of Archer's barbed hand, clamping around his left bicep. "Yes, good old Frank. Told us about a young man he knew, name of Samson Church. He has the same eyes as you. Now, where is Winona Kirk? And don't say she's dead. She'd get a funeral from your Guild. We'd know."
Jim looked into Archer's face, searching for truth. Nothing came back. "You lie," Jim rasped. "Even if I didn't know where Sam is, and I do, I'd know if you had him."
"Would you?" Archer asked, releasing Jim. He signaled the goons, one of whom held Jim while the other shoved his shoulder roughly back into the socket. Then they dropped him, allowing Jim to sink to his knees in shock and pain, feeling like his arm was on fire.
"No," Komack hissed, the words venomous in Jim's ears. "I don't think you would. Where is your mother, stupid boy?"
"Second star to the right, straight on till morning."
Komack laughed, cold and a little insane. Archer was giving orders for Jim to be shackled, ankles and wrists together, and the soldiers hopped to his words. When Jim was restrained, feeling for all the world like a colt at the Universe's worst rodeo, the cuffs gave him a sharp electric shock.
"Those little toys should loosen your tongue. Get some rest," Komack grinned. "If you can."
Jim lay on the floor, listening to the footsteps start to head away from him, before looking up at their halt. Archer was standing at his door, admiring his handiwork.
"You know what the best part of healing you is, kid?" He waited a long minute, and Jim cursed the drama teacher who told Archer about timing as the admiral stalked close and stooped to haul him up by his hair. When Jim was on his knees again, bent painfully like a bow, Archer whispered in his ear. "I get to do it all again." And, with as much malice as he could, he spit in Jim's face before releasing him and watching him slump back to the floor.
Jim held his breath and counted to ten, interrupted at eight by another electric shock. When the door slid shut behind them, he focused on relaxing the muscles that had tensed up. He sighed deeply, feeling Archer's spit run down his cheek to mingle with the blood from his new wounds.
Pike had better hurry the goddamn hell up.
---
Jim had actually managed to doze a bit when the door slid open again.
He glanced up weakly, starting at the imposing figure facing him.
"They said they trussed you up pretty for me," she grinned, and produced a key from her sleeve.
"Number One," he croaked, his mouth dry.
"James T. Kirk," she replied, still not moving towards him. "Alias George Lowther, alias John Christopher, alias David Kuhn, alias Tristan Adams. How are you doing today, James?"
Jim grunted as another wave of electricity crested through him. "Peachy."
"You know why I'm here. I know you do." She was calm and collected and Jim wasn't sure what she wanted. He'd thought she would be freeing him and sending him to do his part by now. "We have about 3 minutes until things start to get fun, so let me tell you a quick story, shall I?"
Jim rolled his eyes. She was playing for the cameras. Fine. "Not going anywhere."
"When I as a little girl, I loved my father more than anything. My mother had died in childbirth, and as is custom on Illyria for children with a parent in mourning, I was raised in - you would call it a crèche. But I saw my father once a year. I was his star shine, he was my sun. And then, when I was ten, my father went off to be an officer in this fine Fleet. He was the security chief on a ship called Narada." She paused to let that sink in. Jim knew where it was going now. "He served for fiftenn years, Kirk. And when I was twenty-six, with my own commission, Narada apprehended Kelvin. It would have made his career." She reached down to unlock his cuffs then, and he shivered at the icy cold of her hands. "Your father killed mine. Do you understand that?"
He nodded and swallowed, hard. "I-"
"Shut up. I chased you and your mother and brother for a long time. Because command told me to. And because I needed to see the faces of the people whose lives were more important than my father's. And I called it off eleven years ago. Do you know why?"
"Tell me."
"Because I found something better." Absently, she rubbed her hand across her swollen belly. "I found the man whose child I am bearing."
The lights flickered then, and the hallway went dark. One offered Jim a hand and pulled him to his feet. "And you should be thankful I did," she muttered, pressing a phaser into his palm. "Archer is in A-24, Komack in A-36, Barnett in D-34. Pike has Barnett. Go get them."
Jim started out the door, limping a little from the abuses he'd suffered, but paused and turned back to her. "If I had my way, both of our fathers would be alive."
She nodded. "That's nice. Go kill someone."
He went.
---
Pike had insisted Jim commit all floor plans of the holding they'd be kept in to memory, and as he made his way to Archer, Jim was glad he'd done it. His feet knew where to go, though his brain was fuzzy. The plan had always been for One to divert the guards, so Jim was grateful, but not surprised to meet no one on his way.
The door was sealed; all the doors were sealed. Jim tapped in the code Pike had told him- 36459, EMILY -and was unsurprised that it granted him access with a whistle.
Archer didn't even look up from his console as Jim entered.
"It's about time you got-"
Jim assumed Archer would have said something like, "Those doors unlocked," but the stun setting on Jim's phaser left very little room for conversation. The adrenalin and blood roared in his ears as Jim crossed the room and lifted Archer's head from his desk, exposing the canvas of unmarked skin that was the Admiral's neck.
A feral grin crossed Jim's face and he reached into Archer's jacket for the knife he kept there. "Hello, Johnny," Jim growled, drawing the blade across Archer's jugular and watching the life drain from his now useless body. "And, I guess, goodbye."
---
The trip to Komack's office took less time, but Komack was more ready.
Jim had made the most of the time that surprise offered him and leapt at the man as he entered the room, tearing the phaser from his grasp and viciously slamming the heel of his hand into the other man's nose before throwing him to the ground and holding him there with a foot pressing on his windpipe, phaser trained between his eyes.
Jim took a moment to observe the formerly sadistic admiral on the floor under his foot, blood gushing from a nose that was surely broken, hands clawing at the immobile column of Jim's leg.
"Archer is dead," Jim growled, just to see the look on Komack's face. It was widely known that they were married, and Jim relished the feeling of complete control delivering the news gave him.
"Liar," Komack gasped.
"Whose blood do you think is on my hands?" Jim sneered, easing his foot enough for Komack to take a few shuddering breaths and respond.
