Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain made everything worse.

Being alone in the city, of course, was difficult. As a child, Pavel had always traveled to Starfleet Academy's main campus for schooling with a parent or other guardian, someone old enough to look after him, to care for him. They stayed for the week, then traveled home with him to Russia for breaks such as weekends or holidays. Now that he was sixteen and a man, though, he could live on his own in the Academy's dorms. His family and teachers all told him what an honor it was, what an adventure, to have a full-time program of study developed especially for him.

It was a trial.

A specialized program meant he was always challenged academically, yes, which was wonderful, of course, but it also isolated him from pretty much everyone. The students his age were still in Academy-preparatory secondary schooling and could not study with him. The students who understood his coursework were so much older that they would not study with him. He was alone in his adventure.

And still it might not be so bad except for the rain.

In the first place, he had left the sanctuary of the Academy in order to search the city for somewhere quite to work on his calculations and papers. It was tiresome to be interrupted at all hours by cadets wanting easy answers for their assorted math homework, or to ask if he were really a sixteen-year-old prodigy, or just to gawk and trade rumors where they thought he couldn't hear. Perhaps in a public café or library, passers-by would see only a normal teenager, completing whatever homework normal teenagers did, and leave him in peace.

The storm had been unexpected, instantly drenching him in sheets of rain as he stepped out of another bistro overcrowded with chattering patrons. He scurried to find shelter, data PADDs hidden safely in a tote he stuffed under his shirt and jacket. The awning of an empty shop offered some protection, but his left side continued to catch droplets of water gusting in sideways by the wind. An uncertain glance out and upwards revealed a sky still dark and heavy with rain clouds, which meant Pavel would have to probably soon choose between spending the rest of his day under the awning or striking out for the Academy despite the storm.

Just my luck.

Pavel hunched in on himself, shoulders curled and head ducked, clutching his tote close to protect its contents from the storm that thundered above him. A peal of lightning made him jump.

But it was the sudden cessation of cold rain on his shoulder, of stinging wind on his cheek that startled him into looking up.

A man stood at his side, large umbrella tilted so it blocked the sheets of water buffeting them. He was tall and almost ridiculously handsome, not so much older than Pavel, with rich golden hair slicked back from his face and the bluest eyes Pavel had ever seen. A long black coat billowed around his legs, matched against a tailored suit that probably cost more than an entire semester's tuition. His expression was calm, almost blank, though there was something of curiosity in his level gaze.

"Is someone coming to get you?" he asked.

Pavel shook his head, wet curls tumbling heavily with the nearly panicked motion.

"Do you have a car or something?"

Pavel shook his head again.

"…You're just going to stand here until it stops raining, aren't you?"

After a brief hesitation, Pavel nodded.

The man nearly sighed, mouth twitching into something like a resigned frown before leveling out again. He tilted his umbrella to indicate a small alley. "I have a place you can stay until it stops raining," he offered, that corner of his mouth ticking again when Pavel's expression washed with panic. "It isn't my house, kid, it's a restaurant. Jesus, is this not my best suit? What exactly do I look like here?"

A tycoon, Pavel didn't reply. Or a foreign dignitary. Or any kind of man especially used to getting what he wants.

But he also looked nothing like a villain, and Pavel was exceptionally tired of being in the rain. When the man stepped away, Pavel followed him.

"We usually close for a few hours between the lunch and dinner sets on weekdays," the man said, shifting through keys on a large ring until he found one that fit the lock of a nondescript door in the alley. (Who used keyed locks anymore, anyway?) "There's about another hour until we start up again, but you can sit at one of the tables in the corner if you want." He pushed the door open, holding it as Pavel skittered in. Blue eyes narrowed slightly. "On second thought, maybe you'd better sit at the bar. I get this feeling it'd be better to keep you close, considering my usual crowd." He stepped in after Pavel, shutting the door before folding his umbrella and setting it aside to dry. "You're an Academy brat, aren't you?"

Pavel blinked, startled out of his visual examination of what looked like a small industrial kitchen. "How did you know?"

The man raised one eyebrow. "And Russian, too. Now that's unusual. You a special case?"

"Yes," Pavel admitted softly, dropping his eyes to study the puddle of water forming around his feet.

"There's nothing wrong with special cases, kid. Don't move around or you'll drip on everything. I'll find you a towel."

"My name is Pavel Chekov," he said, looking up in time to get a face full of terrycloth.

"Nice to meet you, Pavel," the man said, shrugging out of his long coat to hang it from a peg by the door. "I'm Jim."

"Just Jim?"

The man smirked at him. "There's other things to call me. Just Jim's fine for you, though." He walked toward a set of swinging double doors, motioning Chekov forward. "C'mon, dining room's through here. You want some coffee or tea or something?"

The main restaurant was a large room with a dozen small tables arranged in the space left around an impressive bar. Several antique stained-glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling, throwing low light over a design schema that seemed focused around Old Italian dining establishments. Pavel perched nervously on the very first tall, wooden barstool he reached, setting his tote on the bar. "Coffee please," he said softly, fidgeting with the strap of his bag.

"Man after my own heart," Jim mused, already fiddling with a traditional espresso machine. "If you've got homework to do or something," he added, nodding toward Pavel's bag, "don't be shy about it." After a few minutes, he set a steaming mug in front of Pavel before bustling off again, getting ready for the evening customers.

Pavel sipped carefully at his coffee, sighing with appreciation when the first rich mouthful spread warmth through his stomach.

Lovely.

By the time Jim's fellow coworkers—three chefs, a half-dozen servers, and a harried busboy—arrived, Pavel was so absorbed in his studies that he didn't notice when they adapted to his presence without posing a single question to Jim. It would have seemed odd, if Pavel had been paying attention.

Why did none of them protest?

But the math was too engaging, and the restaurant too peaceful, and Pavel was a genius, not perfect.

One of the first customers to sit at the bar was a surly man with a deep Southern drawl who was dressed sharply in Academy reds. He flouted several Starfleet protocols by yanking the collar open as he sat two places down from Pavel. "After the day I've had," he snarled at Jim when the bartender slid a shot glass towards him, "you'd better just leave the damn bottle." He flicked the glass back at Jim, scowling ferociously when the bartender caught it. "Fucking infantile Starfleet idiots, think they're smart enough to not even needbasic first aid classes, they can all just die from their own stupidity. You see if I care when all their faces melt off," he spat, yanking the cork from the bottle Jim set before him. "You just see if I care." He took a long swig before snarling again, this time in Pavel's direction. "You're too young to be at the bar, kid—scram."

"Pavel's fine," Jim said, lifting one hand in the Russian's direction to prevent him from obeying. "I bumped into him in the rain, and he's been keeping me company. Besides, you should be nice to him: you've got something in common, after all."

The angry man narrowed his eyes at Pavel. "'s your full name?" he demanded.

"Pavel Chekov," the teen squeaked.

"Something in common?" He snorted, taking another deep pull of alcohol. "Well, he's Russian, and they drink pretty heavily there. Shared experience in the bottle?" he drawled.

Jim laughed, popping the lid off a bottle of beer before sliding it to one of the waitresses, who loaded it on her tray with a smile of thanks. "Nah, Pavel's a good kid. Check out his homework. You guys are schoolmates."

"Aah, Pavel Chekov, that genius kid." The man tipped his head at Chekov. "I remember hearin' about you. 's a pretty shitty situation for a teenager, bein' stuck around all those self-absorbed halfwits. One of these days they're going to melt your face off with their stupidity. You've got my condolences for that."

"Ah," Pavel managed, fingers curling around his PADD as he tried to puzzle out the appropriate reply, "ah, I mean— Thank you? It is very hard," he admitted, "to be alone in my program."

The man snickered into his bottle. "Yeah I'll just bet it's wery hard."

"Be nice, Georgia," Jim suggested absently, pouring a glass of dark red wine for another customer.

"Georgia?" the teen echoed.

Jim's mouth ticked into a grin. "You don't recognize the drawl?"

"Name's Leonard," the man interrupted, shifting down until he was sitting next to Pavel. "Dr. Leonard McCoy. Jim here just can't be bothered to remember."

"Doctor?" Pavel cocked his head curiously. "But you are dressed as a cadet. You obtained your medical license before joining Starfleet? Why?"

"Now that's a long story," Dr. McCoy observed dryly.

Pavel ducked his head to hide his flush. "I am very sorry for such a personal question."

McCoy tugged Pavel's PADD closer. "Jesus!" he barked, pushing it away again. "I figured I'd offer to help, if Jim was plannin' on making you a regular addition, but that's just nonsense to me."

"Oh it is not the math that troubles me," Pavel assured him quickly, scrolling through his files in a rush of flickering lights. He passed the results back. "But if you are a doctor, perhaps you have a suggestion, yes, about the best way to survive the required xenobiology course…?"

"And maybe you have trick or two to offer on how to pass some of those math classes that have been kickin' my ass all semester."

"Oh yes!" Pavel agreed over the sound of Jim chuckling at them. "Many tricks!"

And so Pavel found a study partner, a sanctuary, and Jim, nearly all at once.

Thank you, rain.

Using Admiral Archer's prized beagle to prove his trans-warp theory was the best idea Montgomery Scott ever had. Granted, if the calculations were even a digit off, there was no telling where the dog would go.

That was actually the beauty of the whole situation.

The numbers weren't off, they couldn't be, and when the dog arrived right where it was supposed to be, Archer would have to eat his words in front of the entire academy.

Brilliant.

For some reason, the dog seemed reluctant to participate in Scott's great scientific endeavor. It had been a real chore to borrow it from Archer's kennel without being caught, and now that it was liberated it kept trying to escape. Nearly an hour later and only just passing the docks closest to Starfleet, the dog's constant tugging on its leash was beginning to get more than a bit annoying.

Then they came across something so unexpected that even the wretched dog jolted to a halt.

There was a sleek black car—not a hover-vehicle of any nature but an honest-to-God, combustion-engine, fossil-fuel-consuming car—parked on the curb by the walkway that edged the beach. A man leaned against the car's passenger door, long legs crossed at the ankle with both hands stuffed in the pockets of a heavy coat. The collar was popped, probably in difference to the chill biting in the air, and partially obscured the man's face. He was smoking, another modern oddity—who smoked anymore?—and gave off a general air of complete boredom.

Scott hesitated, glancing around. Dog-napping had required a certain…flexibility of schedule, which was the only reason he was currently awake and active.

But it was barely dawn. What was a man who owned a car doing up so early?

Before Scott could decide one way or the other about what to do, the dog made up his mind for him, breaking into a run so quickly it tore the leash from his hands. Scott cursed vividly, sprinting after the animal. "Can ye catch th' dog?" he shouted.

The man looked up and over, turning sunglasses on Scott before tipping his head down to regard the escapee beagle. He took one last deep drag on the cigarette, dropped it, and crushed the butt under his heel while a plume of smoke snaked between his pursed lips. Then he knelt, whistling once but sharply, and offered his hand. The dog clattered over, entire body wiggling in delight when the man began stroking its velvet ears.

"Thanks," Scott said, holding his hand out for the leash.

"What's his name?" the man asked without glancing up.

"…Er," Scott replied, "that's…a very interesting question."

Long fingers touched the charm on the dog's collar, turning it until it caught the light. The man pushed his sunglass up, settling them amid slick golden hair. "Jacopo," he read. Then he patted the dog's—Jacopo's chest. "Good name. I'm Jim," he said, as much to the dog as Scott.

"Montgomery Scott," the Starfleet engineer supplied immediately.

Jim grinned up at him. "Another good name."

"'scuse me for askin'," Scott said after a slight hesitation, "but what're you doin' up at this time o' day? There's barely a soul awake in all of California, yet here ya are, with a car,at the beach but not exactly dressed for swimming."

"Here you are," Jim countered, patting Jacopo once more before standing, the leash still twined around his hand, "with a dog whose name you don't know, passing the beach without a glance, in broad daylight but dressed entirely in black."

"…It wasn't daylight when I put th' clothing on."

"No," the blond agreed with a disarming smile, "I didn't think so."

"And anyway, the dog and everything makes perfect sense in context."

"I'm sure it does."

"I'm running an experiment," he explained. "'t prove a new theory. Th' dog's helping."

"Starfleet?" When Scott nodded, Jim sighed, low and long and thoroughly exasperated. "Does the dog's owner know you're using him?"

"…Er, about that—"

Jim knelt to touch Jacopo's collar again, turning the charm so Scott could see the back. "This is the insignia of a high-ranking officer. Is this really the best dog to use if something goes wrong?"

Scott huffed. "Nothin'll go wrong."

"And if it does?"

"It won't."

Jim studied the dog for a long moment before standing. He shifted his sunglasses back over his pale blue eyes, expression calm as he passed the leash to Scott. "And if it does?"

Scott fidgeted. "Well I don't exactly expect—"

"No one ever expects the really bad shit to happen. But it does. So what's your contingency?"

"…Contingency?"

"Worst-case scenario. Everything goes wrong, the experiment backfires, and the dog explodes or melts or whatever it is experimental dogs do. What's your plan?"

"Heartfelt apology?" Scott offered sheepishly.

Jim snorted, resuming his previous lounge against the car with his hands shoved in his pockets. "Your plan needs work."

A slow grin curled Scott's mouth. "Is tha' an offer?"

One of Jim's eyebrows ticked over the top of his sunglasses. "Excuse me?"

Scott nodded. "It's a good idea. You might not be Starfleet, but you're a wily one. I'm no' daft, after all. I ken when I need outside assistance."

Jim shook his head, more in defeat than refusal. "Listen, if you want help, there's a kid who comes by my restaurant a few times a week to study. He's a genius, so he'll probably be able to fact-check whatever fucked up scheme you're running, but I won't be much help. I'm a busy man."

"Oh aye," Scott snorted. "Which is why you're leanin' on a car by the beach at the break of day without another soul in sight. Because you're so bleedin' busy."

"It all makes sense," Jim said easily, drawing a cigarette and lighter from the depths of his pocket. "In context." He ducked politely away to light up, then turned his head to exhale.

"Those'll kill you," the Starfleet officer scolded.

Jim smirked. "They'd have to beat a lot of other stuff." He waved a dismissive hand when Scott opened his mouth. "Anyway, I'm not waiting here because I want to. I'm waiting for another driver. Mine was detained."

Scott looked around skeptically. "…Aye?"

"He had a meeting."

Scott flung his arms out, expression filled with incredulity while the leash flailed in his grip. "Where?"

Jim's face smoothed into a sea of serenity. "At the docks."

"There's no one there," Scott pointed out, squinting at the area in question.

"Not anymore, no."

Scott turned his squint on Jim. "…You cannae be serious."

Jim shrugged. "You don't have to believe me. I had a driver. He had to go. Now I'm waiting for a new driver."

"Why not drive yourself?"

Jim took a long drag, holding it for a moment before offering it to the breeze. "I don't drive."

"It's no' hard," Scott assured him. "I could probably teach you in—"

"I don't drive." Jim flicked his cigarette to free some ashes. "Thanks though."

Scott blinked. "Okay," he said at last. "Well then, what if I drive you? You've been a bit of help this morning, and I'm no' one to let my debts go unpaid. In fact, I could—"

"Is there a problem here, sir?"

Scott turned, expecting to confront a red-clad security officer who had seen Jim smoking and assumed he was a problem. What he actually encountered was a small contingency of large, heavily muscled men in black suits and sunglasses flanking Jim, all of them facing toward Scott as though he were the trouble.

"No." Jim dropped his cigarette, crushing it absently. "Scott's a new friend, gentlemen. He'll be stopping by the restaurant to see my other friends. Make sure he knows the way."

Three business cards were immediately thrust at Scott from three different burly men. He took one nervously, stuffing it into his pocket.

Jim inclined his head. "It was good talking to you. Don't get caught returning the dog."

Jacopo barked cheerfully.

One of the suits opened the door Jim had been leaning on, stepping back to make room for the blond. "Are we waiting for Mason, sir?"

"No," Jim said, sliding easily into the vehicle. "He had somewhere else to be. I doubt we'll be seeing him again."

"Yes sir. Did he take everything with him, or should I send one of the boys to collect his belongings?"

"Like I said," Jim replied, barely visible now through darkly tinted windows, "we won't be seeing him again."

"Yes sir."

The door closed. Two men piled into the car; the others dispersed to a small fleet of additional vehicles. Within seconds, they were gone. Scott looked at the ground where Jim had been standing.

Even the cigarette butts were missing.

He dug the business card out of his pocket, examining the front.

The Family's Italian Restaurant and Bar. Huh.

"I do like a bit of Italian now and then," Scott observed to Jacopo. The dog wuffed in agreement.

And that was that.

The final month of the Terran calendar was illogical. Activities and parties usually associated with the end of a term were joined with assorted winter festivals and celebrations to render most students—humanoid or otherwise—all but incapable of giving their studies due attention. If Spock had been a slave to his emotions rather than a Vulcan, he might have experienced high levels of irritation.

Instead, he adapted his lesson plans to reflect his students' learning abilities, as was logical, and used the time freed by this schedule to concentrate on his not insubstantial list of research projects.

Then, one December night as he was walking to his quarters from the biology labs, he noticed something more illogical that usual (even for December).

A cadet was standing by himself near the edge of campus, protected from the elements by nothing more substantial than a suit, scarf, long coat, and hat. And held between his lips, sending curls of noxious smoke into the air, was a lit and glowing wrap of tobacco known commonly as a cigarette.

"Cadet," Spock called sternly, veering off his path with both hands locked behind his back. The cadet glanced over but otherwise didn't react, which was a direct violation of several codes of conduct. "You will explain yourself," Spock ordered, coming to a halt in front of the rebellious human.

For a moment, the cadet didn't react. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. "A Vulcan." He shook his head, laughing softly as he gripped the cigarette between the first and second fingers of his right hand. "Man, this is gonna be great." He drew the poisonous smoke into his lungs with a long inhalation, then turned his head aside (Downwind. Fascinating. Was it intentional?) to exhale sharply. "All right, Professor, you've got me." He wiggled the cigarette to shake ashes free from the burning tip. "What'd I do?"

Spock ticked one eyebrow. "Shall we start with your flagrant lack of respect for an instructor and superior officer?" the Vulcan replied neutrally. "Or perhaps your attire, which is decidedly non-regulation. Your demeanor and bearing are unbecoming of a Starfleet cadet. You have also broken curfew. Your presence here, alone at this time of night, is highly suspicious. Your recreational substance is prohibited to members of Starfleet and could jeopardize your end-of-year physical exam and, therefore, your tenure at this academy. It is also highly offensive."

The cadet's grin stretched as he studied Spock's face. He took another slow inhalation on his cigarette. "That's pretty impressive," he acknowledged while expelling the smoke from his lungs—downwind again. "So now let's see. What should my reply be?" He hummed thoughtfully while tapping free more loose ash. "How's this," he decided. "I'm not a cadet, so you're neither my instructor nor my superior officer. I don't really owe you respect, although I would like, as a citizen of the Federation, to express heart-felt appreciation for your service. Since I'm not a cadet, my attire's just fine. My demeanor and bearing aren't a problem. I don't have a curfew. I'd give you the suspicious loitering thing, but I have friends who are cadets, and I just finished doing a run of Christmas presents." He tipped the brim of his hat a touch ironically. "Many happy holidays to you, Professor, if you celebrate any."

"I do not."

"Hadn't thought you would," the man admitted. "Just figured I'd cover my bases. Anyway, where was I? Oh, right, loitering. Well, hopefully that's all cleared up, now that you know my illogical Terran reasoning. My, uh…recreational substance?" He grinned and shook his head once. "That's the best thing I ever heard it called. But as a lowly citizen and not a revered authority figure, I can partake of any recreational substance I want—provided it's legal—with impunity. And, yeah, it might mess with a physical if I had to take one, but luckily I don't. Sorry about that offensive thing though. I could quit at any time if I weren't addicted." He huffed a laugh and brought the cigarette to his grinning mouth.

It should have rankled, or been insulting, or caused Spock to immediately turn away.

Instead…

"Then you are trespassing on Federation property," Spock said, head tilted a degree in fascination as he studied the strange human. "Curfew for the cadets marks the end of visiting hours. Furthermore, nicotine is prohibited at Starfleet Academy, not merely to the cadets. You are still in violation of that prohibition."

The stranger laughed, using the two fingers holding his cigarette to point slightly northwest. "Academy grounds start about sixteen inches that way. But you're good at this game, Professor. We could cat-and-mouse all night, if I had the time. Unfortunately," he sighed, inclining his head in the opposite direction Spock had looked while assessing his mental Academy layout, "that's my ride."

Spock turned to find a set of three large, muscular Terrans, all dressed in a manner similar to the stranger's, waiting in a cluster on a walking path just outside the Academy's perimeter. When he returned his focus to the stranger, he was already walking away. "You diverted my attention so those men could leave the Academy without being seen," he observed.

"Maybe," the stranger agreed, smiling back at him.

"Furthermore, you were on the premises the entire time. I was not incorrect."

"Maybe," he said again, tucking the cigarette between his lips in order to pull up the collar of his coat.

"You are very casual," Spock called, "for one who might be charged with trespassing."

"Stay warm, Professor," the curious Terran replied. "It looks like we're in for some heavy snow tonight."

The snow would doubtlessly erase his footprints, the path of his associates, and any trace of him lingering on Academy grounds. Even as Spock watched, he twisted his cigarette just below the burning tip, extinguishing it before tucking the remains in his pocket. Then the quartet of humans was consumed by darkness, and it was as though they had never existed.

Fascinating.

Hikaru's plan had been fairly straightforward.

1. Find where little Chekov, his flight simulations partner, disappeared to when he wasn't anywhere on campus.

2. Figure out why said simulations partner would rather hang out at what looked like a bar than with any of his friends at the Academy.

3. Rescue little Chekov, who was very young and impressionable, from what was no doubt a dangerously wild New Year's party being held at the bar.

The plan went perfectly until Hikaru actually stepped into little Chekov's secret world at just past midnight. At that point, filled with righteous indignation and decked out in mental white armor, he received a small series of shocking revelations:

The people Chekov hung out with at the bar were considerably cooler than anyone Hikaru knew, even in passing.

For this and other assorted reasons, Chekov didn't actually have any friends at the Academy, save for a foul-tempered doctor named McCoy and a Scot called (of all things) Scotty who both seemed just as comfortable at the bar (and restaurant?) as the Russian genius himself.

A tipsy Chekov dressed in large sweaters and skinny jeans was going to lead to some serious felonies if someone didn't watch out for him.

And finally, the bartender/owner of the establishment was the kind of man Hikaru had only read about in stories. Blond and charismatic, with a toothpick tucked in his mouth and a smirk on his lips, he mixed and served drinks with the flare of an ongoing performance. Hikaru hadn't ever met a bartender who could actually toss bottles of liquor around, but this one did so with an old fashioned fedora tipped so far down that it covered one of his eyes.

After nearly an hour of sticking close to Chekov while simultaneously trying to keep an eye on the floor show taking place behind the counter, Hikaru leaned close to Chekov's ear and shouted, "Who is that guy?"

Chekov turned from his examination of the dance floor, body still moving slightly to the beat, to see who Hikaru meant. Instantly a huge smile broke over his lightly flushed face. "Is Jim!" he yelled back, turning until his chin was neatly tucked into the curve of Hikaru's shoulder. (Felonies, Hikaru, remember the felonies. He's just a baby.) "He is my friend before anyone else would be!" The teenager motioned wide and happy with his champagne glass, nearly hitting several bystanders. "He is the most excellent man I have ever met!" Then he looked at Hikaru solemnly. "Is his est-establishment," he said, nodding once. "He is very great man. If I were not in Starfleet, very surely I…I would—"

An employee of the bar bumped by then, giggling with Chekov and sloppily refilling his glass. They toasted each other and chugged from their respective containers. Hikaru watched the waitress tip the bottle back, watched her eye Chekov under her lashes, and watched her throat remain utterly still.

She didn't consume so much as a single drop.

When Chekov's glass was empty, she immediately refilled it, faking a tiny hiccup before weaving deeper into the crowd. The further she got, the firmer her steps became, until she was politely topping off the glasses of everyone she encountered.

Hours later, when the party was winding down, Hikaru snagged a passing drunk who had seemed familiar with the bartender over the course of the night. "Who is he?" Hikaru asked, tilting his head to indicate Jim where he wiped down his counters and laughed with a Southern doctor, a Scottish engineer, and a Russian wiz kid, all of whom were thoroughly trashed. "I know this is his place. But who is he?"

"Him?" The regular made a dismissive noise, flapping one hand at Hikaru as though he were nothing more than an ignorant child. "You new around here or what? That's Jim Scaretta!" He smacked Hikaru's shoulder and then leaned in close like he was sharing a secret. Hikaru put a hand on his arm to steady his pronounced sway. "You see all them Starfleet guys he's got in here? Just lined up at the bar, drinkin' outta his hand like, like some kinda…like somethin' that drinks. Fuckin' genius, that's what it is! I keep tellin' the fellas, man, that Scaretta kid, he's got the idea, cozyin' up to Starfleet kids. God damn, he's nearly respectable now!"

"Hey!" the waitress who had pretended to drink with Chekov called, shooing at the regular from across the room with a broom. "You leave him alone, Joey, or swear to God I'll tell your wife!"

"Aw come on," Joey slurred, staggering away toward the woman, "you wouldn't be that cru-cruel, I was just talkin' to em! Y'know, y'know—hey, y'know? He doesn't even know the Scarettas! How's that for respect, eh?"

The waitress looked at Hikaru, thoughtful and exasperated, and Hikaru knew his face was pale. He'd felt the blood rush all the way to his toes as his heart hammered in his chest.

This was so much worse than he'd thought.

"Be nice, Joey," Jim said lazily from behind the bar, pale blue eyes studying Hikaru with all the warmth of a glacier. "Hikaru here's a local boy. I'm sure he recognizes the name."

Hikaru, who had not spoken his own name once that night, swallowed thickly. "Yeah," he said, voiced hushed. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants, wishing fiercely he'd made friends with Chekov before Jim had gotten the opportunity. "Yeah, it's a little familiar."

Scaretta. Who didn't know it?

Jim smirked. His gaze flickered down to Chekov, who had pillowed his head on his crossed arms and looked about ready to spend the rest of the day sleeping there. He pet his hand through the teenager's curls. "Sweet kid," he observed casually.

Fuck, Hikaru thought. Fuck.

"Because it's physics!" Scotty shouted, apropos of nothing and apparently arguing with his shot glass.

"Can you get them back to the Academy?" Jim asked. He tilted his head with a considering expression. "I could always let them sleep in the back, of course—"

"No!" The few stragglers still in the bar jerked at Hikaru's cry. The pilot fought to calm himself. "No," he said again. "I can get them back."

"Until next time, then."

Hikaru felt a muscle bunch in his jaw. "Maybe there won't be a next time."

"Of course there will," Jim promised with a friendly smile. "You're welcome to come back when they do—the more the merrier, right? But you should know, Hikaru Sulu, that even if you don't ever walk through my door again, they will."

"Why?" Hikaru whispered, hands curled into fists.

Jim shrugged. "They're well known here. I like them."

"And they make you…respectable. Right?"

"It's probably not as bad as you think." Which wasn't an answer.

Hikaru gathered the others, leading them out of the bar without another word.

Jim was almost certainly right. They were used to him, and seemed to like and trust him. They didn't know. Even if Hikaru told them, they wouldn't believe. He would have to follow them back here, again and again, as many times as it took to gather enough clues to convince them.

They belonged to Starfleet, and they didn't know any better, and poor little Chekov was still just a baby. It would go against everything he believed in to abandon them to the Scaretta family. So he wouldn't.

No matter the cost.

Uhura realized her own mistake fairly quickly. Body language was still a language after all, and watching the two of them interact for even a minute had given her a volume to translate.

It wasn't difficult when every gesture became a variant on the same theme.

(Which was some clumsy XY-dialect of where have you been all my life?)

So instead of heading back over to finish her "study session", she took a seat at the bar next to a tense-looking fellow Academy student. He was also watching the conversation taking place at the far end of the bar, though his eyes were narrowed suspiciously and his shoulders were tight.

There were a couple of ways to interpret that particular set of tells, so Uhura placed an order with one of the bartenders who was actually working and said to the Academy guy, "I'm Uhura. Communications track, School of Xenolinguistics."

He glanced at her, mouth narrowing. "Sulu," he replied, shifting to shake her hand briefly. "Command track, School of Aeronautics."

Uhura curled delicate fingers around her glass of the house red. "This seems like an unusual place for a lone flight cadet to spend his night."

"Yeah, well." A muscle in his jaw tensed. "I'm not the only one who comes here, or I wouldn't." He glanced sideways at her. "And just so you know, I could say the same thing to you."

"I wasn't originally here alone." She tipped her glass to indicate the couple still talking as though the rest of the room didn't exist. "That was supposed to be my advisor."

Sulu squinted. "Isn't that Professor Spock?"

Uhura sighed, taking a long, appreciative drink of her wine. "He teaches some of the advanced morphology courses. It took me a month to get him to agree to a private tutoring session." She wrinkled her nose. "He was going to help me refine my senior thesis topic."

