"two halves of the one coin"
Title: two halves of the one coin [1/3]
Fandom: Star Trek XI.
Characters: everyone, with a hefty focus on Kirk and McCoy, and more Spock and Chekov than originally planned.
Word Count: 6151
Rating: 12(ish)
Summary: “Captain Kirk. We have a gift for you.” And maybe sometimes a gift is less something new, and more something to help you forget the old - even when there are those around you who can’t quite let sleeping dogs lie. Kirk/Bones.
Warnings: some language, non-explicit sex
Notes: sequel(ish) to sealed by a fragile touch, fingerprints of forgotten memories and glass right down the middle, and knowledge of those is pretty needed for this one to make sense (particularly fingerprints).
Whoa, it’s been a while since I wrote in this ‘verse (does anyone besides my f!list actually remember those fics?) - but this is an idea that’s been playing around in the back of my head for a while (after numerous calls for me to give the boys a break :D), and so because it’s Christmas and I have some time on my hands, I figured I’d finally sit down and write it. And for once it’s not inspired by a kink meme prompt! Also, obvious Sherlock Holmes trailer shoutout is obvious. :D ♥
two halves of the one coin
“Wait. Captain.”
Jim stops, foot half-raised off the floor in a vaguely comical stance, and looks back, scrabbling for composure. He’s a diplomat, yeah, and (if he says so himself, and he can imagine Bones’ excessive eye rolling at the thought) a halfway good one - but one leg in the air isn’t the most dignified way to conduct a meet-and-greet with the Karashan Premier. “Yes?” he says, and lowers his foot, hoping (against hope) that the Premier will take his accidental clowning with good grace.
The Premier doesn’t smile. “Captain Kirk,” he says, and his voice is soft and sorry. “Before you leave, we have a gift for you.”
Jim puts on his best diplomatic smile. “Premier,” he says, “you don’t have to-“
“Yes,” the Premier interrupts, that same sorrowful lilt still traced in his voice. “We do.” He steps forward, and out of the corner of his eye Jim sees Bones shift uneasily (with Spock at one shoulder and Chekov at the other, backing him up as the delegation from Starfleet’s flagship) as the Premier’s slender hands drift up through the thick air to frame his hand - like they’re dancing. “Your pain sings in our minds,” the Premier says, and Jim’s the one who’s shifting this time, because of course he knows what the Karashan is talking about (but that doesn’t mean that he can’t see the quizzical expression on Chekov’s face, and that sometimes, just for a moment, he can forget about it all and just be Jim), “and we cannot understand how you bear it.”
Jim forces a smile, this time. “I get on just fine,” he says, but the words are sticking in his throat (because it’s a lie, of course it’s a lie). “There’s no need-”
“Let us help you,” the Premier says. “We see your pain, and we see your suffering, and we see that you feel quite alone - and we can help. Let us help. Let us take the pain away.”
“Just wait a minute!” comes the interruption from the sidelines as Bones steps forward sharply (the interruption Jim was expecting, to be honest). “What are you-”
But then the little part of Jim that he can’t quite control-the part hidden deep inside him; the part which is vicious and hateful and blames Bones for everything-whispers Yes - and the Karashan Premier hears it. He nods his graceful head, and says, “Very well.”
And suddenly Jim’s head feels like it’s about to explode.
§§§
Spock and security surround Jim the second their captain pirouettes gracefully into an ungraceful heap on the grassy lawn, but Bones barely notices as they buzz around him like horseflies - because he’s there first, at Jim’s side, where he always is.
“God-fucking-damnit,” he spits, and palms his tricorder, because yay, Jim’s got himself into some alien-ritual-gone-wrong again. This happens far, far too much for Bones’ liking - but not that he’ll tell Jim that, because they’ve got enough problems without Bones heaping ‘overly-cautious’ and ‘smothering’ into the mix.
“Doctor,” Spock says in a pointed undertone (far too evenly).
Bones’ tricorder buzzes in his hand (heart rate normal, breathing normal, everything normal for once, thank God) and he glances back up to Spock, with his fingers instinctively snaking out to fumble for the thump of Jim’s pulse (because some things are just reassurance in and of themselves)-
Before he can speak, his tricorder beeps insistently, and Bones looks down - and his breath catches. No, he thinks sharply. No.
“Brainwaves are all over the place,” he says tersely, and he drops Jim’s wrist because goddamnit, he doesn’t like this. “Physically he’s as normal as Jim ever is, but-” And he cuts himself off, because saying that alien bastard did something to his mind doesn’t really qualify as the best diplomatic technique known to Starfleet. So he settles for a stony look, because he’s well aware of Spock’s astuteness.
Jim’s breaths are fast and loose, but the oxygen’s getting to him, and so Bones is okay with that.
Sure enough, Spock’s spine straightens. “With all due respect, Premier,” he says stiffly, “I would like to know why you have chosen to incapacitate Captain Kirk.” And the request is given with all the finality of a death sentence, which Bones thinks he quite likes.
The Premier merely blinks. “He is merely resting,” he says, and folds his long-fingered hands at his waist. “His soul is tired. We have given it peace.”
Just for a broken, heart-stopping moment, Bones forgets to breathe. “Excuse me?” he interrupts, and he ignores the quiet quaver that’s crept its way into his voice - because he’s just overreacting, he has to be, because there’s no way- “Have you killed him?”
The Premier laughs, softly, and the corners of his almond eyes crinkle in a distinctly human fashion. (Bones wonders if that’s a side effect of whatever the hell they’ve done to Jim’s head.) “Of course not, Doctor,” he says, and his tone is almost affectionate. “He is resting. His mind must recuperate, after it has been altered, otherwise lasting damage may be incurred. The temporary sedation is a mere safety precaution.”
Of course, Bones stopped listening after ‘altered’. “Not meanin’ to be rude or anythin’,” he says (aware of the fact that his suppressed drawl is coming back with a vengeance, but simultaneously not really caring), “but what did you do to him?”
And the Premier’s gaze is intent and heavy on him, and Chekov shifts at Spock’s side and the security boys stand solid with phasers in hand, but (for Bones, at least) none of them seem to matter anymore. “You know,” the Karashan says levelly. “Doctor McCoy, you know in excruciating detail why we did this.” (Bones bites his tongue, because he knows, of course he does - he knows Risa and Scoropa and scars that haven’t healed and probably never will.) “Your captain has been through so much, and experienced so much,” the Premier continues, and Bones hazily realises (with Jim’s wrist heavy in his hand once more; heavy, with a pulse thrumthrumming under his fingertips) that the other Karashans have adopted the Premier’s heavy-intent expression. “You have seen this. You have lived it with him. Scoropa, Risa, Heira. So how can you question what we have done?” And the Premier pauses, and his expression becomes softer, gentler. “We have given him peace. Turned back time, in our own way.”
Bones’ teeth are gritted, and Spock is just silent. “That doesn’t give you to right to mess with his memories,” he says tightly.
The Premier blinks, just once. “We only did what you could not,” he says simply, as if that’s the answer to everything.
Bones hates how much he agrees with that goddamned statement. “Spock,” he says softly, turning away from the Premier and back to his crew. “I need to get him back to the ship.” And Spock’s agreement is clear in the tilt to his eyebrows, and Bones flips out his communicator.
“Doctor,” the Premier says, and his voice is gentle, as if talking to a startled animal. “We understand that your culture dictates that what we have done is distasteful and intrusive, but please, try and understand. This is what is best. For everyone.”
Bones pauses, just for a moment. “We’ll see,” he says flatly, and flicks open his communicator. “McCoy to Enterprise. Two to beam up.”
§§§
Human curiosity is something that Spock understands, at least on an intellectual level. He understands the drive to experience and discover new things - sometimes, he even feels it himself, in the little ball of repressed emotion that sometimes hums that little bit louder in his chest. Exploration is the ultimate in that expression, he deduces - and therefore, the crew of the Enterprise are bound to be some of the most inquisitive and curious humans that humanity has to offer. After all, those are the ones who are drawn to Starfleet and the Federation’s mission in the first place.
However, that does not mean that Spock understands the relentless curiosity his human crewmates have for matters that simply do not concern them.
“No, Ensign,” he says blandly, “I am unaware as to what the Premier was referring to.”