"What do you want?" Komack asked, staring at the phaser. "Money? Power? I can tell you where your brot-"
Jim growled and fired the phaser, set to kill.
"Now you're the liar," he told Komack's body before stooping to slit its throat and turning on his heel without watching him bleed out. He headed towards the rendezvous spot, never noticing the trail of red footprints he left in his wake.
---
An exhausted smile graced Pike's face as Jim rounded the corner to their meeting place, Number One waiting with him, supporting most of Pike's weight on her slim shoulders. Jim nodded curtly at her and she returned the gesture.
"Dad?"
"Chipped a vertebra or two," Pike grinned, reaching out his hand. "You?"
Jim took the offered hand and pulled Pike away from One, shouldering the older man's bulk. "Irreparably broken," Jim said with a laugh. "Barnett?" he asked, noticing the lack of blood on Pike's hands.
"Cut environment to his office. He's gone. Archer and Komack?"
"Messy piles on their office floors." Jim laughed and pulled Pike into a hug. "We did it Dad." He grinned. "We really did it."
Pike gripped him back, and Jim felt the transporter take them as they hugged, jubilant and tired.
Masterpost| part 2
It'd been twenty-four years since George died, a blaze of light in the sky, and Chris had never forgotten Jim and Sam.
Jim wasn't easy to find. Chris had tracked the boy across the quadrants, stopping at dive bars and holes in the walls, looking. It was a stroke of luck that they'd both ended up at the Red Shirt that night, but it wasn't entirely unexpected. Chris had watched as the kid started the fight, watched as he started to lose, and fought off the guys who had Jim pinned. Then he calmly lifted the punch-drunk kid from the floor, tossed him over his shoulder and left. No one stopped him. They were mostly slavers themselves, Chris knew their types. They assumed he'd beaten them to some merchandise.
They couldn't have been more wrong.
Jim had spent the next week in the med bay of Enterprise, slowly detoxing under Boyce's watchful eye.
On the seventh day, Jim had looked Chris in the face and seemed lucid for the first time.
"I'm not gonna be your whore," the kid had growled, looking exhausted and angry.
"I don't want a whore," Chris replied, biting back a smile. "I want James T. Kirk."
"Winona doesn't pay ransoms."
"I don't want a ransom."
Jim had looked at him then, really looked at him. The silence had stretched out to where a normal person might have been uncomfortable. And then kept it going.
Finally, the kid spoke again. "So, who the fuck are you?"
Chris smiled, wide and easy. "They call me George Lowther."
"Bullshit. George Lowther isn't a graying old man, I've seen pictures."
"Of course you have," Chris said. "You've seen pictures of the man who they think is George Lowther. But here's a secret, and I'm going to trust you because by the time we're done you won't want to tell; there have been, to date, four George Lowthers. And if you let me, I'm going to make you number five."
Jim snorted. "Me? Who the fuck do you think I am?"
"Your father's son."
"My father was an idiot who transported himself and a load of hydrogen explosives onto a ship, and the Trader's Guild thinks he's a hero for it."
"Your father was the best captain I ever had."
"Who are you?" Jim's eyes were narrowed to slits. "When you're not Lowther."
"That," Chris said, rising from Jim's side, "is the big question." Chris started to leave, the non-answer lying heavy in the air. He hesitated at the door, expecting Jim to call him back. To the kid's credit, he was staring at the ceiling, not watching Chris leave.
"You can look through the rosters of Kelvin, if you want, but that's a loser's game. You should prove you're a worthy replacement, and earn the answer."
He turned again, actually intending to leave this time, when the kid's voice called him back.
"I remember you. You're Pike. George's old pilot. Helped him kill himself. You used to sniff around my m- around Winona, when I was a kid. You left before she left us with the Asshole."
Chris nodded. "Good memory."
"I haven't seen you since I was six."
"Time to fix that, kid." Chris said, grinning. This was actually going better than he had planned. "We're gonna spend a lot of time together."
---
Jim was a hard worker, once he accepted the idea that someday this would all be his. The name Lowther had been active for more than 30 years, and people tended to quake when Enterprise entered their orbit. Jim liked the attention, he liked the power. He didn't like the idea of being called George on a daily basis, but he could live with it for the time it would take to build his fortune. Chris had been looking for his replacement for a long time, and Jim was definitely the right man for the job.
Chris had built a name in his time, partially by running a fair crew, partially by staging assaults on Fleet headquarters. They knew he was Lowther and they couldn't prove it, so every year or so, he'd let them catch him, let his favorite Admiral, Number One, interview him for a few hours, and then stage a daring escape. Jim was pretty sure Pike was suicidal for it, but they planned one of these runs out for the two of them, planned it to officially end Chris's career.
After 18 months of working together, they discharged the crew and hired on a new one. Chris still hadn't told Jim where he'd be retiring to, or the exact nature of their frontal assault on Starfleet, but he would. There was time. There should have been time.
They'd needed to shanghai the doctor, which is always a negative, but the man quickly realized that he was on a good ship, with a good crew and a captain who had the potential to be great.
Jim also started sleeping with him, and the head nurse, which Chris thought was a little stupid.
"Troikas are more stable, Dad," Jim huffed when Chris explained his feelings. Jim had started calling Chris "dad" when he was angry, or hurt, or just really happy. So, most of the time. "And as a couple, no combination of us would work. Christine and I need Bones to keep us grounded. Bones and I need Christine to mediate us. And they need me to be the pretty one."
Chris rolled his eyes. "I'm just saying, it's a bad-"
"What do you know?" Jim snapped, tired of the calm judgment. "When's the last time you had a relationship?"
To his credit, Chris didn't backhand the little shit. "I'm having a baby," he shot back. "So I think I know a fair bit about-" Chris lost the steam of his anger when Jim's face crumpled.
"A baby? But- why do you-"
Chris pulled Jim into a tight hug. "It wasn't planned. But she's pregnant and in about seven months, I'm going to have a baby."
Jim nodded dumbly. "And who is she?"