The future pilot startled. "You're a senior?"

"I have another year after this one," she admitted with a one-shouldered shrug. "It's never too early to get started, though, especially in a field as convoluted as mine." Uhura eyed her impromptu drinking companion warily. "You're not one of those guys who waits until the last minute, are you?"

Sulu flinched. "…I kind of have bigger problems right now."

"What could possibly be more important than your thesis?"

"Jim!"

Uhura and Sulu both turned to watch a young, curly-haired teen dressed in Academy reds bounce into the restaurant. He hesitated when he realized the lazy bartender—apparently named Jim—was already talking with someone. Then Jim laughed and beckoned him over, and the boy dashed to his side with a bright smile.

None of the patrons of the establishment so much as glanced up.

Interesting.

"He's a regular here?" Uhura asked incredulously. Jim indulged the boy's chattering with a faint smile, bending over a PADD when it was shoved at him. The duo discussed whatever information was contained in the document, and Uhura guessed it was an unexpectedly complex topic by the way Spock's left eyebrow inched toward his hairline until it vanished almost entirely.

"That's Pavel Chekov," Sulu explained, frustration underscoring his low, angry murmur. "He's also Command track, School of pretty much everything."

"He's the Russian genius, isn't he?"

Sulu inclined his head, accepting another beer when their bartender slid one toward him. "Yeah. He's only sixteen; isn't that crazy?"

"What's crazy is that he's at a bar."

The flyboy snorted into the hand he ran over his face. "It's a restaurant too," he pointed out, motioning at the surrounding tables with his bottle. Then he shook his head and took a long pull. "Anyway, you're right that he shouldn't be here. I wish I could get him to stop; this place…it isn't good."

"Wine's okay," Uhura sighed, holding out her glass when the bartender wandered by with a bottle to top her off. "Staff seems pretty excellent too." She tipped her head toward Jim. "That guy excluded. He's been monopolizing my professor since I got up to quickly use the lady's room half an hour ago. Does he get paid to just stand around looking pretty or what?"

Sulu stared at her in blatant disbelief, as though she had randomly forgotten the proper structure of a Standard sentence. "That's…that's Jim Scaretta, Uhura." When she didn't react, Sulu propped his elbows on the bar and tangled his hands in his hair, gripping hard in frustration. "How does no one else know how fucking awful that is? He doesn't—" The Command cadet motioned helplessly with one hand while the other pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course he isn't working. This is his bar."

Uhura narrowed her eyes at him. "And why does it matter if he's the owner, other than it explains why he doesn't seem afraid to be caught not even pretending to work?"

"Look, I can't go into the details here," Sulu said, low and quiet as he glanced around furtively. "Let's just say it's a family business, if you get my meaning."

She didn't.

Sulu drummed his fingers on the bar, expression too casual as he watched her intently, trying to communicate a message without words. "A family business, Uhura," he repeated darkly, tap-tap-tapping with his fingers. Then—

Oh.

Morse Code.

He was saying—

M-A-F-I-A

Uhura burst out laughing. She flagged the bartender over. "I'll have one of whatever he's having," she said, voice warm with humor.

The bartender grinned, buoyed by Uhura's smile, and popped the cap from a dark bottle before sliding it over. Uhura toasted her with it and took a delicate sip.

"This is serious," Sulu hissed when the bartender left to answer another request.

"Seriously crazy," Uhura agreed with another laugh. When she glanced back over at the corner of the bar that held the odd trio, she found Jim watching her with a quirky half-smile bowing his lips. She grinned at him, and he tipped his head in acknowledgment before a quiet comment from Spock pulled his attention back.

"Look," Sulu said, voice clipped with exasperation, "you're not from this area, you don't know—"

"All right," Uhura interrupted, "enough games—"

"The Scaretta family—"

"God, would you grow up? There aren't any families—"

"If little Chekov gets mixed up with this guy—!"

"What?" Uhura demanded, turning a frown on him. "Little Chekov will what? Disappear under mysterious circumstances? Wind up in concrete shoes at the bottom of the sea? Wake up with a horse head in his bed?"

Sulu blinked. "A horse head…?"

Uhura motioned impatiently. "I'm trying to point out how ridiculous you are without having to say it outright."

"You just did," Sulu sulked. "And anyway, I don't need you to believe me. I know what's going on, and I'll save Chekov all on my own if I have to."

For a long moment, Uhura studied Sulu, cataloging the various stories his body was telling. He honestly believed Jim Scaretta, World's Laziest Small Business Owner, was somehow involved in that antiquated boogeyman known as the mafia. There was determination in the set of his jaw and shoulders, but genuine fear in the tangle of his fingers on the bar, the press of his feet against the barstool and floor. Whatever else he thought, in his mind he was saving Chekov from a fate potentially worse than death. Even more concerning, there was something in his subconscious that was telling him it might already be too late, that they were all doomed just for crossing the threshold of Jim's bar. The focused glint in his eyes suggested he would try to save Chekov anyway.

First reaction: They'll make a cute couple when Chekov's older.

Second reaction: Holy hell, he's going to ruin this place.

"I bet you're wrong," Uhura said casually, taking a slow pull on her beer while Sulu blinked at her.

"…What?"

Uhura nodded. "I bet you're wrong. About Jim and his family," she explained. "About Chekov needing to be rescued from the evil machinations of a mafia don."

"Hey, I never said I thought—"

"I bet you I can prove that Jim's a good guy, that Chekov's safe here, and that you could be friends with everyone in that huddle if you wanted."

Sulu gaped wordlessly. "Bullshit," he said at last.

Uhura twitched her shoulder in a shrug again, sipping absentmindedly. "If you don't think you can prove what you're claiming—"

"I can," Sulu insisted, jaw set in stubborn lines again. "I can prove…about his family, and I can prove he's using all of us, and I can prove we're in deeper and deeper trouble every time we walk through that door. I will prove it."

"It's a bet." Uhura clinked the neck of her bottle against Sulu's where it sat untouched on the bar. "May the most sane competitor win."

"I'll drink to that," Sulu said.

They tipped their drinks back in unison, draining them to the last drop.

In the middle of watching a debate between Spock and Pavel on an obscure branch of higher mathematics, Jim smiled, drumming his fingers soundlessly on the counter under the bar.

G-A-M-E O-N

Cadets were so much fun.

Spock watched Jim set an array of salt and pepper shakers across the bar between them, analyzing the bartender's smile as he sought to understand the odd collection.

"We're going to play a game," he said, sticking a toothpick in his teeth as seemed to be his habit when circumstances did not support lighting a cigarette.

"What is the game called?" Spock asked neutrally, studying the four short rows of alternating salt and pepper shakers, two close to him and two set by Jim with a gap between, to try and deduce their purpose.

Jim shook his head with a wide grin. "Not telling. That's part of the game," he explained when Spock ticked an eyebrow at him. "You have to figure everything out trial-and-error as you go along. For instance." He selected the pepper shaker on the far left of his front row, sliding it diagonally halfway across the "board" made of empty bar. Then he motioned to Spock. "Your turn."

Both elegant Vulcan eyebrows lifted toward a uniform hairline. "…I see. This is a human joke."

"Nah." Jim checked the ancient clock on the far wall, watching the seconds tick. "It's a game." Once a full minute had passed between when Jim had made his first move, he made another, picking up a back-row salt shaker and pairing it with the shifted pepper shaker. He motioned again for Spock to go, glancing at the clock again.

A time limit on moves? "How can I be expected to fully participate in a game without knowing even the basic rules of play?"

"That's part of the game," Jim repeated absently, watching seconds slip by. "You learn as you play. And you're a really smart guy, Spock—I bet you could figure it out if you tried." He lifted a hand toward his pieces.

Spock beat him to it by firmly sliding his innermost forward salt shaker two inches across the board. Then he raised his eyes to Jim's and lifted an eyebrow.

Jim grinned again. "Good move, Professor," he said.

The Vulcan logged the complement away, storing it as part of an internal analysis that tagged the move with a series of questions.

(Is the move good for Jim or for myself? Would the move still be considered "good" if Jim had not previously moved his own salt shaker? Do the positions of his salt and pepper shakers affect the quality of my move? Would it lower or increase the quality of my move if his salt and pepper shakers were not paired? Would it lower or increase the strength of my piece's position if it were paired with a pepper shaker? With another salt shaker? Can any of the back line of pieces be jumped forward, or merely the ones that currently have a shaker in front of them? How, and to what degree, do salt shakers differ from pepper?)

"I knew you'd love this game," Jim laughed, causally sliding a pepper shaker forward until it touched Spock's.

This set off a new litany of internal questions. Spock began a systematic exploration for the parameters by moving his salt shaker away from Jim's piece by .3 inches.

Jim crowed in delight, quickly moving a salt shaker on the exact opposite side of the playing field.

Fascinating.

Their game continued on for the better part of an hour. Every time Spock thought he was finally beginning to have an ordered set of rules in his head, Jim removed a piece from the board or bemoaned his own move as badly done or switched his playing style.

"You have violated a rule," Spock would occasionally challenge, certain that Jim had moved a piece in a manner established previously as incorrect.

"No I didn't," Jim would reply, so certain and calm that Spock immediately began rearranging his mental rule list to try and explain the exception.

At last, enthralled and bewildered, Spock came to the only conclusion he could: "I do not understand the rules and playing structure of this game. You will have to explain them to me or recommend a book."

Jim cradled his chin on a hand propped on the bar. "Why?"

Spock indicated the odd conglomeration of shakers spread across the surface. "So that I may improve my abilities to present a better challenge."

A grin turned just one corner of Jim's mouth. His eyes became dark and heavy with secrets. "That isn't the point."

"I do not understand," Spock admitted again, studying the new expression on Jim's face. He was such an odd Terran, even for his species. At times Spock thought he understood the man implicitly, as though they had known each other the whole of their lives. And then a conversation like this would happen, and Spock would see in a moment all the depths and twists and unexpected riddles that still waited to be discovered.

It was endlessly, maddeningly, impossibly fascinating.

Jim plucked a salt and pepper shaker from their horde, passing them thoughtlessly to a waitress who was looking for the proper accessories for her table. Spock wanted to protest the deconstruction of their game, but preferred to keep his silence and collect whatever new piece of data Jim was about to give about himself.

"The game doesn't really have rules," he admitted. "I don't even make them up as I go; they just don't exist."

Spock blinked. He tilted his head thoughtfully. "But you told me—"

"Did I?" Jim leaned forward across the bar, eyes locked with Spock's. "When?"

Spock blinked again, sitting back as he reviewed Jim's words. "No," he agreed slowly. "You said only that we would be playing a game, and that I would come to understand it as I played. I now theorize that the salt and pepper shakers were only tools to distract me from the actual purpose. What was the game in this?"

"There is no game," Jim said with that curling smile. "It doesn't exist. It never did. But as long as I occasionally complement you on a good move, or yell at myself about a bad one, I can keep you believing this—" He touched a pepper shaker, tipping it onto the edge of its bottom. "—is real." The pepper dropped back to its previous place and Jim spread his hands. "It's an exercise in perception, Professor. You think we're playing a game, so you keep looking for rules that don't exist."

Spock studied the Terran, as curious and uncertain as he'd been that night in the snow. "Why are we playing this game, Jim?" he asked.

Jim returned Spock's searching look with one of his own. At last he smiled, bright and beautiful and utterly false. "Because I like it."

A man walked into the restaurant then, tall and slightly overweight but dressed in an expensive suit. Flanked by a half dozen burly men, he stopped just inside to survey the crowd. Everyone dropped their eyes as a sign of either respect or fear. Spock, who had observed this man and the rituals associated with him on several occasions, did neither.

When the man's attention turned to Jim, the blond inclined his head briefly, another smile curving his mouth. The man lifted his chin in acknowledgment and went to occupy a secluded corner booth that was always reserved for him.

"Who is he?" Spock asked quietly, as he always did when the man appeared.

"Someone important," Jim replied as usual, sorting the shakers into neat sets, "but not someone you should know about. I'll see you later, Professor."

Jim stepped away before Spock could reply, snagging his suit jacket and pulling it on. He smoothed a hand over his hair, setting it back into perfect order, and fixed the lay of his shirt before stepping up behind the man. They exchanged pleasant greetings before Jim slid into the seat across the table from him. The six burly men took guard positions at the doors and windows, pretending to drink while their eyes roamed the room.

No one met their threatening gazes.

Spock knew what would happen now: Within the hour, the restaurant would close, despite the nearly six additional hours of normal operating hours that remained. Jim would maintain his place with the man, speaking with him in hushed tones while his employees worked around him. Their treatment of him would alter, becoming closer to the way they interacted with the man. The general atmosphere of the restaurant would suffer a similar shift. Whoever this man was, he commanded a great deal of power over this place and the people inside it. If he did not register on such a sinister level in Spock's mind, the Vulcan might have been intrigued.

As it was, the fear that followed him disturbed Spock greatly. He wished to have no part in whatever the man represented, and had an unspoken wish that Jim would sever that particular association.

He wouldn't. Not even if Spock asked him.

When one of the bartenders began walking toward Spock with clear intent, the Starfleet professor dropped some credits on the bar and took his exit.

Jim watched him go, blue eyes clear and bright with secrets. He toyed with the salt shaker at his table, shifting it a few inches to the left, and let his mouth curl into a smile.

Spock looked back at the ordered line of and pepper shakers on the bar, comparing Jim's explanations to his actions.

And he wondered which of them had won.

They had been working toward this moment for nearly a decade.

"He's dead, Jim," Anthony said, low and desperate while his dark eyes darted around the empty bar. His Italian accent thickened with excitement. "I got the news this morning. Heart attack, caused by a life of bad eating and too much drink. Guy coulda lived in a bottle, y'know?"

Jim smiled, sliding one finger around the rim of his scotch-filled glass. "I do know, Anthony. This is big news," he acknowledged. "Do you know what it means for you yet? Is there going to be a problem?"

"You know what it means," the heavyset man said, leaning in toward Jim. "And I've got you to tell me when there's problems, don't I?" He spread both hands with a heavy shrug. "What do I gotta do to make this thing stick?"

"The way I see it," Jim said slowly, studying his glass, "you have a couple of choices, depending on how you want to be known."

"I wanna be respected," Anthony said immediately. "I don't want no one fuckin' with me 'cause they think I'll let 'em get away with it. I don't want no one getting' away with nothin'."

"Then that's the way you should start." Jim sat back with a smirk, stretching his arms along the back of the booth. "Get your tops guys together for a meeting. Tell them about how you're going to make the Scaretta name great again. There are some long-standing debts owed to the family, aren't there? Call them in."

Anthony shifted uncomfortably. "Some of those debts have been around since my grandfather's time. No one talks about 'em."

Jim spread one hand. "And why not? They were owed to your father and grandfather, who are both dead as of yesterday. You don't have any reason to let people in your debt slide for another generation. You don't want anyone getting away with anything, right?" he challenged with a smirk.

"Not anyone," Anthony agreed fiercely. "Not anything."

"Good. Then call a meeting. Begin the way you mean to continue." He tilted his head to an angle he knew was responsible for giving him his nickname, blue eyes cold. "You're the boss now, Don Anthony. So what are you going to do about it?"

"I'm holdin' a meeting," he said with a toothy grin. "And you'll be at my right, Jimmy. Just like always, 'cept now everyone will know you're Boss Anthony's consigliere. How's that sound, eh?"

Jim smiled.

Everything fell apart.

Right before the end of the term, days before most of the Starfleet cadets dispersed for the summer, Jim told them not to come back anymore. Upper management had changed, and they didn't meet the new standards for admittance. First Chekov thought he was joking; then he was devastated.

"For the summer?" he asked in a small voice.

"Goodbye, Pavel Chekov," Jim replied.

Uhura stared at Sulu when they were firmly escorted from the building.

"I'm calling this proof," he told her, and she didn't know how to respond.

"When I get back from Russia," Chekov told them all with a determined frown, "I am going back. And I will keep going back until he lets me stay, or tells me why I can't. He is my friend."

"I've got a place in the area," McCoy said as they walked in a cluster back to campus. "There's nothing in Georgia for me anymore, and I'm a stubborn cuss. I'll work on him over the summer."

"That is a highly illogical decision, Cadet," Spock informed him.

McCoy glared at the Vulcan. "Any due respect, sir, but you're lying to yourself if you think you'll be able to just…accept what happened here. It stinks like day-old shit, and I won'tlet Jim get away with it."

"Then it appears, as a superior officer already familiar with this situation, it falls to me to ensure your continued health in what might become a perilous and futile endeavor."

All of the cadets stared at him. "That's called denial," Uhura informed the others.

None of them protested.

Before they went their separate ways, Chekov quietly asked for a moment of Spock's time. "Save him for us," he whispered, eyes cast low. "He is our friend, and whatever would take him from us is something…terrible, I think."

"He might not be in want of rescue, Cadet," Spock pointed out.

"Even if he does not know it," the young genius insisted, shoulders bunched tight, "or if he chooses not to, he needs us. We cannot let him go."

Spock looked over Chekov's bowed head to find McCoy watching him with dark eyes. Slowly, firmly, the Vulcan nodded. McCoy huffed and walked away.

They would fight for Jim, even if he did not want it. He would continue to be their friend until people or circumstances proved otherwise. He was Jim, and he was theirs.

For now.

Spock and McCoy went to the restaurant to speak with Jim several times a week. Most of the time he ignored them; when he didn't, all he would tell them do was go away. But they were determined to press on until they either broke through his sudden distance or understood its cause.

Then the local police called them into a private meeting, and it turned out that understanding was the only option.

Two detectives who looked angry and exasperated put the Starfleet personnel in a room with one door and no windows. They tossed a stack of PADDs onto the table where McCoy and Spock were seated. "These are classified, all right?" the female detective snapped. "If you weren't so stupid, you'd never have seen them."

Spock straightening in his conspicuously uncomfortable chair. "You are severely mistaken, Detective, if you believe you have any authority to speak to members of Starfleet like—"

"We'll talk to you however we have to to make this stick," the man spat. "You're about to fuck up our entire operation and you don't even—"

McCoy surged out of his seat. "You watch your mouth, you pompous fucking—"

"You're going to die alright?" The woman slammed her hands on the table. "You're tangled in shit you have no business being in, and you're going to die if you don't back off."

Both the Starfleet men stilled. "Explain yourself," Spock ordered.

The man, Detective Blake, sighed as he scrubbed both hand over his face. "It's organized crime, okay?" he said wearily. "That bartender you like so much is part of a mob family."

"…Bullshit," McCoy said. "There aren't crime families anymore."

"Shows what you know," Blake's partner, Detective Williams, muttered. She flickered her fingers over one of the PADDs and called an org chart to the screen. "The families went underground when the Federation started," she explained, sliding the PADD across to them, "because they knew how much harder it would be to operate in the open with intergalactic attention. But that also gave them the opportunity to expand, and they've got representatives on more Terran space stations and settlements than we can ever know about."

"They're a cancer," Blake said, "and your friend's near the top of one of the worst families around."

"Bullshit," McCoy said again, but Spock could see slow realization dawning as he began to connect the million small oddities that always surrounded Jim.

Williams accessed and projected what looked like a genealogical tree. "The Scaretta family," she said. She drew a finger through a cluster of names about half way up. "Soldato, the soldiers. Then capo, the captains." One finger tapped two names at the top of the tree in rapid succession. "Underboss Giuseppe 'the Knife'. Boss Anthony. And him." She touched the picture to the right of Boss Anthony's, sliding the digit in a rough diagonal stroke to make the familiar image expand. "James 'Pretty Jim' Scaretta. Your bartendingfriend."

"What does it mean?" McCoy asked, low and hard. "His picture's next to the…the boss's. What does that mean?"

"He's the consigliere," Blake explained with another deep sigh. "The counselor and right-hand man to the don. Rumor has it he's been the brains behind the entire family since Boss Anthony took over, and he was the reason Anthony rose to underboss in the first place."

Williams thumped a stack of papers in front of him. "This is a list of all the crimes we're trying to tie him to. It's hard; he's slippery. But a big chunk of these are hits that most likely happened on his word, and if we're right with even a small percentage, it's well over a dozen names." She looked from McCoy to Spock and back, narrowing her eyes at the spark of something determined and dangerous in the doctor's expression. "He's a very, very bad man," she said flatly, "and you need to stay away from him."

On their walk away from the police station, Spock said, "We must desist in our attempt to regain a positive relationship with Jim Scaretta."

McCoy glared at him. "Fuck that."

"He is a dangerous man," the Vulcan insisted. "At the very least, it will reflect badly upon your Starfleet record to knowingly associate with such a character."

"Such a—!" McCoy stopped walking, his face twisted in anger. "How can you say something like that!"

"Faced with the evidence provided to us by local authorities," Spock responded tightly, "we must abandon this effort. Anything else would be folly."

"Oh yeah? So what will you tell Chekov when he asks you why you just gave up?"

"Likely I will introduce him to the detectives and let them repeat their explanation."

"Jim's our friend, Spock!" the doctor shouted. "How can you just give up on him?"

"He is a member of the mafia, Doctor. He has no loyalty to anyone but the Scaretta crime family."

"That's a lie." McCoy was trembling with a wild combination of emotions. "He's our friend; he's been my friend for almost a god damned year. I refuse to believe that it was all just…just some kind of sick game. If he's in deep with the mob, it's because he doesn't see a way out. Well I'm not giving up on him until I'm sure he knows that's not true!"

"I cannot condone this," Spock said softly. "The odds of you escaping such an attempt without serious injury—"

"I guess it's just lucky this is summer," McCoy hissed, "and you don't get a fucking say." He marched away before Spock could respond.

Spock thought about reporting McCoy to his advisor, or the detectives, or to anyone who retained authority over him during the summer break. But he could think of no manner of alerting anyone that did not result in the doctor facing a disciplinary hearing, which might ruin his future in Starfleet.

Jim Scaretta would push him away soon enough. The doctor would understand in his own time, and turn his thoughts to repairing the damage caused by the mafia consigliere.

By start of term, this would be nothing but a bitter memory.

"Jim."

"Hey, Anthony, what's up?"

"You have to get rid of this Starfleet doctor."

"Aw, Boss, you know he isn't hurting anyone."

"You think I haven't heard about the way he talks to you? About what he says? He's trying to get you to leave me, Jim, to leave the family—"

"Anthony you know I wouldn't—"

"It's gotta stop, Jim! They're saying I can't keep hold of my own consigliere. You know what that looks like? What that does to me? To my rep? You take care of him, Jim. You do it or I will."

"…Okay, Anthony. Whatever you say."

When the bar was closed and the staff gone and they were alone, Jim led McCoy into the industrial kitchen in the back of the restaurant.

"What I don't understand," he said, sitting on the long steel preparation table, "is why you pushed it like this. Why couldn't you leave it alone, Georgia?"

McCoy set his jaw stubbornly, slouched against the far wall with his arms crossed. "You know why, kid. I've seen you doing Chekov's homework with him—Chekov! You're too smart for this life, and it doesn't make you happy. It might seem like you're trapped, but you're not. Starfleet could—"

Jim reached backward, tucking his hand into the small of his back beneath his suit jacket. He withdrew a handgun, archaic and loaded with hollow-point metal slugs that would splinter and spread damage through whatever soft tissue they hit. The gun fit into his hands with the ease of long familiarity. "Have you ever worked on an actual bullet wound?" he wondered, stroking his fingers over the weapon as he checked it absently. "We're one of the last organizations to use them, I think. It's tradition."

"You wouldn't," McCoy said firmly, pushing away from the wall to take a stronger stance. "I'm your friend, Jim, and you wouldn't. I know you."

"You make the don nervous," Jim replied, eyes still on the gun. "He's new, and not that bright, but he listens to everything I say. If I want to keep that happening, I have to make a show of following his orders every now and then." Cold blue eyes lifted to hazel. "You understand."

"You're better than this," the doctor insisted, hands clenched into fists.

"The others all listened when I told them to scram, when I explained how much better it would be for their continued health to no longer come here. It's become something of an exclusive club since Anthony took over. You're not part of that club, Georgia. Why didn't you take me at my word? Do you think I'm the kind of man who makes idle threats?"

"You're my friend, Jim," McCoy said hoarsely, something like resignation darkening his eyes.

"No." Jim stood and raised the gun, leveling it on the doctor's chest. "I'm the Scaretta consigliere."

When he curled his finger around the trigger and squeezed, there was no one around to hear the explosive bang. A body hit the floor.

And that was the end of it.

School started in September with a memorial. Those who had known Dr. Leonard McCoy gathered in the garden behind Starfleet Medical and spoke quietly of how he had touched their lives. Chekov, Sulu, Uhura and Scott clustered together at the edge of the gathering, hurting and betrayed.

Told you so, Sulu never said.

"He was our friend," Chekov whispered brokenly. Uhura pulled him into a tight embrace and didn't ask if he was talking about Len or Jim.

Or both.

It didn't matter.

Spock appeared at the memorial for only a few minutes. He approached Dr. McCoy's photo—grayscale, depicting him and his daughter laughing together—and studied it for a long moment. Then he set down the cutting of a Vulcan plant used to express regret over the passing of a friend and turned away.

He met the eyes of the others one at a time. "Tushah nash-veh k'dular," he said to Uhura, and meant it for all of them.

Uhura hid her tears in Chekov's shoulder and couldn't translate the traditional Vulcan expression as I grieve with thee for nearly an hour.

When Spock left the memorial, he walked, using the repetitive physical movement to assist in the reordering of his mind.

Jim had killed Dr. McCoy.

The thought jarred against his own experiences. Jim cared for McCoy, had treated him as friend, elevated above the others he'd known—even Chekov. McCoy had routinely expressed opinions and sentiments that would have angered or distanced Jim had they been spoken by anyone else. Jim had given McCoy a nickname, calling him Georgia far more often than anything else. Of those left behind, Spock alone carried Jim's moniker. Such a rare gift was surely a sign of deep affection.

But then Jim had killed McCoy. Were the nicknames more a danger than a gift, singling out the first to fall? Would Spock be next?

No. Jim would never hurt Spock. Jim was—

Jim was a murderer.

How could Jim be a murderer?

Spock walked until the sun trembled on the horizon, threatening to leave him in darkness. He walked until the sound of his own steps echoed in counterpoint to the fluttering of his Vulcan heart. He walked until the Academy and its grieving students were only a distant concern, until the frantic bustle of the city drove all but the worst thoughts (murderermurderermurderer) from his mind.

He walked until he was standing across the street from Jim's bar.

(Pretty Jim's place, dangerous men had called it in whispers, hidden in the shadows, a place spared police raids only because of the Starfleet personnel who seemed so fond of it. All they had ever been to him was a cover.)

All around the front, blocking his view of swinging front doors and stained-glass windows, was a small army of police vehicles. Their spinning lights threw the entire street and the gathered crowd of gawkers clustered behind barriers into blue-and-red relief, and Spock knew why they were there.

Pretty Jim was a known figure in the Terran mafia, a consigliere, the right-hand advisor to the Scaretta don. His murder of Starfleet Cadet Leonard McCoy had evidently been sloppy. It was to be the last criminal act of his doubtlessly long history.

No one in existence deserved it more.

Spock was there, separate from the crowd and all but hidden in a bystreet, to witness the moment Pretty Jim was led in handcuffs from his den. The mafioso's face was blank, his suit as pristine as ever, each hair in its proper place. His eyes were blue and clear; even in defeat, he earned his name.

This had been McCoy's friend, a man the doctor had loved. McCoy had fought to his death to save this unworthy creature from the inglorious (but just, here at least was some small measure of justice) end that now collapsed around him.

Then, hands clenched behind his back, expression hard with the effort to conceal his anger, Spock spoke a most illogical word: "Why?"

Jim was Terran, and could not hear him. But some sense caused him to look up the moment before he was put into one of the police vehicles. Even through the space and shadows separating them, his eyes met Spock's.

"Why?" Spock asked again. He might have said it all night and had no relief, might have screamed it and made no difference.

Pretty Jim broke eye contact, looking away but not down, and slid gracefully into the vehicle.

Then he was gone.

News articles and bulletins and programs burst with details of his arrest the next morning. The media spoke of nothing else for a fortnight. Not of the people who had known him, or the death of Dr. McCoy, or the lives made into waste by his touch. "Pretty Jim Scaretta," they called him, and did not even show his picture.

His arrest crippled the Scaretta family and began the systematic collapse of the Terran mafia.

But it did not bring back Dr. McCoy.

Chapter Text

Life after Jim—after McCoy—carried on.

The survivors drew strength from each other. They were often seen together eating, or else they studied or just sat in unified, comforting silence. Scott, who elected to become attached to several high-profile projects at Starfleet Command, devoted whatever time he could to the cluster of cadets who were his friends. Young Chekov appeared to take the betrayal worse than anyone still living, and became the focus of their healing efforts. He did not thrive in the aftermath, but neither did he wither, and they took it as a victory.

Without the unifying force of Jim's bar, however, Spock quickly became estranged from those with whom he had previously spent so much time. He still taught classes they attended; he would always know their names and faces. But he did not approach them. On the few occasions one of them approached him, he did everything in his power to keep the interaction short and professional.