He is also fully aware of the human concept of a ‘white lie’.
“But Commander,” Chekov continues, turned sideways on his seat in the shuttle in his apparent enthusiasm, “ze Premier referred to three specific planets: Scoropa, Risa and Heira. Surely, if we access ze ship’s database and cross-reference the captain’s whereabouts and actions on ze three, there is some way-”
“Ensign Chekov,” Spock interrupts. “I trust you were listening to the entirety of what the Premier said?”
Chekov appears to be somewhat thrown by the abrupt change in conversation topic. Spock approves of this. “Of course I was-”
“Then I trust that you will have inferred the deeply personal and traumatic nature of the events the Premier referenced,” Spock says firmly. “Additionally, from the exchange between Doctor McCoy and the Premier, I believe that some aspect of the captain’s memory has perhaps been altered - and so it would seem unwise to be aggravating what may be loosely termed ‘an open wound’ in the captain’s mind.” Spock pauses, and studies Chekov’s youthful features. “Is that understood?”
Chekov looks defensive. “I am only trying to help,” he says. “Doctor McCoy was concerned for ze captain - and it is our duty as his crew to try and help, however we can.” There’s a challenge in his eyes. “Do you disagree?”
Spock is not entirely sure when Ensign Chekov acquired such a steely backbone. “I am not criticising your care for the captain, Ensign,” he says, somewhat gentler. “I am merely saying that perhaps it would be more sensible to wait for Doctor McCoy’s professional opinion before offering non-medical help.”
“But surely,” Chekov rebuts, with the distinct air of an experienced debater (who just happens to be wholly committed to seeing his cause through, and winning his debate), “ze cause of ze Premier’s concern is something that should be known - it could potentially contribute to ze captain’s recovery!”
Spock is beginning to wonder whether this curiosity of Chekov’s is truly just curiosity for its own sake, as he had assumed. The concept of ‘gossip’ is one that he had been certain the ensign was under the influence of, but Chekov’s reasoned arguments would seem to suggest a more selfless motive. “In which case,” he says, regardless, “surely Doctor McCoy is best placed to already be aware of such background information, considering his relationship to the captain and his thoroughness in his professional capacity.”
Chekov’s nose crinkles, in a manner oddly reminiscent to what Nyota calls her ‘thinking face’. “Doctor McCoy is biased, and therefore distracted,” he says, with a trace of that defiance still in his voice. “He may not be thinking straight. Therefore-”
“Ensign,” Spock interrupts, finally. “Why are you so eager to pursue an issue which clearly has little to do with you?”
And Chekov is silent, just for a moment, and then his eyes are wide and blue and fixed on Spock with mesmerising clarity. “Because ze crew are not stupid, Commander,” he says flatly, and the defiance might be gone, but there’s still something in his voice, and it’s something that’s worried and frustrated and confused all at once. “Ze Premier spoke about Risa, and no one has forgotten how ze captain was acting after that - and how he has continued to act.” Chekov pauses, and Spock knows that he should really speak in his role as First Officer and quell rumours and speculation and ‘gossip’, but he finds that he cannot, because he remembers what he saw in Jim Kirk’s mind. “Sir,” Chekov half-implores, “I do not ask because I am nosy or want gossip. I ask because ze crew is worried. And because we wish to know why ze captain has changed.”
Spock never realised that the crew saw their captain as being different, somehow, after everything - but now that he considers it, he realises that it was inevitable.
“If we can help,” Chekov is saying, “then we want to. What is so wrong about that?”
Spock finds that he has no answer. “Have you considered,” he says, after a moment, “that the captain might not want the crew to know? That there might be a reason that you do not know?”
Chekov shrugs, just a quick rise-fall of his shoulders. “We are his crew,” he says, and (just for a moment) Spock sees a quick flash of naivety in the ensign’s eyes. “Why would he not trust us?”
There are some things, Spock wants to say, that are too painful for him to even admit to himself. But he doesn’t say that, of course not. He doesn’t say anything. After a moment, Chekov settles back into his seat, and it is apparent in his expression that while he thinks he has won, he is uneasy with that fact.
It is merely an illogical ‘feeling’, as Jim would say, but Spock has it, nonetheless. He has a ‘bad feeling’ about this - because when the crew of the Enterprise want something, the crew of the Enterprise will not stop until they have that something. That is usually a beneficial attribute, resulting in the demise of despots and the solving of scientific mysteries - but now, Spock thinks this is something quite different. He still remembers vividly Jim’s crippling emotions (and he cannot merely name one or two of them: they were a tangled messy ball which overwhelmed him and left him reeling), and he does not think that the captain will be able to cope with everyone’s knowing glances.
He looks over to Chekov-just a quick, subtle glance-and the ensign looks troubled.
Spock thinks about Jim Kirk collapsing to the grassy Karashan ground with an oddly peaceful expression on his face, and he realises that he is troubled as well.
§§§
“Amnesia. Selective amnesia.” For a moment, Bones bites his lip so hard he thinks he tastes blood. “The bastards gave him amnesia.”
A flutter of what looks very close to worry crosses Spock’s face. “Are you certain?”
Bones is so very fucking close to just punching someone right about now. “Yes, I’m certain,” he grinds out. “Patches of his long-term memory are just gone. Wiped clean. I don’t know how, and I’m not even sure I could fix it if I tried.”
Spock, however, is just infuriatingly calm. “Can you determine which memories have been affected?” he asks, softly, and Bones realises that ‘calm’ isn’t quite the right word - yes, the goddamn Vulcan is calm, but not because he wants to be. Because he knows, and because he gets it, too.
“I think you know the answer to that,” Bones says, tightly, and he suddenly finds that fingers have clenched tight around slender hypospray.
Spock’s eyebrow inclines, just a little. “Indeed,” he says, softly, solemnly.
Bones hisses out a breath from between his teeth, and (very purposefully) puts the hypospray down. “Risa,” he says, and he’s glad his office is soundproofed, because this is really not a conversation he wants to be having surrounded by the masses. “Those orange-skinned sons of bitches that nearly killed him.” And his voice isn’t even angry, not really - it’s just tired. He’s tired. (It’s been four months-one hundred and twenty-three days-and Jim still wakes up in the middle of the night, sometimes, with a cry choked in his throat and his hand gripping Bones’ wrist so hard it bruises.)
“The Karashans are an empathic race,” Spock says. “They would be able to feel any inner turmoil of the captain’s, and under the laws of their society they would be honour-bound to do whatever they could to try and alleviate that suffering.”
“And that involves wiping whole chunks of a man’s memory right out of his head?” Bones snaps, even though he knows that Spock isn’t to blame, and that getting angry will only make things worse.
Spock doesn’t answer, but his gaze flickers away from Bones.
Bones sighs, after a moment. “Okay,” he says, because if he can hide behind his professional veneer, then he can pretend that this isn’t happening - but he doesn’t want to make this choice. “We’ve got two options. One. We go back to the Premier, ask him to fix whatever he did to Jim. Explain that it could potentially jeopardise his captaincy.”
“Potentially a diplomatically untenable situation,” Spock reminds.
“And I don’t know if this mind-wiping can even be reversed,” Bones adds, with just a thrum of tension in his voice.
“So our other option,” Spock completes (and Bones can’t help but wonder at the fact that they’re suddenly finishing each other’s thoughts), “is to do nothing. To let the captain forget.”
And Bones thinks about Jim (so small against the dark blue covers), and about Jim shying away from his touch, and about Jim saying don’t make me live with Risa on my own - and he just feels his heart go cold. “Yeah,” he says, and his throat is dry. “We could do that.”
Spock’s gaze is horribly knowing. “Doctor,” he says almost gently, “we cannot let our personal involvement in the matter affect our judgement. Despite the deeply traumatic nature of the erased memories, they are still his memories - and it is his decision as to whether he keeps them or not. We cannot make that decision for him.”
Bones smiles at that, just a little, and oh so fucking bitterly. “Spock,” he says, “when did you ever know Jim to make a decision of his own free will that was for his own good?”
Spock’s not-expression is stony. “The human mind is complex, Doctor, as you are well aware. If we do not contact the Karashans immediately, this amnesia may spread. If that eventuality comes to pass, the captain will not be a captain much longer.”