The Big Reveal. Chris had been dreading this. In truth, he almost didn't know how it had happened, how he and Number One had ended up as expectant parents. Logic dictated that the quadrant's most wanted pirate shouldn't fall for the woman running the hunt for him. But she was fierce and beautiful and she broke his nose the first time he stole a kiss in one of his snatch-and-grab runs to headquarters. He didn't see how he could not love her.
It was complicated. It was so, so complicated. One wasn't just the woman who was hunting Chris, she was the woman who hunted Winona, and by extension Jim and Sam, through the first 16 years of Jim's life. Jim hated her more than his former step father, the man Chris left with a hole in his head, dying in a ditch on Rukbat III after Jim told him what the bottom-dweller had done to him.
But Jim asked, and Chris had never not answered one of Jim's questions. "It's- Jim, it's Number One."
Jim got up and left the room, back straight and fist balled at his sides. It wasn't theatrical, it was quiet and painful and all Chris could do was watch him leave. They'd had this crew for two months and Chris might have just ruined everything he had built with Jim.
---
Chris lay on the bed in an out of the way hotel on an out of the way planet, trying to figure out exactly what the fuck he was doing.
Number One was stretched next to him, close but not touching. She wasn't a snuggler - neither of them was. After sex, she said, her body felt raw and overworked, and she needed a moment, an hour, a lifetime, to come back to herself, some time to not be about him.
He respected that.
But it was morning, and she was leaving.
This had been going on for a long time, now. Nearly fifteen years since he met her, ten since they started - whatever this was.
It wasn't easy. It had never been easy, and it wasn't going to get easy, so Chris told himself to fucking deal.
But the fact remained that he was George Lowther, and she was the agent in charge of catching him and they were sleeping together and he loved her and she loved him. And it was easy to forget it all, in the throes of sweat and skin and passion, but it was there, the complexities burning just under the love, love like a plasma fire. It ate the air from the room, leaving noting for him to breathe but her.
He kinda loved it. Complications and all.
She stirred and turned over to look at him, sleep clouding her eyes. He reached a hand out to caress her cheek, still trying to get a handle on the idea that this was real, this was happening, this was his. She laid a kiss on the heel of his hand, and slowly stretched, stood and walked to the bathroom. They weren't going to be able to meet again until the capture, and Chris hated himself a little, for leaving the Fleet, for living in this universe, for loving someone when it was so hard to be together.
And then there was Jim.
They had been planning a long time, Chris and One, that she would come and take him away from his life of crime, that they'd go live somewhere with a sky and stars and raise horses. He'd had her pick the place last night, going through pictures and files until he had five candidates, and asking her to choose the winner. She'd picked a ranch called Yorktown and secretly, he had rejoiced. It was his favorite, too, and now it could be theirs. He was wealthy enough for retirement, and she was tired of the cruelty and hypocrisy that ran rampant through the Fleet.
When Chris had found Jim, when he named him as heir, the pieces seemed to be coming together. One was laying the framework for their capture, getting closer each time, and Chris was getting just that much sloppier. They'd talked "Giant Slayer" Giotto into playing along, taking the reward and fucking off when he was done.
But Jim.
Jim trusted Chris, the way babies and puppies trust. The way Chris remembered trusting his mother, with warmth and sweetness. And Chris was lying about where he was, what he was doing, all of it. He hated lying to Jim.
They'd be setting out in a few days, his triumphant return to the name he'd abandoned 13 years ago, becoming Chris Pike, first officer to a young hotshot called George Lowther. This was the last time Lowther would ship out, though Jim didn't know that yet.
He would, he would know all of it, and soon.
But for now, Chris eased his aching body off the bed and padded silently over to the bathroom, over to One, and wrapped his arms around her as she brushed her teeth.
"I love you," he whispered, still shocked that she managed to make the very mundane acts of everyday life stunning and vivid just by living them. He laid a kiss on her neck, and she leaned forward to spit, purposefully rolling her hips against him.
This was so hard.
And it was so worth it.
---
The baby was a girl. Jim hated that it was a girl but he thought he would hate it more if the baby was a boy.
A girl he could live with. If he had to.
---
Two months before the scheduled attack on Fleet headquarters, three months after Jim found out about Number One, he and Chris had a meeting to discuss the details. There weren't many; they'd rendezvous with "Giant Slayer" Giotto, be ferried to Earth where Giotto would collect the reward, they would hang out with some Admirals and be tortured for a few days, and then Giant Slayer would pick them up and take them back to Enterprise with Number One in tow and dead admirals in their wake.
They'd also be retiring the Lowther name.
Jim agreed that if you're going to go out, you have to go out big. But parts of this, big parts, were scary and bad, and he couldn't control them.
"My allergies," he asked Pike. "They dose me with the wrong thing, feed me something bad, and it's not even worth it."
Chris smiled. "It won't happen. One has the list, and they'll do a full workup once they know who you are. Have to be in top shape if you're going to give them the information they want before they kill you."
"This is a terrible idea," Jim sighed, not for the first time.
"We're prepared, son. We're prepared and we've got multiple ways out. We kill Barnett, Komack, and Archer and no one will ever confuse you with George Kirk ever again. Or George Lowther. People will know you for who you are."
Jim nodded and fiddled with the PADD in his lap. "I wish Sam were here."
"Me too."
"You know where he is?"
Pike shook his head sadly. Finding Jim had been hard, but not impossible. Finding Sam- well, Sam had run away when he was 14, and disappeared somewhere around Vulcan, working on a freighter. The trail just went cold, and Chris had never been able to find him. But he had Jim, and most days, that was more than enough.
---
The plan was simple, Jim knew it and Chris knew it. The problem was mostly that they were supposed to rendezvous with the Giant Slayer the next day and Jim couldn't sleep.
He was tucked securely between Christine and Bones, one of her small hands twined in his, and one of Bones' arms thrown protectively across his torso.
In retrospect, he should have told them sooner.
Jim couldn't help but feel this was all Pike's fault; the plan had been for Jim to be captain for a year or two before they pulled this, but then Pike got that woman pregnant, and it was all downhill.
You know she has a brand, Jimmy? It's the shape of a number one. If she ever catches us, she'll brand us, and make us her slaves.