Eventually, they gave up.

Toward the end of the second month since McCoy's death, when Spock was in his Starfleet issued quarters attending to the assorted documents related to his position as academy instructor, his communicator signaled an incoming call. When he checked the incoming source, it was listed as official but unspecified: likely not from the Academy. Spock investigated further, prying apart the code to search for coordinates that would pinpoint a point of origin. It did not have any. A thorough examination of the signal history revealed only more layers of unknowns.

It had no listed satellite or tower redirections. He was the only known recipient. According to its records, it existed only because Spock's communicator was able to receive it.

Fascinating.

Spock accepted the communication. "Identify yourself."

"…I don't even get a hello?"

Several times in the past, Spock had heard Terrans explain a sense of shock by saying, "My heart just stopped." It was a most illogical phrase, and Spock had always assumed the humans were exaggerating, as humans tended to do.

Then a voice he knew, a voice he had longed to hear nearly as much as he resented that longing, asked, "I don't even get a hello?"

And Spock felt his heart stutter in his side. "Jim," he said, voice hushed with the impossibility of this call. His hand tightened on his communicator, and he sat nearly without thought. "How?" A more important question occurred to him: "What have you done?"

Jim's answering laugh was weak. "It's complicated."

"Summarize."

So he did. "…I rolled. On everybody."

What did that even mean? Spock's grip continued to tighten on the communicator until it gave a single sharp whine of protest. Deep breathing allowed him to gather his thoughts and emotions. "Explain," he ordered.

"One-word replied aren't really that comforting, you know, Professor."

"You do not deserve comfort," the Vulcan replied coldly. "And I was never your professor."

After a long beat of silence, Spock heard Jim swallow. "Sorry," he said, voice slightly hoarse. "You're right. What I mean is I turned Federation's evidence. They're catching everyone they can under RICO, and I'm their main witness."

"Why?"

"I'm the consigliere, Spock. I know everything, and—"

"No," Spock interrupted sharply. "Their reasons for using you are manifold and obvious. Why are you calling me from prison?"

"I'm not in prison," Jim admitted. "I'm not even in holding. They— When the others find out, if they don't know already, they'll— Well, let's just say it won't be good. So they put me in the Federation Witness Protection Program, can you believe it?I don't even know where I am. There's an armed guard and everything. I wasn't this safe when I was— …Well, anyway. They asked if there was anyone I wanted to call, you know, to let them know I was safe."

"And your decision was to call me."

Spock heard Jim swallow again, likely in response to the flat tone of Spock's voice. "Yeah. There isn't really anyone else, so—"

"Cadet Chekov will most likely never fully recover from what you have done," Spock said, low and smooth and terrifying in his utter calm. Jim drew a sharp breath but otherwise remained silent. "Lieutenant Scott refused several postings that would have doubtlessly furthered his career for the strict purpose of remaining close the academy, so you have crippled his potential for advancement. Cadets Uhura and Sulu spend more time attempting to support Cadet Chekov than they do on their studies; if they continue in this manner, their grades will suffer, and they will lose their class ranking. And it will be your fault."

He heard Jim breathing, heard it skip and catch as he drew in and exhaled each ragged lungful. But he didn't speak.

"You killed your friend," Spock continued, placing the communicator on the table to prevent himself from crushing it. He spread his hands on either side of it, pressing down hard with his fingers to aid in his suppression of their furious trembling. "A man who loved you as though you were his family," he said ruthlessly," who wanted nothing so much as your freedom, and you killed him for it. Now you are incarcerated, in whatever form that has taken, and he is dead. He had a daughter; you murdered her father in cold blood. My people have no word to describe what you have done."

"I know," Jim said, and his voice was little more than a whisper.

"Will you not even express regret?" Spock demanded, anger leaking out at last. "You owe those ruined cadets the deepest apology of which one such as you is capable."

"One such as I," the Terran echoed softly. "I don't think anyone would accept it, Spock, even if I tried."

"So you will succumb to your cowardice and refuse to even try?"

"I can't— You don't understand, Spock, I can't—"

"Goodbye, Jim."

Spock cut the connection before the Mafioso could reply. He was forced to turn his communicator in for repair, and spent nearly three hours designing a program to automatically reject incoming communication from any source as cloaked as Jim's had been.

…But when his communicator was back in his hand, and the program was ready to be implemented, and all he had to do was launch a subroutine…

I rolled. On everybody.

When the others find out, if they don't know already, they'll—

He couldn't do it.

When Spock hung up on him, Jim slid down the wall at his back, sitting with a heavy thump. He drew his knees up, propping his elbows on them before burying his head in his hands. The communicator he'd been loaned pressed hard against his temple.

"Now that," one of his guards observed, "was the finest show of masochism I've ever seen."

"Shut up, Douglass," Jim sighed. He curled a little further, until his fingers were tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"That's Agent Douglass," the man corrected around a bite of sandwich. "And if you're going to cry, give me back my comm unit first. It isn't designed for underwater environments."

Jim groaned, stretching out his long legs and tipping his head back against the wall. "Even if I took a page from your book and wept over it like a little girl, it would only be a semi-aquatic environment, Douglass. And I don't cry."

"Because you have no soul," the agent agreed, drawing three cards from a deck. He observed the game of Solitaire spread on the kitchen table before him, considering his next move. "It's just us here now, pretty boy. I won't tell if you cry for your mama."

Cold blue eyes cut over to Douglass. "Just us is four heavily armed combat agents in a tiny-ass cottage in the middle of fucking nowhere, a half-dozen patrols in the surrounding goddamned woods, and, like…two other witnesses. Why wouldn't I want an audience like that for a breakdown? Oh and also." He slid the comm unit toward its owner, kicking it sharply to make it cross the remaining space. "My mother's dead, you fucking twit."

Douglass bent to retrieve his comm. "That really gets me. Y'know?" He pointed to his heart with only his middle finger. "Right here, Jimbo."

Jim sneered. "Gee, I'm just so glad I decided to make an enemy of the families. You make me feel super safe, Agent D. I can tell no one's ever getting through on your watch."

The agent stood, tossing his cards on the table before turning a glare on Jim. "Is there something you'd like to say to me, kid? Because from here, it looks an awful fucking lot like this is your mess, and you have no right being a dick to the rest of us because you got cozy with Starfleet. Which, by the way, what the hell? How long have you been this terminally stupid?"

Jim pressed the heels of both hands into his eyes, teeth clenched hard enough to groan. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

"What was it supposed to be like, Jim? No, you tell me what you thought would happen!"

Blue eyes snapped sideways, refusing to meet the agent's glare. "I don't know."

"It wasn't bad enough when you were hanging out with them," Douglas spat, gesturing at his comm, "now you're using agency tech to call them? From your safe house? What the fuck, Jim!"

"I told you I don't fucking know!" he shouted, leaping to his feet with his fists clenched at his sides. "They were just there, alright? It was just— McCoy and Chekov, they needed someplace for themselves, and it wasn't awful having them around, and then the others just kept showing up, and Spock—" Jim shook his head sharply, expression hard. "I wasn't expecting Spock. And I knew Boss Anthony would probably make them stop coming around, but I just…" He sighed, deep and heavy, lost, and leaned back against the wall, head and shoulders curved in defeat. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. It just wasn't."

The room fell into silence. Douglass studied his charge for a long time, absorbing all the little details of his demeanor. "So what," he asked softly, "was it supposed to be like?"

"Easier," Jim admitted, still without looking up. "Cleaner." The muscle along his jaw clenched, and his expression washed with torment. "This whole thing is such a fucking mess now, and it wasn't supposed to be."

"Well." The agent resumed his seat, collecting his cards for a reshuffle. "Welcome to the real world, kid."

When Jim retreated to the small cot in the corner of the room where he slept, always guarded, and laid with his back to the wall and his eyes shut, Douglass didn't question him.

The next time Jim commed, it was late. Spock answered the call expecting it to be Federation agents informing him of Jim's demise.

Instead it was just Jim, quiet and unsure, hesitant as though he almost wished Spock hadn't answered. Their conversation was stilted and uncomfortable, teetering between thoughtless ease and the cold remembrance of everything they had been and could never be again. Of everything Jim had killed along with McCoy.

Within twenty minutes, Spock disconnected. A few days later, Jim called again. They talked until Spock couldn't bear it anymore, and then it ended as abruptly as ever.

Jim kept calling. And Spock kept answering. Each successive call proved to Spock a little more how well they fit, how very complementary their thoughts were. If they had been in the same room, Spock might have asked to—

But Jim was in protective custody because he was a mobster and a murderer. They were not in the same room; likely they never would be. It was useless to wait, and long, and ache.

"Jim," Spock said, cutting him off with a word instead of technology. "Why are you calling me?"

"…I don't know," he admitted. "I guess I just…I can't help it. I got so used to you, to having you around. To being able to…talk, about anything. Or everything. Or nothing."

"You are the reason such familiarity no longer exists. You threw aside those you knew in favor of the Scaretta family, and you did so without hesitation. You killed him, Jim, and in doing so destroyed everything."

"I know, Spock, but I can't—"

"No. I cannot—" Spock drew a deep breath, placing his communicator on the table and folding his hands carefully in his lap. "I cannot continue this, Jim. I must insist that you no longer initiate any form of contact with me. Also, you must not attempt contact with Mr. Scott or the cadets. They do not deserve such thoughtless pain."

"…No," Jim agreed, soft and gentle. "None of you do. I'm sorry, Spock. I shouldn't have called you."

"If—" The Vulcan shut his eyes and breathed, holding the placid calm of his people with a mental grip so tight it was almost painful. "If you had been…someone else—"

"If I hadn't been a Scaretta, you mean." Laugher drifted from the comm, underscored by an aching sound that was nearly relief. "Be honest, Spock. It's one of the things I always liked best about you." Spock memorized the long huff of Jim's last sigh. "Alright, I'll let you go."

Don't, Spock thought with a faint pulse of illogical panic. "That would be wise," he said.

"Yeah. Listen, I'm sorry I dragged you into this. I hope— Well. Live long and prosper, Spock, okay? Forget any of this happened."

"I am Vulcan," he replied, struggling with the knowledge that his people's traditional response—peace and long life—was wholly inappropriate. Jim would likely have neither. "I cannot choose to forget." And even if I could, I—

It didn't matter.

"Farewell, James Scaretta."

"So long, Spock of—" Something crashed faintly in the background, and every trace of Jim presence disappeared from the comm, even the soft sound of his breathing.

"Jim?" Spock snatched his comm from the table, drawing it close. "Jim, what—"

"Shh," Jim hissed, sotto voce to prevent his words from carrying. Spock heard quiet steps and knew Jim was moving. "Something isn't right."

"What do you mean? Do not be foolish."

"I'm not, I'm just gonna check it out."

"Jim, there are trained professionals—"

"Be quiet, Spock. It's probably nothing, and I'm nearly— Shit!"

Spock's world collapsed to the cacophony of sound roaring from his communicator. It was the clatter of furniture, of muffled swearing, of human fists against human flesh.

It was a rough voice Spock didn't recognize saying, "Got you now, you fucking rat."

Followed immediately by Jim: "Guess that makes you ugly and incompetent, 'cause guess what? I got you fuckers too."

Spock counted the muffed pops that followed: one two three four five sixseven—

He had never learned how many bullets an Old Earth projectile weapon could hold, never researched the advancements in design that had occurred since then. He didn't know if Jim had a gun, or if it was just the assailants, didn't even know how many assailants there were or what had happened to Jim's Federation guards.

He knew when pops were replaced with hollow clickclickclicks, and knew what Terrans sounded like falling heavy and unsupported to the ground. He knew the sound of weak human lungs struggling, of garbled golden laughter cut off by choking and coughing. He knew the panic of raised alarm, knew what was meant by, "Agent down, agent down!"

The communicator was heavy in his palm. "Jim," he whispered to it.

"I need a fucking medic!"

He learned the acrid taste of fear, the sensation of his heart beating too hard, too fast in his side.

"I'm a trained medic, get out of my way—"

"We're losing him—"

"Move!"

They were fighting, he could hear it as clearly as if they were in the room with him, and he knew they were trying to save someone but didn't know if that someone was an injured agent or Jim and he had told Jim not to contact him again, Jim had told him to just forget—

Live long and prosper, Spock, okay?

No. How could he even—

"Jim," Spock whispered again, his voice lost in the chaos of a breached safe house. So he screamed it instead. "Jim!"

Still they did not hear him.

"Get him out of here, he won't stay stable long, Jesus, how many hits did he take—"

Then someone found the comm or broke it, and all Spock knew for certain was silence.

The odds of a vengeful member of one of the dismantled mafia families finding Jim had exceeded sixty percent. Spock had calculated that Jim was functionally a dead man.

Now he found that knowing such a thing and hearing it happen were two different things.

Because Spock had grown accustomed to Jim, too, had become spoiled by their conversations and games, had wanted to ask Jim if he knew how to play chess, had wanted always to hone his mind against Jim's and now—

Well.

Now he wouldn't.

Chapter Text

They received, of all things, invitations.

No: to be specific, what they received were subpoenas.

Their comm units trilled in unison one dull, average day while they were eating lunch in the dreary manner that defined them now. The quartet of Starfleet personnel (three cadets where there should be four, and an engineer who should have been flanked by a doctor and an instructor) shared a wary glance.

When they received group messages, things tended to go wrong.

(Dr. McCoy was murdered.)

(Jim Scaretta is in the mob.)

(We're holding a memorial.)

Because their strength came in numbers now, they opened the message together.

"Someone please," Sulu said, the first to break the tension strung like piano wire through their group, "tell me this is a joke."

Your presence is required at the Fourth District Courthouse for a trial related to events that took place within the previous year. You may be called upon to testify or otherwise act as witness without further notice. Failure to appear will put you in direct violation of Federation regulation 142.99c, which will result in punitive measures that may negatively impact your future with Starfleet or any other governmental or authoritative body.

Report to the Officer of the Court on the morning of Friday the 14 th  no later than 0700.

This trial has been classified by the Joint Governing Authority as Closed. Discussing, describing, or in any way disclosing the details of the proceedings in any capacity other than official may result in a fine, dishonorable discharge, and up to three years of imprisonment.

It wasn't a joke.

"We will see him there," Chekov realized. He looked up at the others, stricken. "What will we say?"

Uhura's mouth twisted. "We won't say anything. They probably won't even let us near him. I mean, he's going to be on trial.It's not exactly a social event."

"Do we have to go?" Scott asked with a wince. "It'll no' be good, havin' to see him but not bein' able to speak our minds abou' what he did."

Sulu rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. "Of course we have to go. Starfleet brass and all of our instructors will already have copies of these summons, and they'll clear our schedules for the foreseeable future so we can do our duty. We're just lucky the courts are being so paranoid about this because it's a mob trial. If it weren't closed, we'd have to deal with the press, too."

"Why would they close the trial, though?" Uhura asked, circling one finger around the rim of her coffee mug thoughtfully. "They arrested practically the whole Scaretta family. Wouldn't the trial be a feather in their cap? Shouldn't they want to show it off? A closed trial means no publicity at all. I don't understand why they would want that."

"You don't know the mafia," Sulu said with a grimace. "Look, you said yourself they arrested practically the whole Scaretta family." He spread his hands and leaned forward. "Do you understand how dangerous it is that there are still some of them left out there? People convicted of organized criminal activity are shipped off to most remote penal colony in the whole Federation, to try and prevent them from continuing their business from inside the prison. These guys would know that. If the ones that were arrested—who were some very big players—get convicted, they'll try to cut deals wherever they can to get some time knocked off their sentences. And the rest of the Scarettas aren't likely to just let that happen. The trial is probably closed to prevent assassination attempts."

"Not to mention leaks," Scott agreed. "Any unauthorized person could be a reporter, and there isn't a gag order strong enough in all the known worlds to stop one of them from trading that experience for his fifteen minutes of fame. There's no honor in that profession." He scowled at the tabletop. "Vultures, the lot of them."

"Do you think," Chekov asked quietly, studying his summons with unblinking eyes, "that Professor Spock received one of these as well?"

The others stared at him.

Chekov looked up, eyes wide and sad and so young. "We will see him there," he said. "What will we say?"

No one had an answer.

Despite the layers of suppression hefted upon it, the Scaretta trial (as it was called in the media by journalists who were not allowed to attend) was the single most publicized event that no one was allowed to talk about. Those summoned to participate were sequestered in specialized quarters under the courthouse that were manned and guarded by bulky and intimidating bailiffs. They would be unable to communicate with the outside world in any capacity for the duration of the proceedings. To ensure cooperation, they were scanned at entry by sour-faced clerks and made to surrender their PADDs, even Scott, who tried to fight them for it. Uhura lost her heirloom earrings because they were flashy bits of metal, and the courts were paranoid.

The cadets and Scott were placed into a single unit, since their experiences with Jim and his mafia family had been so similar.

Spock was put into isolation. He was not allowed to so much as greet them.

"At least we don't have to worry about trying to get him to talk," Scott muttered to Sulu as they were led to their assigned place in the courtroom.

Sulu, scowling deeply, squirmed to the last seat in their block in order to ensure Chekov would be surrounded by comforting figures. He and Uhura each took one of the teenager's hands. Chekov squeezed back hard, and Sulu vowed to clutch that clammy palm until he was forced to stop.

The official witnesses of the trial took up a majority of the space in the courtroom. They filled seats on the floor and in the raised wings. The balcony was covered by darkened shields that prevented anyone from seeing inside. The setup was designed to protect special and at-risk witnesses from being identified, and was activated only in extremely sensitive trials. Sulu guessed even that would be full.

A low rail prevented access to the front third of the room. Above everything rose the bench where specially selected judges would preside over the trial. To the right was the witness stand. The bench and witness booth were both wrapped in advanced shielding technology. Apparently, trials were a dangerous endeavor.

Closer to the rail were two tables, each filled by a team of lawyers. One represented the law and would call into question motions or statements that ran opposed to any rulings currently on the books. The other was charged with guarding against violations of the rights afforded to every citizen of the United Federation of Planets. Between the tables was a small desk where two detectives sat. They would establish the crimes committed and attempt to provide evidence that would pin those crimes firmly on the members of the Scaretta crime family currently on trial.

On the far left, behind yet another protective shield, was a set of defense lawyers settled among the family itself: twelve members ranging from Don Anthony down to his lieutenants.

Jim was not there.

"Where is he?" Chekov breathed.

Sulu gripped his hand. "I don't know."

Across the room, Vulcan hearing picked out the teenager's question, and Spock's hands tightened into fists in his lap.

A panel of judges stepped into the room.

(All rise, all rise.)

They sat again, and the trial began in earnest.

"Your Honors, let it be reflected that the defendants have waived their right to a full reading of the offenses for which they have been called to trial. The trial will proceed under the New Federation Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act as Scaretta Defendants v. Federation Court Four, Sixth Terran Circuit.

"We, the lead investigating detectives of the Fourth District of San Francisco, charge the defendants with the following abridged list of major offences: murder in first degree, multiple counts; murder in the second degree, multiple counts; manslaughter, multiple counts; conspiracy to commit murder, multiple counts; possession of contraband weapons, multiple counts; intent to distribute contraband weapons, multiple counts; possession of contraband substances, multiple counts; intent to distribute contraband substances—"

"Yeah, and we got unpaid parking tickets too. What is this? No respect for a workin' man's time in this outfit. It's bullshit we gotta sit through all these—"

"Counsel, you will instruct your clients as to proper behavior in our courtroom, or we will have them removed."

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Proceed, Detectives."

"Thank you, Your Honor. Major offenses also include, but are not limited to: intent to distribute contraband substances, multiple counts; racketeering, multiple counts; extortion, multiple counts; solicitation, multiple counts—"

Sulu sat at a metal picnic table in the cafeteria where the trial witnesses had been released for a brief recess with his head in both hands. "We're going to die at this trial."

Uhura frowned at him. "Security's too tight for—"

"It took them an hour to read the abridged list of major offences," Scott said with a wince. "It's no' an assassin we fear, but old age. And I've got a head start on yeh there. I'll be gone before they call the first witness." He gripped Uhura's shoulder. "It's been nice gettin' t' know yeh, lass, there's no lie in that."

"Why is Jim not with the other Scarettas?" Chekov asked, chewing the corner of his lip nervously. "Will they try him alone?"

"If that's their plan," Uhura pointed out, "there's no reason for us to be here."

Chekov lifted his eyes to hers, all his sadness and anxiety there for her to read. "Then why are we here?"

She covered his cold hand with hers and held tight, and didn't have an answer.

"Your Honors, the detectives have done nothing but sling wild conjecture and badger my clients, who are all hardworking men with perfectly legal and documented jobs that allow them to support their close-knit family. If they cannot provide any sort of testimony or evidence connecting my clients to an organized criminal group, they cannot continue under the RICO Act, to say nothing of substantiating their outrageous list of offenses."

"Detectives?"

"Your Honors, we would like to call our fourth witness, listed in the sealed Court Documents as Testimony, Primary."

"Proceed, Detectives."

"Thank you, Your Honors. Calling the primary witness forward."

"Hey—Hey! What the hell is this, Jimmy! What the fuck do you think you—"

"You think you can just turn on the family, you rat weasel fucker—"

"I told you taking outsiders into the family was dangerous, I told you—"

"Order! Order in my courtroom, order! Counsel, you will control your clients or they will be removed for the duration of this trial!"

"Yes, Your Honors, of course. It's just a shock, of course, we never expected him to—"

"Counsel. This is your final warning. If I have to clear this courtroom to reestablish order, your clients will not be returning."

"Of course, Your Honors. Of course. We apologize."

"Proceed, Detectives."

"Thank you, Your Honors. By taking this seat, you are pledging to provide, to the best of your ability, an accurate and unbiased account of your knowledge and experience. Deliberate misrepresentation of any facts will result in one charge of perjury for each offense. Do you understand and agree to these laws as they have been explained to you?"

"I do."

"State your name for the court."

"James Scaretta."

"Do you have any aliases?"

"Yeah, the boys—That is, some of the Scarettas, they call me Pretty Jim. It's just an ironic nickname."

"Ironic isn't quite the way I'd describe it."

"Thank you, Detective. It's good to be appreciated."

"Answer the question, Mr. Scaretta."

"Sorry, Your Honors. They gave me the nickname after a bar fight, and I wasn't looking my best right then. I won, but I took my fair share of the beating."

"I see. Mr. Scaretta, are you aware of how long the Fourth Precinct has been investigating the Scaretta crime family?"

"Objection, Your Honor. Right to Proof: The detectives have not been able to establish beyond reasonable doubt that any crime families exist."

"Rights objection sustained. Establish your facts before you reference them, Detective."

"Yes, Your Honors. Mr. Scaretta, did you know the Scarettas were under investigation for suspicions of organized criminal activity?"

"Sure. Everyone knew it. Well, I didn't start speaking for everyone until recently. But Anthony's crew, yeah, we knew. For a long time, longer than I've been with them. It was almost a joke."

"In what way?"

"Well, we knew you were trying to get proof, and we knew you wouldn't be able to."

"Why would you think that?"

"I didn't think. I knew. Don't you remember, Detective? I used to taunt you with it."

"How did you know, Mr. Scaretta? How could you be so sure?"

"Because I was the reason you would never be able to get anything on us, on Anthony's branch. I cleared the records. I planned the exits and the covers. I was Anthony's right-hand man, so even though Anthony said what, I was the one who figured out how."

"So you know the inner workings of Anthony Scaretta's businesses pretty well."

"Backwards and forwards. I have all the codes to his secrets."

"What did you mean when you said, 'I didn't start speaking for everyone until recently'?"

"Yeah. There was a change in the organization. Anthony got a promotion, took me with him. Now I know all the codes to alltheir secrets."

"Why?"

"Because as of a few months ago, Anthony took over as don, and I became the consigliere for the Scaretta crime family."

They clustered together, three cadets and an engineer, and watched Jim exist.

He was surrounded by detectives and officers and other suit-wearing professionals, and his face was tight with…

They couldn't even tell.

He had turned on the mafia only Sulu had believed he belonged to, and none of them had thought him capable of it. After what he had done to McCoy, how could they hope that anything good really lived in him? How could they trust that the face he had showed them held even a trace of truth?

If this was his way of making amends, it wasn't enough. Not by half.

Too late, Jim Scaretta.

His handlers moved toward the wing reserved for special witnesses, ushering him with them. One of them put a hand on his side to move him along, and he winced.

He winced.

His own hand clamped across his stomach, and he took a sharp breath as he hunched over, his face drained of blood. He was hurt.

What had he done?

The officials around him tried to get close, to show concern or ask if he was okay, and he shrugged them off. Even though he moved carefully, aware of his own injuries, he refused to lean on the assistance offered.

Stubborn asshole.

"Dr. McCoy would have healed him," Chekov whispered, "if he had not died."

"It he hadn't been killed," Sulu spat.

"If he hadn't," Uhura said flatly, "been murdered by Jim."

Scott sighed and rubbed his forehead. When he looked up again, Jim was gone. "Let's get some food before we're called back into the session."

They followed him, a flock of lost and aching cadets.

He wished they were something mechanical, wished he could strip them down, isolate the damage, and set them back to rights.

But they weren't

And he couldn't.

So he fed them instead, made sure they weren't hungry or thirsty or cold or hot, and prayed that someday it would be enough.

"Objection, Your Honors! James Scaretta's testimony is inherently biased. For all we know, he's making this up! He has no proof, no support, and no credibility. He stands to gain substantially more by inventing testimony against this so-called 'family' than he does if he tells a plain version of the truth. There is no way to establish his testimony as anything other than hearsay!"

"Counsel?"

"Rights Counsel supports Scaretta counsel's objection."

"Statutory Counsel establishes the existence of precedence concurring with Scaretta counsel's objection."

"Sustained."

Spock cut through the crowds, pushing his way through the chaos of stunned, milling Terrans. He sought answers, explanation, some collection of words that might put this illogical disaster into any kind of context.

Jim had seemed so sure his testimony would be enough. He hadn't appeared to have a contingency for if every form of counsel agreed that it wasn't.

What now, Jim? They failed to kill you once. They will not do so again.

What now?

First he had to find Jim.

So he hacked systems and hid from guards, snuck into restricted areas and looked through forbidden rooms, until finally—

There. Standing with only two other Terrans: one an older female who stood tall with authority in a tailored suit; the other a man, dressed almost as well as the female, his suit jacket unbuttoned and spread open by the hands he had jammed deep in his pockets. Around his neck was a cord with a badge hanging from it stamped with three initials.

FBI.

None of the humans looked pleased. Worst of all was Jim, whose expression was closed and blank, more frightening than Spock had ever seen it. He bowed his head, dipping it at last into the smallest of nods.

The woman turned on her heel and walked away. Later, Spock would see her in the front row of the witness stands for the first time, back straight and graying hair twisted into a firm bun at the back of her head, the younger man at her side.

For now, the man jerked his head toward a side room, mouth twisted bitterly. "At least it's over."

Jim followed the man into the room, eyes hard in a way Spock had never seen. "Don't kid yourself, Douglass.

"This will never be over."

The door closed.

Spock was alone.

He had not even been able to ask—

Jim.

What now?

"Your Honors, we would like to call to the stand an expert witness to establish the credibility of the testimony we've heard so far today."

"Proceed."

"Thank you. Calling the expert witness forward—"

"Objection, Your Honors, they can't be serious!"

"Detective?"

"We can establish credibility, Your Honors."

"Proceed."

"Thank you. Calling the expert witness forward. By taking this seat, you are pledging to provide, to the best of your ability, an accurate and unbiased account of your knowledge and experience. Deliberate misrepresentation of any facts will result in one charge of perjury for each offense. Do you understand and agree to these laws as they have been explained to you?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Please establish your expertise with this situation for the court."

"I'm a Federation Bureau of Intelligence Special Agent working with the Organized Crime Division."

"What is your legal name?"

"James Tiberius Kirk."

A cacophony filled the courtroom. Chaos did not return to order even with the insistent pounding of gavels. The howls of betrayed mafia lords would not fade.

The Federation's all-time most successful undercover agent sat in the witness booth, utterly calm, the eye of the storm.

Spock looked at him and felt the world reorder in a paradigm shift. That man was not Jim Scaretta but S.A. James Kirk,dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt under an open suit jacket, golden hair regulation short and free of styling products, falling loose across his forehead. An FBI badge hung from a sturdy cord around his neck, glinting in the light whenever he moved. An I.D. card was clipped to his lapel.

Kirk, James T. it read.

How was this possible?

He didn't understand. It wasn't logical, wasn't right. How could it be that all this time he had been interacting with only a character, someone invented who didn't even exist? How had he not even guessed, how was it possible that he'd missed—

There were no words in Vulcan to describe a deception so pervasive.

He didn't understand.

Court adjourned for the day.

Chapter Text

Uhura found him first.

In the corridors surrounding the courtroom, witnesses mingled and gossiped, spreading news of SA James Kirk like a swarm of buzzing bees.

Did you know? they asked. The consigliere! How can this be?

He's broken so many laws/ruined so many lives/killed so many people.