“Yes, I know that,” Bones snaps, because he hates it when the goddamn Vulcan’s talking down to him. “I can manage it. They might not’ve had the right to do that-” to cut up his brain; to mess with his head even more than it’s already messed with “-but they did it well. There’s no indication that this could spread. Maybe-”
“Doctor,” Spock interrupts, and his voice is so very calm and quiet (juxtaposed against the seething mass that is the inside of Bones’ head right now). “Think about what you are suggesting.”
“I’m suggesting something that means I can do my job,” Bones answers, and his voice is quiet, too, but a different kind of quiet - a tense and determined quiet, because he knows what he’s doing, now. “I’m suggesting something that means that I can fix him.”
Spock’s gaze is steady. “You cannot fix everything, Doctor.”
“I can try,” Bones answers, and then there is silence in the air between them.
Out of the corner of his eye, through the half-opaque glass that makes up half the wall of his office, Bones sees Chapel at Jim’s side, adjusting his medbed and checking his vitals.
“You’ve been in his head, Spock,” Bones says, finally. “You’ve felt what he feels.”
“And he has been coping admirably,” Spock says, simply. “I believe that he is far stronger than you give him credit for. What the Karashans have done to him is a violation-”
And Bones laughs.
He can’t help it. It’s not a humour-laugh (one that’s light-hearted and airy because someone’s just tripped on a banana skin), but a laugh that’s full of irony that’s like dark chocolate. “He’s not coping admirably,” Bones says flatly. “He’s really goddamn not.”
“Doctor-”
“He presents the crew a brave face,” Bones says, “but there’s no way that’s he’s ‘coping admirably’.” He pauses, and when Spock doesn’t interrupt he thinks that what he’s saying might be beginning to make sense. “You know him better than that, Spock.”
Spock doesn’t move (and his hands are still clasped loosely behind his back). “Nonetheless,” he says, and leaves it at that.
Bones knows. Of course he knows. (And maybe what he’s advocating doing is selfish, because he misses Jim, and yeah, Jim is so very messed up right now, but no one (himself included, to be honest) seems to realise that he’s not okay, either. Abandonment issues and co-dependency issues and more irrationality than you could shake a stick at.)
There’s a quick rap at the door, and Chapel peers inside his office. Her eyes are bright and hopeful. “McCoy,” she says. “He’s waking.”
Bones just has time for one last sparing glance to Spock, and then he’s out the door and then he’s at Jim’s side, where he always is.
When Jim wakes, usually, it involves a lot of theatrical groaning and cheap ploys for his nurses’ sympathy. But now, this time, his blue eyes just slide open, and he stares at the ceiling for a moment, confusion furrowing his forehead, and he doesn’t speak.
“Morning, sunshine,” Bones says, brusquely and cheerfully, and Jim’s gaze snaps to him and a lazy (confused) grin makes its way across his lips.
“Bones,” he says, as if it’s obvious, as if that’s all that matters, and then: “What happened?”
Bones can almost feel Spock standing at his shoulder. He breathes. “The Karashan Premier decided it would be a nice, diplomatic thing to mess around with the inside of your head,” he answers, and he can hear the trepidation and anger in his voice, even if nobody else can. “You’ve got a case of selective retrograde amnesia, Jim.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Jim says, and there’s the groan that Bones has been looking for as the (currently distinctly uncaptainly) captain hoists himself up into a sitting position, with Chapel’s hand on his shoulder as a warning that he ignores. “What’s gone, then?” he asks, and there’s just the faintest quaver of worry in his voice - because he knows what this could mean for his captaincy better than anyone.
And Bones pauses, just for a moment, because this is his choice. Jim trusts him (instinctively, and he always has, since the first insouciant I may throw up on you), and so Jim will trust what he says, and that’s a privilege that he can both use and abuse - but here, now, is there really any dividing line between the two?
The warmth of Spock’s Vulcan body thrums through the air behind him, and that’s a reminder, a steadier. A whisper of it is not your right to choose for him.
But it is. It always has been.
Bones smiles - just an upwards quirk of his lips. "Nothing you’ll miss,” he says.
“Doctor-”
“Spock,” Bones says firmly. “Can it.”
And that’s that.
Jim just looks faintly groggy, and Bones is quietly thankful for the quality of Starfleet meds. “The Karashans?” he asks, and then yawns.
“A diplomatic team is being sent over by the Federation,” Bones answers, because he’s well aware that Spock is doing the Vulcan equivalent of fuming right about now (fuming with righteous indignation, but Bones can’t bring himself to care right now, because Jim’s shoulders are just so much lighter, and there’s finally something playful in the sleepy captain’s eyes) and so is unlikely to answer unless the situation is life or death, because Spock does seem to like his angry stoicism. “The Karashans are keen to join the Federation - they just might need some lessons when it comes to messing with people’s heads.”
Jim snorts a quick laugh. “Sounds good.”
Bones nods, and lightly shoves Jim’s wandering hands away. “As far as I can tell, there’s no other damage,” he says, and crosses his arms pointedly. “I’m releasing you, but if you don’t come back in the moment you feel off, then your physical is going to come up a lot sooner than it’s meant to. Okay?”
Jim grins (and it’s carefree and cheeky and oh, Bones has missed that grin). “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll do that.”
“Doctor,” Spock says stiffly, as Jim yawns again. “I would like to speak to you.”
Figured you might.
Bones doesn’t say it, because there is no way in hell he can give Jim even the hint that something might not be entirely right. So he hands Jim over to Chapel for her to fuss over, and he turns, and there is Spock, waiting in the door to his office, and the Vulcan is so very impassive that Bones feels momentarily cold.
The silence in his office is so very stark.
“I sincerely hope,” Spock begins, “that you know what you have done.”
But Bones glances out through the half-translucent glass, and he sees Jim’s hair flood around his head like spun gold under the lights - and he’s smiling and flirting, and there’s a faintly bemused expression on Chapel’s face, because this isn’t what Jim has been like for so long. So fucking long. And Bones knows that he doesn’t know what he’s done, not really, because memories are tricky things - but he knows that whatever the outcome, in this moment, this second, it’s worth it.
He looks Spock in the eye, and says, “So do I.”
§§§
It’s the bulletin from the Federation Courts that does it.
Pavel disregarded Commander Spock’s advice, in the end, because Hikaru had been in Sickbay (completely not flirting with Chapel, as he said with an oddly rueful flush) and had seen the Commander arguing with Doctor McCoy in the CMO’s office, even if (despite his best efforts) the pilot had been unable to actually hear whatever it was that they were arguing about.
Pavel would be willing to wager a bottle of his favourite vodka that they’d been arguing about the captain.
As a consequence, after his shift had ended (because despite the excitement on Karash, he was still required to return to the bridge and fidget at his station), Pavel had decided that Commander Spock was evidently attempting to keep something quiet - and, considering the commander’s previous violent antagonism towards Kirk, it would be perhaps sensible to attempt to discover the subject of this something.
Pavel does not expect what he finds.
To begin with, he lists the three planets the Karashan Premier spoke of: Scoropa, Risa, Heira. Scoropa and Heira he understands well enough-the time dilation planet, and the ‘unfortunate incident in Sickbay (Pavel cannot stand diplomatic jargon, but that is what both Starfleet and the Heiran authorities insist on calling it)-but he finds himself stumbling over Risa.
Yes, the captain and doctor’s fallout after shore leave on Risa was well-documented and gossiped about, mainly because no one could quite figure out the reason why. That Kirk had cheated was one theory which Nyota ascribed to thoroughly, but Hikaru had been equally adamant that Kirk wouldn’t, no matter what. No one ever reached a resolution on the matter, because, in the end, (after the doctor’s strange attempt to transfer) Kirk and McCoy made up again, and that was that, because they were willing to let sleeping dogs lie (as Mr Scott’s saying goes).
Life went on.
But now, Pavel digs up a record of the data transmissions sent for a month either side of the trip to Risa - and he finds a lengthy, encrypted commlink between the Enterprise and the largest courtroom in the Federation Courts.
When he subtly accesses the internal (confidential) network of the Federation Courts themselves, he feels just the faintest spasm of guilt - but he doesn’t stop, because sometimes his curiosity gets the better of him.
And it’s the bulletin that does it.