Jim knew, in his grown-up mind, Sam had just been making noise, that One was harmless to him. But a small part of him, the part that would always be a scared 11-year-old hiding from his stepfather, still thought she might be lurking under the bed with various implements of torture.
He'd spoken with her twice over secure channels, talked about the plan and Pike and the kid. What he hadn't done was ask the questions he wanted to, like "Why did you stop chasing us?" That was the big one. He remembered hearing on the feeds that the Fleet was calling off the manhunt for Winona, remembered being swept into a tearful hug. But he didn't know why and he still didn't trust it.
The other big question, the one Jim thought One knew the answer to, was "Where is Sam?" But he knew that Pike must have asked, knew that Pike still scanned every feed and monitored most of the comm channels for mention of George Samuel Kirk, Jr. But there was nothing, and the silence hurt more than any bar fight ever did.
The One that Jim remembered, the nightmare of his childhood, was a harpy and a harridan who burned numbers into her victim's front doors when she took them, and their flesh once she had them. He spent years coming home from school, terrified that he'd find his family gone, the only calling card a telltale numeral.
And if it never happened, well, that didn't make it any easier to deliver himself to her.
Christine had cried, when he told her what he was doing. Bones had looked furious and terrified and annoyed, which is something Jim would never entirely understand, the way Bones could feel all those things at the same time. But he did, and he wore it all over his face.
"No, Jim," Bones had said, shaking his head. Jim had told them who he really was early in their relationship, when he realized exactly how weird it was going to be to have them call him George in bed. "No."
But Christine, eyes watering, had taken Bones' hands. "He has to. Look at him. He has to."
Jim just sat, palms sweaty on his knees, waiting for them to decide they didn't want to put up with this. Bones snorted, but then turned and leaned into Jim, pressing their mouths together in a kiss that could only be called possessive.
"You come back to us, you hear?" Christine said, as Bones pulled back. "If you don't we will break into headquarters and drag you back. And you won't like it." She smiled, though the tears were still running down her cheeks, and leaned in to kiss Jim's forehead. "We need you."
Jim found himself surprised. He knew why he needed them, why he needed their brilliance and their caring and all the rest. But he'd never thought too hard about why they needed him. Bones, always freakishly perceptive, read the look on his face and laughed weakly.
"Because you keep us fun, Jim. Without you, Christine and I would be serious all the time. We need you to remind us to be alive."
Jim smiled then, and finally looked up. "So can we have please-don't-die sex?"
Bones barked a short laugh. "Jesus, kid. You got no damper on your libido, do you?" But he was stripping, and pushing Jim onto the bed, and Christine was kissing him and Bones was inside him with Christine beneath him, each stroke of the other man propelling Jim into her, hot and close and, unbidden, a thought crested in Jim's mind, This is love.
But he didn't say it. He knew better than to scare Christine and Bones with thoughts of love and forever and all the rest of that sentimental pap because Christine had run from Earth rather than have it, and Bones had lost it and love or not, Jim wasn't going to ruin it with these two.
So when Christine panted and whined beneath him, short spasms of yes and Jim and please he kissed her rather than say the words, and when Bones stiffened and came, if he muttered "Ours, all ours" against the back of Jim's neck, well, then it was love, and it was okay.
---
Jim was sleeping fitfully when Christine awoke, thoughts of Roger Korby and the flight from Earth and the months of uncertainty before Enterprise and Jim and Leonard falling from her mind as she floated back to reality. It was early - the chronometer read 0424 - and she was wrapped around Jim in a way that was quickly becoming sweaty and uncomfortable. She stirred and stretched, freeing her sleeping right arm from under Jim's shoulders and padded to the bathroom to relieve her aching bladder.
She noticed Leonard when she returned, lying still on Jim's right, staring into the ceiling.
"Leonard?" she whispered, afraid to wake her sleeping captain.
"Hey, darlin'," he smiled, sleep and accent warring for dominance in his voice.
"Can I tell you something?" She slid into his side of the bed, and he pulled her down into a tight embrace.
"Anything."
"I think I- I think I love him," she buried her face in Leonard's chest, embarrassed that she didn't realize it before Jim was going off to be brave and stupid and probably dead.
Leonard stroked her hair softly, his long fingers twining through her curls. "I know, me too."
She stiffened a little then, and he chuckled, feeling her move against him.
"And me?" She didn't want to ask, but Christine was apparently a masochist in more than a sexual way.
"I ain't gonna say, 'Course I love you, you handful,' if that's what you want. You think I could say that?"
She shook her head, feeling a sob well up in her throat.
"But if I could say it, I would. You- you and Trouble there- are the best things that've happened to me since Jo was born."
Christine nodded, the hair of his chest scratchy against her cheek.
"And I don't want him to go any more than you do."
She smiled then, breathing in the smell of sweat and her boys off Leonard's skin, and looked up at him. "We could tie him to the bed."
"Or break his legs."
"Or hide all his pants."
A low groan sounded next to them, and Jim rolled over, his blue eyes sparkling. "Yes on the first one, no on the second, and you think taking my pants would stop me?"
Against her will, Christine laughed. Leonard scowled.
"How long you been listening?"
"Long enough to know you both love me," he whispered, scooting closer to the two of them.
"And what if we do?"
"I love you, too. I love you two. I just didn't want to scare you away."
This time it was Leonard's turn to laugh. "You couldn't, kid, not in a million years."
---
The problem with morning is that is always came, whether Jim wanted it to or not.
And the problem with a secret mission was that there was no reason for Christine and Leonard to follow Jim to the transporter room for goodbyes, so instead they sat in his quarters in silence, not saying all the things begging to be said.
---
The feeds started covering the approach of the Coronet when it was six hours out from Earth, after he'd been onboard for a day and a half. They were all abuzz with the idea of Lowther, the George Lowther, finally coming into Fleet custody.
Jim didn't know if he wanted to laugh or cry or vomit.
He chose vomit. Pike was there, rubbing his back as he heaved nothing into the bowl.
"I'm not ready," Jim sighed shakily, when he was sure his stomach was free of mucus and bile, that his body couldn't find anything else to expel. "This is a bad idea."