How can this be?

Uhura, willfully separated from her group, fought the throng in search of him. She knew body language, knew countless little tells that gave sentient beings away. Even Vulcans had them, and she was an adept student, far surpassing her contemporaries.

She had not seen this.

She was a student of human interaction, and she had learned Jim Scaretta. She understood the subtle shifting of his shoulders, the graceful play of his fingers. She had known, to the second, how long he could go without a cigarette before he substituted a toothpick. She had known him.

She had seen nothing of SA James Kirk in Jim Scaretta.

The man who sat on the stand with a badge around his neck was as much a stranger to her as the other agents, or the detectives, or the judges. He knew the right stories, of course. The last three hours of her life were filled with a juicy cross-section of the gruesome, intimate details he carried of the Scaretta crime family. But his body was wrong, the tilt of his head and inflexibility of his spine promising her that this man was not the one she had known.

She knew him.

He was a stranger.

The statements couldn't both be true.

So she left her fellow cadets, pushed through the crowd, and ducked into the corridor that led away from the high-profile witness recess chamber. She walked like she belonged there when the security personnel seemed disinclined to question her, and she ducked out of sight when their posture was more aggressive.

At the end of the corridor, there was a small room with a sunroof and several small gardens. Behind the gardens, washed in sunlight but tucked far away, sitting on the ground with his back pressed against the wall and his forearms propped on raised knees, eyes shut, head tipped back against the concrete, was Jim.

SA Kirk.

Whichever.

She meant to say, "Hello."

What she actually said was, "Who are you?"

He didn't open his eyes or startle or flinch away. She added it to her new compendium of FBI agent tells: He had known she was there. He had known it was her.

The fingers of his right hand twitched. He didn't answer.

"I know who you're not," she continued, crossing her arms as she looked down at him. "I know you're not a Scaretta. I know you're not some mob guy who turned on his family when everyone finally got caught. You were never any of those things you told everyone you were. So who are you?"

"Who do you think I am?" he asked, low but not softly, spoken from somewhere deep and exhausted. "Tell me, since you know so much."

Her grip tightened on her elbows as she fought to maintain control. "You haven't given me any clues about that one," she pointed out shakily. "I don't—I don't know you. I've never seen you…laugh, or smirk, or sigh. I've never seen you when you think no one's paying attention, or when you're interacting with customers or associates or—friends. I don't even know if youhave friends. The only thing I know for sure is that you're…the most amazing, prolific liar I've ever met." She shook her head, amazed and distressed. "There wasn't even one part of you that was real, was there? It was all a lie?"

Finally he looked at her, eyes as blue as ever. Tired, maybe, and dull with—

She didn't know. Couldn't tell.

"Do you think it was a lie?"

"How should I know?" she asked, shrugging minutely. "I thought we were friends. I thought…I knew you. I thought you were Jim Scaretta. But then you killed McCoy, and you were in the mafia, for God's sake, and now you aren't even that. I thought I knew Jim, but I was wrong. Now you're SA Kirk, and I don't even— How can you ask me if I think it was a lie? How can you ask me to think it was ever anything else? There isn't any evidence to support it, Agent Kirk. I have nothing. You gave usnothing."

Blue eyes shut as a fair head dropped back against the wall. "Then I don't know why you're here, Uhura."

"That isn't fair, Jim—Agent Kirk."

He exhaled sharply, curling so one hand was tangled in his hair. The other arm pressed across his stomach.

With a start, she remembered he'd been injured somehow, and opened her mouth to ask about it.

"Why are you here, Uhura? The defense isn't exactly going easy on me in there. I can't let the Scarettas get out of this because I'm too out of my mind to respond correctly to a question phrased to trip me up. All I'm trying to do here is get my shit together. What do you want from me?"

She saw it then, in the way he breathed and the subtle twitching of his fingers: The same stress response she's seen in Jim Scaretta when his brain was working particularly hard on a problem he could not share with anyone. (Had she been seeing SA Kirk the whole time, trying so hard not to blow his cover, not to lose his chance to cripple organized crime, not to end up just another agent missing in action? What else had she seen and not understood?)

Uhura sighed, thinking quickly. "Listen," she said at last. "There are some things happening now that are forcing me to…rethink. Mostly everything, really. So…that hatred I feel for you?" She pushed one fist against her heart. "That pain I've been nurturing since you first showed your true colors? I'm going to put that on hold, but not forever. It's just suspended until I know how deep you got into your role. Get it?"

He didn't respond.

"You look miserable," she pointed out with a huff. "You know I don't condone the habit, but if it'll help you keep it together for the rest of the trial, I can try to sneak you a cigarette. Just this once, though, okay?"

The sound he made then might have been a broken laugh, but for the hoarse, hysterical ring of it. He looked up again, something manic in his eyes. "Uhura." The smile that twisted his mouth made her heart ache. "Thanks. But I don't smoke."

Her breath caught in her throat. "But I saw you— We all did!"

Another hysterical laugh bubbled up. "I'm a Federation agent, Cadet Uhura. If I smoked, I'd never pass the required physical." He tipped his head back, laughing in earnest. "That smoker you knew? The one you came here looking for, even though he ruined your life? Stop looking for him. He'd dead, okay? He's dead. I ended him the way I'm gonna end all these other fucking Scarettas, you just watch—"

"Agent Kirk."

Uhura and Kirk both looked over to find the female agent standing by the doorway. Her eyes were calm and cold, settled on Kirk with pitiless understanding. "Stand up, Agent," she ordered. "The recess is over."

"Yes, ma'am," Kirk replied immediately, climbing to his feet with that arm still pressed against his stomach. He crossed to her side, face blank, eyes empty.

A ruined toy soldier.

Uhura covered her face with both hands. When she looked up again, they were gone.

The trial continued.

When the judges finally called a recess for lunch, the two other FBI agents immediately clustered around Jim, vanishing with him down a side corridor. Jim went without struggle, head low, ears filled with the dull roar of incredulous curiosity.

He knew what they were saying. And he knew where it would lead. It had been kind of inevitable from the moment he put on his badge.

That didn't mean he had to like it.

They found sanctuary in a conference room that, under normal circumstances, was reserved for the use of court justices. It was theirs, just this once, only because Director Ross has specifically requested a base of operations that required specialized security clearance. The director made sure they had proper provisions before taking a seat across from Jim, folding her hands carefully on the conference table, and arching one eyebrow.

"The last figure you reported was thirteen," Douglass said for her, deceptively mild as he slid a deli sub in Jim's direction.

"Yeah," Jim agreed. He toyed with the sandwich but didn't move to unwrap it.

"The list the defense read was well over thirty people, Jim."

"…Yeah."

"Agent Kirk." Director Ross leaned forward. "If you didn't report them to us, that means you didn't go through proper channels. And if you were avoiding proper channels, that leaves me with some very important questions."

Jim let out a long sigh, leaning back in his chair with eyes locked on the ceiling. "I bet I can guess what it is."

"Where did you get the bodies, Agent Kirk? Where are the people?"

"Look." Jim sat forward, hands spread palms-up on the glassy tabletop. "This is all going to come out in court within the next few hours or days or however long they decide to torture everyone with it. You know this will be their next line of questions—you know it."

"So, Agent Kirk," Douglass said in a passable mockery of the most vicious defense attorney on the Scaretta panel. "The only reason you sit on the witness stand and not in the defense box with my clients is because you claim to have been working as a deep undercover agent 'the whole time.'" Douglass flickered his fingers through the air in exaggerated quotes that he accompanied with an eye roll. "But if your own testimony is to be believed—testimony which, it is important to stress, has not been proven or substantiated in any meaningful way—you are directly responsible for the deaths or disappearances of thirty-four Federation citizens." Douglass wagged his finger at Jim, whose bland expression was fast morphing into a black scowl. "So then, Agent, it seems there can be only two explanations: Either you are a liar but not a murderer, and all of your testimony is false; or you are an honest murderer, and you, more than anyone, should be the one on trial. Which is it?"

"I fucking hate you," Jim told him. "You know that?"

"We didn't give you the bodies, Agent Kirk," Director Ross said again, leaning forward with a stern expression. "Where are the people?"

At last, Jim sighed, briefly squeezing his temples with the forefinger and thumb of his right hand. "In the courtroom," he said from behind his hand, words heavy and dark, "above all the other seats, there's a balcony protected by a darkened shield. No one can see in. Nothing can get out."

"The special and endangered witness box," Douglass clarified with a nod. "What about it?"

"They don't always use it, Douglass. It isn't always activated. But it is now; it has been since the beginning of the trial, back when I was still a Scaretta."

"You were never," Douglass snarled, "one of those—"

"What exactly are you saying here?" the Director demanded.

"That it isn't a matter of there being only two explanations," Jim replied, mouth twisted in a smirk. "And that sometimes, in order to maintain both my cover and my professional integrity, I had to get…creative."

Douglass' eyes widened. "Then…the twenty-one body discrepancy—"

"I was always on your team, Supervisory Special Agent Douglass," Jim said casually. He sprawled comfortably in his conference seat, snatching up his sandwich to peel the wrapper off in a long, thin strip of paper. "It just wasn't always theonly team I was on."

"The missing lab techs!"

"Wait," the undercover agent advised, eyes locked on the Director's. "Watch. It's all unraveling anyway."

For a long moment, Director Ross was silent. "This had better be the explanation of the century, Agent."

"Director." Jim spread his arms, sandwich still clutched in one hand. "When have I given you anything less?"

Sulu burst into the quarters he shared with the other Starfleet cadets and Scotty, sucking in gasping, ragged breaths that had less to do with the sprint from the courtroom than it did with the last round of testimony. He looked around with a helpless kind of desperation, searching for something—anything—that would put the world back into some kind of order. Shoulders high and tight, his hands flexed and curled at his sides while his feet moved him in useless aborted circles, unable to settle on a direction that would mean forward. It didn't—it didn't even—

Chekov barreled into him, a shaking mass of nerves, clutching at one of his arms and babbling incoherently in a Russian/Standard creole. It made him stop pacing but didn't help focus the world. He shook his head at the teen, not to refuse him but just because he didn't—he didn't—

Uhura and Scott came next, an indignant storm of noise and outrage around a third, angry and impossible figure.

"Enough!" the last figure shouted, cutting one arm through the air sharply. He stabbed a finger at the hallway behind him. "Shut that door and shut the fuck up, or I'm leaving! I have shit to do today that doesn't involve mass hysteria, so frankly I don't have time for your infantile tantrums. Get it together, cadets!"

"Infantile tantrums!" Uhura's curled hands reached forward as though she would wrap them around his neck. "How could you—"

"Do you want an explanation," he demanded, "or not?"

"We buried you," Sulu said, low and furious.

Dr. Leonard McCoy, Starfleet cadet and murder victim, huffed, hands fisted on his hips, a scowl twisting his mouth. "Apparently not so well as you'd thought."

"We buried you!" the Command cadet howled, lunging forward. Chekov barely caught him in time, holding tight to his friend to prevent an attack on the resurrected doctor. Sulu relented to the restraint only just, knowing even in his rage that he didn't want to hurt McCoy enough to hurt Chekov too. "You tell us what's going on, and you tell us now!"

"Look," McCoy snarled, "it's complicated, okay?"

"Uncomplicate it," Uhura demanded. "Fast."

"Like I chose this," the doctor muttered. "At least close that fucking door first, alright? I don't know who's allowed to hear this. I'm only here telling you now because Jim said I should."

Scott shut the door, entering a complicated series of codes that would ensure their privacy before turning back to the doctor, expression hard. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Go on then, Doctor McCoy. I imagine you've got quite the tale."

McCoy sighed, scrubbing one hand through his hair. "First thing y'all should know," he said firmly, meeting each of their accusing glares in turn, "is that this wasn't Jim's fault. It was never part of the plan, and it never would have happened if I'd listened to the hobgoblin. But I stuck my nose in Jim's business, and it complicated things for him in a terrible way."

"What are you talking about?" Sulu asked, baring his teeth in a wordless snarl.

Chekov was still wrapped around him, though it progressively became more for the teen's benefit than Sulu's. He was trembling again, legs wobbling and eyes wide as his head shook slowly. "No," he said, a whisper that broke in the middle when his quicksilver mind began rapidly filling in the appropriate blanks. "This is my— When I asked you not to give up on Jim, you—" He blinked as tears built in his eyes. "I caused this."

Sulu switched his hold until he was fully supporting Chekov, whose knees buckled abruptly. Scott fetched a chair, shoving it at Chekov. Sulu, alarmed, set the young genius down before turning another glare on McCoy. "What did you do?"

"No," Chekov insisted, head hanging low even as he shook it again, hands still clutching at Sulu's arms. "No, do not blame him, I am the one who—"

"Enough of that," McCoy rebuked softly, laying a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "I would have gone even if you hadn't asked. I would never have given up on him, Chekov. And that's why this had to happen."

"I do not understand," he admitted.

"How much did the Vulcan tell you about…after y'all left for the summer?"

"Almost nothing," Uhura said.

"Spock and I went back to the restaurant first thing once y'all were gone," the doctor explained, straightening but leaving his hand on Chekov's shoulder. "We went over and over, even though he told us to leave, or refused to see us, or stopped us from going in. We made such a nuisance that some detectives—the lead detectives in the trial—pulled us aside and explained to us that Jim was mafia, and the Scaretta family was dangerous, and we'd better stop hasslin' them if we knew what was good for us."

"Did you?" Sulu asked tightly.

McCoy shook his head. "Spock did. I guess logic's good for somethin', 'cause he knew better than I did how quickly everything could go wrong. He said he was gonna leave Jim to his Scaretta business, and I'd best do the same. But I—" He shrugged again, a little helplessly. "I couldn't do that to Jim. He was a good kid, and smart as anythin', and I thought…if I could just get him to listen, if I could show him there was a way out…"

"But he couldn't," Uhura whispered, eyes huge, a hand pressed to bloodless lips. "Of course he couldn't, not if he was undercover. Oh, Len, what did—"

"So one night," the doctor interrupted softly, "Jim asked me to stay after closin'. And I did, of course I did. I thought he was gonna talk to me, finally, and I'd've done anything for that. But then everyone cleared out, and he took me back to the kitchen, and it was just us…"

"And he didn't want an out," Scott guessed.

McCoy nodded, finally removing his hand from Chekov's shoulder to rub it harshly over his face. "No, of course he didn't. He asked me why I couldn't give up, why I had to push it. Then he brought out a gun and—"

"A gun!" Chekov wailed.

"And I still didn't believe it." The doctor shook his head. "I still didn't think— I was naive, and stupid, and a damned fool. That goddamned monster, Anthony, he'd ordered Jim to get rid of me. Well, what choice did he have?" McCoy spread his hands, nearly in supplication, daring them to respond. "He's been working undercover for years. If he let me go, if he didn't make it look like I was gone, all that previous sacrifice was for nothing. There's not a reasonable soul in any world that would ask that of him, or of the people who came before me."

The Starfleet personnel startled. "The ones who—"

"You saw the endangered witness box. I wasn't alone in it, was I? Don't you remember the list they were readin' off?"

Sulu doubted he would ever forget the crescendo of disbelief that began when that dark shield faded to transparency, a roar that grew more and more wild as the detectives read a list of murdered and missing persons that were attributed to Kirk. And as each name echoed through the court, a person in that box stood to be counted, again and again while Kirk's face remained still and impassive, while the main floor witnesses went insane, while the mafia family surged from their seats in rage, and at the end when Dr. Leonard McCoy heard his name and rose to be counted—

They could not be called back into order. The courtroom had been cleared, and Sulu, frantic with his inability to rectify what he knew with what he had seen, unable to stand under the weight of Kirk's passionless blue eyes, ran, the first of the exodus.

"How did he do it?" Sulu whispered, head hanging, hand tight on the back of Chekov's chair. He met McCoy's eyes. "You said there was a gun. And then?"

McCoy sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, then there was a shot."

"He shot you?"

"No. Y'all remember his staff at the bar? The main staff I mean, the ones who were always there?"

"Aye," Scott said for all of them, but slowly, as though he expected a trick. "A nice enough bunch, I s'pose, for their kind anyway. What of them?"

"They were his staff in more ways than one."

"Y'want t'be a little less cryptic, Doctor, or ye'll never get t'the end of this."

"They were Federation lab techs," he explained, shaking his head incredulously. "He met them at the Bureau, at one time or another, and talked 'em into helpin' him in the field. Most of them just went missin' over time, and everyone assumed they'd been kidnapped or killed or any manner of terrible things."

"How do missing lab techs," Uhura began, falling silent when McCoy raised a hand.

"Now, let me finish first. By this time, Jim'd got pretty slick about substituting bodies. Turns out the FBI technology outstrips even what we've got in Starfleet. They have this machine they use to produce fake bodies usin' donated cadavers and DNA samples from an intended target. Jim has a collection of slides with DNA from each of us that he was hoardin' away for such an event as the one I caused. When Anthony put my head on the choppin' block, Jim got his techs workin' on a fake body coded with my DNA and a special somethin' extra that automatically triggers an FBI subroutine programmed into every scanner in production. It confirmed that the body was mine, then flagged a particular doctor for the autopsy. And that doctor—"

"Let me guess," Sulu interrupted. "He's FBI too."

McCoy nodded. "Got it in one. The flag coded into the fake body uploads an autopsy onto his PADD, and all he has to do is read it back to the recorder as he cuts and then sign off at the end. Even if there's a mole in the ME's office, or with the police or investigating official, the autopsy itself reads as totally legitimate."

"Tha's brilliant," Scott observed, eyebrows lifted high in appreciation.

"It's a massive network," the doctor explained.

"So the person who was shot," Chekov said, realization dawning bright behind his eyes, "it was—"

"The altered cadaver," McCoy agreed. "Yeah. And some of Jim's techs-in-hiding are ballistics and blood-spatter specialists, so they knew how to make everything look just right before they started their cleanup."

"Brilliant," Scott breathed again.

"So the cadaver was shot," Uhura prompted, "and then you…?"

"Had a good old-fashioned freak-out," McCoy admitted. "Jim told me to calm down, but I'd just seen him shoot me, and it was a bit of a tall order. So he passed me to one of his techs, who hit me with a hypo and loaded me into a van. I woke up in a safe house, with Jim sittin' solemn as a bloodhound with his badge in one hand and a hard drink in the other. Fool said he was sorry, can you believe it?" He shook his head again, scowling darkly. "As if my blunderin' into his operation was somehow his fault."

"What happened then?" Sulu asked.

McCoy shrugged. "Should be fairly obvious. Jim bein' willin' to take out a friend on Anthony's order cemented him as consigliere, giving him access to all the information it would take to bring down the family. So his people got 'sloppy', and the ME found trace linking Pretty Jim Scaretta to my and a dozen other murders, and the trial started. The rest you know."

Silence fell over them, crushing in its expanse.

"All those people who stood in the witness box," Chekov whispered.

"My story, or some variation of it," McCoy confirmed. "Repeat and repeat and repeat, for years."

Uhura shut her eyes. "How could we not know this? How did we not see it?"

McCoy snorted. "Y'all aren't that special," he pointed out. "Not you or me or Spock. You think we should have seen it when the mob didn't? They thought of him as family enough to give him their name. If it'd been easy to see through, we never would have met him in the first place. He'd've been dead years ago. Surely his life's worth more than your hurt pride."

"Clearly," Chekov sighed, relaxing against the back of his seat, "it was worth even more than that to you."

"How do you mean?" the doctor asked.

"We buried you," Sulu said for a third time. "You're dead, according to the Academy and Starfleet and the Federation and everyone who matters. They notified your family. Your life ended, and you let it, even though you probably had no way of knowing how long you would have to stay gone."

"He's my friend," McCoy replied firmly. "And he's still alive. There's not one of you who wouldn't have done the same as me in my place. I was just fool enough to be the one pushin'."

"It could have been worse, I guess," Sulu sighed. "At least the media frenzy around the arrest of the Scaretta family kept your specific death from being reported. Imagine how hard it would be to publicize a retraction of that. An unidentified exposed undercover agent just took down the mob; that's the leading story on every broadcasting channel. No one would listen to a story about you not being dead if they could listen to that instead."

McCoy arched a sardonic eyebrow. "Lucky, huh?"

"Oh god." Uhura pinched the bridge of her nose. "Of course. They never showed Jim's picture, either. That wasn't an oversight."

"None of it was accidental," McCoy agreed. "And there are programs in place that will put my life back to rights in less time than you'd think possible. I'll go back to classes Monday after this trial wraps up. The FBI has been doin' things like this longer than there was a Federation. With all that practice, is it any wonder they've turned it into an art form?"

They stared at him, inarticulate with all they wanted to say.

"How is this real?" Chekov wondered helplessly.

"It could be worse," the doctor pointed out with a smirk. "Imagine if you were just dreamin'."

Before anyone could form a reply, the announcement finally sounded to call them back to court. They went to their seats; McCoy took his place in the balcony; Jim settled in the witness box.

And the Scaretta trial continued.

Chekov waited.

He sat with great patience between the other two Starfleet cadets, watching as the trial moved toward its inevitable conclusion. The extent of knowledge Agent Kirk had collected through deception was…devastating. He knew all the family's secrets, and delighted in sharing them. Hour after hour Chekov listened as Jim filled the courtroom with a detailed account of crimes, corroborated by audio recordings from wires sewn into the lining of all his jackets, files from PADDs and computers that he'd written the security programs for, lists of names and dates to explain every missing person associated with the Scarettas.

All told, it took nine days. When it was over, Chekov stood on the observation platform of the court's official hanger and watched as the Scaretta defendants were moved directly into the high security starship that would transport them to the remotest penal colony in all of the Federation. The intent, no doubt, was to separate them as much as possible from society. If they had no visitors, they could not share the truth of Jim's identity with the those of the family who were still free and might be interested in striking back at the one who had destabilized the entire infrastructure of organized crime.

When the ship was gone, Chekov was close enough to watch as one of the detectives approached Jim. "Thank you, Agent Kirk," he said in parting, extending his hand for a brief but firm shake. "What you've done here—it can't be measured. I gotta admit, I never thought I'd see you go from Top Ten Most Wanted to our case's MVP, but we'd hang your picture in the precinct first thing tomorrow if we didn't know it'd get you killed. You dismantled the mafia, Agent. Thank you."

Jim shrugged, expression carefully neutral. "I didn't do it alone, Detective, and you know there's a lot of work left. But if you're sending out thank you notes, you should put Supervisory Special Agent Douglas, who's been in charge of the task force for years now, and Director Ross, who's head of the Organized Crime Division, on the top of your list. If it weren't for them and a specialized support team of agents and technicians, I'd be dead a dozen times over."

"Maybe we'll hang their pictures instead," the detective laughed.

"Sounds like a plan," Jim agreed, tucking his hands into his pockets.

The detectives left. The hanger emptied.

And Chekov waited.

Long after the others in Starfleet returned to their quarters to fill out mandatory reports and accept gag orders, and the other FBI agents were sequestered in a conference room, and the special witnesses were beginning the process of reclaiming their lives, Chekov waited.

Until, at last, no one remained but Jim, who stood with his hands wrapped tight around the railing as he looked out over the empty hanger, and Chekov.

"You know," Jim said after an echoing silence, "out of everyone, the one I regretted most was you."

Chekov blinked. "I do not understand."

Jim glanced back at him, twitching his shoulders in a shrug. "It had to have been…difficult. For you maybe more than anyone."

"I am not sure I agree," he admitted, stepping forward until he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his friend. "I am not the one who has to now come back from the dead, like Dr. McCoy, or the one who has made an enemy of everyone terrible in the world, as you have. Even, I am sure, Commander Spock has had a worse time than I. He was quite different, after you left."

Jim's mouth quirked into half a smile, and Chekov thought it was an expression he almost, almost recognized from that first day in the rain. "Georgia never had to believe that I betrayed him," the agent said. "He never had to attend a friend's funeral and know that it was another friend who was responsible. He never had to learn to come to terms with the fact that I was a murderer. A monster. Some mafia creature from an old nightmare."

Chekov shook his head and scowled. "But you are not—"

"If the Scaretta counsel had never challenged my credibility, you would never have known that." Jim glanced sideways at him again, eyes so blue and searching. "McCoy was set to transfer from Witness Protection to Witness Relocation contingent on successful convictions. New name, new identity—you would never have known."

"But I do know," the teen protested.

"You wouldn't have. You very nearly didn't."

"I did!" Chekov cried, turning to face Jim at last. His hands flailed as he spoke, as though a physical expression of his distress would clarify his point. "You are hero, yes? A great man! I always thought so, even from that day in the rain when you stopped for me and no one else did. And when McCoy was dead, and you were the one who killed him, still I thought—there must be more I do not see. Surely there is something—"

Jim touched the boy's shoulder comfortingly. "Calm down, Pavel." He waited, pressed close and warm, until the cadet's breathing stopped hitching. "This is what I meant when I said I regretted you the most. It doesn't take a genius to know you didn't have much of a support system before we met. I knew that first day in the rain what it would mean for you if we were…close…when the time came to bring the Scarettas down. I had no business engaging you in any kind of personal relationship."

"You had already begun one with Dr. McCoy," Chekov pointed out stubbornly. "One more could not have mattered."

The agent leaned over to bump their shoulders gently. "You're missing the point, kid." Chekov set his jaw but didn't respond. Jim sighed, long and weary. "Listen," he murmured. "I knew going in that this could only end badly. I should never have started letting all you Starfleet brats hang around."

"Well I am glad you did," Chekov said firmly. "I will never regret you being my friend, not even to have these last months to do again. Dr. McCoy is alive, and the mob family is ruined, and you are free of them. It was painful for a while, having known you, but…still, even then I did not think to wish it had not happened. I did not regret you, Jim Kirk. Even before I knew your name."

"You should."

"But I don't," Chekov insisted. "And I didn't. And I won't. You are the first and best friend I ever had, Jim. And you cannot make me regret you."

Jim's expression then made Chekov ache for him, for the loneliness of years spent living only by the cunning of his own lies. Being the youngest then offered Chekov an opportunity that McCoy or Spock or Sulu could not have taken. When Jim's eyes were bright with the pain of his life, his mouth pulled tight at the corners, Chekov stepped forward and embraced him, both hands fisted tight in the material of his coat. "You are my friend," he whispered into Jim's shoulder, determined to hang on even if Jim never responded. "You will always be my friend."

Abruptly, Jim's arms came up, returning Chekov's grip with interest. "They're keeping me at the field office here in San Francisco until the higher ups can figure out what to do with me," he said, voice rough and face hidden in Chekov's curls. "I'll get you the address and the office number and everything."

"And when you have a PADD of your own, you will give me the contact information."

"Yeah."

"And I will make sure everyone—Sulu and Scott and Uhura and Commander Spock and even Dr. McCoy, if he does not already have the information—know where you are."

"…Yeah."

"We will come to see you often. We will not forget you. Because you are our friend."

Jim held him, hands trembling, and didn't reply.

He didn't have to.

It made a kind of sense to Montgomery Scott that the first thing he heard coming out of SA Jim Kirk's San Francisco office was an argument.

"Ow, it doesn't— Would you stop that? It doesn't even hurt anymore! Except when you do that, fucking stop!"

"They pulled four bullets out of you—metal fucking high velocity projectiles, how many layers of goddamn stereotype does organized crime have to be anyway?—not even a month ago. And you had to be some kind of tough bastard and let the wounds fester for most of that time. Because—what? If you had an actual medical professional look at your sucking chest wounds and perforated abdomen, you'd lose some street cred?"

"They didn't fester— Listen, I'm not even having this argument with you again. I told you it would arouse suspicion if a Federation organization like the bureau was seen wasting unnecessary funds on some shot up mob witness, so we had no way of getting our hands on the kind of advanced medical equipment that you Starfleet brats—"

"I was in the same fucking safe house, how is that a waste?"

"They knew I was shot and you were supposed to be fucking dead, you sadistic— Fucking ow! Stop that!"

"Oh, grow up, you overgrown infant. By the way, when you hear your doctor say the words take it easy for a few weeks, that is not some cue for you to use the kind of bullshit liberal interpretation that results in you—"

"See, this is another one of those conversations I'm not having again, Georgia! Do you have, what…two topics only, and if you can't harp on one you just move on to the other? If I shut this one down, will you go back to the first one?"

"Is this where I'm supposed to be filled with repentance and apology? Damn it, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a—"

"Are we interrupting?"

The arguing men looked up. McCoy appeared startled, armed with a hypospray in one hand and a PADD in the other. Jim, though clearly annoyed with his doctor friend, showed no signs of alarm where he stood behind his desk, leaning back out of McCoy's reach. He either didn't register unexpected arrivals as a threat, or he had known they were there.

"I heard you get off the elevator," the agent explained in response to Scott's curious expression, jerking his head in the direction Scott and Chekov had come from. He offered the teen a teasing grin. "Pavel has an excited kind of walk. It's distinctive."

"I have never been in an FBI building before," the boy admitted, looking around in fascination. "Even though we are with Starfleet, they were very thorough with screening us before we were allowed in. Field offices were first invented in Russia, you know!"