A bulletin detailing court times and dates and giving trial summaries and witness lists - and there is the captain’s name (‘James Tiberius Kirk, Captain, USS Enterprise’), listed as a key witness for the prosecution underneath the trial of two Gedrosans for sexual assault, grievous bodily harm, and interplanetary murder.
It’s ‘sexual assault’ that Pavel freezes on.
Court transcripts are next, and in the back of Pavel’s mind is some little twitch that reminds him how much his intelligence can sometimes be burden, because if he didn’t know just how to nip and sneak and fix so that it looks like he’s never touched a computer in his life then he wouldn’t know, couldn’t know. He’d prefer that, he thinks, because he’s beginning to realise that Commander Spock was right. This is none of his business - but he can’t stop.
The sex wasn’t exactly gentle, Pavel reads, written in impersonal letters on the screen of the workstation in his quarters, and bile rises in his throat.
He presses the comm gently. “Chekov to Sulu,” he says, emptily, painfully.
§§§
The Karashan Premier commed Bones two days ago, just after they’d broken orbit from Karash, and the quiet assuredness in his alien features made Bones simultaneously want to punch the vidscreen and thank him profusely. As it was, he did neither - but he thinks the Premier might’ve got the point.
And Jim is Jim again.
He flirts and banters and lazily grabs Bones’ ass when he’s trying to work, and Bones is once again quietly amused by the teetering balance between appreciation and downright ogling which his fair-haired boy manages with Uhura. Paperwork and reports are allowed to stack up on the desk in their quarters while Jim socialises with his crew, but they’re never neglected, and everything gets in on time, neat and filled out and in perfect triplicate.
Jim is Captain Kirk, the consummate professional, but he’s also Jim<, full of spice and fire.
He meets Bones for lunch in the mess on the day after the Karashan incident, and he winks playfully at the doctor over a spoonful of ice cream, and then proceeds to eat it in the most obscene manner ever. Bones just sits back with an eyebrow pointedly raised, and watches Jim get ice cream all over his chin - and somewhere in his mind, Bones is content again, because this Jim (the flirty, playful, filthy Jim) is the one he can’t go without.
Still.
§§§
It’s late when Bones gets back to their quarters.
He knows this, so he’s quiet - he slips inside with the quietest whisper of a hiss from the door, and he strips off the blue of his uniform shirt even as he dials the lights to twenty-five percent. There’s affection in his gaze as he surveys the tip that is Jim Kirk’s desk (even if he’d vehemently deny it if it was brought up later), and he toes off his shoes, scrolling through a padd that seems to be Scotty ranting about how Keenser keeps jamming up his precious experiments by leaving socks in them.
To be honest, Bones doesn’t want to know.
He turns towards the doorway to their bedroom, fully intending to strip off the rest of his day-old uniform and slip into bed to be subsequently smothered octopus-style by Jim-
Apparently, Jim has other ideas.
The captain of the Enterprise (who’s not really looking very captainly right now, not with nothing but a strategically-placed pillow to protect his decency) grins up at him with very white teeth. “Bones,” he says, with a lick of lasciviousness. “You took your time.”
And there’s that familiar curl of heat in Bones’ stomach that he hasn’t quite felt in months. “Yeah,” he says, and simulated candlelight plays across Jim’s shoulders. “I can see that.”
Jim catches his bottom lip between his teeth, in a gesture that’s so bizarrely coquettish that it makes Bones blink. “I’ve missed you,” Jim says (with his voice so very fucking rich), and his blue eyes are so bright and earnest. And then he grins, impishly, ruining the whole romance-novel illusion, and quips (in a faux-sultry voice), “Lover.”
Bones, predictably, rolls his eyes. “And if I ain’t in the mood?” he asks (even though they both know he is, because he drawls when he’s stressed and when he’s turned on, which is a combination Jim likes (liked?) to exploit).
Jim shrugs, fluid against the dark blue bedsheets. “I can fix that,” he says.
It’s been too long.
Bones knows that’s an uncharitable (selfish?) thought, but he can’t help it - he’s missed Jim, and not just for his wit and charm.
Those orange-skinned bastards messed up more than one life.
And that’s a thought that’s on the tip of his tongue-I miss you; I want you; I need you-when Jim, ever the master of subtlety, whips away the pillow and lounges back on their bed. “Doctor,” he says, “I’ve got this weird swelling. Can you help me?”
Bones just hauls his undershirt over his head and throws it at Jim’s face.
And then he joins him on the bed.
It’s not like the nights Bones remembers - it’s not tender and scared and treating each other like they might break at any moment, even as they bite and mark and bruise. It’s fun, with banter and joking and the worst cheesy lines Jim can come up with, which Bones does his best to swallow by just planting his mouth over Jim’s until Jim gives up.
Jim nips at Bones’ earlobe, and Bones retaliates by flicking Jim’s nipple.
He’s missed this.
Jim laughs when he comes - breathless, ecstatic, full of verve and joy.
Bones feels like crying.
Jim does splay himself around Bones octopus-style, eventually - and he falls asleep with one hand fisted in Bones’ hair and the other resting loosely on his own hip.
Bones traces that arm-fingertips running through fine hair and along smooth muscle-and his fingers stutter, just that little bit, when he reaches Jim’s hip, because the memories might be gone, but fuck, the scars haven’t. White, dashed in a circle, the perfect circumference for a female jaw.
Jim’s nose wrinkles in his sleep, and he is innocence and filth and flirt.
He’s not Jim - not the Jim that Jim has grown to be.
Bones’ breath catches, and suddenly he’s warm, too warm, and Jim’s not goddamn well helping.
He pushes Jim away, rolling him onto his side (with sharp pain flooding through his limbs), and Jim curls into himself, his hands wrapped in fistfuls of mussed sheet - and Bones stumbles out of bed, the warmth of his skin cloying around his heart.
-I sincerely hope that you know what you have done.-
He doesn’t. He doesn’t.
Because memory is memory is memory, and Bones stands, hands curled around the rim of the window, and stares out at the stars, and he knows.
Jim doesn’t know, consciously at least-he doesn’t know about Risa, he doesn’t know about those fuckers-but his body does. And Jim might be an amnesiac, but he’s smart, and Bones has known the kid long enough to know that he remembers his scars, every time he gets them (physical memory of a different kind).
For a moment, he’s seized with the urge to go to Sickbay, to find the dermal regenerator, to fix the scars, to make them go away, to make the memory stay.
But he can’t. Because he can’t fix things.
Jim stirs, pricked by the chill of loss. “Bones?” he mumbles into his forearm.
Bones’ knuckles are tight-white on the rim of the window. “Go back to sleep,” he says, softly.
Bleary, hair mussed, Jim looks up, across at Bones. A sleepy grin messes his lips. “Mmm, nice ass,” he says, and then: “Why’re you out of bed?”
“You’re too fuckin’ clingy,” Bones answers shortly, sharply, and his jaw tightens.
Jim snorts out a sleepy laugh. “Sorry,” he says, and he buries his face back in the crook of his elbow. There’s a moment’s silence, in which Bones feels his heart thumping (because this was supposed to fix things, this amnesia clusterfuck), but then Jim stirs, again. “We haven’t done this for a while,” he says, softly.
“What, fucked?” Bones asks - and it’s a terse answer, because he doesn’t want to be talking, not now, he wants to revel in his own self-involvement.
Jim’s nose wrinkles, as if he’s trying to remember something that he can’t. Bones doesn’t see, though, because he just stands, naked, staring out into the blackness of space (the space that he can’t fucking stand). “Something like that,” Jim says.
Bones is silent.
“Why not?” Jim asks, and his voice is full of confusion and curiosity.
Bones closes his eyes. “Things happen,” he says. “You’re the captain, Jim. You’re busy.”
Sheets are pushed out of the way, and Bones hears the pad of Jim’s footsteps. His eyes flicker open, but he doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. “Not too busy for you,” Jim says quietly, and his touch whispers its way across Bones’ shoulders.
“Jim-”
Jim’s warmth is suddenly pressed up against him, and it’s not cloying, not now - it’s welcoming and sensual and the comfort of two pressing in together against the world. “Bones,” he says, and it’s like a breath of soft air.
Guilt claws its way through Bones’ flesh.
to be continued
next: [ News spreads, because that's what news does.]