Pike hummed, low in this throat, and sat on the floor next to him.
"All the best ideas are bad ideas, son." Jim hated him in that moment, hated him more than he ever hated Frank or Number One or Winona or Sam. "But we're building a world. Your little sister - we named her, Emily Kestra - Emily is gonna grow up in a world without those bastards who chased you across half the galaxy."
Jim heaved again, air and misery, at the thought of that baby. Number One was seven months along, huge and glowing. And they chose a name.
"Christine's going to cry," he rasped, his throat burning, and Pike stood to get him water. "When they see the feeds, Christine is going to cry."
He and Pike were both rough looking, as self-respecting pirates should be when they were captured. Rope burn circled their wrists, and both sported bruised faces and bodies and unevenly shaved heads. Pike had a lovely set of chipped teeth, and Jim would soon be sporting a broken arm. Giotto had promised him that. But Christine was going to cry, seeing her Golden Boy in pieces.
Pike handed Jim the glass of water and settled down again. "Rinse your mouth out," he ordered. "And Christine has McCoy. He'll take care of her."
Jim didn't ask who would take care of him, but he thought it. Hard.
---
Chris had done his best to prepare Jim, explaining the Admirals and their proclivities; Archer and his knives, Komack and his drugs, One and her calm, unwavering questioning, Barnett and the brutal beatings.
But Jim wasn't ready. Jim was letting his nerves win, and it looked pathetic.
They stood on the transporter pad, preparing to go down to their little adventure, and Chris was worried that Jim was gonna puke again. The kid looked wrecked. Not that Chris looked better, but the pale sliver of bone peeking through the skin of Jim's broken arm was brutal and he was starting to hyperventilate.
Well, you have to do what you have to do. Chris signaled Giotto's heavy to hold off on the handcuffs, hauled back, and slapped Jim across the face, as hard as he could.
"THE FUCK?" Jim roared, turning on Chris.
"Good, you're angry. Stay angry," Chris nodded at the goon, placing his hands behind his back. "They're gonna hurt you, they're going to get psychological. We talked about that. But you stay angry, and they can't crawl under your skin, hear me? Let them work you up, and you lose. The only way to win-"
"-is not to play," Jim finished. "I know." Chris nodded, and felt a rush of relief as Jim straightened his posture and seemed a little more himself for a moment. Chris was almost sure he saw a smile playing across his lips. "I'm gonna do a back flip," Jim murmured. "On the feeds, while being escorted."
Chris smiled, too. "You do that, son. You do that."
Twenty-five minutes later, being frog marched into Fleet HQ by Giotto himself, Jim did his back flip. Chris, to his great credit, didn't laugh.
---
Jim hurt. Every part of him hurt. The first thing they did when they brought him in was heal all his hurts, and set about giving him new ones. They'd worked him over six or seven times, and all he'd done was swear and insult and bleed. He bled a lot. Archer had cut off his thumbs - one for insisting his name was Inigo Montoya, one for asking if Archer fucked anything besides beagles. They'd asked him, over and over, who George Lowther was. He gave all the names he could think of, until Archer produced an actual hot poker and threatened to burn his tongue out if he wouldn't talk. Then Jim had given his own name, and Archer had smiled.
"Good boy, Jimmy."
Jim, crouched on all fours where they'd dropped him, spat blood at the Admiral's feet. "Why do you care? Isn't it enough to have George Kirk's son?"
"You don't get it, do you?" Archer smiled, and Jim thought it was more a bearing of teeth than anything with warmth. "You, Mr. Kirk, are a pirate. Your father was a pirate, your mother probably still is a pirate. You rob people. You kill people. You rape and pillage. Me? I'm the good guy."
"I never raped anyone and I never killed anyone who didn't deserve it."
"Isn't that nice for you?" Archer was still grinning his predator's grin. "Meanwhile I uphold the peace and I sleep soundly at night-" he stopped to kick Jim in the stomach "-knowing that the people I love are safe from you."
They'd patched Jim up half-heartedly then, and thrown him back in his cell, still seeping blood from the poor job they did on his thumbs, told him he could have water if he begged. So he begged for a blowjob until some anonymous Fleeter came and kicked him in the face. He'd had a nice nap then, but then he woke up and he hurt.
They left him his PADD, and weakly, he reached out and tapped up one of the messages he knew Pike recorded ahead of time. The familiar, worn face filled his screen, a tired smile and blue eyes.
"I ever tell you how I met your dad?" Pike's voice warmed Jim, and the idea of the story caused a weak smile to break across his face. "I didn't have shit to my name once I ran off from the Fleet. Made it out to Cygnet XIV, figured I could find some work at the docks or something. I had the flight training, one thing I can thank the Fleet for. But I had no real proof or references, I was young, and the Fleet had put out a notice on me.
"My third month there, I'm barely scraping by and your dad and his ship passed through. Your mom and dad were finishing a deal in this bar I frequented, cheap back alley place. They were getting payout for some job or another. A fight broke out, bad one, the owner ran all kinds of dangerous shit. We all ended up behind the bar and George passes me an extra phaser.'Think you can handle it kid?' I nailed a guy to show I could." Pike laughed warmly, and Jim laughed with him, wishing he could have seen them, young and alive and vibrant. "We all fought for a bit. Then I showed them the best way out before the patrols came. We managed to make it out with the cash.
"So we laughed like hell and ended up on a roof drinking crap gin. We talked for a couple hours and before they left your dad leans in and says,'0900, dock 6, you're gonna show me if you can fly as well as you say, stud.' So after about 2 hours of sleep, still buzzed mind you, I show up and he put me through the paces. Rest is history."
Jim laughed weakly. Pike always was a shit storyteller, but still, the presence in his cell was better than water. And that was good, because it would be a long time before he would have anything like comfort.
---
Jonathan Archer was proud a few things in his life.
He was proud of the work he'd done to make the Fleet what it was when he was a young man, shipping out on one of the first ships to see the galaxy. He was proud of the capture and execution of Jacques Moineau, the first Fleeter to go rogue, the man who founded the fucking Guild. He was proud of the son he and Komack had raised, the man he had become as he aged.