Jim's grin widened. "You don't say."

"Da. It is a long tradition in my country."

"Good tradition. Well, don't just stand there like stalkers. C'mon in, guys!" He waved the two in, motioning toward some chairs scattered around the office. Instead of occupying the plush seat meant for him, Jim walked around the desk to perch on the front edge. "Tell me all about what it's like going to school with a zombie."

McCoy rolled his eyes even as Chekov eagerly pulled a chair closer to Jim. "It is very exciting," the teen promised. "There are so many stories about Dr. McCoy's absence that no truth can be found in it at all anymore!"

"Are there aliens involved?"

"Of course! But not in the way one might expect. It is all quite scandalous, although most often the doctor is shown in, how to say…a very good light."

"Eh, if y'don't mind, Jimmy," Scott said quickly, "I'd like t'borrow McCoy. Have a medical-related question," he added with a sheepish grin. "It won't take a moment."

Jim gestured toward the hall with an arched eyebrow. "He's all yours."

McCoy followed Scott with a suspicious expression. "You know Jim knows you don't actually have a medical-related question," the doctor said once they were out of earshot. "He's an FBI agent, and a damned good one."

"It's not a problem that he knows," Scott dismissed easily, glancing around before crossing his arms and leaning toward McCoy. "What's this you were sayin' about Jim bein' shot?"

The doctor's scowl returned with force. "Damn fool thing. Soon as he was arrested," he explained, "he was moved to a safe house to prevent the mafia from takin' him out before he could testify. Just so happened to be the same one I was holed up in, which had the added benefit of someone finally tellin' me all that I'd missed. Anyway, not too long into it—and I don't know quite how it happened—they found him. Sent guys to make sure he couldn't talk. Jim took 'em down before they could do that, but not before those assholes put four bullets in him."

"From a gun?"

".45 caliber." McCoy's lip curled in a snarl. "Lucky I was there, too, or he'd've bled out before they could get him to a hospital."

"But that was weeks ago, and you're still workin' on him. Couldn't you just use a regenerator?"

McCoy shifted, his frustration mounting with every passing word. A laugh from Jim's office relieved some of the anger bubbling just under the surface, but it was a temporary reprieve. "There's a window," McCoy said furiously, "during which a regenerator can be effectively used on a patient. That window closed long before Jim stopped being pigheaded long enough for me to try and fix him up."

"I dinnea understand," Scott admitted. "Why wouldn't he let you heal him?"

"Idiot said it would wreck his cover. Said it wasn't the FBI's protocol to give that kind of advanced treatment to plain old informants, and if the Scarettas saw him at the trial and he was uninjured— Horse shit," the doctor snapped, "the lot of it."

"How's he doin' now?"

McCoy lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Better than he was. Not as good as I would like. The worst of it is healed, but he needs—rest. He needs to take a few weeks off to recover, but he won't and I can't make him. These Feds don't listen to me any better than he does, either. He's gonna tear somethin', and then we'll see who's sorry." The elevator opened behind Scott. McCoy looked up, and Scott guessed it wasn't the most favorable of newcomers when his expression soured. "Agent Douglass." His mouth twisted in what he might have meant to be greeting. "More bad news?"

Scott turned to find one of the FBI agents who had been at the trial walking toward them with a tight, unhappy demeanor. "Doctor." His eyes slid sideways to Scott, flickering over his uniform. "Lieutenant. I take it Agent Kirk is actually here, for once."

The doctor tipped his head toward the office. "In there with Cadet Chekov."

Douglass let out a short sigh. "Now I'll get to ruin a rare good mood, too, then." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fantastic."

"What happened?" McCoy demanded. Douglass glanced at Scott again, but the doctor waved him off. "He's one of us from the bar. What happened?"

"We think they found him."

McCoy sucked in a sharp breath. "How?"

"A leak, somewhere." He motioned exhaustedly. "Who even knows anymore? What matters is he's compromised."

"Wait," Scott said. "What's this about they? Do you mean the mafia? The damage Jim can do them has been done. Why are they still interested? Revenge? They can't possibly care enough about that to risk killing an FBI agent!"

"You'd be surprised," Douglas said with a grimace. "But it's more than that. Worse than that, I mean. It's not just the Scarettas who want him gone, it's everyone. The other families with ties to the Scarettas are scrambling to save themselves from similar fates—and all the other families had ties to the Scarettas. They're worried Kirk knows about those ties, and they're right to because he does. He could testify at any of their trials, if it ever came to that." The agent shrugged. "He wouldn't be as big a witness, no, but you can never tell who's going to be the last nail in the coffin."

Scott felt a cold numbness in his limbs. "So they're comin' for him."

Douglass nodded. "With guns blazing. We caught two mob soldiers in the building today—not near but in it."

"What will happen to him?" McCoy asked, eyes hard, every line of his body tight in anger and fear. "How will you stop them from getting to him? You didn't last time. They just walked in and shot him, like a lamb laid out for slaughter. So what's your strategy for preventin' that mess this time?"

For a moment, Douglass studied the doctor without saying anything. Then he sighed, long and defeated. "If he's very, very lucky," he said softly, eyes trained on the floor, "we'll be able to get him into the relocation program. But he's so ridiculously high profile that it would be nearly impossible to find a place to hide him that was far enough away that the mob wouldn't see his face and know him. Anywhere that far out is gonna be close knit, though, and just his arrival would raise enough flags to call unwanted attention. In all honesty, we probably don't have the resources to hide him. What we'll most likely have to do is keep him active and use him again." The agent shook his head at McCoy's and Scott's protests. "You've seen the results of his work. The higher-ups love him. He's too good to give up when we could use him on another op."

"They'll kill him if you do that," McCoy snarled.

"If they find him," Douglass said with the kind of finality that came with experience, "they'll kill him regardless of what we've done. Man." He scrubbed a hand through his hair in frustration. "This whole thing is just as fucked up as he always said it would be."

"Isn't there anything we can do?"

Douglass shrugged again. "If you see him on the street after we've officially removed him from this assignment," he suggested, "pretend very hard you don't know him."

"Some victory this is," the doctor snapped. "He takes down the mob and doesn't even get a life out of it. The FBI will go out of its way to save everybody except one of their own! No, he just gets thrown to the fucking wolves."

"This isn't what I wanted either," Douglass tried to say.

McCoy cut him off with sharp motion. "There's an entire semester of classes I have to retake now because I got sucked into this. My daughter had to think her daddy was dead. And as terrible as that is, I figured it might be okay, because Jim is my best friend and the cause was important. All you FBI guys kept sayin' it'd get better once we'd won the case. Well now it's over, Douglass, and all I got is wasted time and a traumatized little girl and a friend I'll never see again who you idiots might be fixin' to get killed. It sure doesn't feel like we won anythin'," he snarled, pushing past Douglass to stalk toward the elevators.

"That could have gone better," Douglass observed when he was gone.

"I have a question, now that you've run off the good doctor," Scott said. The agent arched an eyebrow at him. "What, exactly, are you planning to tell Chekov?"

Douglass winced.

The day SA Kirk left for what was to be the last time was the first day Spock ever visited the Federation Bureau of Intelligence's San Francisco field office. Cadet Chekov had ensured that he knew the physical address and contact information, and there had been no shortage of invitations from the others to accompany them on their regular trips, but…

Standing in the recess of the building, he watched Kirk say goodbye to the coworkers who had been his only source of assistance throughout his years as a Scaretta.

Or rather…as an agent of the Federation pretending to be a Scaretta.

Despite all the hours Spock had dedicated to meditating on the problem, he still could not…

He didn't understand. In the shadow of an FBI building, watching Kirk interact with (fellow) agents, all of them clearly displaying their badges, it made no more sense now than it had in the courtroom. Here he was a hero, a legend, a new and impossible paragon for every agent that followed in his footsteps. But once, not long ago, he had been a criminal. A consigliere. A murderer. How could he so easily be two such different men?

Where had Jim Scaretta gone with the rebirth of SA James Kirk?

When the agents were gone and his personal items loaded into his transport and he was alone at last, Kirk turned and saw him. Across the distance, their eyes met. The blue of that gaze held him as it ever had. Spock could not look away.

There was Jim Scaretta.

There was James Kirk.

He was both, and neither. He was without his customary cigarette, and he had foregone wearing either a hat or sunglasses. The long coat continuously pushed away from his body by the wind was the traditional beige of the FBI, not the black that had so well hidden him in shadow. His badge hung around his neck gleaming in the sunlight.

Spock hardly recognized him.

Then, unexpectedly, Kirk's face gentled in a smile. If Spock had not been Vulcan, he would not have heard the agent's parting message.

But he was.

And so he did.

"If I had been," Jim murmured, understanding warm in his eyes, "someone else…"

If I hadn't been a Scaretta.

"Goodbye, Professor."

He slid into the transport. The door shut.

He was gone.

"Wait!" a young voice called. Spock turned as Cadet Chekov was running down the sidewalk. He came to a halt beside Spock, bent over as he panted to regain his breath. When he had recovered somewhat, he looked up at Spock. "Is he still here?"

"No," Spock replied.

The cadet's expression filled with distress. "He left? Why did—Sir! Why did you not stop him?"

"Special Agent Kirk received new orders, Cadet. It would be illogical to make a request the agent could not have granted, even had it been his desire to do so."

"But you could have— Now I must first discover where he has gone before anything else!"

"You will not be permitted to communicate with him," Spock said. "What reason do you have to compromise his position by locating him?"

Chekov motioned wildly. "To get him back, of course! I must find him in order to continue working for his return. He should be with us! We are all his friends!"

"Your emotions are preventing you from accepting that this reality cannot be changed," the Vulcan pointed out.

"What reality is that, sir?"

"The agent is gone. He cannot be returned. The place he should be is exactly where he is, which is under the purview of the Federation Bureau of Intelligence and of no concern to any member of Starfleet."

The cadet rocked back on his heels as though Spock had hit him. "You cannot believe that," he said desperately. "Sir, you cannot think this is the way things should be!"

"What is," Spock replied, "is. There is no logic in wishing otherwise."

"But he is our friend!"

"What you saw as a friend was a construct, Cadet Chekov, nothing more. The man who allowed you use of his establishment is not only gone, he never existed. Your energy would be better spent on your Starfleet coursework."

The young Terran began to display several characteristics indicative of anger: his hands bunched into fists; his jaw muscles tightened; his eyes narrowed. "You are a fool, Commander Spock," he hissed. "I will not let him go so easily as you."

"No part of this experience has been what you might consider easy, Cadet," Spock said dryly, his own hands clenched safely behind his back where no one would see. "In recognition of the emotional nature of our encounter, I will not report your insubordinate conduct. However, I will also not extend this exception. Control yourself now, or remove yourself to a location that will facilitate calm."

Chekov's teeth clenched, and for a moment Spock thought he would lash out physically. But all he did was say, "Yes, sir," snap a salute, and hurry away.

When he was gone, Spock looked in the direction SA Kirk's transport had driven. He lifted one hand.

"Live long and prosper."

He walked back to the academy resolved never to think of James Kirk again.

(He failed.)

Chapter Text

They thought, at first, that Chekov was avoiding them. It was baffling. They expected that sort of behavior from McCoy, who was surly and uncommunicative at the best of times, but Chekov…

He had turned to them when McCoy "died." What had changed?

The teenage prodigy spent increasingly large portions of his free time in the company of professors or RAs or—bizarrely enough—members of the Admiralty. When he wasn't speaking with superiors, he was locked in his room with a heavily-encrypted PADD, muffled conversation the only clue to his activity. Sometimes they had no idea where he was or what he was doing at all.

"He's going to quit the program," Sulu guessed one day, bent morosely over his cafeteria lunch.

"He's burying his loss in deeper levels of academic achievement," Uhura countered, kicking Sulu's leg under the table. "He'll come back when he starts feeling better about…. Well, it's too late the quit the program, anyway; he signed the same agreement we did when he officially joined Starfleet. This is his life for the next five years at a minimum. For all we know, he owes even more time because his program is specialized. Besides, he's a genius, and no other institution in the world can offer even half the opportunities he's getting here. Eat your sandwich and stop being so pessimistic."

"Your rationalizations are showing," Sulu muttered.

Uhura threw a carrot stick at him.

So they were almost able to convince themselves that Chekov was going through a phase of grief, that his absence was part of a natural process that would have a natural end.

Then the rumors started.

Chekov was not leaving the program—he was bringing someone else intoit. To be specific, he was preparing for the arrival of a transfer student from one of the hundred-or-so Starfleet satellite campuses scattered throughout Federation space. Chekov's distance student pen-pal was a darling of the Admiralty, and their communication had been arranged at the beginning of Chekov's schooling in an effort to prevent either genius from ever becoming fully isolated from the Academy's community of scholars. In a worst-case scenario, they would at least have each other to confide in.

No one could have anticipated Chekov's extracurricular activities. Why would he need a manufactured friend when he had Jim and the bar?

In wake of that loss, however, the pen-pal program was serving its function: Chekov, who had been in danger of falling into depression, needed a project to regain his focus. Getting his pen-pal transferred in and settled was the perfect solution.

Gossip mills suggested the final stages of this transfer had actually been in the works for going on six months, and that the incoming addition was nearly as special a case as Chekov. Sulu found that hard to believe and spent three days looking for more information about the transfer before turning up anything useful.

A guy. About their age. Command track, but no details about his school or specializations. No readily available (read: legally accessible) information about his academic record. For all the excitement he was causing, there were surprisingly few details about his history. Whoever he was, Starfleet had a tight lid on him.

When Sulu cornered Uhura at breakfast to tell her his newly-developed theories concerning Admiral's sons and interplanetary cover-ups, Uhura listened with a patient expression. Then she patted his hand and said, "The important thing is that Chekov hasn't been avoiding us. Once this new guy shows up, everything can go back to normal."

Sulu stared at her. "You want to tell me what normal looks like for us?"

Uhura opened her mouth. A moment later, she closed it again. "Eat your breakfast," she said eventually.

.

A month before the transfer, Chekov began his official recruitment campaign. The new student would need academic advisers, campus housing, partners for some of his labs and simulation, and tutors for a few accelerated courses. Chekov seemed determine to arrange everything on his own. He switched from a coveted one-bedroom to a double and began to actively stalk Captain Pike for his transfer's adviser. (Pike finally agreed to take the position just to escape Chekov's multimedia presentations on the subject.) The small, deceptively quiet Russian teen appeared to have the whole of the Command division prepped for their new addition.

Then he sent out four messages to arrange a special meeting.

They all agreed to be there, of course. But they were also all apprehensive.

Uhura planned to arrive first. The doctor, who had pulled away from them in the wake of Jim, beat her to Chekov's new quarters in enough time to be halfway through an abridged medical exam when she joined them.

"You're not eating enough," he grumbled, crossing his arms with a scowl that made Chekov shrink into his chair. "I don't care how important this new kid is, it's no excuse to ignore your body's basic needs." His scowl sharpened into a glare. "I'm sending a meal plan to your COMM. If you don't follow it, I'll know."

"Of course," Chekov squeaked. Then he perked up a little, expression hopeful. "You are a very thorough doctor."

McCoy eyed him suspiciously. "And?"

"You work at Starfleet Medical, yes? They assign you shifts there in place of the required medical classes. Yes?"

"…Sometimes," the doctor admitted reluctantly, clearly aware that Chekov was leading up to something.

The Russian beamed.

"Christ," McCoy sighed, rubbing his forehead. "You've got a presentation for me too, don't you?"

Chekov opened his mouth, but whatever speech he meant to trigger was interrupted by the chiming of his door.

Uhura, who hadn't moved very far into the apartment, turned to hit the sensor. Sulu and Scott stood uncertainly in the hallway, as reluctant to be dragged into Chekov's insanity as they were resigned to it.

"So what's this about?" Sulu asked when Chekov had the group arranged in his living room.

Chekov didn't answer directly. Instead he produced a PADD, focusing his attention on the information it displayed. "As you know," he read, words locked into the cadence of a prepared speech, "I have been given the honor of introducing a new student to the venerated halls of Starfleet Academy." He half-turned to the wall behind him, initializing a command on his PADD that both dimmed the room's lights and caused the first image of what was probably a slide-show to project on the wall.

The whole room groaned.

"Whatever it is," Sulu said, "I'll do it, I swear. Just…can we please skip the presentation?"

Chekov clutched the PADD to his chest, clearly delighted. "Really?"

"Really," the others chorused.

"Excellent!" The room returned to normal brightness while Chekov quickly clicked through to a new file on his PADD. "Then I will send the confirmation to the appropriate offices. You will each need to initial these forms. Also, he is arriving in one week. You will all be here to greet him, da? Yes, because you are my friends." He passed the PADD to Scott, the first in what his audience was beginning to realize was an assembly line.

Scott took the PADD, slightly dazed, and glanced over the agreement. "He's…I thought he was in Command? Why does he need a commissioned engineering officer?"

Chekov lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "There were no such programs available at his campus, but he wishes to advance his understanding of starships. He is very dedicated."

"…This will nae take up too much time, will it?"

"The interests he has line up with your current projects. It should be no imposition to your schedule at all!"

"That doesnae answer my—"

Chekov's expression became stricken. "You do not wish to help me after all?"

Scott visibly struggled, sighed deeply, and initialed the document.

The pattern repeated three more times, until Chekov was sending off his forms with a thoroughly satisfied smile. "There!" he said with a final tap to the screen. "It is finished!"

Sulu turned to Uhura. "That's what they say in horror movies right before the monster gets up and starts eating people."

Uhura pointed at him. "I don't have to work with Sulu, right?" she asked Chekov.

"No," the genius agreed. "Just with the student. Now!" He made a shooing motion. "I am sure you will all spend the next week very busy preparing for your new responsibility toward a fellow member of Starfleet Academy, so I will not take up any additional of your time tonight. I will send class information and the time of the welcome party for him that I have planned for his arrival. You will all be there."

It wasn't a request. They agreed anyway.

.

On the night of the party, McCoy sat on Chekov's couch, all of his limbs crossed and a deep scowl on his face. The other three milled about the room, waiting for Chekov and his student, lamenting to each other about how much it was going to suck to have to babysit the Russian's pet project.

It wasn't fair. Why had he agreed to be the new kid's personal physician, anyway? Stupid Chekov. He should have just said nolike any sane person.

Except, fuck, when had anyone in this group been sane?

"Look at the bright side," Sulu pointed out to a sulking Scott, "he is never going to survive this group of people. Never.Chekov will have to find new tutors and simulation partners and doctors and everything within the month! I mean, poor Chekov," he added quickly, "that'll suck for him. But, hey, it's only a month for us."

Uhura tilted her head. "When was your Kobayashi, again?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Sulu replied immediately, the same way every senior Command student across campus was replying whenever anyone mentioned that particular gauntlet.

"Because I think I remember someone saying you only had two more months until—"

"I don't," Sulu insisted, "talk about it."

Uhura smirked.

God damn it. McCoy just wanted to go back to his own room and his own lumpy bed and not listen to every infant cadet's incessant whining about—

Chekov's entry code sounded through a room that fell immediately into sullen quiet.

Stupid transfer student. He was probably one of those stereotypical intellects, too, pompous and condescending and always implying that he was so much better than—

Uhura cried out.

McCoy's eyes snapped up from the floor, scanning the room for whatever had caused her distress. He zeroed in on Chekov, and standing beside him—

The doctor felt his lungs shudder to a stop, felt his stomach drop as adrenaline flooded his system.

Blond hair cut regulation short, bright in the apartment's artificial light. Below that, a handsome face and eyes so blue they seemed impossible. A smile on a smart mouth.

A low voice rumbling, "Hi, everyone."

McCoy was out of his seat before anyone else could move. The transfer student tensed, hands in his pockets but shoulders hunched defensively. McCoy reached out one hand.

It tangled in the red of an Academy cadet's uniform, clutching a desperate fist full of starched material. He yanked, hard, and the new kid stumbled forward, collapsing into McCoy's embrace. For a moment, he didn't move, still coiled and ready in the grasping circle of McCoy's arms.

"Jim," McCoy said raggedly, holding him tight, so he wouldn't disappear again. "Jim."

Jim Kirk, Starfleet cadet, turned into his doctor's hold, burying his face in the curve of McCoy's shoulder. "Hey, Georgia. How've you been?"

The room exploded in shouts and cries of disbelieving joy. Sulu, Uhura and Scott threw themselves at Jim, wrapping him and McCoy in an ecstatic tangle jumble of arms and noise.

Standing by the closed door, hands on his hips, Chekov watched them with a triumphant grin.

Jim Kirk hit the Academy with hurricane force. Everywhere he went, he left a trail of baffled amazement. He was handsome; he was brilliant; he was mysterious. The lost son of a tragic hero.

He was a legend within the week.

Before he was allowed to officially join his ambitious list of classes, a specialized advisory board made him survive a barrage of tests to prove he was capable of handling both the level of academics and the overall tests drew material mainly from the Command track's School of Tactics and Strategies, with a secondary focus in Computer Sciences, emphasis on programming languages and systems security. No one thought he would pass.

He set a new record.

Once he was done decimating their roadblocks, the advisory board convened to speak with Kirk directly. They were admirals, doctors, and generally recognized experts of their fields. Captain Pike, Kirk's new academic adviser, sat at one end of the panel's table, hands folded and expression thoughtful.

At the other end of the table, pale and stony, thoughts locked tight behind cold Vulcan reserve, sat Commander Spock.

Kirk stood before them at perfect parade rest, calm and respectful, the model of a Starfleet cadet.

"You know why we've called you here today, Cadet Kirk?" Admiral Barnett prompted.

"Yes sir," Kirk agreed with a sharp nod. "To make sure my time at the satellite campus prepared me for the rigors of Starfleet Academy."

"I trust you've seen your test results?"

"Yes sir."

Barnett ticked an eyebrow at him. "Do you have anything to say about them?"

One corner of Kirk's mouth curled. "Only that I've been studying under thoroughly competent instructors for a number of years, and they would have had my hide if I hadn't performed to the best of my abilities."

"You destroyed the old records."

"I strive for excellence, sir."

Barnett shook his head, apparently at a loss about how to handle such a response.

Captain Pike leaned forward, studying Kirk intently. "You've chosen a very challenging combination of tracks to study. What are your reasons for splitting your focus?"

"My best abilities lie in command, sir," Kirk said simply. "I think well under pressure, and I'm creative. However, I have also consistently displayed better-than-average aptitude with computers and advanced technologies. It would be remiss of me, and a detriment to Starfleet, if I neglected a skill-set when I had the ability to pursue its development."

"In other words," Pike paraphrased dryly, "you can, so you should."

Kirk inclined his head.

The dean of the Command track shuffled the papers in front of her, looking through them absently. "You say your best abilities lie in command."

"Yes ma'am."

She pinned him with a challenging look. "How do you know that?"

Kirk's blue eyes dropped down to the floor for only a moment as he drew a deep breath. "As it states in my file," he said, meeting the dean's challenge head-on, "I am a survivor of the Tarsus IV genocide. During that time, I led a group of ten refugees who were scheduled for execution. The oldest was twenty. I was thirteen. Despite the odds and circumstances, all ten survived. No other survivor, of any age, had such success."

"Your file states that you chose to remain at the satellite campus instead of transferring to the Academy despite a long correspondence with Cadet Pavel Chekov. What was your reasoning?"

A muscle in Kirk's jaw clenched; he took another deep breath. "Tarsus was…difficult," he said delicately. "I required a great deal of specialized support in the aftermath. After the initial years, when I was better, I stayed because I could help. Because there were still survivors I was able to reach when no one else could. I transferred for my last year so I would be in a better position to make an impression, to graduate and advance in such a way that I will be able to continue helping in situations when others can't."

"Well said," Admiral Archer noted.

"Thank you, sir. But it's just the truth."

"I read the article you published on Wolfreim's Theory of Command Structure. Interesting stuff."

Kirk looked embarrassed. "I published that nearly a year ago, sir, and under a pseudonym—how did you find it?"

"The truth will out," the old admiral replied enigmatically.

"Indeed," Commander Spock said, the first and last comment he would make during the meeting.

Kirk glanced at him curiously but otherwise didn't react.

The meeting continued for nearly two more hours, covering everything from Kirk's expectations to a breakdown of his complex schedule and the level of excellence all of Starfleet seemed to expect from him. Despite the length of the event, Kirk knew the hardest part was over.

He was in.

.

Spock cornered him a week later.

He caught Jim walking across campus, absorbed in himself, ears filled with small radio buds relaying what was doubtlessly music from his PADD. "You will cease telling lies," Spock told him, stepping directly in his path.

Jim looked up, projecting a startled air, and removed only one of the buds from his ears. "I'm sorry, Professor?"

"I am not your professor," Spock said flatly.

Jim removed the remaining speaker, tucking both in his pocket. "Commander Spock. Have I done something wrong?"

Spock's eyes narrowed. "You are an affront to this institution, Starfleet, and the Federation."

The false cadet's expression smoothed. "Perhaps this isn't the best location for that conversation, Commander."

"There is no logic in hiding the truth of your—"

Jim turned on his heel, moving swiftly to the lee of a building where they could be neither seen nor heard. Then his blue eyes filled with anger that was not reflected in his easy stance. "What exactly are you trying to pull here?"

"I am not attempting to 'pull' anything, Cadet. You are deceiving your teachers, crippling the education of your peers, and manipulating a situation to suit your purposes despite the havoc you will wreak. Furthermore, you are yet again subjecting four promising members of Starfleet to the selfish whimsy of a fabricated—"

"Be careful, Commander," Jim murmured, smile to warm for the waring in his tone. "You submitted to a very thorough gag order. The consequences for breaking it would affect your entire family, which is, I'm sure, something you'd rather avoid."

"How are you here?" Spock demanded in a hiss. "Whose past did you steal? Whose survival of the Tarsus IV famine? Whose paper was it really? Have you ever really been off this planet?"

"Of course," Jim replied immediately. "Like it says in my file, I spent most of my—"

"Answer me truthfully!"

Jim's mouth twisted with annoyance. "Then ask me a question I can answer truthfully. The story has been set, and it's too far along now to change. Too many people are too deeply involved, and scenes like this could ruin everything. Play along or don't interact with me."

Spock took a step back, arranging his hands on the line where his shirt met his pants. He took the chaos of emotions that always roared when he saw Jim and pushed it down, tucking it away to deal with later. "How do you intend to maintain your place at this Academy?" he asked neutrally. "You will have to submit papers and sit tests like any of your supposed peers. What is your strategy for continuing this charade once your grades do not reflect the academic achievement of your 'story;?"

"Isn't that sweet?" A polite smile curved Jim's mouth. He retrieved the ear buds from his pockets to twist them between his fingers. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you really cared, Commander." He fit the buds neatly into his ears, snapping a regulation salute. "Watch me, sir. I don't need a strategy for this."

"I would only watch you," Spock said coldly, "if I had the time to waste."

Jim left without comment. Spock spent the rest of the day in meditation.

As usual, it didn't help.

.

When Jim jogged into the apartment he shared with Chekov, it was filled with the noise of his support team.

Uhura and Sulu were working with McCoy, bickering over a study schedule that would still allow what McCoy had deemed the absolute minimum amount of sleep Jim could survive on without negatively effecting his performance or health. Chekov was standing by the far wall, pinning color-coded cards to an enormous cork board in a visual representation of Jim's upcoming week and all the classes, simulations, study groups, homework sessions, and meetings with assorted Academy personnel that he would have to juggle. Scotty sat on the couch, all his attention focused on the PADD in his hands.

Jim flopped down next to him, pulling out his ear buds. "How's it coming along?"

"Almost done," Scott promised, never lifting his eyes from the display. "Ye should have a new set of engineering basics audio by the end of the night."

"Thanks, man. I finished the let set earlier today, and I could really use some new ones. You're a lifesaver."

Scott frowned at him. "Jimmy-lad, ye know I'd do maer than this in a heartbeat, if I could."

Jim offered him a smile. "I know. Still, keeping the material close will help me ace the next test. We've got too much invested in this for me to drop the ball now."

"That's not all that'll drop at this pace," McCoy muttered.

"Thank you, peanut gallery," Jim said with a smirk. He passed his PADD to Scott for an file transfer, then crossed to room to stand by Chekov. "Impressive." He nudged the boy's shoulder with his own. "Walk me through it?"

Chekov's head bobbed enthusiastically. "This should be a reliable format for when we get to midterms, though I will have to redevelop when it comes time for finals." He tapped a card labeled Be Seen In Social Environment. "There will have to be less of this, yes? But we will not be worried about it, because all students disappear during that time. So!" He planted his hands on his hips with a wide grin. "Shall we start?"

"Absolutely," Jim agreed.

As usual, the academic planning session went well into the night.

None of them faltered.

The rumors started in earnest after Kirk's first full week of classes. They seemed to span every area of his life, from academic to interpersonal to private. Sometimes they were nearly impossible to believe, contradictory, or else so outrageous that they almost necessitated some sort of reaction from their subject.