Fandom: Star Trek XI.
Characters: everyone, with a hefty focus on Kirk and McCoy, and more Spock and Chekov than originally planned.
Word Count: 6151
Rating: 12(ish)
Summary: “Captain Kirk. We have a gift for you.” And maybe sometimes a gift is less something new, and more something to help you forget the old - even when there are those around you who can’t quite let sleeping dogs lie. Kirk/Bones.
Warnings: some language, non-explicit sex
Notes: sequel(ish) to sealed by a fragile touch, fingerprints of forgotten memories and glass right down the middle, and knowledge of those is pretty needed for this one to make sense (particularly fingerprints).
Whoa, it’s been a while since I wrote in this ‘verse (does anyone besides my f!list actually remember those fics?) - but this is an idea that’s been playing around in the back of my head for a while (after numerous calls for me to give the boys a break :D), and so because it’s Christmas and I have some time on my hands, I figured I’d finally sit down and write it. And for once it’s not inspired by a kink meme prompt! Also, obvious Sherlock Holmes trailer shoutout is obvious. :D ♥
two halves of the one coin
“Wait. Captain.”
Jim stops, foot half-raised off the floor in a vaguely comical stance, and looks back, scrabbling for composure. He’s a diplomat, yeah, and (if he says so himself, and he can imagine Bones’ excessive eye rolling at the thought) a halfway good one - but one leg in the air isn’t the most dignified way to conduct a meet-and-greet with the Karashan Premier. “Yes?” he says, and lowers his foot, hoping (against hope) that the Premier will take his accidental clowning with good grace.
The Premier doesn’t smile. “Captain Kirk,” he says, and his voice is soft and sorry. “Before you leave, we have a gift for you.”
Jim puts on his best diplomatic smile. “Premier,” he says, “you don’t have to-“
“Yes,” the Premier interrupts, that same sorrowful lilt still traced in his voice. “We do.” He steps forward, and out of the corner of his eye Jim sees Bones shift uneasily (with Spock at one shoulder and Chekov at the other, backing him up as the delegation from Starfleet’s flagship) as the Premier’s slender hands drift up through the thick air to frame his hand - like they’re dancing. “Your pain sings in our minds,” the Premier says, and Jim’s the one who’s shifting this time, because of course he knows what the Karashan is talking about (but that doesn’t mean that he can’t see the quizzical expression on Chekov’s face, and that sometimes, just for a moment, he can forget about it all and just be Jim), “and we cannot understand how you bear it.”
Jim forces a smile, this time. “I get on just fine,” he says, but the words are sticking in his throat (because it’s a lie, of course it’s a lie). “There’s no need-”
“Let us help you,” the Premier says. “We see your pain, and we see your suffering, and we see that you feel quite alone - and we can help. Let us help. Let us take the pain away.”
“Just wait a minute!” comes the interruption from the sidelines as Bones steps forward sharply (the interruption Jim was expecting, to be honest). “What are you-”
But then the little part of Jim that he can’t quite control-the part hidden deep inside him; the part which is vicious and hateful and blames Bones for everything-whispers Yes - and the Karashan Premier hears it. He nods his graceful head, and says, “Very well.”
And suddenly Jim’s head feels like it’s about to explode.
§§§
Spock and security surround Jim the second their captain pirouettes gracefully into an ungraceful heap on the grassy lawn, but Bones barely notices as they buzz around him like horseflies - because he’s there first, at Jim’s side, where he always is.
“God-fucking-damnit,” he spits, and palms his tricorder, because yay, Jim’s got himself into some alien-ritual-gone-wrong again. This happens far, far too much for Bones’ liking - but not that he’ll tell Jim that, because they’ve got enough problems without Bones heaping ‘overly-cautious’ and ‘smothering’ into the mix.
“Doctor,” Spock says in a pointed undertone (far too evenly).
Bones’ tricorder buzzes in his hand (heart rate normal, breathing normal, everything normal for once, thank God) and he glances back up to Spock, with his fingers instinctively snaking out to fumble for the thump of Jim’s pulse (because some things are just reassurance in and of themselves)-
Before he can speak, his tricorder beeps insistently, and Bones looks down - and his breath catches. No, he thinks sharply. No.
“Brainwaves are all over the place,” he says tersely, and he drops Jim’s wrist because goddamnit, he doesn’t like this. “Physically he’s as normal as Jim ever is, but-” And he cuts himself off, because saying that alien bastard did something to his mind doesn’t really qualify as the best diplomatic technique known to Starfleet. So he settles for a stony look, because he’s well aware of Spock’s astuteness.
Jim’s breaths are fast and loose, but the oxygen’s getting to him, and so Bones is okay with that.
Sure enough, Spock’s spine straightens. “With all due respect, Premier,” he says stiffly, “I would like to know why you have chosen to incapacitate Captain Kirk.” And the request is given with all the finality of a death sentence, which Bones thinks he quite likes.
The Premier merely blinks. “He is merely resting,” he says, and folds his long-fingered hands at his waist. “His soul is tired. We have given it peace.”
Just for a broken, heart-stopping moment, Bones forgets to breathe. “Excuse me?” he interrupts, and he ignores the quiet quaver that’s crept its way into his voice - because he’s just overreacting, he has to be, because there’s no way- “Have you killed him?”
The Premier laughs, softly, and the corners of his almond eyes crinkle in a distinctly human fashion. (Bones wonders if that’s a side effect of whatever the hell they’ve done to Jim’s head.) “Of course not, Doctor,” he says, and his tone is almost affectionate. “He is resting. His mind must recuperate, after it has been altered, otherwise lasting damage may be incurred. The temporary sedation is a mere safety precaution.”
Of course, Bones stopped listening after ‘altered’. “Not meanin’ to be rude or anythin’,” he says (aware of the fact that his suppressed drawl is coming back with a vengeance, but simultaneously not really caring), “but what did you do to him?”
And the Premier’s gaze is intent and heavy on him, and Chekov shifts at Spock’s side and the security boys stand solid with phasers in hand, but (for Bones, at least) none of them seem to matter anymore. “You know,” the Karashan says levelly. “Doctor McCoy, you know in excruciating detail why we did this.” (Bones bites his tongue, because he knows, of course he does - he knows Risa and Scoropa and scars that haven’t healed and probably never will.) “Your captain has been through so much, and experienced so much,” the Premier continues, and Bones hazily realises (with Jim’s wrist heavy in his hand once more; heavy, with a pulse thrumthrumming under his fingertips) that the other Karashans have adopted the Premier’s heavy-intent expression. “You have seen this. You have lived it with him. Scoropa, Risa, Heira. So how can you question what we have done?” And the Premier pauses, and his expression becomes softer, gentler. “We have given him peace. Turned back time, in our own way.”
Bones’ teeth are gritted, and Spock is just silent. “That doesn’t give you to right to mess with his memories,” he says tightly.
The Premier blinks, just once. “We only did what you could not,” he says simply, as if that’s the answer to everything.
Bones hates how much he agrees with that goddamned statement. “Spock,” he says softly, turning away from the Premier and back to his crew. “I need to get him back to the ship.” And Spock’s agreement is clear in the tilt to his eyebrows, and Bones flips out his communicator.
“Doctor,” the Premier says, and his voice is gentle, as if talking to a startled animal. “We understand that your culture dictates that what we have done is distasteful and intrusive, but please, try and understand. This is what is best. For everyone.”
Bones pauses, just for a moment. “We’ll see,” he says flatly, and flicks open his communicator. “McCoy to Enterprise. Two to beam up.”
§§§
Human curiosity is something that Spock understands, at least on an intellectual level. He understands the drive to experience and discover new things - sometimes, he even feels it himself, in the little ball of repressed emotion that sometimes hums that little bit louder in his chest. Exploration is the ultimate in that expression, he deduces - and therefore, the crew of the Enterprise are bound to be some of the most inquisitive and curious humans that humanity has to offer. After all, those are the ones who are drawn to Starfleet and the Federation’s mission in the first place.
However, that does not mean that Spock understands the relentless curiosity his human crewmates have for matters that simply do not concern them.
“No, Ensign,” he says blandly, “I am unaware as to what the Premier was referring to.”
He is also fully aware of the human concept of a ‘white lie’.