But catching James Kirk, getting him to admit to years of piracy and murder and mayhem? That was the crown jewel in a glittering life. All he needed was a conviction for Pike and the location of Winona, and Archer knew he could retire as a happy man.
It was all so close.
---
Jim was high as a fucking starship. In the days after, when he'd healed and recouped and all that, Jim would remember what he frantically tapped into the PADD, and laugh at the half-remembered verses of "The Jabberwocky" and conversations with the floor. But in the moment, it was all manic energy and frantic heartbeats and trying to keep his lungs steady. They'd had a few sessions where Archer had carved words into his stomach, "GEORGE" and "PIRATE" and worse. Erasing every time until he settled on "SCUM" and every time Jim looked down he saw their seething hatred staring back up. He'd laughed at Archer, who took his ear in retribution.
It hurt, it hurt like a blade of fire, and Jim screamed his agony through a raw throat as the skin parted and tendons tore. Jim felt sick as blood began to gush down his cheek and neck, felt the sobs well up as Archer tenderly - a mockery of tenderness, a farce of caring - brushed gauze to the gaping wound and tossed his ear on the ground.
Jim was reeling in the sickening squelch his flesh made when, swiftly, Archer brought the cauterizer up to the hole in the side of Jim's head.
To his credit, Jim didn't black out when he smelled his own flesh burning. He took deep breaths, and he tried to remember what Pike told him, about visualizing.
The beach on Omicron Theta. Building a sandcastle with Christine, laughing at Bones, who's under the umbrella, scowling and muttering about freckles. He's fully dressed - a pair of khaki Bermuda shorts and a t-shirt that has the name of some drug. It's dusky green, and he looks beautiful. Dark zinc sunblock on his nose.
Christine is wearing that sweet blue bikini, more thread than fabric. In a minute, she'll tackle Jim into the surf and command him to make out with her like a music video.
When night falls, Bones'll start a fire, and he'll grill peaches over it, and chicken, and bake potatoes in the ashes. Best meal of Kirk's life.
And they'll watch the galaxy move through the sky after that, while the fire dies, holding on to each other. They won't even bother to have sex, they'll just be close, and in love.
It doesn't help a lot, but at least he can pretend that the burning is sunlight, that the pain is rocks, and that he has two people who love him, people who want to see him again, and eat grilled peaches on a beach on Omicron Theta.
---
Komack's men had brought him food. Real food, a fucking hamburger. Food he could eat. The first food he'd had in two days, or maybe six hours. He didn't even think about it, he just ate.
It took almost no time for him to realize the mistake, realize he'd been dosed. The floor had started telling him secrets, which seemed uncharacteristic for a floor, and his fingers got numb. So he did what Pike said he should, what he'd been prepared for. He jogged in place, he moved. He tried to burn through it. He was starting to feel normal, he guessed it was somewhere between 15 minutes and an hour later - time was weird in that place, so weird - when the videos started.
The whispers started first, low and cruel. Just the suggestions of voices. And then the walls started flickering.
Soon enough, Jim was huddled on the floor, trying not to hear his mother laugh while Pike was beaten on one wall, and the other three showed clips from various high-profile pirate executions. He was trying to tune it out, he really was. Trying and failing.
It should have been a relief when it stopped. But Jim was too smart - or too dumb - to trust it.
Archer came and kicked him in the ribs a bit, but Jim was finding he cared less and less. If the steel toes cracked bones, if breathing was fucking agony, who gave a shit? Eventually it would be over. They'd kill him, and he'd be able to rest, be able to breathe without being stabbed with every gasp.
"Goodbye."
Jim looked up. The voice had echoed in his small cell, but there was no source. More games, then.
"Goodbye."
It was a familiar voice.
"Hello, boys. And, I guess, goodbye."
This time the whole phrase. And then, sickeningly, an explosion.
Oh. Oh.
The walls flickered to life and there, surrounded by explosives on a transporter pad, was George S. Kirk, Sr. He smiled, and Jim retched, the drugged hamburger reemerging as a puddle on the floor. "Hello, boys. And, I guess, goodbye." And the display flared and whited out.
Over. And. Over.
Jim lost count of how many times his father died before he couldn't take it anymore. "Turn it off!" He was screaming at no one, his fractured ribs burning with the effort, but he knew he was being watched. The stink of his own vomit, the sour bile in his mouth and the feeling of a thousand eyes on him seemed to crawl all over his skin with soft spider feet while his father became stardust on every wall.
"Hello, boys. And, I guess, goodbye."
"TURN IT THE FUCK OFF! ARCHER! KOMACK!"
Jim clutched at his sides from the power of his own breath, but he didn't care. There was no reply, but he didn't expect one. He didn't expect much. This was fucking unfair.
Good, you're angry. Stay angry.
The thought came from nowhere, but Jim grabbed at it frantically. Stay angry. He could do that. Without thinking, he moved his hand to his cheek, feeling the bruise Pike had left. He could stay angry.
"Hello, boys," George grinned, in stereo.
"And I guess," Jim whispered, staring at the PADD they had left him, "goodbye."
---
When they found out Jim had hacked the feeds and replaced them with cartoons, Archer used Jim's face to smash the PADD and pulled the toenails off both his feet.
Jim just laughed. He was angry. He could stay angry.
---
He'd been in holding for what was either a week or a day and a half when they fucked up.
He'd decided not to eat anything they gave him - yes, he was hungry, but it was what Pike would call a loser's game - fast or fly. So he drank the water and chewed on the buttons from his stylish prison outfit. It was working.
Well, it had been working. Until Komack caught wise, marched into the room, and shoved a hypo into Jim's neck.
It was fun for a while. Chasing the high, moving like Pike had instructed him, keeping himself calm. And then his skin started to itch at the injection site.
Fuck.
"HEY!" Jim knew they were watching. They were always watching. His ribs were still cracked or broken or whatever, and the yelling hurt, but he was starting to itch in his veins, and he knew he only had a few minutes before his lungs began to constrict.