Kirk, in a manner that was gradually becoming customary, didn't submit to expectations. He hardly seemed to care about the stories at all, if he was even aware of them. Sometimes a bold student would approach him and demand confirmation. But Kirk would only laugh or grin and change the subject, or else just wait in silence with a pointedly arched eyebrow until the accuser slunk away in embarrassment. So the rumors propagated on their own, without his input or control, wildly varied in their nature.

He was a genius.

He had been treated as a prince all his life because of his father's legacy, which made him a spoiled, selfish man who only transferred to the Academy when it would draw the most attention. He had never suffered hardship.

He was a Tarsus IV survivor.

The only thing he was a genius at was hacking, but that ability allowed him to excel in his classes because he could break into his professors' accounts and cheat his way

He had been a plain-looking child until an accident badly maimed him; only years of intense plastic surgery could explain his current looks.

He was a professional model who took occasional classes through the satellite campus. He only agreed to transfer to the Academy when Starfleet's PR department offered him a more lucrative contract

Pike only pretended that they'd never met before; in reality, Pike had become a major part of Kirk's life during his thesis research on the Kelvin disaster.

The group of cadets who made up his "study group" had been hand-selected by the Admiralty. They were all part of an ongoing social experiment for designing the ultimate command crew.

He was the worst thing that ever happened to Starfleet.

He was the best thing that ever happened to Starfleet.

He would change nothing.

He would change everything.

.

Ostensibly, they were having a working lunch. Nyota had study guides for Jim's course in Romulan spread across the table around their food, laid out the best order for him to tackle his study exercises.

In reality, they were in the cafeteria to be seen working, and Jim had completed those exercises as part of Chekov's Master Plan almost a week ago.

As they expected, about fifteen minutes after their arrival, the first cadet approached. She stood uncertainly at the far end of their table, tray in hand, shifting nervously. "Listen," she blurted when the waiting got too much for her, "I heard that you tested out of the Kobayashi Maru simulation. Is that true?"

Jim looked at her, both eyebrow lifted high. "Where'd you hear that?" he asked, friendly but neutral.

She shifted her weight to one hip, hiking the opposite shoulder in a shrug. "Around."

"Huh. The person who told you that was fresh out of the Kobayashi, right?"

"Yeah. How'd you—" She paused thoughtfully. "And he failed pretty hard, too. I bet he made it up to feel better about his score." Her expression blackened in a scowl. "Just wait until I find him…"

When she was gone, Nyota propped her chin on her hand. "How long until she realizes you never answered?"

Jim grinned at her. "She won't," he said. "But that's what we play on, after all: the tendency of people to not question what they're sure is truth."

"You're going to get yourself in trouble with that," Nyota warned him.

"Someday," Jim agreed with a laugh. "But not today."

Nyota shoved an exercise PADD at him. "Conjugate," she ordered.

He did, still laughing, and drew the attention of everyone around them. When the groups clustered nearest began to lean together and whisper, Nyota fought a sigh.

The birth of more rumors.

Fabulous.

.

Sulu keyed himself into Chekov and Jim's room without looking up from the PADD in his hands. "I heard a new one today," he announced, still focused on the small screen. Chekov's schedule meant Jim would be in his quarters, so he didn't really need to scan for his presence. Jim would be where he was meant to be, as always. "A couple of people are saying your family died in a fire when you were young, and that's why you got sent to Tarsus." He flopped onto the couch, finally looking at Jim sitting next to him, reading glasses on and study guides out. "They say it's Starfleet's fault the fire happened, and Starfleet's fault for Tarsus, too, and that's why you get away with so much."

Something in Jim's eyes closed off. "Well." He tapped a stylus against his thigh. "That might be one of the most interesting rumors so far."

Sulu ticked a shoulder. "What should we do?"

"Kill it."

"…Is it true?"

"We don't manage propaganda based on whether or not it's true, Sulu," Jim reminded him, smile cold and calculating. "We manage it in the way that best serves us. That one doesn't help, so we we'll kill it.

"Okay," the flight student agreed, "we'll make sure it doesn't populate. But, Jim…is it true?"

Jim looked away, toward the door, and Sulu watched a muscle in his jaw clench. "Starfleet has been responsible for some glorious fuck-ups," he admitted at last, meeting Sulu's concern with detached calm. "That wasn't one of them."

Sulu wanted to ask, wanted to know more, of course he did. They all wanted some glimmer of truth from the life Jim had lived before the Scarettas.

But they had all learned that pressing Jim would only make him leave, and more than anything they wanted him to stay. More than stories, more than details.

More, even, than truth.

So Sulu nodded, made a kill note on his PADD, and changed the subject.

A month into his time at the Academy, Kirk took the official fitness test, designed to measure his stamina, flexibility, and knowledge of hand-to-hand techniques.

He did not set any new records; he was not a physical combat specialist.

But all the proctors salivated over him regardless, loving him for the control he appeared to possess over every untrained inch of his ridiculously healthy body. The combat instructors began a betting pool that implied they believed it possible to get Kirk up to an assistant teacher's level of skill within a few years.

His fellow students were not surprised by this turn of events, although they took some comfort in the records that had survived Kirk.

Then he took a marksmanship test and obliterated the previous high score.

Just who the hell was this guy, anyway?

.

It took McCoy a week longer than he would have liked to get Jim to submit to a full physical. At first he thought the infant was just being difficult, weaseling out of setting his baseline charts for no reason other than to be ornery.

Then he had Jim sitting shirtless on an exam table, and that opinion changed.

McCoy's nurse-of-the-day, Church or Temple or Chapel or something, clutched a PADD to her chest, face pale and eyes wide. "Where did you get all those scars?" she breathed.

"This is Starfleet Medical," McCoy snapped, pushing her out of the way. "Try to remember that you're supposed to be a professional."

The nurse—probably Chapel—flushed brightly. "Right. Sorry, Doctor." She smiled tentatively at Jim. "Sorry, Cadet Kirk."

"Just Jim's fine," he said with a warm grin. "And it's okay." He gestured to include all the lines and spots that crossed his chest in a road-map of old injuries. "I had a wild childhood. Your reaction's pretty standard."

McCoy pinched his arm, eyes narrowed. "I don't need you takin' the punch outta my teaching moments, thanks." Jim attempted an innocent expression. McCoy, who had survived the other end of this man's pistol, wasn't fooled. "Shut up and stay still," he grumbled, pulling a stethoscope out of his coat pocket. He breathed on the end to warm it a little before pressing it to Jim's chest. "In," he ordered.

Jim obeyed.

"Out." After a moment, he said, "Again."

Jim submitted with a bemused expression. When McCoy touched his fingers to Jim's wrist for a pulse, the Command cadet cocked his head curiously. "You know, Dr. McCoy, there are scans for that."

"Hm?" McCoy glanced at him, distracted by his count of the beats against his fingertips. "Oh, I always check vitals by hand. You can't trust these machines; they malfunction without warning all the time."

Jim looked delighted. "You're nothing but an old-fashioned sawbones!" he crowed.

McCoy scowled at him, dropping his wrist immediately. He made a note on Jim's chart but otherwise ignored him.

After about a minute of that, Jim tried to peer at McCoy's PADD. "So what's my prognosis, Bones?"

"That had better not stick, Jim, I swear to God." He hooked his stethoscope around his neck, crossed his arms, and frownedat Jim. "You seem to be healthy. There anythin' you know about that I don't? Anythin' that should be in your records? If you don't tell me and I find out about it later," he said, trailing off at the end so he wouldn't have any witnesses for the unspeakable harm that would come to Jim if he withheld important medical information from his primary physician.

Jim only smiled brightly. "Nothing at all."

And McCoy, God bless his heart, believed him.

.

Two nights later, during what was coming to be known as a bi-weekly Study Gauntlet, Scott arrived last. He joined the others at the table, setting down engineering PADDs and the take-out Chinese that represented his turn to supply dinner. Chekov helped him pass the containers around, immediately pulling him into a debate about the best way to squash a rumor regarding Jim's father, since it really wasn't Pike, and a tale like that didn't serve their cause at all. Their conversation barely accounted for a fraction of the assorted noise that filled the room.

As was customary, everyone took a little bit of everything without question, eating around whatever bits they didn't care for as they grazed across them.

What was not customary was the gasping, choked wheezing that cut across the boisterous study session barely ten minutes later. Conversation halted in confusion as they glanced around to spot the source.

Jim, as it turned out, bent double with his head between his knees and both hands clutching the tabletop as he fought to pull air into his lungs.

McCoy rolled his eyes, leaning over to pound on his friend's back. "Inhaling food is a saying, not a challenge."

Instead of sitting up and teasing back, or laughing through his strangled coughs, Jim shrugged McCoy's hand off for the first time, turning away to drop to his knees on the floor, one hand wrapped desperately around his throat.

Within a heartbeat, McCoy was at his side, hands on Jim's face and throat, trying to diagnose what appeared to be a serious problem. He started cussing up a blue streak, forcing Jim out of his curl even as he shouted for his medkit.

Chekov all but flew out of his seat, racing for the pile of bags by the door. He tore through for McCoy's, shoving it at the doctor when he dropped to his knees by the tangle of Jim and McCoy. "What is wrong?" he shrilled, panicked when Jim began to lose his fight to breathe.

"Anaphylactic shock," the doctor snapped, driving a hypo into the side of Jim's neck. His free hand stroked through Jim's hair in thoughtless comfort. "But I don't understand how he could have—!" Then his eyes snapped up to the takeout containers, filled with assorted ingredients that could trigger such a reaction. The hand in Jim's hair tightened into a fist. He pulled Jim's head back until they made eye contact.

Exhausted, sweat dotting his hairline, limp and panting in McCoy's hold, Jim still managed to wince.

"I asked you," McCoy said, too calm and rational, "if you had any medical conditions I should note in your file."

Jim swallowed hard. "Georgia, I—"

"And you— You smiled at me, you prick! You're allergic to something to the point of anaphylactic shock, and you didn't tell me!" Instead of shoving Jim off him and onto the floor, McCoy gripped him tighter, expression twisted with rage. "You could have fucking died!"

"I didn't—"

"What set you off?"

Jim's gaze skittered away, although he didn't make any move to drag himself out of McCoy's hold. His limbs sprawled across the floor as though they weighed a hundred pounds. "I can't be sure—"

"Don't you lie to me, James Kirk!"

"Peanuts," Jim whispered, voice ragged. "I think there were…some peanuts…in…"

Scott, Uhura, and Sulu all lunged for the container that held the nut. Uhura wrestled it away first, all but shoving it in the trash.

"What else?" McCoy demanded. When Jim shut his eyes, McCoy shook him, but gently. "Jim. You tell me what else."

So Jim did.

It took him several attempts, since he kept dozing off, and McCoy made him start over when it became apparent that they would need a list.

Once they had it (Jim mumbled that it wasn't comprehensive, that new ones popped up all the time, and that tidbit of information made McCoy actually snarl at him), they made Jim go to bed.

When he was tucked neatly under his blankets, heavy eyelids drooping closed, McCoy stood at his side, expression buckling with hurt. "You could have died," he whispered.

Jim worked to open his eyes. "Sorry," he murmured thickly.

"Why didn't you tell me? You could have just told me, Jim! Why do you always have to be so—!"

"You'd be surprised," the ad hoc cadet slurred, "how soon after you let slip to some nothing soldier that you're allergic to shellfish that the boss wants scallops in the family's Sunday dinner." He shook himself out his doze, frowning as hard as he could at McCoy. "You want me to put that kind of ammunition in a list for any jumped up kid who wants to fill my shoes to find? I'm not…" His glare faded into a yawn. "'M not actually suicidal…"

McCoy gripped his shoulder. "This isn't the mafia, you fool."

"Jealous when you succeed," he mumbled, eyes shut. "Disappointed when you fail. 's not so different."

"We're here," the doctor swore, low and dark with intent. He stroked a thumb over Jim's cheek. "The difference is we're here. We won't let them get to you."

Jim let out a content hum, but otherwise didn't respond.

So McCoy went out to the main sitting room, where the other has gathered for a war council to build new lists that involved Jim never coming into contact with any of his allergens again.

Jim slept to the muted sounds of his friends debating the best methods of keeping him alive.

It should have been annoying, should have chafed against what he'd learned about standing on his own. But it warmed him instead, that people in the world finally cared whether he lived or died.

Drugged to the gills, throat sore and body aching, he spent that night smiling.

They kept expecting him to drop.

Kirk's schedule was the only bit of publicly available information everyone at the Academy knew to be absolutely true. Given that, no one really understood how he was managing to not fall down dead after midterms.

The student body betting pool had good odds for Kirk being on something, some regimen of stimulants created by his insane doctor and that Russian kid. None of the instructors ever opened a formal investigation, though, so no one could say for sure,and the bets continued to grow.

Objectively, it was impressive. Whether he'd been let into the program on a favor or not, Kirk's ability to go for days without stopping and still maintain his generally charming disposition soon became the stuff of legends.

Annoying, yes. But still impressive.

When the pools started for whether or not Kirk would make it through finals, more students bet for him than against.

And so his legend grew.

.

"I don't like it."

Chekov looked at the object of Sulu's ire and motioned helplessly. "It is not ideal, no, but we have done all we can." He bit his lips, arms crossed as he studied the mock-up final draft of Jim's finals schedule. "There is still time for small changes, but Dr. McCoy and I have run every combination we can think of, and this is best bet for Jim." He glanced away, expression pinched with worry. "…I am not much liking it myself."

Sulu switched his attention from the daunting, wall-long schedule of events to Chekov, noting the signs of stress building in his small frame. "You're pretty busy too," he said softly. "Your program isn't exactly a cakewalk, right."

Chekov waved him off absently. "At least I get five or six solid hours sleeping at night, da? But Jim—" He shook his head again, rubbing his forehead with the sigh. "Perhaps I will run the numbers with Scott later. He might see something… I do not want Jim to fall," the teen admitted to Sulu, arms crossed and mouth a tight, unhappy line. "If he cannot succeed because of my schedule—"

"Don't talk like that," Sulu ordered, tugging Chekov away from his creation. "Jim'll blow through finals the way he did midterms; he's ahead in all his classes, and leading the curve in most of them. You've helped him get into the top five percent of the whole year, Chekov. That's amazing. I think you deserve a break." He pulled a coat from the hall closet, pressing it into Chekov's arms. "Come on, we'll go get some coffee and dinner or something. My treat."

A smile wobbled across Chekov's face. "You are a good friend, Sulu."

The pilot grinned at him. "Just following your example."

Chekov hid his blush by pulling on his coat and let Sulu drag him away. They had a rejuvenating meal peppered with good conversation; by the end of it, Chekov was glad Sulu had made him go. And if Chekov was never quite able to completely push his concern for Jim out of his mind, well…

Neither was Sulu.

.

When McCoy found Jim sacked out on the couch with a PADD on his chest for the third time in as many days, he knew something had to give. As hard as he was trying, no one could honestly expect themselves to keep such a crazy schedule for so long.

It had to stop.

McCoy crouched by Jim, gently lifting the PADD out of his slack grip. The motion woke Jim, who looked around in vague confusion. "You fell asleep studying again," McCoy prompted him.

Jim rubbed at his eyes, failing to smother a large yawn. "What time is it?"

"Half past six."

"Damn." Jim stretched for a moment before holding his hand out for the PADD. "That's a few more hours lost."

McCoy held it out of his reach. "Listen, kid, we gotta talk honestly about this schedule you're trying to keep."

"That'll put me even further behind," Jim teased.

"Be serious," the doctor demanded.

Jim sat back with a sigh, scratching one ear in irritation. "I am serious," he said. He motioned to the wall behind the couch, where the schedule stretched from end to end. "That's pretty serious stuff. I don't have time to debate it whenever you decide it bugs you."

"It always bugs me," McCoy snarled. "It isn't healthy—"

"Well, and it's not forever, either." Jim shrugged. "There's a time limit, and it's almost up. I can't give up now, Georgia, not when we're so close. Everyone's been working so hard. Not just me, but everyone. We can't blow the operation just 'cause I'm a little tired."

"Damn it, Jim." McCoy thumped his knee with the PADD. "This isn't an operation."

Jim rubbed the crease on his brow, tense and exhausted. "We've planned every step of this. We know the players, we know the stakes, we know the goal. What is it if not an operation?"

McCoy stared at him. "You can't be serious."

"I don't know what you're trying to tell me," the Command cadet admitted. "And I'm sick of guessing. Just tell me and let me get back to studying, alright?"

"Jim." McCoy leaned forward to grip his wrist. "Kid, of course it's not an operation. This is your life."

"For now," Jim agreed. "But after graduation…who knows? No one's told me what the next phase is. I'm guessing some forgotten moon of a post where no one will recognize me and I can't make noise. Relocation program, right?"

"But—" McCoy motioned helplessly. "No. This is your life—"

"For now," Jim reiterated. He snatched the PADD out of McCoy's grip and settled back into studying.

And that mindset, the belief that all this was just one phase of a larger operation that would never end, the idea that Jim was only theirs to care for until he graduated and was lost to the black—

It was tragic.

Jim Kirk, working himself half to death, tearing through every obstacle dropped in his path, knowing in the end they would still throw him away just because he had lived a lie in service to the Federation.

What a fucking waste.

"It won't happen," McCoy whispered hoarsely. When Jim glanced at him curiously, McCoy shook his head and didn't clarify.

They had worked for him, fought for him, dedicated their final year at the Academy to his success.

He was theirs, and he would not rot in some God-forsaken outpost. He had learned with them; he would serve with them.

He was theirs.

After a while, of course, they began to pick up on Kirk's unique quirks.

If he was stressed, he became less patient. This tended to manifest as a rise in ruthlessness when he participated in class discussions. Instead of letting an opponent verbally hang themselves, he would listen to a few arguments and then eviscerate their logic.

If he was tired, he tended to flirt—with everyone. Students, teachers, male, female, un- or other-gendered, no one was safe. Few people, if any, took him seriously, but it was fun to be the object of his attention, even for a little while.

What his classmates and instructors came to dread most was his boredom. If the lectures or projects didn't engage him, or seemed to serve no concrete purpose, he became surly and tended to "accidentally" blow things up.

On the whole, his occasional odd moods were viewed as strangely endearing, and did nothing so much as add another layer to his legend.

.

Eventually, of course, they began to pick up on Jim's unique adaptive behaviors.

He still wasn't used to dealing with the average Starfleet cadet, who was neither as driven nor as intelligent as him or his core group of friends. Most of the time he managed to keep his general opinion of the teeming masses tucked behind a brilliant smile, but every now and then it slipped out. On the down side, almost no one outside their group knew how to successfully navigate a verbal sparring match with Jim, and the result was usually referred to as an academic bloodbath. On the up side, so far he'd only brought three people to tears.

Only three people was a feat in itself, and they counted it as a victory.

Sometimes, when he was running on fumes and pushing hard to make up time on his schedule, he fell back on his Scaretta training. To prevent himself from conning people (or breaking their limbs when they particularly annoyed him), he flirted with them, drawing on all the tricks he'd perfected as a front man for the mafia. It increased his popularity, redirected violent tendencies, and annoyed Uhura, so they never asked him to stop.

Worst of all was Jim's reaction to anything he perceived to be a time-wasting activity. He was a busy man with a crazy schedule, and he didn't appreciate lazy teachers reading directly from slides taken verbatim from the text, so he decided to shake things up a little.

"Well, nobody died," Jim pointed out the first time the chemistry labs had to be evacuated because of his irritation with rudimentary tasks.

"I will cling to that morsel of good news for the rest of the day," Sulu said flatly, watching spots of acid eat through an abandoned lab coat.

.

Inevitably, of course, they also found the lingering effects of untold years spent pretending—in a very convincing manner—to be a key member of a prominent mafia family.

Loud, sudden noises made him startle badly, reaching for weapons in all the places he would have hidden them if his quarters didn't belong to Starfleet. (The sound of gunfire, the sound of an ambush—sometimes it was us. Sometimes it was them. But either way, in the end we kept the undertaker in business.)

Too many people packed too tight around him made his breathing grow harsh, even as his expression smoothed into the perfect glass sculpture of a smile. (Assassins hid in crowds, enemies could be pressed close against you, and you'd never know until their knife slipped between your ribs.)

And if he was sleeping—deep and heavy, lost to the tiny sounds of the world around him—he did not wake up well.

It wasn't something that got any better with time.

Toward the end of their first semester together, McCoy stepped into Jim's room to wake him for breakfast. It was a long weekend, and they'd decided as a group to let Jim catch an extra hour or two of rest before hitting the grind stone.

McCoy approached him thoughtlessly and got as far as, "Rise and shine," before Jim reacted.

The ex-mafioso stood in a single, fluid motion, one foot on the floor, the other knee still resting on the mattress. He kept the gun in his right hand trained on McCoy, his expression hard and cold.

McCoy didn't move, though he would admit to a surge of sadness for his friend. "It's me," he said softly. "It's just me, Jim. You're safe here."

Jim sucked in a gasping lungful of air, blue eyes darting around the room. His aim never wavered. "…Georgia?" he said at last.

"Yeah, kid. You're okay."

"Starfleet Academy," the Command cadet realized. A shudder ran down his body, and he finally lowered his weapon. "Sorry," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. He sat on the bed, shoving the gun back under his pillow.

McCoy had forced him to sleep without it only once. The panic attack that resulted when Jim startled awake and couldn't find it was definitely not preferable to facing the barrel of an antiquated, unloaded projectile weapon. "Feelin' alright?"

Jim nodded, face in his hands.

"PTSD's a bitch," the doctor said sympathetically, squeezing Jim's shoulder. Then he patted it firmly. "C'mon, get your lazy ass outta bed. Uhura's had breakfast waitin' on the table for you for nearly ten minutes. Chekov'll eat it all if you don't hurry."

"Alright," Jim agreed. He curled his hands into fists to hide the trembling of his fingers. "Will it ever stop happening?" he wondered softly, almost more to himself than his physician.

"In time," McCoy promised. "You're already doin' better with it. Time was you'd've had that thing pressed against my temple before I could cross the room." He touched Jim's shoulder again. "Someday you'll forget what a gun even looks like."

Jim offered him a half smile before levering himself out of bed to search for clothes. He clearly didn't believe McCoy's promise, which was fine.

McCoy didn't believe it too much either.

In public, Commander Spock never interacted with Cadet Kirk. He didn't teach any of classes Kirk was in; he wasn't the faculty adviser for any of the clubs that were actively stalking Kirk for membership; he didn't so much as share a lunch period with him.

They never met.

They never spoke.

And life was better for it.

.

Spock worked through the logical merit of his decision for three weeks before summoning Cadet James T. Kirk to his office. His note said only that there were academic matters they needed to discuss, and the meeting was not option.

Neither statement was a lie.

Their previous encounter had ended in an unsatisfactory manner. Spock had not gained acceptable responses to any of his inquires, and the cadet had been extremely disrespectful.

Reflection on the event suggested that the issue rested in Spock's decision to approach the cadet in public, where he was forced to maintain his charade and could not afford Spock so much as a single truthful answer.

So Spock resolved to speak with him again in private, one final time, and settle the matter at last.

The cadet arrived promptly at the appointed time. He was dressed in the red Academy uniform, which was pressed sharply. One of the others, no doubt, handling the details so Kirk could pass as one of them.

There were several Terran idioms that would fit this situation, but Vulcans had no need for such fanciful trivialities. Instead, they stated only the truth, as was logical. In this case, Jim Kirk was nothing less than an impostor; there was no logic in his remaining.

What did he think to accomplish by staying?

Kirk snapped a regulation salute; Spock did not return it.

"I'm reporting as ordered," Kirk said, eyes locked just off Spock's left shoulder.

"As evidenced by your arrival to my office at a time of my specification," Spock replied. "It is illogical to state facts which can be easily observed, Cadet."

Kirk didn't react in any way.

That, too, was…unsatisfying.

Spock stood, taking several steps away from his desk, and placed his hands at the small of his back. "How are you performing in your classes?"

For a moment, something very like surprise flashed in Kirk's blue eyes. "I…None of my professors have complained."

"I have no interesting in the blatant deception of Starfleet instructors," Spock corrected flatly. "I wish to know how you are performing in your classes. You have no background in any of the subjects, as we are both well aware, and they should be several levels above your comprehension. How are you able to maintain the act of dutiful student without being caught as a cheater?"

Kirk's expression smoothed, emotion leaving his face in an almost visible drain. His eyes trained forward again, and his perfect posture managed to straighten another degree. "No one's called me a cheater because I'm not cheating."

"Then how do you explain your class standing?"

"I study, sir," Kirk said dryly. "It seems to work for me."

"You cannot expect me to believe that someone of your…background has managed to successfully complete several concurrent classes at Starfleet Academy."

"Someone of my background?" Kirk made a thoughtful sound, head tilting curiously. "But I did so well at the satellite campus. Rave reviews in my letters of recommendation." Blue eyes met brown, challenging in their utter dismissal. "Maybe you should read them. You do have access to my official file, right?" He smiled, an expression that touched nothing but his mouth. "Everything you need to know should be in there."

Spock resisted the illogically emotional impulse to snarl. Instead he stalked closer to Jim, both of them coiled tight. "Do not attempt those games with me, Cadet Kirk. You forget that I have already seen you pretend to live a life that was not yours. You will not fool me with this act."

"Why did you call me here?" Jim demanded, eyes narrowed to a glare. "I'm nothing to you on this campus. Why are you doing this?"

"You are still negatively impacting the careers of—"

"Which of us has faltered?" Jim hissed, breaking out of his stance to push into Spock's person space, nose-to-nose with him and clearly furious. "Which of us is below the top tier of students within this academy? Which has fallen behind, which is declining? What are you really asking, Spock?" He took a step back and flung his arms out. "Just ask me, already!"

"Who are you?" Spock shot back. "I know who you are not. You are not a cadet here; you are not a member of the mafia; you are not the owner of a small and dilapidated Italian bar. Who are you? What of you that I have seen is real?"

"What does it matter—"

"How did you trick me into believing you were real?"

Jim's expression closed again. He stepped back, arranging himself into parade rest. "Is there anything else, Commander?"

"You are a cheat and a liar," Spock said coldly. "Starfleet will discover the truth about you, and you will be responsible for dragging the others with you to whatever ignoble end awaits you."

Kirk snapped a salute, turned on his heel, and walked calmly from the room.

.

Chekov was the only one in their quarters when Jim returned after his meeting with Spock. He could tell from the set of Jim's shoulders alone how poorly it had gone, but the storm of his expression revealed how effected he truly was.

"I have very good Vodka," the teen offered.

Jim looked at him, clenched his jaw, and sighed deeply. "No," he said somewhat weakly. "No, thanks, but that's a terrible idea right now. God, why is he such a dick? He's going to ruin this if he doesn't back the fuck off."

Chekov scooted over so Jim could share the couch. "I think he is in very deep denial about what he really wants," he said, passing his mug of coffee to Jim, who took a long, appreciative pull before handing it back.

"What he really wants is to see me in prison."

"No." The Russian shook his head. "It is nothing so simple, I think."

Jim motioned vaguely, relaxing back into the couch. "Whatever."

After a few minutes of silence, Chekov glanced at Jim tentatively. "…What will you do?"

"Finish this," Jim said immediately.

"How?"

Blue eyes opened to study the ceiling. "I'm going to beat him at his own game."

"You are cryptic after disastrous meetings," Chekov complained.

Jim grinned, a feral expression, and sat up. "My Kobayashi is in two weeks," he said. "I've already managed to sit through the simulation a handful of times by agreeing to crew for other Command cadets, so I'm pretty sure I've figured out the big secret behind it."

Chekov tilted his head thoughtful. "Commander Spock designed that test."

"Yeah."

"You plan to beat it, then?"

"Nah." Jim shrugged. "It can't be beaten. At least, not conventionally."

"So?" Chekov prompted. "Then what will you do?"

"I'm going to turn the Kobayashi Maru simulation into a fucking war, one that Commander Spock cannot hope to win."

"What kind is that?"

Jim offered him a smile designed to rally dying troops, and Chekov mentally prepared himself for whatever would come next. "Propaganda. Public opinion. And open forum debate."

Chekov sat back, slightly bewildered. "But…how?"

Jim accessed a hidden file on his PADD, one he'd been working on since Sulu staggered away from Spock's simulation with no lesson more lasting than the belief that, in a time of crisis, he was someday going to get everyone killed.

And that was unacceptable.

The documents Chekov read were defiant, revolutionary, and sure to cause a terrible mess.

They would come to be known as The Kobayashi Papers.

"Let me help," Chekov begged.

So they bent their heads together and began to plot the ultimate triumph of their shared genius.

Chapter Text

Jim's attack on the Kobayashi had three phases.

Phase One: Propaganda.

A month before Jim was due to take the test, fliers began to crop up across campus. They were more infographic than anything else, filled with charts and pie graphs and statistics that established the many faults of the Kobayashi.

No one had ever passed it—no one, in fact, had ever gotten close.

The method of attack didn't matter. To demonstrate this, the various approaches taken by every cadet who ever sat the test were grouped into types and plotted on a graph. There was no significant difference in the result. Even the time it took to be defeated remained relatively unchanged, whether the student's approach was aggressive, passive, sneaky, diplomatic, or terror-stricken. It just didn't matter.