“But Commander,” Chekov continues, turned sideways on his seat in the shuttle in his apparent enthusiasm, “ze Premier referred to three specific planets: Scoropa, Risa and Heira. Surely, if we access ze ship’s database and cross-reference the captain’s whereabouts and actions on ze three, there is some way-”
“Ensign Chekov,” Spock interrupts. “I trust you were listening to the entirety of what the Premier said?”
Chekov appears to be somewhat thrown by the abrupt change in conversation topic. Spock approves of this. “Of course I was-”
“Then I trust that you will have inferred the deeply personal and traumatic nature of the events the Premier referenced,” Spock says firmly. “Additionally, from the exchange between Doctor McCoy and the Premier, I believe that some aspect of the captain’s memory has perhaps been altered - and so it would seem unwise to be aggravating what may be loosely termed ‘an open wound’ in the captain’s mind.” Spock pauses, and studies Chekov’s youthful features. “Is that understood?”
Chekov looks defensive. “I am only trying to help,” he says. “Doctor McCoy was concerned for ze captain - and it is our duty as his crew to try and help, however we can.” There’s a challenge in his eyes. “Do you disagree?”
Spock is not entirely sure when Ensign Chekov acquired such a steely backbone. “I am not criticising your care for the captain, Ensign,” he says, somewhat gentler. “I am merely saying that perhaps it would be more sensible to wait for Doctor McCoy’s professional opinion before offering non-medical help.”
“But surely,” Chekov rebuts, with the distinct air of an experienced debater (who just happens to be wholly committed to seeing his cause through, and winning his debate), “ze cause of ze Premier’s concern is something that should be known - it could potentially contribute to ze captain’s recovery!”
Spock is beginning to wonder whether this curiosity of Chekov’s is truly just curiosity for its own sake, as he had assumed. The concept of ‘gossip’ is one that he had been certain the ensign was under the influence of, but Chekov’s reasoned arguments would seem to suggest a more selfless motive. “In which case,” he says, regardless, “surely Doctor McCoy is best placed to already be aware of such background information, considering his relationship to the captain and his thoroughness in his professional capacity.”
Chekov’s nose crinkles, in a manner oddly reminiscent to what Nyota calls her ‘thinking face’. “Doctor McCoy is biased, and therefore distracted,” he says, with a trace of that defiance still in his voice. “He may not be thinking straight. Therefore-”
“Ensign,” Spock interrupts, finally. “Why are you so eager to pursue an issue which clearly has little to do with you?”
And Chekov is silent, just for a moment, and then his eyes are wide and blue and fixed on Spock with mesmerising clarity. “Because ze crew are not stupid, Commander,” he says flatly, and the defiance might be gone, but there’s still something in his voice, and it’s something that’s worried and frustrated and confused all at once. “Ze Premier spoke about Risa, and no one has forgotten how ze captain was acting after that - and how he has continued to act.” Chekov pauses, and Spock knows that he should really speak in his role as First Officer and quell rumours and speculation and ‘gossip’, but he finds that he cannot, because he remembers what he saw in Jim Kirk’s mind. “Sir,” Chekov half-implores, “I do not ask because I am nosy or want gossip. I ask because ze crew is worried. And because we wish to know why ze captain has changed.”
Spock never realised that the crew saw their captain as being different, somehow, after everything - but now that he considers it, he realises that it was inevitable.
“If we can help,” Chekov is saying, “then we want to. What is so wrong about that?”
Spock finds that he has no answer. “Have you considered,” he says, after a moment, “that the captain might not want the crew to know? That there might be a reason that you do not know?”
Chekov shrugs, just a quick rise-fall of his shoulders. “We are his crew,” he says, and (just for a moment) Spock sees a quick flash of naivety in the ensign’s eyes. “Why would he not trust us?”
There are some things, Spock wants to say, that are too painful for him to even admit to himself. But he doesn’t say that, of course not. He doesn’t say anything. After a moment, Chekov settles back into his seat, and it is apparent in his expression that while he thinks he has won, he is uneasy with that fact.
It is merely an illogical ‘feeling’, as Jim would say, but Spock has it, nonetheless. He has a ‘bad feeling’ about this - because when the crew of the Enterprise want something, the crew of the Enterprise will not stop until they have that something. That is usually a beneficial attribute, resulting in the demise of despots and the solving of scientific mysteries - but now, Spock thinks this is something quite different. He still remembers vividly Jim’s crippling emotions (and he cannot merely name one or two of them: they were a tangled messy ball which overwhelmed him and left him reeling), and he does not think that the captain will be able to cope with everyone’s knowing glances.
He looks over to Chekov-just a quick, subtle glance-and the ensign looks troubled.
Spock thinks about Jim Kirk collapsing to the grassy Karashan ground with an oddly peaceful expression on his face, and he realises that he is troubled as well.
§§§
“Amnesia. Selective amnesia.” For a moment, Bones bites his lip so hard he thinks he tastes blood. “The bastards gave him amnesia.”
A flutter of what looks very close to worry crosses Spock’s face. “Are you certain?”
Bones is so very fucking close to just punching someone right about now. “Yes, I’m certain,” he grinds out. “Patches of his long-term memory are just gone. Wiped clean. I don’t know how, and I’m not even sure I could fix it if I tried.”
Spock, however, is just infuriatingly calm. “Can you determine which memories have been affected?” he asks, softly, and Bones realises that ‘calm’ isn’t quite the right word - yes, the goddamn Vulcan is calm, but not because he wants to be. Because he knows, and because he gets it, too.
“I think you know the answer to that,” Bones says, tightly, and he suddenly finds that fingers have clenched tight around slender hypospray.
Spock’s eyebrow inclines, just a little. “Indeed,” he says, softly, solemnly.
Bones hisses out a breath from between his teeth, and (very purposefully) puts the hypospray down. “Risa,” he says, and he’s glad his office is soundproofed, because this is really not a conversation he wants to be having surrounded by the masses. “Those orange-skinned sons of bitches that nearly killed him.” And his voice isn’t even angry, not really - it’s just tired. He’s tired. (It’s been four months-one hundred and twenty-three days-and Jim still wakes up in the middle of the night, sometimes, with a cry choked in his throat and his hand gripping Bones’ wrist so hard it bruises.)
“The Karashans are an empathic race,” Spock says. “They would be able to feel any inner turmoil of the captain’s, and under the laws of their society they would be honour-bound to do whatever they could to try and alleviate that suffering.”
“And that involves wiping whole chunks of a man’s memory right out of his head?” Bones snaps, even though he knows that Spock isn’t to blame, and that getting angry will only make things worse.
Spock doesn’t answer, but his gaze flickers away from Bones.
Bones sighs, after a moment. “Okay,” he says, because if he can hide behind his professional veneer, then he can pretend that this isn’t happening - but he doesn’t want to make this choice. “We’ve got two options. One. We go back to the Premier, ask him to fix whatever he did to Jim. Explain that it could potentially jeopardise his captaincy.”
“Potentially a diplomatically untenable situation,” Spock reminds.
“And I don’t know if this mind-wiping can even be reversed,” Bones adds, with just a thrum of tension in his voice.
“So our other option,” Spock completes (and Bones can’t help but wonder at the fact that they’re suddenly finishing each other’s thoughts), “is to do nothing. To let the captain forget.”
And Bones thinks about Jim (so small against the dark blue covers), and about Jim shying away from his touch, and about Jim saying don’t make me live with Risa on my own - and he just feels his heart go cold. “Yeah,” he says, and his throat is dry. “We could do that.”
Spock’s gaze is horribly knowing. “Doctor,” he says almost gently, “we cannot let our personal involvement in the matter affect our judgement. Despite the deeply traumatic nature of the erased memories, they are still his memories - and it is his decision as to whether he keeps them or not. We cannot make that decision for him.”
Bones smiles at that, just a little, and oh so fucking bitterly. “Spock,” he says, “when did you ever know Jim to make a decision of his own free will that was for his own good?”
Spock’s not-expression is stony. “The human mind is complex, Doctor, as you are well aware. If we do not contact the Karashans immediately, this amnesia may spread. If that eventuality comes to pass, the captain will not be a captain much longer.”