"HEY! Whatever this is, I'm allergic!" He was yelling towards the ceiling, towards the traitorous walls.
"Stupid boy," Komack's mocking voice echoed in the small cell. "You're fine."
Jim bared his neck, where he was sure an angry red welt was rising. "This look fine to you, Komack? It looks like fucking anaphylaxis to me!"
The silence stretched into infinity as Jim began to scratch at his skin, breaths coming hard with each jagged gasp.
Finally, Komack's voice returned, as Jim's heart rate crested from allegrissimo to presto. "Face the wall, prisoner Kirk. Place your hands against it. Medical assistance is coming."
Jim smiled ruefully. "Too fucking late," he gasped, sinking to his knees. He lay there for what might have been thirty seconds or five years, darkness encroaching and air sparse. The last thing he saw, before the sharpness in his neck and the calming grip of unconsciousness, were shiny black boots.
---
Chris underestimated how hard this would be.
It wasn't the torture, being held under water until he was clawing desperately at their hands, it wasn't being chained to the wall and kept awake, it wasn't even the uncertainty and worry about Jim. The hardest part, by leaps and bounds, was sitting in the same room as the woman carrying his child and not being able to touch her.
"Tell me who did that to you?" he sneered, jerking his chin towards her belly.
"None of your business, Mr. Lowther."
"Oh, are you fat AND forgetful? The name's Pike."
She smiled, something cold and predatory. "Right. Pike. That makes the young man - James Kirk? He's Lowther, then?"
Pike raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
"The young man you were brought in with, Mr. Pike."
"You'd be pretty if you weren't fat."
"And you'd be less obnoxious if you weren't a pirate."
Pike laughed. "Not a pirate. A legitimate small businessman."
One rolled her eyes and flipped her comm open. "Mitchell? Mr. Pike isn't feeling like talking. Why don't you come convince him?"
Pike laughed, a harsh sound, drowning out Mitchell's response.
"Marry me," he shot. It was stupid, he knew, but she was beautiful and strong and goddamnit, he was tired.
She broke his cheekbone with the resulting punch, but when she stood over him, proud and glowing, she gave the slightest nod.
It was so fucking hard.
---
Jim was sore and tired and cold.
Sore and tired and cold and still in fucking prison.
He was lying on the floor, still in his cell, but he was breathing. So he had that going for him, which was nice.
He ached, though, and there was something beeping. Slowly, he reached out for the noise, and his fingers connected with a PADD lying just within his reach. He pulled it to him slowly, and read the file asking for his attention.
Not that it will do you any good, but you're allergic to Trihexyphenidyl. It's not a common drug, but it's a short acting mood-elevator with euphoriant effects and a muscle relaxant. Used to be a treatment for Parkinson's.
I healed as much as they let me. Your left rotator cuff was shredded, you had 6 broken ribs, a broken nose, fractured eye socket, shitty patching on your ear and thumbs, and were missing the toenails on your feet. I also took that word off you.
I'll be back in 3 hours, and they've been ordered not to fuck with you for 24. Try to keep your heart rate down and your spirits up, son.
-Rich Kepis, MD
Jim skimmed it a few times before he noticed the name. It was- it had to be. An anagram. For Chris Pike. Whoever really healed him, whoever was there, was from Pike. Or One. And there were three hours to go.
Three hours were nothing.
---
When the door opened, Jim expected Pike or Number One to hand him a phaser and tell him to go nuts.
He was ready.
Instead, Admirals Archer and Komack entered, flanked by a number of large, dumb-looking Fleeters.
"Little Jimmy," Komack's voice was sticky sweet. "How are you feeling?"
Jim coughed, dryly. Always let them underestimate you. "Okay, I guess."
"We're not allowed to hurt you much." Archer was actually pouting as he said it, but it still ran shivers up Jim's spine. He gave into them, trying to look defeated. "But we can still hurt you a little. Tell us the whereabouts of Winona Kirk."
"Up your ass, dick. She's dead."
Komack made a motion, and two of the goons surged forward to grab Jim and haul him to his feet. Archer smiled his serpent's grin and flexed his fingers. Jim noticed, for the first time, he was wearing gloves. With- oh fuck.
The first slap across his face was hard, and it sung like hornets. Fucking gloves wrapped in fucking razor wire. What the fuck was wrong with these people? Jim didn't cry out, but he let a small groan escape his lips.
"It's so strong," Komack purred, moving closer to Jim, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Doesn't scream. Where is Winona Kirk?"
"Fucking dead! Orbiting some planet as space dust!"
Without warning, Komack grabbed Jim's right arm and yanked, pulling it out of the socket again. He felt the arm go numb, and actually yelped at the suddenness of the attack.
"Oh, there it goes." Archer smiled, stepping in to punch Jim in the gut. He groaned. "Reminds me of his brother."
Komack nodded and laughed at the flash in Jim's eyes. "Oh, you didn't know? We've had him for ages. Picked up a tip from your darling uncle - Francis de Soto? You knew him as Frank?"
Jim said nothing, but winced at the feeling of Archer's barbed hand, clamping around his left bicep. "Yes, good old Frank. Told us about a young man he knew, name of Samson Church. He has the same eyes as you. Now, where is Winona Kirk? And don't say she's dead. She'd get a funeral from your Guild. We'd know."
Jim looked into Archer's face, searching for truth. Nothing came back. "You lie," Jim rasped. "Even if I didn't know where Sam is, and I do, I'd know if you had him."
"Would you?" Archer asked, releasing Jim. He signaled the goons, one of whom held Jim while the other shoved his shoulder roughly back into the socket. Then they dropped him, allowing Jim to sink to his knees in shock and pain, feeling like his arm was on fire.
"No," Komack hissed, the words venomous in Jim's ears. "I don't think you would. Where is your mother, stupid boy?"
"Second star to the right, straight on till morning."
Komack laughed, cold and a little insane. Archer was giving orders for Jim to be shackled, ankles and wrists together, and the soldiers hopped to his words. When Jim was restrained, feeling for all the world like a colt at the Universe's worst rodeo, the cuffs gave him a sharp electric shock.