There also didn't appear to be any increase in combat aptitude that could be directly attributed to the test. Older officers who went through the Academy before the advent of the Kobayashi weren't statistically worse in emergencies, even in the months and years immediately after their graduations.

Based on the provided information, the flier posed one question: What, then, is the goal of the Kobayashi Maru?

No one officially claimed responsibility for the fliers, and no one was ever caught pinning them up, but there wasn't much doubt about whose campaign it was.

Who else would have the audacity?

Jim had counted on the rumors triggered by his attempt at anonymity: Because there was no solid proof of ownership, everyone had different anecdotes to attribute the effort to him. By the end of the month, his name was everywhere on campus. Heads turned when he walked into his classes; eyes followed him across the commons; whispers trailed in his wake.

It seemed, at times, that the whole world was watching his every move.

Perfect.

Phase Two: Take the test.

Actually, he took it four times.

For his first attempt, he did everything by the book, followed regulations to the letter. Two hours later, the simulation ended.

He failed.

A week passed before he sat the test again, this time employing a dizzying combination of outlandish and unusual strategies meant to utilize the skills and abilities of his entire crew. He lasted four hours before the lights went out.

He failed.

Next, he sat in the captain's chair and did nothing. He issued no orders; he attempted no contact with the Klingons, the Kobayashi, or Starfleet command. Three hours slipped by in utter silence before the Klingons attacked.

He failed, but his point was becoming difficult to ignore.

Finally, he employed an attack that left the observing officials—which by that point included most of the governing forces of the Academy— and as many cadets as could fit in the viewing room chilled and horrified. He reenacted his father's last stand, intentionally quoting as much of George Kirk as he could, as close to verbatim as the situation allowed. It took nearly half an hour—longer than his father had lasted.

He failed.

Papers began to show up in the student periodical that Jim had no hand in, ranging from statistical explorations of the impact of the Kobayashi all the way to well-researched rants about the psychological impact of the simulation on malleable Academy cadets.

The first time the phrase no-win scenario appeared, it was not Jim who wrote it.

His grin when Pavel showed it to him, though, was nothing short of victorious.

Phase Three: Open forum debate

Jim was almost positive he knew how the debate would end even before the official invitation showed up on his PADD. He knew they would pair him against Spock—it was his test, after all. He also knew that the seats would be filled with students who were already on his side, already agreed with his position, already had questions and demands for Spock. The Vulcan, as unaccustomed to Terran thought processes as he was, probably had no idea that he was walking into a room set against him, "logic" or not.

His very own no-win scenario.

If this didn't drive Spock away for good, nothing would.

But it would, it had to. Jim saw Spock's carefully blank expression, saw the disdain in every line of his body, saw how it grew with every point Jim made that the crowd agreed with, and knew this was the last end they would ever have.

So when Spock finally brought up Jim's father as an example of how a captain had to be ready to deal with fear, Jim was ready.

He schooled every trace of goodbye, Professor from his body and replied, "But as you clearly saw demonstrated, Commander Spock, even the actions of my father weren't enough to satisfy your test. In fact, the scenario based on his ability to face his fear was the shortest; fearlessness got us killed faster than doing nothing. So I ask again, as I will continue to ask until I get an answer: What is your simulation really teaching?"

Spock's shoulders stiffened. "The intent of this program—"

"I don't care about its intent," Jim interrupted sharply, watching out of the corner of his eye as the colloquium of students shifted in anticipation of his next demand for an explanation. "If you know what the actual effects are, then enlighten me."

Before the storm building in the rigid lines of Spock's posture could erupt in the precise, cutting manner of his people, a clamor disrupted the proceedings.

Jim listened to the announcement with as much surprise as anyone, even Spock.

A distress call from Vulcan?

Damn.

That was unexpected.

Jim had resumed his assigned position on the bridge by the time a transmission finally came in from the attacking ship. He studied the features, memorizing what he could, thinking all the while, Nero

That was his name, the name of the one who had killed his father.

Nero.

But thoughts of revenge could wait. Right now, the Romulan was speaking, and every word, every demand, every unspoken threat sounded a warning that had been part of Jim's survival for more than ten years.

He couldn't let Pike go over. And even if he did—

Well.

He just couldn't let Pike go over.

As soon as the transmission ended, Jim was at Pike's side again. "Sir, you can't go. It's suicide."

Spock's hands clenched behind his back, but that didn't stop him from saying, "I concur."

"Nevertheless," Pike said calmly.

"Sir, I know this man," Jim interrupted fervently. "The way he speaks, what he isn't saying—I've met him a thousand times. If you go over there, he will kill you, once he's taken what he wants from you, whatever that might be."

"That's why you'll have to come after me," Pike replied. "I'm sending a team down to take out that drill. Do you have any combat experience?"

Jim shook his head. "Not hand-to-hand."

"I do," Sulu volunteered.

Pike jerked his head toward the turbolift. "With me, then. Kirk, you stay—"

"Sir," Jim said quickly, "with permission, I want to lead a team to the surface."

"The surface?" Pike frowned lightly before motioning to the turbolift again. "Talk quickly. Spock, Sulu—with me."

"We have to evacuate the cities," Jim said, following close at Pike's elbow as they made their way to the shuttle bay. "I don't know what he's using that drill for, or what his endgame is, but I can guarantee that it won't be good for Vulcan. He knows he's got the power position, and he's got to be pretty sure there's nothing we can do to stop him or he would have blown us out of the sky, Spock or no Spock. He'll want to go for big targets—major cities, cultural centers, monuments. Vulcan has to have some kind of emergency evacuation system. Our communications are out, and we can't rely on Sulu's group getting them back up quickly; we have to get down on the ground and trigger a major evacuation of populous areas."

"The cadet makes many assumptions," Spock told Pike calmly, "none of which can be supported factually."

Jim scowled at him. "Don't you think this situation is a little too dire to be shutting my ideas down on principle? These are your people. Let me save them if I can." He turned to Pike. "Please, sir. Give me five shuttles."

"Nero will destroy them before the cadet reaches atmosphere," Spock said.

"No." Jim refused to take his eyes from Pike's, trying to will the man to agree. "He's too confident; he doesn't think there's anything we can do. He'll let us get to the surface because he'll see it as a useless gesture on our part. It will please him to let us launch an attempt to mitigate his destruction, because then our humiliation will be even more complete. Please, sir. Let me try!"

"You speak with a great deal of conviction for one who has no practical knowledge of the subject," Spock snapped at Jim. "Would you kill your own contemporaries just to continue this charade?"

Jim felt, for a moment, as though Spock had sunk a fist into his gut. No practical—!

How could he suggest that? Spock had met Anthony Scaretta, he knew the darkness of the mafia. When Jim laid bare the evil there, Spock had been in the courtroom. No practical knowledge of the subject?

"Sir," Sulu barked at the Vulcan. "It isn't a charade! If it weren't for Jim," he added to Pike, "we'd all be dead now anyway. He's the one who remembered what the lightening storm meant. He clearly has insight into this situation that none of us do."

"Please," Jim said again.

"What is the basis of this purported knowledge of the inner workings of the criminally insane?" Spock demanded.

Jim glared at him. "I watched Kodos the Executioner plan to kill his people," Jim snarled. "I was there when he spoke of saving the colony; I heard him justify genocide. Which you would know if you would just read my fucking file! This is how madmen work," he insisted to Pike. "They let you play at saving people just so they can watch your face when you realize it won't work. But this will work! At least let me try! If not because you're my adviser," he begged, "then at least because I'm your Tactical Officer. Sir, if I'm right, we're all dead anyway. Let me try to save someone!"

Pike lifted a hand to halt the argument before Spock could make his next attack. "Five ships," he said to Jim. "Concentrate on the major cities. An evacuation won't kill anyone," he added to Spock. "At worst, it's an inconvenience. And I'm not seeing much else we can do at this point. As soon as Sulu's team gets the drill down, Kirk, you broadcast general evacuation orders and get your shuttles off the planet. We need all hands on deck for this."

"Sir," Spock attempted.

Pike pointed at him. "You're captain now, Spock. Take care of my ship. And you, Kirk—you'd better come back alive, because you're his First Officer."

Everyone gaped at him.

"Remember: Finish here, then you come get me."

Then he was gone.

Spock returned to the bridge, posture perfect and hands clenched tight at the base of his spine.

Jim refused to watch him go. Instead, he led Sulu to the hanger where the fastest shuttles were kept, assembled his crews, and briefed them on the plan. He talked to Sulu's team about their drop, calling for enough explosives arm all three of them. ("This way, even if two out of the three of you die, you can still take down that drill. The rest of us are depending on you—try to do it quickly.") They piled into Jim's shuttle, checking all their equipment before settling in for their brief trip.

All the major cities of Vulcan were broken into five groupings. Once Jim's people knew their areas and their orders, the mission began in earnest.

As he'd predicted, Nero let them through without any attempt to destroy them. Sulu's team got off without a hitch, dropping undetected toward the drill. Jim wished them luck but kept to his plan.

Relying on luck was a dangerous, after all. It got people killed.

Once he was on the surface, Jim began blaring emergency evacuation orders, using the Federation's code for that added dose of authenticity.

Because they were a logical people, the Vulcans had almost no trouble believing evacuation was a reasonable response to a massive ship of unknown origins drilling into their planet. They took to personal or public transports in well-organized droves. Those ships that could went to low orbit, clustering on the other side of the world from Nero. Those that lacked the appropriate equipment for space headed to the vast deserts.

When the first city was well into the mobilization effort, Jim moved to the next. He found an orphanage there, and spent a few precious minutes helping a woman (Terran? What was a human female doing working in a Vulcan orphanage? Questions for later.) evacuate the children. Once she and her cargo were safely headed for orbit, Jim ordered his team to the next city.

On the way, Sulu's team met with some kind of success: shipboard communications cracked back to life. Jim began broadcasting the Federation evacuation code, flooding every channel with it. He and his teams made for the Enterprise.

Five minutes later, Vulcan was gone.

Gone.

It was— No.

No.

They'd been evacuating cities, not the whole—

"Sir," his pilot stammered, "sir, what just—"

"I don't know," Jim said. He tore his eyes away from the gaping hole in space that had been Vulcan, forcing his attention to the Enterprise. "Can you get us back to our ship, Ensign?"

"Y-yes, sir, I just—"

Jim moved forward to squeeze his shoulder. "I know, Ensign. But we have no time for this. Get us back to the Enterprise."

"…Yes sir."

When he glanced back, Jim saw the small (so small, such a tiny number, only a few thousand—!) cluster of Vulcan ships that had been hiding from Nero in the lee of their planet. Now thoroughly exposed, they raced for the relative safety of the Enterprise.

She wouldn't be able to shield them all.

But at least Nero was gone. He hadn't stayed to take potshots.

(More like a mafia don than I had expected, what would Anthony do next? No, not Anthony, Nero doesn't need advice from a consigliere. What would Al Capone do?

Well. That's easy.

A Saint Valentine's Day massacre.)

He hoped Spock would help him now, would put aside their difficult past to rescue Pike and save Earth and the Federation all in one swoop, because clearly this wasn't over, this was just the beginning, people like Nero never just stopped—

"Do we know where he went?" Jim demanded the second he skidded onto the bridge.

"Earth," Uhura supplied immediately, sitting tall and straight and terrified at her console.

"Are you sure?"

Uhura nodded firmly, though she glanced at Spock, whose posture in the captain's chair was nothing short of brittle. "The trajectory suggests no other destination."

"We have to follow him," Jim told Spock. "Earth may be his next stop, but we have to assume every Federation planet's a target."

"I have sent a distress call to the remainder of the fleet," Spock replied flatly. "We are to escort the surviving Vulcan ships to a rendezvous; when we convene with the fleet, we will fully inform them of the situation and devise a plan from there."

Jim stared at him. "You're joking."

"I hardly think this would be the time for it, Cadet, even if Vulcans did—"

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" Jim flung his arm out to indicate a monitor that showed Vulcan ships trailing behind them like the tail of a comet. "This isn't the worst of what Nero has planned, Captain! Pike knows the details of Starfleet's defenses—Nero will get them from him, and once he does he will do to every Federation planet what he just did to yours. We don't have the time for a confab. We have to go after him now!"

"Cadet—"

"I will not allow us to go backward instead of hunting Nero down!" Jim's eyes jumped around the bridge, searching for a solution. Sulu and Pavel at the helm, Uhura on communications, even Georgia was here. Most of the bridge was controlled by people he already knew, who knew and trusted him, people who—

Oh.

Pavel and Sulu and Uhura and McCoy made up almost the entirety of the senior crew, and they weren't looking to Spock.

Their attention was trained on Jim.

Jim's gaze snapped up to Spock's, and a single word sizzled unspoken between them.

Mutiny.

"Why won't you go after Nero?" Jim asked, low and soft but no less dangerous for it. "He just wiped out your planet, and we don't even know how. He will go after Earth. How can you justify running away?"

"Our duty is to the surviving Vulcans. We must escort them to—"

"How can you say that!"

Spock's mouth pressed into a thin line, but he didn't answer.

So Uhura stepped up to Jim's side, filling him in on the pertinent information, all while Jim's and Spock's eyes remained locked. "His mother was on the surface," Uhura murmured. "Spock went down to beam out the elders, and she should have been there, but she wasn't. They can't locate her—they think she didn't make it out. She might still be on one of the shuttles, but the odds of it are extremely low. She went into the city to help with the evacuation as soon as she heard about it, and her ship wasn't built for anything but surface travel."

She would have gone into the desert, then, with the others.

But the deserts, and those hiding in them, were gone now. So Spock's mother was—

It was a good reason to mourn.

Just not now.

"I'm sorry," Jim said to his captain, "but I won't let him destroy Earth." He turned to the helm. "Chekov, can you—"

"Security," Spock snapped.

Two officers grabbed Jim before he realized they were there, and for a moment (just a heartbeat) Jim surged against their hold, a thousand gruesome deaths flashing through his mind that started just this way. They got you when you were busy, dragged you off, kneel and wait and they'd call it a professional job later—

Wait.

Wait.

Starfleet, I'm in Starfleet now, they don't do hits.

(Do they?)

Probably not.

Jim went still, struggling to control his breathing. "Don't," he warned the others when it looked like they might start fighting too. He met their eyes, each in turn. "You hold your posts. The Federation's counting on you." At last he looked to Spock. "You think this will solve anything? You think the brig can stop me?"

"No," Spock admitted. He walked forward until they were close enough to touch. "Starfleet will send someone for you—when there's time."

It occurred to Jim, then, what would probably happen next. He locked eyes with Georgia. "Hold your post," Jim ordered again. "Help the people who need you."

"Get him off this ship," Spock snapped. He grabbed Jim's neck and pinched.

Then there was darkness.

When he woke, it was to snow and cold and a wall of white.

"Fuck," he groaned, propping himself up in the uncomfortable pod's seat. "Computer, where am I?"

"Current location Delta Vega: Class M Planet, unsafe. Remain in your pod until retrieved by Starfleet authorities."

"Sure." Jim coughed, then took two deep, slow breaths to let his thoughts settle. Once he was as calm as he could be, he dug around for weather-appropriate gear. Climbing the wall of ice was hard, but not impossible. After he cleared it, he picked a direction and set out.

He thought of the first monster trying to eat him as a setback, but the second was a serious problem. So he ran, searching frantically for some way to survive.

What he found was a cave. In the cave, there was fire, which was wielded by—

"James T. Kirk."

Jim scrambled from his sprawl on the ground into a crouch, panting as he stared at his mysterious savior, who stared back with something like surprise.

"How did you find me?"

"Who are you?" Jim demanded.

Rule One of working undercover: Never be the first to answer questions.

His rescuer pushed back the hood of his heavy winter jacket. His face was worn with age, but even with that there was something that reminded him vaguely of…

"I am Spock."

Oh.

Well, that would do it, if it were possible.

Maybe they were related?

"That's gonna be a tough one to sell," Jim said neutrally, shifting into a slightly more defensible position.

"Your disbelief is entirely logical," the elderly Vulcan replied. He motioned to the cave with his torch. "Come inside, Jim; you must get warm. Then I will tell you my story, and perhaps you might explain your own presence here."

Jim hummed but didn't agree. He quickly and quietly scanned the surrounding area, looking for alternatives.

He found none.

So when the Vulcan turned into the cave, Jim—with no better options and no desire to face wild creatures that wanted to eat him—followed. Once they were inside, Jim asked again, "Who are you?"

"I have been, and shall always be, your friend, Jim. And it is remarkably pleasing to see you again, especially after the events of today."

"Then you can't be Spock," Jim replied, "since we're hardly what you might call friends, and I don't think he's ever been pleased to see me. He hates me. You want to know why I'm here? Spock marooned me for mutiny. So who are you really?"

The Vulcan's brow furrowed slightly (can't be Spock for sure, too many emotions already, see how much he doesn't hide?). "Mutiny? Then you are not the captain?"

"Your diversionary tactics are cute and everything, but they're not even remotely subtle."

"I do not mean to—"

"Who," Jim demanded flatly, "are you?"

"I am Spock," the Vulcan said again, something gentle in his tone that made Jim feel—

Well.

He shifted his shoulders to shrug the emotion off. "You'd better stop lying to me or I'll—"

"I am Spock," he insisted, "from one hundred and thirty years in the future."

Jim's mind flew through calculations, working out the probability that such a claim could be true.

Time travel would go a long way toward explaining Nero's ship and technology, and his ability to create planet-eating black holes, and how he'd known Spock (the Younger?). It might even explain why this old hermit seemed so much like—

Seriously, though. The future?

"I hope you understand why that might be a bit hard to believe," Jim said politely, wondering how fast and strong elderly Vulcans were. If he attacked, would Jim be able to hold him off?

"I can show you." The Vulcan stepped forward, pulling one glove off before extending his hand.

Jim jerked his head away from the first press of long, chilled fingers along his cheek and temple. "What are you—"

But then it was too late.

He learned it all in the space between heartbeats.

The life of Spock, the death of the Romulan sun, the end of everything. Nero a particularly troubled Romulan getting through the black hole (wormhole?) first, Nero therewaiting for me when Spock's ship Jellyfish arrived, taking the failed salvation of Romulus red matter, marooning Spock here where I would be forced to watch the destruction of my home, like his home had been Vulcan

and then Jim friend, brother, alive! here as well to save the world again, old and dearest friend but

marooned what happened? Jim how could I have left you what happened? Jim Jim

consigliere

"NO!"

Jim shoved the old man away, pushed so hard and suddenly that Spock stumbled, and by the time the Vulcan looked up—

Since the trial and his subsequent enrollment in Starfleet Academy, Jim had gotten used to walking around without any visible weapons. Cadets couldn't handle live phasers, weren't supposed to need them. Jim Kirk had surrendered his hip and shoulder holsters with a smile, pleasantly agreeing that they were tools of a past life.

But Jim Scaretta had been a cadet less than a year. For nearly a decade before that, he had been trained by blood and pain and loss to know that going anywhere unarmed was the same thing as being dead.

When he came back to himself, he had the gun he kept hidden in the curve of his spine leveled on Spock's forehead.

"What did you see?" he asked, expressionless but for the bitter cold of his voice.

Spock lifted his hands in a soothing gesture. "Jim—"

"What did you see!"

"Only enough to know that you have lived a much different, much more difficult life than the Jim from my time," the elderly Vulcan said softly. "And it was my failure that caused it. I am sorry, old friend. More than I can say."

For an endless minute, the only sound in the cave was crackling fire and the harsh pant of Jim's breathing. Then he shut his eyes, fighting to control what had once been a survival instinct. He lowered the gun by degrees. Once it was pointed at the ground, he drew another deep, long breath, and tucked the small weapon back in the holster that hid close to his spine under Starfleet gold. "I've never seen you apologize before." He offered Spock half of a crooked smile, which was the best he could muster. "I didn't think you could, since it would mean admitting you were wrong."

A faint smile warmed Spock's eyes. "I have no doubt you will live to see many more apologies, once we have returned you to your rightful place."

"Yeah?" Jim rubbed his forehead wearily. "And where's that, exactly?"

"Aboard the Enterprise, of course."

"Of course."

"If there is to be any chance of defeating Nero, she will need you as her captain."

"Yeah, that's what I—wait, what?" Jim started at the Vulcan disbelievingly before lifting his arms to indicate the cave around them. "Trying to be captain is what got me here in the first place! In case you hasn't noticed, my attempt at mutiny didn't go over so well!"

"You will not take control of the Enterprise by force," the older Spock agreed.

"Well I'm glad we figured that out—!"

"She will be given to you."

Jim shook his head faintly. "Are you out of your mind? You—the other you—wouldn't even listen to me, forget about giving me command."

"There is a Starfleet outpost not far from here," Spock said. "I will take you there, and use what has since been discovered to beam you aboard the Enterprise—"

"Just me? Aren't you coming too? You're the one who can explain…" He motioned vaguely. "Everything. To Spock— the other Spock."

Spock shook his head. "No, Jim. Under no circumstance can he be made aware of my existence. You alone can stop Nero by taking command of your ship."

"How?" Jim demanded. "Over your dead body?"

Spock ticked one eyebrow. "Starfleet Regulation 619."

Jim shut his eyes again, this time on a grimace. "Any commanding officer who is emotionally compromised by the mission at hand must resign said command." He glared at the old Vulcan. "And how exactly am I supposed to get you to admit emotional compromise? I've never been able to get you to do anything you didn't want to."

"So we do know each other." Spock sounded so pleased that Jim had to look at him, had to smile again, sadly and without a trace of hope.

"We did, once," he admitted. "In a way. But that's what I've been trying to tell you: You're closed to me. You have been for a while. I can't— I haven't managed to break through." He shook his head a little helplessly. "How can I even be sure you are emotionally compromised?"

"I just lost my planet," Spock said quietly, looking away from Jim and toward the mouth of the cave. "I can tell you, Jim: I am emotionally compromised. All you must do…" He turned back to Jim, expression hard and certain. "Is get me to show it."

You'll never forgive me, Jim thought.

But Nero still had to be hunted, and the Federation still had to be saved, and his people aboard the Enterprise still needed him. So he followed Spock and resigned himself to losing the younger counterpart forever.

Again.

Alternate realities were a bitch.

The only part that went the way Spock predicted was Jim's appearance in the engineering bay.

Scotty found him first. ("Jim? What're yeh doin' down here? And where did yeh come from? And why are yeh wearin'—"

"Later, Scotty, I promise.")

Shortly thereafter, they made their way to the bridge.

Jim stepped off the turbolift with his shoulders back and his jaw set.

Uhura noticed him before anyone else, leaping from her seat with the disbelieving cry of "Jim!"

The bridge fell silent in shock. Spock, who had been speaking with an older Vulcan male (father?), turned slowly, hands locked behind his back.

Their eyes met, Spock's blank, Jim's bright with challenge.

"Miss me?" he taunted.

"You will tell me how this is possible," the acting captain replied, low and dangerous.

"No." Jim smirked. "I don't think I will. Does that piss you off?"

Spock's shoulders tensed. "I am the captain of this ship, and I order you to—"

"Order all you want. You know you can't make me tell you anything." His grin twisted into something vicious, an expression he had worn once beneath a black fedora. "You never could before, right, Professor?"

Spock's eyes darkened with the first flush of what Jim hoped was rage. "You will watch your tone, Cadet."

"Or what, Spock? You'll turn me over to the Admiralty?" He drew his breath in through his teeth, still smiling his loveliest smile, eyes filled with secrets in a way he knew Spock had always hated. A few steps forward put him just inside what even a human would consider Spock's personal space. "What will you tell them, I wonder," he mused, head tilted to a defiant angle. "That I'm insubordinate? Disrespectful? Maybe that I should be kinder to someone who suffers as you do. I imagine the loss of a planet would be a hard blow—to someone who could feel."

"Step back—"

"So maybe you'll run away to that confab you want so badly," Jim mused. When Spock tried to step back, Jim closed an equal amount of space, intentionally letting Spock back himself against the captain's chair—trapping him there. "That's what you're best at, isn't it?" he challenged. "Running away? And you'll tell the captains and admirals what a bad cadet I've been. But they won't believe you. You know why, don't you?"

Spock's teeth were clenched so hard Jim could see the muscles working in his jaw. "You will step away from me—"

"Come on, Spock, I'm sure you know why. At least you can guess."

"Because you are a liar," he hissed furiously, eyes narrowed and fists clenched.

Jim laughed, bright and cruel. "That might be part of it, but it's not the most important part. What matters is that they believe me." He smiled as warmly as he had when they were friends in his bar. "It's the belief that's important, you know?"

"To those who can be tricked, I suppose it—"

"Oh, come on. Let's be honest, since that's what you like." Jim smirked, nearly nose-to-nose with Spock, and spread his arms. "Everyone can be tricked."

For a moment, Jim thought Spock would snarl. He suppressed it at the last moment, but Jim had his proof: They were close to the end, now, at last.

It'll be over soon, Spock, he thought with all the compassion he couldn't afford to voice.

"It's easy, too," he said viciously, hoping aggression on his part would feed the violence he saw building in Spock. "It's always such a simple thing to make people believe. They eat it up! The admirals and professors and cadets—it's like they want to be fooled. A tragic backstory, a smile, and bam! It's done. You want to know the best part? Out of all those people, from the very first day this game started, for all those cadets and admirals and doting professors—"

"Shut up," Spock hissed.

"You were the easiest fool."

Spock's control snapped with a nearly audible sound. He hit Jim with a roar, landing a series of blows so solid they propelled Jim over the captain's chair and against the helm. Sulu and Pavel scattered automatically, shocked at the sudden violence, and Jim had a moment to reel before Spock was on him again, long, hot hand wrapped too tight around his throat.

Jim scrabbled at his hold weakly, thinking only, I'm sorry.

The edges of his vision were going black when a voice he didn't recognize called, "Spock!"

Seconds later, the grip vanished. Jim gasped greedily for air, still more than half crumpled on the terminal. He heard Spock resign as though from a great distance. The turbolift sounded shortly after, and he guessed—rightly—that Spock had fled.

Pavel was at his side immediately afterward. "I do not know what we can do," he babbled, trying to help Jim stand. "Nero—you will not have heard, Spock believed Nero to be from—"

"Alternate future," Jim panted, one hand feathering lightly over his sore throat. "I know. We don't have time for that discussion, though. Sorry, but we…we have to…"

"Take a moment to breathe," Georgia ordered, hauling Jim away from Pavel to plunk him in the captain's chair. "This really the best way you could think of to pull a successful mutiny?"

"Not a mutiny," Jim wheezed.

"He's right," Sulu chimed. "Before he left, Pike made him First Officer."

The repercussions of that took almost no time to sink in.

"Orders?" Pavel prompted.

Jim looked up, passing his weary gaze over the bridge crew. "Uhura," he called.

"Aye, Captain."

He shut his eyes for a moment, then shook his head and turned to her. "Contact the Vulcan ships. Have them continue on to the fleet alone."

"Sir?" she prompted.

Jim's blue eyes were hard. "We're going after Nero."

Chapter Text

There had been a time when everything made sense. Spock was sure of it.

He was equally sure that he did not...know—

Once, he had been a commander in Starfleet, teaching at the Academy in the years between missions. He had not been well liked, but he had been respected. He had not been what a human might call happy, but he had been...satisfied, with his research if not his students.

Then there had been Nyota Uhura, a fascinatingly talented student, and through her there had been meetings and study sessions and, eventually, an outing classed only loosely as academic.

Through her, and her determination to be more to him than a student, there was a meeting at a restaurant. A bar. And a bartender Spock had met once before in the snow of winter. Nyota had gone to the bathroom and the bartender had smiled at him and asked—

Nothing was the same after meeting Jim. He changed everything; how could he not?

Spock's meetings with Nyota ended, replaced by gatherings with three other cadets and an engineer rumored to be more than half mad. One of the cadets was a doctor, and they bickered. One of the cadets was a prodigy, and they debated. Collected in Jim's bar, they became something like…friends. The first of Spock's lifetime.

And then Jim was a criminal.

And then Jim was a hero.

And then Jim was a cadet.

And he could not be all of them simultaneously.

He tried to avoid Spock, but Spock could not let him, not while he was willfully lying to Starfleet, not while they did not know who—what—he was.

Because who was he? Which facet was real? Which persona true?

So Spock…harried him. Wherever he could, whenever he saw him, at every opportunity. He pressed, and challenged, and demanded answers, often in near-defiance of the suppression order he had signed after the trial. Jim could have reported him a dozen times over, and the fact that he never did just made Spock even more—

Who was he?

At last, inevitably, Jim struck back. The Kobayashi campaign was an all but transparent attack on Spock, but he refrained from replying because the endgame had to be a public debate, and there was no conceivable way someone with as little education as Jim could ever hope to defeat Spock in a contest of logic.

Spock was defeated before the debate began. And it didn't make any sense—!

A distress call from Vulcan had obviously not factored into Jim's plot, and Spock was briefly gratified to see the surprise that cracked his usually unbreakable façade. He had begun to suspect nothing could.