“Yes, I know that,” Bones snaps, because he hates it when the goddamn Vulcan’s talking down to him. “I can manage it. They might not’ve had the right to do that-” to cut up his brain; to mess with his head even more than it’s already messed with “-but they did it well. There’s no indication that this could spread. Maybe-”
“Doctor,” Spock interrupts, and his voice is so very calm and quiet (juxtaposed against the seething mass that is the inside of Bones’ head right now). “Think about what you are suggesting.”
“I’m suggesting something that means I can do my job,” Bones answers, and his voice is quiet, too, but a different kind of quiet - a tense and determined quiet, because he knows what he’s doing, now. “I’m suggesting something that means that I can fix him.”
Spock’s gaze is steady. “You cannot fix everything, Doctor.”
“I can try,” Bones answers, and then there is silence in the air between them.
Out of the corner of his eye, through the half-opaque glass that makes up half the wall of his office, Bones sees Chapel at Jim’s side, adjusting his medbed and checking his vitals.
“You’ve been in his head, Spock,” Bones says, finally. “You’ve felt what he feels.”
“And he has been coping admirably,” Spock says, simply. “I believe that he is far stronger than you give him credit for. What the Karashans have done to him is a violation-”
And Bones laughs.
He can’t help it. It’s not a humour-laugh (one that’s light-hearted and airy because someone’s just tripped on a banana skin), but a laugh that’s full of irony that’s like dark chocolate. “He’s not coping admirably,” Bones says flatly. “He’s really goddamn not.”
“Doctor-”
“He presents the crew a brave face,” Bones says, “but there’s no way that’s he’s ‘coping admirably’.” He pauses, and when Spock doesn’t interrupt he thinks that what he’s saying might be beginning to make sense. “You know him better than that, Spock.”
Spock doesn’t move (and his hands are still clasped loosely behind his back). “Nonetheless,” he says, and leaves it at that.
Bones knows. Of course he knows. (And maybe what he’s advocating doing is selfish, because he misses Jim, and yeah, Jim is so very messed up right now, but no one (himself included, to be honest) seems to realise that he’s not okay, either. Abandonment issues and co-dependency issues and more irrationality than you could shake a stick at.)
There’s a quick rap at the door, and Chapel peers inside his office. Her eyes are bright and hopeful. “McCoy,” she says. “He’s waking.”
Bones just has time for one last sparing glance to Spock, and then he’s out the door and then he’s at Jim’s side, where he always is.
When Jim wakes, usually, it involves a lot of theatrical groaning and cheap ploys for his nurses’ sympathy. But now, this time, his blue eyes just slide open, and he stares at the ceiling for a moment, confusion furrowing his forehead, and he doesn’t speak.
“Morning, sunshine,” Bones says, brusquely and cheerfully, and Jim’s gaze snaps to him and a lazy (confused) grin makes its way across his lips.
“Bones,” he says, as if it’s obvious, as if that’s all that matters, and then: “What happened?”
Bones can almost feel Spock standing at his shoulder. He breathes. “The Karashan Premier decided it would be a nice, diplomatic thing to mess around with the inside of your head,” he answers, and he can hear the trepidation and anger in his voice, even if nobody else can. “You’ve got a case of selective retrograde amnesia, Jim.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Jim says, and there’s the groan that Bones has been looking for as the (currently distinctly uncaptainly) captain hoists himself up into a sitting position, with Chapel’s hand on his shoulder as a warning that he ignores. “What’s gone, then?” he asks, and there’s just the faintest quaver of worry in his voice - because he knows what this could mean for his captaincy better than anyone.
And Bones pauses, just for a moment, because this is his choice. Jim trusts him (instinctively, and he always has, since the first insouciant I may throw up on you), and so Jim will trust what he says, and that’s a privilege that he can both use and abuse - but here, now, is there really any dividing line between the two?
The warmth of Spock’s Vulcan body thrums through the air behind him, and that’s a reminder, a steadier. A whisper of it is not your right to choose for him.
But it is. It always has been.
Bones smiles - just an upwards quirk of his lips. "Nothing you’ll miss,” he says.
“Doctor-”
“Spock,” Bones says firmly. “Can it.”
And that’s that.
Jim just looks faintly groggy, and Bones is quietly thankful for the quality of Starfleet meds. “The Karashans?” he asks, and then yawns.
“A diplomatic team is being sent over by the Federation,” Bones answers, because he’s well aware that Spock is doing the Vulcan equivalent of fuming right about now (fuming with righteous indignation, but Bones can’t bring himself to care right now, because Jim’s shoulders are just so much lighter, and there’s finally something playful in the sleepy captain’s eyes) and so is unlikely to answer unless the situation is life or death, because Spock does seem to like his angry stoicism. “The Karashans are keen to join the Federation - they just might need some lessons when it comes to messing with people’s heads.”
Jim snorts a quick laugh. “Sounds good.”
Bones nods, and lightly shoves Jim’s wandering hands away. “As far as I can tell, there’s no other damage,” he says, and crosses his arms pointedly. “I’m releasing you, but if you don’t come back in the moment you feel off, then your physical is going to come up a lot sooner than it’s meant to. Okay?”
Jim grins (and it’s carefree and cheeky and oh, Bones has missed that grin). “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll do that.”
“Doctor,” Spock says stiffly, as Jim yawns again. “I would like to speak to you.”
Figured you might.
Bones doesn’t say it, because there is no way in hell he can give Jim even the hint that something might not be entirely right. So he hands Jim over to Chapel for her to fuss over, and he turns, and there is Spock, waiting in the door to his office, and the Vulcan is so very impassive that Bones feels momentarily cold.
The silence in his office is so very stark.
“I sincerely hope,” Spock begins, “that you know what you have done.”
But Bones glances out through the half-translucent glass, and he sees Jim’s hair flood around his head like spun gold under the lights - and he’s smiling and flirting, and there’s a faintly bemused expression on Chapel’s face, because this isn’t what Jim has been like for so long. So fucking long. And Bones knows that he doesn’t know what he’s done, not really, because memories are tricky things - but he knows that whatever the outcome, in this moment, this second, it’s worth it.
He looks Spock in the eye, and says, “So do I.”
§§§
It’s the bulletin from the Federation Courts that does it.
Pavel disregarded Commander Spock’s advice, in the end, because Hikaru had been in Sickbay (completely not flirting with Chapel, as he said with an oddly rueful flush) and had seen the Commander arguing with Doctor McCoy in the CMO’s office, even if (despite his best efforts) the pilot had been unable to actually hear whatever it was that they were arguing about.
Pavel would be willing to wager a bottle of his favourite vodka that they’d been arguing about the captain.
As a consequence, after his shift had ended (because despite the excitement on Karash, he was still required to return to the bridge and fidget at his station), Pavel had decided that Commander Spock was evidently attempting to keep something quiet - and, considering the commander’s previous violent antagonism towards Kirk, it would be perhaps sensible to attempt to discover the subject of this something.
Pavel does not expect what he finds.
To begin with, he lists the three planets the Karashan Premier spoke of: Scoropa, Risa, Heira. Scoropa and Heira he understands well enough-the time dilation planet, and the ‘unfortunate incident in Sickbay (Pavel cannot stand diplomatic jargon, but that is what both Starfleet and the Heiran authorities insist on calling it)-but he finds himself stumbling over Risa.
Yes, the captain and doctor’s fallout after shore leave on Risa was well-documented and gossiped about, mainly because no one could quite figure out the reason why. That Kirk had cheated was one theory which Nyota ascribed to thoroughly, but Hikaru had been equally adamant that Kirk wouldn’t, no matter what. No one ever reached a resolution on the matter, because, in the end, (after the doctor’s strange attempt to transfer) Kirk and McCoy made up again, and that was that, because they were willing to let sleeping dogs lie (as Mr Scott’s saying goes).
Life went on.
But now, Pavel digs up a record of the data transmissions sent for a month either side of the trip to Risa - and he finds a lengthy, encrypted commlink between the Enterprise and the largest courtroom in the Federation Courts.
When he subtly accesses the internal (confidential) network of the Federation Courts themselves, he feels just the faintest spasm of guilt - but he doesn’t stop, because sometimes his curiosity gets the better of him.
And it’s the bulletin that does it.