"Those little toys should loosen your tongue. Get some rest," Komack grinned. "If you can."
Jim lay on the floor, listening to the footsteps start to head away from him, before looking up at their halt. Archer was standing at his door, admiring his handiwork.
"You know what the best part of healing you is, kid?" He waited a long minute, and Jim cursed the drama teacher who told Archer about timing as the admiral stalked close and stooped to haul him up by his hair. When Jim was on his knees again, bent painfully like a bow, Archer whispered in his ear. "I get to do it all again." And, with as much malice as he could, he spit in Jim's face before releasing him and watching him slump back to the floor.
Jim held his breath and counted to ten, interrupted at eight by another electric shock. When the door slid shut behind them, he focused on relaxing the muscles that had tensed up. He sighed deeply, feeling Archer's spit run down his cheek to mingle with the blood from his new wounds.
Pike had better hurry the goddamn hell up.
---
Jim had actually managed to doze a bit when the door slid open again.
He glanced up weakly, starting at the imposing figure facing him.
"They said they trussed you up pretty for me," she grinned, and produced a key from her sleeve.
"Number One," he croaked, his mouth dry.
"James T. Kirk," she replied, still not moving towards him. "Alias George Lowther, alias John Christopher, alias David Kuhn, alias Tristan Adams. How are you doing today, James?"
Jim grunted as another wave of electricity crested through him. "Peachy."
"You know why I'm here. I know you do." She was calm and collected and Jim wasn't sure what she wanted. He'd thought she would be freeing him and sending him to do his part by now. "We have about 3 minutes until things start to get fun, so let me tell you a quick story, shall I?"
Jim rolled his eyes. She was playing for the cameras. Fine. "Not going anywhere."
"When I as a little girl, I loved my father more than anything. My mother had died in childbirth, and as is custom on Illyria for children with a parent in mourning, I was raised in - you would call it a crèche. But I saw my father once a year. I was his star shine, he was my sun. And then, when I was ten, my father went off to be an officer in this fine Fleet. He was the security chief on a ship called Narada." She paused to let that sink in. Jim knew where it was going now. "He served for fiftenn years, Kirk. And when I was twenty-six, with my own commission, Narada apprehended Kelvin. It would have made his career." She reached down to unlock his cuffs then, and he shivered at the icy cold of her hands. "Your father killed mine. Do you understand that?"
He nodded and swallowed, hard. "I-"
"Shut up. I chased you and your mother and brother for a long time. Because command told me to. And because I needed to see the faces of the people whose lives were more important than my father's. And I called it off eleven years ago. Do you know why?"
"Tell me."
"Because I found something better." Absently, she rubbed her hand across her swollen belly. "I found the man whose child I am bearing."
The lights flickered then, and the hallway went dark. One offered Jim a hand and pulled him to his feet. "And you should be thankful I did," she muttered, pressing a phaser into his palm. "Archer is in A-24, Komack in A-36, Barnett in D-34. Pike has Barnett. Go get them."
Jim started out the door, limping a little from the abuses he'd suffered, but paused and turned back to her. "If I had my way, both of our fathers would be alive."
She nodded. "That's nice. Go kill someone."
He went.
---
Pike had insisted Jim commit all floor plans of the holding they'd be kept in to memory, and as he made his way to Archer, Jim was glad he'd done it. His feet knew where to go, though his brain was fuzzy. The plan had always been for One to divert the guards, so Jim was grateful, but not surprised to meet no one on his way.
The door was sealed; all the doors were sealed. Jim tapped in the code Pike had told him- 36459, EMILY -and was unsurprised that it granted him access with a whistle.
Archer didn't even look up from his console as Jim entered.
"It's about time you got-"
Jim assumed Archer would have said something like, "Those doors unlocked," but the stun setting on Jim's phaser left very little room for conversation. The adrenalin and blood roared in his ears as Jim crossed the room and lifted Archer's head from his desk, exposing the canvas of unmarked skin that was the Admiral's neck.
A feral grin crossed Jim's face and he reached into Archer's jacket for the knife he kept there. "Hello, Johnny," Jim growled, drawing the blade across Archer's jugular and watching the life drain from his now useless body. "And, I guess, goodbye."
---
The trip to Komack's office took less time, but Komack was more ready.
Jim had made the most of the time that surprise offered him and leapt at the man as he entered the room, tearing the phaser from his grasp and viciously slamming the heel of his hand into the other man's nose before throwing him to the ground and holding him there with a foot pressing on his windpipe, phaser trained between his eyes.
Jim took a moment to observe the formerly sadistic admiral on the floor under his foot, blood gushing from a nose that was surely broken, hands clawing at the immobile column of Jim's leg.
"Archer is dead," Jim growled, just to see the look on Komack's face. It was widely known that they were married, and Jim relished the feeling of complete control delivering the news gave him.
"Liar," Komack gasped.
"Whose blood do you think is on my hands?" Jim sneered, easing his foot enough for Komack to take a few shuddering breaths and respond.
"What do you want?" Komack asked, staring at the phaser. "Money? Power? I can tell you where your brot-"
Jim growled and fired the phaser, set to kill.
"Now you're the liar," he told Komack's body before stooping to slit its throat and turning on his heel without watching him bleed out. He headed towards the rendezvous spot, never noticing the trail of red footprints he left in his wake.
---
An exhausted smile graced Pike's face as Jim rounded the corner to their meeting place, Number One waiting with him, supporting most of Pike's weight on her slim shoulders. Jim nodded curtly at her and she returned the gesture.
"Dad?"
"Chipped a vertebra or two," Pike grinned, reaching out his hand. "You?"
Jim took the offered hand and pulled Pike away from One, shouldering the older man's bulk. "Irreparably broken," Jim said with a laugh. "Barnett?" he asked, noticing the lack of blood on Pike's hands.
"Cut environment to his office. He's gone. Archer and Komack?"
"Messy piles on their office floors." Jim laughed and pulled Pike into a hug. "We did it Dad." He grinned. "We really did it."
Pike gripped him back, and Jim felt the transporter take them as they hugged, jubilant and tired.
Masterpost| part 2