A bulletin detailing court times and dates and giving trial summaries and witness lists - and there is the captain’s name (‘James Tiberius Kirk, Captain, USS Enterprise’), listed as a key witness for the prosecution underneath the trial of two Gedrosans for sexual assault, grievous bodily harm, and interplanetary murder.
It’s ‘sexual assault’ that Pavel freezes on.
Court transcripts are next, and in the back of Pavel’s mind is some little twitch that reminds him how much his intelligence can sometimes be burden, because if he didn’t know just how to nip and sneak and fix so that it looks like he’s never touched a computer in his life then he wouldn’t know, couldn’t know. He’d prefer that, he thinks, because he’s beginning to realise that Commander Spock was right. This is none of his business - but he can’t stop.
The sex wasn’t exactly gentle, Pavel reads, written in impersonal letters on the screen of the workstation in his quarters, and bile rises in his throat.
He presses the comm gently. “Chekov to Sulu,” he says, emptily, painfully.
§§§
The Karashan Premier commed Bones two days ago, just after they’d broken orbit from Karash, and the quiet assuredness in his alien features made Bones simultaneously want to punch the vidscreen and thank him profusely. As it was, he did neither - but he thinks the Premier might’ve got the point.
And Jim is Jim again.
He flirts and banters and lazily grabs Bones’ ass when he’s trying to work, and Bones is once again quietly amused by the teetering balance between appreciation and downright ogling which his fair-haired boy manages with Uhura. Paperwork and reports are allowed to stack up on the desk in their quarters while Jim socialises with his crew, but they’re never neglected, and everything gets in on time, neat and filled out and in perfect triplicate.
Jim is Captain Kirk, the consummate professional, but he’s also Jim<, full of spice and fire.
He meets Bones for lunch in the mess on the day after the Karashan incident, and he winks playfully at the doctor over a spoonful of ice cream, and then proceeds to eat it in the most obscene manner ever. Bones just sits back with an eyebrow pointedly raised, and watches Jim get ice cream all over his chin - and somewhere in his mind, Bones is content again, because this Jim (the flirty, playful, filthy Jim) is the one he can’t go without.
Still.
§§§
It’s late when Bones gets back to their quarters.
He knows this, so he’s quiet - he slips inside with the quietest whisper of a hiss from the door, and he strips off the blue of his uniform shirt even as he dials the lights to twenty-five percent. There’s affection in his gaze as he surveys the tip that is Jim Kirk’s desk (even if he’d vehemently deny it if it was brought up later), and he toes off his shoes, scrolling through a padd that seems to be Scotty ranting about how Keenser keeps jamming up his precious experiments by leaving socks in them.
To be honest, Bones doesn’t want to know.
He turns towards the doorway to their bedroom, fully intending to strip off the rest of his day-old uniform and slip into bed to be subsequently smothered octopus-style by Jim-
Apparently, Jim has other ideas.
The captain of the Enterprise (who’s not really looking very captainly right now, not with nothing but a strategically-placed pillow to protect his decency) grins up at him with very white teeth. “Bones,” he says, with a lick of lasciviousness. “You took your time.”
And there’s that familiar curl of heat in Bones’ stomach that he hasn’t quite felt in months. “Yeah,” he says, and simulated candlelight plays across Jim’s shoulders. “I can see that.”
Jim catches his bottom lip between his teeth, in a gesture that’s so bizarrely coquettish that it makes Bones blink. “I’ve missed you,” Jim says (with his voice so very fucking rich), and his blue eyes are so bright and earnest. And then he grins, impishly, ruining the whole romance-novel illusion, and quips (in a faux-sultry voice), “Lover.”
Bones, predictably, rolls his eyes. “And if I ain’t in the mood?” he asks (even though they both know he is, because he drawls when he’s stressed and when he’s turned on, which is a combination Jim likes (liked?) to exploit).
Jim shrugs, fluid against the dark blue bedsheets. “I can fix that,” he says.
It’s been too long.
Bones knows that’s an uncharitable (selfish?) thought, but he can’t help it - he’s missed Jim, and not just for his wit and charm.
Those orange-skinned bastards messed up more than one life.
And that’s a thought that’s on the tip of his tongue-I miss you; I want you; I need you-when Jim, ever the master of subtlety, whips away the pillow and lounges back on their bed. “Doctor,” he says, “I’ve got this weird swelling. Can you help me?”
Bones just hauls his undershirt over his head and throws it at Jim’s face.
And then he joins him on the bed.
It’s not like the nights Bones remembers - it’s not tender and scared and treating each other like they might break at any moment, even as they bite and mark and bruise. It’s fun, with banter and joking and the worst cheesy lines Jim can come up with, which Bones does his best to swallow by just planting his mouth over Jim’s until Jim gives up.
Jim nips at Bones’ earlobe, and Bones retaliates by flicking Jim’s nipple.
He’s missed this.
Jim laughs when he comes - breathless, ecstatic, full of verve and joy.
Bones feels like crying.
Jim does splay himself around Bones octopus-style, eventually - and he falls asleep with one hand fisted in Bones’ hair and the other resting loosely on his own hip.
Bones traces that arm-fingertips running through fine hair and along smooth muscle-and his fingers stutter, just that little bit, when he reaches Jim’s hip, because the memories might be gone, but fuck, the scars haven’t. White, dashed in a circle, the perfect circumference for a female jaw.
Jim’s nose wrinkles in his sleep, and he is innocence and filth and flirt.
He’s not Jim - not the Jim that Jim has grown to be.
Bones’ breath catches, and suddenly he’s warm, too warm, and Jim’s not goddamn well helping.
He pushes Jim away, rolling him onto his side (with sharp pain flooding through his limbs), and Jim curls into himself, his hands wrapped in fistfuls of mussed sheet - and Bones stumbles out of bed, the warmth of his skin cloying around his heart.
-I sincerely hope that you know what you have done.-
He doesn’t. He doesn’t.
Because memory is memory is memory, and Bones stands, hands curled around the rim of the window, and stares out at the stars, and he knows.
Jim doesn’t know, consciously at least-he doesn’t know about Risa, he doesn’t know about those fuckers-but his body does. And Jim might be an amnesiac, but he’s smart, and Bones has known the kid long enough to know that he remembers his scars, every time he gets them (physical memory of a different kind).
For a moment, he’s seized with the urge to go to Sickbay, to find the dermal regenerator, to fix the scars, to make them go away, to make the memory stay.
But he can’t. Because he can’t fix things.
Jim stirs, pricked by the chill of loss. “Bones?” he mumbles into his forearm.
Bones’ knuckles are tight-white on the rim of the window. “Go back to sleep,” he says, softly.
Bleary, hair mussed, Jim looks up, across at Bones. A sleepy grin messes his lips. “Mmm, nice ass,” he says, and then: “Why’re you out of bed?”
“You’re too fuckin’ clingy,” Bones answers shortly, sharply, and his jaw tightens.
Jim snorts out a sleepy laugh. “Sorry,” he says, and he buries his face back in the crook of his elbow. There’s a moment’s silence, in which Bones feels his heart thumping (because this was supposed to fix things, this amnesia clusterfuck), but then Jim stirs, again. “We haven’t done this for a while,” he says, softly.
“What, fucked?” Bones asks - and it’s a terse answer, because he doesn’t want to be talking, not now, he wants to revel in his own self-involvement.
Jim’s nose wrinkles, as if he’s trying to remember something that he can’t. Bones doesn’t see, though, because he just stands, naked, staring out into the blackness of space (the space that he can’t fucking stand). “Something like that,” Jim says.
Bones is silent.
“Why not?” Jim asks, and his voice is full of confusion and curiosity.
Bones closes his eyes. “Things happen,” he says. “You’re the captain, Jim. You’re busy.”
Sheets are pushed out of the way, and Bones hears the pad of Jim’s footsteps. His eyes flicker open, but he doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. “Not too busy for you,” Jim says quietly, and his touch whispers its way across Bones’ shoulders.
“Jim-”
Jim’s warmth is suddenly pressed up against him, and it’s not cloying, not now - it’s welcoming and sensual and the comfort of two pressing in together against the world. “Bones,” he says, and it’s like a breath of soft air.
Guilt claws its way through Bones’ flesh.
to be continued
next: [ News spreads, because that's what news does.]