Then there was a lightning storm in space, and a Romulan who knew him that Spock had never met before. Jim Kirk again made an illogical nuisance of himself, and Vulcan was gone, and his father was here but his mother—

He knew, conceptually, that the others who had met at the bar did not agree with his stance against Jim. He knew they held him in something close to contempt. He had not known they would be willing to follow Jim into mutiny. Whether or not they felt justified in their actions, Spock had no desire to face them in a contest of resolve.

So he made Jim…go away.

Spock had lost his planet, his people, his heritage. His mother. He very nearly had nothing left to lose. When Jim came back, he was hanging on to his control by a tenuous thread.

He could not bear having his faults thrown in his face on top of everything else. Jim had tricked him, from the very first, had lied to and manipulated him the way he lied to and manipulated everyone, regardless of their…personal attachment to him. He twisted those attachments to suit his needs, never caring who he ruined in the process. The cadets would never recover, and they did not even realize it.

In the end, they were only human, and Spock was a Vulcan. He should have seen and known better, should never have succumbed to Jim, and they both knew it. He had been duped, from their first beginning in the snow.

"Out of all those people, from the very first day this game started, for all those cadets and admirals and doting professors."

And he would never forgive either of them for that betrayal.

"You were the easiest fool."

He didn't know how it happened. He had not meant to attack Jim, only wanted to make him stop—

Then his hand was wrapped around a delicate human throat, and he hadn't meant to do that but he also had no intention to cease until he saw the all-knowing arrogance in Jim's eyes fade, until it was replaced by regret—

What he felt from Jim, the emotion rising from his battered skin, was not arrogance. It was not satisfaction or anger.

It was despair. Sorrow. And an aching, steadfast resolve underscoring every weakened beat of his heart.

I'm sorry.

"Spock!"

He let go.

Of everything.

Jim, the Enterprise, his mission.

He abandoned it all.

And fled.

.

His father found him resisting the urge to pace in the transporter room.

"Speak your thoughts, Spock."

Spock's hands curled into fists at his side. "That would be unwise."

"What is necessary is never unwise." But like everything that involved Jim, Spock hardly knew where to begin. So after watching his son struggle for a long, silent minute, Sarek prompted, "I have not seen you behave such toward another being since you were a child. Are you again so conflicted?"

"No, Father." Spock clenched his jaw, trying to project an aura of calm that would be useless in the face of one who had known him since before he was born. "The cadet means nothing."

"Even your dismissal of him shows great compromise in your emotional control."

"If my emotions are compromised," Spock grit out, "it is not because of that…cadet. We have lost our culture and our people, Father. We lost Mother. In the face of that, James Kirk is of no consequence."

Sarek studied him carefully. "He is of more consequence than even you realize," he said at last, "if you believe Amanda is lost." Spock startled violently. "Are you so compromised that you neglected to check your bond with her? Your mother lives, Spock. Captain Pike's evacuation orders saved her."

Air rushed from Spock's lungs in a shocked exhalation. He shut his eyes and reached deep, as he should have at the moment of Vulcan's destruction, and found his mother's link in his mind as warm and vibrant as it ever was. His father did not lie.

She lived, still.

Even Spock's crippling sense of relief did not distract him from the realization that Jim's actions—actions Spock had tried to undermine for no reason greater than spite—were singularly responsible for the life of his mother.

Bartender. Consigliere. Agent. Cadet.

And now savior.

Another impossible title. Another improbable face.

Who are you, James Kirk?

"It was not Captain Pike who ordered the evacuation," Spock said a little hoarsely, forcing himself to turn and meet his father's level gaze. "It was the cadet. James Kirk. And I tried to stop him, because he is not—he is not what he seems, Father. He never is. I have…tried." He tucked his hands at the small of his back to hide their growing tremble. "I have long attempted to put a name to what he is. But there is not one. I searched, and the best I found was liar. Now he is responsible for Mother's life, and the lives of uncounted other Vulcans, because of knowledge I swore to Captain Pike he did not have. He has been a villain and a hero on the same day. I do not understand him. And I weary of the attempt."

"How long has it been," Sarek asked at the end of Spock's great confession, "since you abandoned your training?"

Spock's expression smoothed into perfect Vulcan calm even as his spine straightened in offence.

"You say you do not understand him," Sarek continued, "that it is not possible, yet it was you who studied mysteries far more complex than a Terran male when you were still a child. You were counted by teachers who resented your existence as the first among your peers in any area of scientific research that you attempted. When did you forsake your role as a scientist?"

"Father," Spock faltered, "I do not understand—"

"You thought your mother dead because it was the most convenient assumption. You do not believe you can ever understand Kirk because you have not in the past. When did you resolve to form your opinions without the influence of simple observation?"

It was a ridiculous accusation, one that stung all the deeper because it was impossible. Of course Spock had observed Jim. He had spoken with him for months, watched him interact with those around him, seen as he revealed layer after layer of invented personas. In a bar, and a courtroom, and even at Starfleet Academy, Spock had seen—

…What, exactly?

Spock had thought Jim was a bartender and been wrong. He had thought him a murder, a traitor, and an agent, and been wrong. Now Jim called himself a cadet and Spock did not believe him, but Jim was not failing his classes as Spock had expected. His teachers never reported anything resembling academic dishonesty, even though Jim was under close observation at all times. The other cadets and Scott stayed with him, supporting him in some way even though his betrayal of them had been no different than his betrayal of Spock. McCoy remained at his side, steadfast even though once, in secret, Jim had murdered him.

But McCoy was not murdered.

And Spock did not know how Jim was passing his classes, nor what the cadets and Scott were really doing to aid him, nor why every faculty member who met Jim even in passing seemed to hold him in the highest regard.

What he did to the Kobayashi simulation was cheating, and the whole of the Academy supported him. Spock did not know why. Because Spock—

Had stopped trying to know why. He had formed his opinions the day McCoy died and nurtured those beliefs every day since. Any evidence that seemed contrary to his judgement of Jim's character was either discarded or used as an example of his deceit. Science had a name for that: confirmation bias.

His father was right.

Somewhere along the way, between perceived betrayals and changing faces, Spock had stopped observing.

How utterly asinine.

Sarek must have seen his son's offended confusion shift into the brilliant recognition of his own ignorance because he dipped his head in the slightest of approving nods. "Acting-Captain Kirk will no doubt live up to his resolve to chase after the creature that destroyed Vulcan. If you wish to begin your observations, I would recommend now as the ideal starting place."

Spock nodded, stepping away from the transporter and toward the door. As he passed his father, he hesitated briefly. "Thank you," he said, for the first time in more than a decade, and meant it as deeply now as he had as a child. Sarek did not reply, but Spock did not expect him to.

He left and took his father's advice and began the process of observing Jim Kirk.

.

As it turned out, observing Jim was not something Spock could do from an impartial distance. Almost as soon as he returned to the bridge, he found himself volunteering to go with Jim on the mission to Nero's futuristic ship. The argument he made for his inclusion was logical, but the command crew—made entirely of people he had actively estranged for the better part of a year—stared at him in disbelief.

Jim did not react as Spock had anticipated. He didn't huff or snark or even hint at an inclination to refuse. Instead he watched Spock, studied his reaction to the command crew's vehement protests. Bright blue eyes cataloged every movement, every glance, every word, watching for something Spock did not know. When the process of observation concluded, Spock saw something else blossom in those eyes, something cunning he recognized from (perhaps even for the first time since) the bar.

A plan.

"Alright," he said with an easy smile. "The touch telepathy will help us locate Pike faster anyway. We'll go."

His senior staff all but rioted, although he managed to calm them simply by lifting one hand and saying, "It's fine. This will work."

They believed him, settling back into their planning meeting with grumbles of discontent but otherwise absolute obedience.

Fascinating.

Spock listened to the plan they developed quietly, adding his input when necessary but otherwise content to observe the various reactions. When the course was set, he paused to calculate the odds of their survival.

They weren't good.

He went anyway.

The mission, like the rest of Jim's career in Starfleet, went exponentially better than Spock had predicted but just about exactly as Jim had planned.

It appeared to be a trend.

When Nero was gone and the Enterprise began its long, limping journey home, Jim—covered in blood and bruises and grime—turned to Spock.

"We'll go back for the Vulcans first," he said, calm and composed, eyes bright with calculation again. (Always?) "They can't be allowed to remain unprotected, and most of their ships weren't built for deep space anyway. The Fleet can rendezvous with us there, but our main priority has to be getting as many of the survivors on the Enterprise as possible, before we lose anyone else." He stopped once more to study Spock, who felt measured in a way he hadn't since his examination at the VSA.

Unlike that time, however, he did not know how he fared when Jim finally smiled. "I'm putting you in charge of that," he said firmly. "I'll assign you a team, balanced in anticipation of the challenges you'll face. Any other task anyone tries to push to you or your team should be rerouted to the appropriate departments. I have Uhura building a skills list so we'll know who we have to handle what, but your only mission is to get the Vulcan survivors comfortably on board as quickly as you can manage."

He didn't phrase it as a request or attempt to soften the order in any way. Instead, it came across as nearly a challenge, as though he was daring Spock to refuse, which was…interesting.

"Yes, Captain," Spock said instead, if only to watch how Jim would react.

Jim nodded casually, as though he'd expected nothing less, and turned to being dispensing orders and taking stock of the situation elsewhere on the ship.

He didn't gloat or bicker or falter. He simply carried on with the duties of a captain, exactly as all Starfleet command cadets were trained.

Spock left the bridge to gather his team and attend his duties as assigned, but even as he did so he couldn't quite shut down the portion of his mind that had turned itself, finally, to examining the contradiction of James Kirk.

.

Over the course of the next seven hours, Spock's team organized holding bays to become sanctuaries for the surviving members of his species. They arranged medical care, prepared areas for meditation and sleep, assigned some engineers to reprogramming a few replicators to offer Vulcan dietary options, and set up an algorithm for determining which Vulcan ships would require the most immediate rescue.

He simultaneously—if privately—generated a set of questions that should, when answered, give him a better understanding of his new captain: How was he passing his classes? Were the cadets and Commander Scott suffering for their aid of him? In what way, and to what degree, was his success a product of their efforts? Why did he befriend them at the bar, knowing (as he must have) that such friendships would not be permitted to survive the end of his work as an agent?

What was he planning when his eyes were bright and distant?

The questions, of course, had to wait. Once the Vulcan ships were in range, Spock had very little time or attention for anything other than the facilitation of his orders. The process of relocating the refugees carried on exactly as Spock and his team planned

Until the ship made of orphanage survivors arrived, piloted by Amanda.

She stepped off the ship surrounded by Vulcan children, arms filled with them, smiling gently as was her custom. Nothing about her seemed changed, not the grace of her motion or kindness in her eyes.

Amanda lived, whole and safe.

Spock fled his post, rushing toward her through the throng of engineers and doctors and other Vulcan survivors, pushing them all aside without a single thought beyond reaching his mother. Even with his determination and speed, Spock was beaten to her side.

Sarek got there first.

Spock paused, only a handful of steps separating him from his parents, and waited. Observing.

His father had once claimed he married Amanda because it was logical. Now, after the loss of all the structure that had molded him into the sort of husband who would say that of his wife, the lie was laid bare. Sarek did not approach Amanda as an ambassador approached an aid. Instead, he took the Vulcan child in Amanda's arms gently, handing him into the care of a passing member of Spock's team. He took both of Amanda's hands now that they were free, caressing her fingers while she smiled up at him, a secret expression Spock had never seen before. From where he stood, Spock saw his father shudder as he bent his head to breathe in his wife's scent.

"Amanda," he murmured. "I cherish thee."

She turned her face into the warmth of his neck, wrapping her arms as firmly around Sarek as his did around her. "I love you too, Sarek," he heard her say.

He shuddered again, clutching her as though he wished to hide her inside forever, to protect her from enemies that might again try to take her.

Those were not actions born of a logical decision.

They were declarations of love.

Spock had believed his father, all those years ago, just as he had believed Jim in the bar. Twice, it seemed, words had tricked him where actions may have revealed the truth.

So he would stop taking words as the ultimate expression of reality and go back to the lessons of his youth, as his father suggested. He would wait. He would watch.

And he would find the truth, this time, beyond the reach of misdirection.

He would find the truth in Jim.

.

Nearly a full twenty-four hours to get the Vulcan survivors fully settled. After that task was completed, Spock began the process of searching for Jim.

The command crew, somehow aware of his goal, made the endeavor…difficult.

"I don't know where he is, Commander," Uhura said when he asked her to locate her captain on the ship. She didn't even turn to look at him, a level of disdain in the line of her shoulders that he had not anticipated. "A lot of our systems were damaged in the battle, which makes tracking people a little difficult. He was supposed to go to medical a while ago though, maybe Doctor McCoy knows."

McCoy would not tell Spock where Jim was if Jim was standing in the same room with them. Uhura knew that as well as Spock, so he counted the meeting a loss and resolved to search on his own.

Scott disrupted this attempt as well.

"I cannae let you through to the officer's quarters at this time, sir," he said from his position half-inside a wall. "It's just a mess like you'll nae believe. I'd be remiss in my duties if I let anyone through, yeh understand."

"Of course," Spock said calmly, watching a yeoman scuttle out of the very area Scott insisted was off limits to everyone. "Your concerns are noted."

Sulu, fortunately, had no means of restricting Spock's mission, although he did level a very dark glare every time they were in the same area.

In the end, the reason he found Jim was Chekov.

He found the young prodigy working by himself in a section of the ship that had sustained enough damage to be concerning but not quite enough to be cordoned off. (The odds of Jim being in this location were slim, but Spock was running out of ideas that didn't involve crawling through the jefferies tubes or confronting McCoy.) Chekov watched him approach from his peripheral, tracking his motion but not quite turning to acknowledge him. "You are looking for the captain," he observed at length.

Spock inclined his head, studying the display Chekov was working on. "Yes. You are recalculating our course to the rest of the fleet."

"Yes. I am the navigator, and we need to be there faster than our current course allows. Why are you looking for him?"

For a moment, Spock considered obfuscating. But Chekov was the only one to have asked, and Spock needed…allies. "I have questions to ask him," he admitted.

"The questions you have might have been better asked a year ago, yes?"

"Perhaps."

"Why did you not ask at that time?"

"My method of information gathering then was not what it might have been. My circumstances, and approach, have since been reconsidered."

"In what way?"

"I have questions to ask him now."

Chekov fell silent again. "We are not ruined," he said. Spock ticked his head to one side, bewildered by the non sequitur. Chekov glanced at him briefly before turning back to his work. "It is one of the charges you laid against him, that we would not recover. You thought us…broken, or hampered, or destroyed by him. You are wrong. We do not falter; we excel. Suggesting otherwise is a slight to him and an offence to us." At last he turned to Spock, frowning at him. "Do you think us so inept?"

"He is, to my understanding," Spock said carefully, still reluctant to alienate his only potential ally, "a man with little formal education. I cannot understand how he could do anything other than impact your studies in a negative manner."

"What do you know of his education before the Academy?" the navigator asked, sounding more curious than combative, which Spock decided to tentatively categorize as a success.

"Nothing," he admitted.

"Have you investigated his academic record?"

"No."

"Have you read his papers, observed his in-class participation, seen him in group projects?"

"No."

"Have you spoken to him or his teachers or academic advisor?"

"No."

"All of those are things you might have done to understand how we stand with him without losing our record of academic excellence. The failing in this is yours."

"Yes," Spock agreed. "I have recently come to understand that my information on this subject is faulty at best and thoroughly biased. It is something I mean to correct. Where is he?"

Chekov didn't answer right away, choosing instead to lean back against his console and study Spock carefully. "He was just recently released from Doctor McCoy's care," the teenager said. Spock felt an anomalous spike of concern, which he tamped down quickly. "The worst of it is mostly repaired, though it would not have been so dire had he gone for care when McCoy first demanded it." He made a frustrated motion with one hand. "My captain is apparently too busy for such things, at least until he is made to comply with medical orders. McCoy's order was for him to eat, so he is likely in his ready room with food he is not touching and work he is forbidden to undertake. If you have questions, you will likely be able to ask them there."

"Thank you," Spock said.

"Do not thank me, Commander. I have gone against his wishes to tell you even this much. He has spent considerable effort to rid himself of your attention, and I have given you the key to him. If this confrontation goes as the previous have, he will be very mad at me. And then I will be very mad at you. And I think that is something you would come to regret."

"Vulcans do not feel regret," Spock pointed out.

Chekov's smile was one taught to him by a consigliere. "It would be my mission to prove that statement wrong."

Spock left without knowing how to respond, shaken by Jim's expression on Chekov's young face.

(What else had they learned from each other in Spock's absence?)

Jim was exactly where Chekov had said he would be. Spock's clear knowledge of their captain's location appeared to be enough of a blessing that neither Uhura nor Sulu so much as commented on his approach, though Sulu did maintain his glare.

The ready room had been transformed into what looked like a full buffet, complete with plates, utensils, and condiments. Jim sat at the table's head, a plate piled high with food next to his left elbow looking nutritious but utterly untouched. His attention was locked on one of a stack of PADS, so much so that he didn't acknowledge Spock's entry at all.

Spock waited a few moments before stepping closer, locking his arms behind his back, and saying calmly, "Captain Kirk."

Jim looked up, expression surprised but blue eyes still filled with calculation. "Commander Spock. Can I help you?"

The Vulcan inclined his head. "It is my intent to discover if you can."

After a long pause spent searching Spock's face, Jim finally sat back in his seat, propping his elbows on the arms and lacing his fingers in front of his mouth. "Is that so."

"Yes sir."

"Well then." He motioned with one hand, eyes still sharp. "Proceed."

Spock had spent the entire walk over and most of the previous few days considering what he would say when he finally confronted Jim. None of his carefully planned phrases came to mind now. Instead, what he asked was, "What do you want from me?"

Jim, in typical fashion, didn't react as expected. Instead of answering, he threw his head back and laughed, golden and warm as though Spock had told a particularly amusing joke. "Isn't that my line?" he asked when his laughter faded.

"I do not understand," Spock admitted.

"Alright," Jim said, the blue of his eyes going hard as flint in a heartbeat. "You want to do this here? Now? There aren't any cameras or witnesses to rat us out, so fine. Let's do it.

"You're just always here, aren't you. Not like the others, not like it was before. You're a destroyer now, a wrench in everything, and I tried to be understanding. For a whole year, I tried to be respectful of your obsessive need to expose secrets you signed an oath to keep. The others wanted to turn on you the way they thought you turned on them, and I tried to shield you from that. I tried to give you outs. You just couldn't take them though, could you? You used them as more ammunition instead, used them to destroy what the others were trying to build, and I don't—" He grit his teeth, clearly biting back whatever else he wanted to say. After a deep breath, he settled back into calculating calm. "The only thing I really want to know is why you won't take the outs I offered. You pushed me all the way into a counterattack, which is always so…messy. Why won't you just take the out? I've tried to say goodbye to you a hundred times, and you come back for more every time." He smiled coldly. "It isn't logical, Spock."

"The others from the bar continue to be under your influence," Spock replied. "While that is the case, I cannot take an 'out', as you call it. It is my responsibility as an instructor to ensure the wellbeing of all the Academy's students."

"The others are here for good now," Jim told him flatly. "As long as I'm in Starfleet, they can't get away. It isn't what I wanted, but they didn't give me much choice, and I do need the help. So they're here, and they won't fail. Accept it. But you, Spock. You don't have to be. Take the out, for fuck's sake. Let this be the end for you."

Spock narrowed his eyes. "We will not rendezvous with the fleet for another nine hours. After that, it will be a number of days before we reach Earth, depending on the repairs that can be accomplished so far from a station. What end could I possibly find here?"

"I don't mean now," Jim said with a roll of his eyes. "The time between now and Starfleet Command will be used for staging, of course. For laying groundwork. If we set it up correctly, you can use this mission as a goodbye and leave once we land, go with your people and your family and rebuild, live the way none of the rest of us can anymore. At least then one of us is living. Just go."

Their line of conversation was getting a bit…disturbing. "Perhaps I do not wish to go with the other Vulcans," Spock suggested, curious for Jim's reaction. "Perhaps my time would be better spent in Starfleet, ensuring a disaster such as this never occurs again."

"Fine. I can make that work, too." Jim jerked his head toward the stack of PADS. "I'm writing up evals and recommendations anyway. Any particular job you want? I'll get you command of the Enterprise, if you want to try again with her. Tell me what you want and I'll do it, as long as you promise to leave."

Spock shifted his shoulders under the lines of his uniform, something like frustration blossoming in the pit of his stomach. He resettled his hands at the small of his back. "Have you always been so…generous with the people you wish to dispose of?"

Jim's expression went hard and cold. "That is not the line of questions you want to start down, Professor. You know nothing about it."

"I know it was your job to solve problems for very dangerous people for a very long time. Is this how you would accomplish that task? By using deceit to rearrange lives?"

"I did what I had to," Jim snapped, surging out of his seat to slam both hands onto the table. "And I will not be lectured for it by the privileged child of an ambassador! Leave it."

"The man you were when I first met you would have answered my question," Spock challenged.

"The man you met did answer that question! It isn't his fault you didn't fucking understand!" Spock opened his mouth to protest, but Jim cut him off with a jerk of one hand. "You know what, no. I will not defend myself to you. We will finish this mission like the goddamned professionals we are, and then you will leave."

"How will you make me?" Spock demanded, control unraveling at last. "As a captain? Or a cadet? As a gangster?"

"What do you want from me!" Jim shouted, flinging both arms out. "You've been trying to do this since the trial, so out with it! Tell me what you fucking want!"

Spock moved without thinking, getting double fists of Jim's shirt to jerk him close. "Who are you?" he demanded in an angry whisper. He shook Jim once, fighting a snarl when Jim shoved at him furiously. "Who are you?"

"Nobody," Jim panted. "I'm nobody, Spock. Why can't you understand that?" It was the truth—maybe the first complete piece of honestly Jim had ever given him. Spock's grip loosened enough that Jim could slip free. He stepped back and smoothed his shirt before continuing. "There are people I used to be," he said, professional calm settling back into place. "Jim Scaretta for a long time, but Jimmy Georgeson before that, and before that—" He shook his head. "I've been a lot of people, Spock. None of them exist anymore. SA Kirk doesn't, and Captain Kirk won't either, eventually. It's been that way since I was—" He lifted both hands in a passively defensive motion. "Listen, I was Jim Scaretta longer than anyone else, and even he's gone now. I want you to leave before you get used to this name. It's too late for the others, but not you. Don't get attached to me. Don't even get used to me. This will end, too. It always does."

Spock stepped back to let Jim pass, mind buzzing with the layers of meaning held in those words. "When did you answer my question?" he asked softly.

Jim paused at the end of the table, steps away from leaving the room. One hand curled into a fist that he pressed into the table. Then, in a jerky motion, he reached out and touched one of the salt shakers tucked into the mountain of condiments. He slid it two inches to the right, closer to a bottle of mustard than the pepper shaker that was its mate. "Your move," he murmured.

Then he was gone.

Spock stared at the salt shaker with a feeling like the ship was shifting under his feet.

What had Jim said about this game, all those months ago?

There is no game. It doesn't exist. It never did. But as long as I occasionally complement you on a good move, or yell at myself about a bad one, I can keep you believing this is real.

And after the game, as Spock left the bar so Jim could plan with the underboss whose best man was an undercover FBI agent, Jim had looked at him, had smiled and tipped his salt shaker.

It's an exercise in perception, Professor. You think we're playing a game, so you keep looking for rules that don't exist.

Oh.

The explanation itself was nothing but another layer to an answer too subtle for even a Vulcan to understand.

Why are we playing this game, Jim?

Because I like it.

And Spock…had missed it. The answer, the message, the entire point.

He missed it.

Spock sat hard in a chair, dizzy with the paradigm shift of the last two years peeling away to reveal layers he had not even imagined could exist.

Once he could stand, he moved over to the PADS to see what Jim had recommended for him. Except it wasn't just his recommendation waiting in the pile, it was the entire command crew, each letter more glowing than the next. He wanted them to stay on the Enterprise, to maintain their current positions even as he submitted himself to discipline for what he was calling a mutiny. He meant to separate himself from them, to cut his support system free of his influence. Two days ago, Spock would have seen Jim's plan as perfectly logical, finally honorable. Now he saw it for what it was: suicide.

Jim would be court-martialed for his actions as he described them. He would be sent away from the protection of Starfleet, and either the FBI would pick him back up or a mob family would. In either case, his life expectancy would be next to nothing.

This had to be stopped, but Spock could think of no one who would listen to his concerns. His alienation of the others had been too complete. How could he save Jim if the very ones whose help he would need reviled his existence?

Panic was illogical, so Spock stilled his body and his mind, breathing deep and even until his thoughts finally settled.

The answer, when it presented itself, was simple:

Chekov.

Chapter Text

When Spock returned from his meeting with Jim, he looked more like the Vulcan Pavel once knew, like the person he had become at the bar, before that chapter of their story transitioned into the next.

Before that transition, Pavel would have felt relief. Spock was a formidable ally, and they had sorely missed his presence during their campaign to support Jim through the Academy. Pavel himself had missed the debates they used to have. He wanted to argue with Jim and Spock again, wanted to bicker about equations and variables and the madness of scientists.

But this was not before the transition, so Pavel did not let himself warm with comfort at the prospect of getting his friend back. Spock had already proven, quite thoroughly, that they could not rely on him. He would have to prove, just as thoroughly, that he was finished being a pigheaded idiot. Then maybe-

There were many things to accomplish between would and maybe. Working with Jim had taught him to start at the beginning with plans for the middle and thoughts about the end, but to start at the beginning nonetheless. "You found what you were looking for," he observed.

Spock inclined his head. "In some measure, yes."

"Are you satisfied at last?"

"No. However," Spock added before Pavel's stomach could finish sinking, "I believe you will be able to assist me toward what we both might consider a satisfactory conclusion."

Pavel frowned, saving his work before turning fully to face his superior officer. "What do you mean?"

"It would not be...prudent to discuss it here."

"I am roomed with Hikaru." He nodded back in the direction of the officer's quarters. "It should be quiet there."

Spock visibly hesitated. "When I last attempted to access that area, Lieutenant Scott-"

Pavel grinned. "Do not worry. You are with me now, and Scott will let us by."

So they went to Pavel and Hikaru's room, passing Scott who had a wave for Pavel and a suspicious frown for Spock. Once there, Spock immediately produced the PADD he'd been carrying behind his back and access a set of files, which he sent to the main display unit in the room. Pavel wandered over to inspect the small stack of files, flicking through each with only a brief skim.

His heart constricted at what he read.

"He plans to abandon us," the teenager breathed, face white with shock.

"That is technically accurate but ultimately incorrect," Spock said, stepping closer to select his own letter of recommendation. He enlarged the page until Jim's words took up the entire screen. "Here, where he highlights my leadership abilities without any mention of my resignation under Starfleet Regulation 619, which should, of course, be included. Yet it is not. He does not mean to abandon his crew; rather, he intends to elevate them to positions that will secure their futures when he is gone." The Vulcan highlighted a paragraph dedicated to Spock's handling of Jim's supposed mutiny. "In the same document, he readies himself for court-martial."

"Why?" Pavel demanded. "He has done nothing to deserve it! Worse, he will be killed outside the protection of Starfleet. That is why we fought so hard to keep him! Why would he now run?"

"Because it is the first opportunity he has had to take such an action without harming you and the others," Spock said calmly. "It is the same path he intended to take before he was forced to reveal himself as an agent of the Federal Bureau of Intelligence. This was always his goal."

"But why?"

"Why is not the important question," Spock pointed out. "We will have time to discover the answer to that later, which I suspect will be a...difficult task. For now, our focus must be: How do we prevent these letters, written with this intent, from reach Starfleet Command?"

"And how do we do that without alerting Jim." Pavel heaved a deep sigh. "You are right. We cannot edit their content before he sends them," he mused. "We also cannot prevent him from sending them, or he will simply suspect our motive and find a way to work around us."

"That being the case, our best solution appears to be to edit them after they are sent."

Pavel thrilled at Spock's use of our. He hadn't included himself in their group since McCoy's "death". Perhaps he was finally returning to them. "There is only one person I know who could do that," Pavel said. "We must hurry though, there is no telling when Jim will send these, and we cannot let them arrive in this condition." The teenager hesitated a moment while Spock backed out of the reading program and wiped the last traces of Jim's letters from the unit. "I am glad," he blurted, feeling his face warm but needing to say the words. "That you spoke with Jim. That you understand better. That you are with us."

Spock studied him for a long moment. Then he straightened slightly, tucking his hand at the small of his back. He looked more at the wall than Pavel when he said, "I learned something I had not expected. Now I must ask-or I feel I must ask..." He shook his head, brows lowering slightly, and met Pavel's curious gaze. "When he was still entertaining us at the bar, did Jim ever attempt to teach you a game?"

"A game?" Pavel cocked his head thoughtfully. "What kind? We did play with math on occasion, or else words, because he is very fond of word manipulation and-"

"No," Spock interrupted. "It was not a game so much as a lesson disguised as one. I only thought it a game at the time because that is how he introduced it. The lesson it taught was not one I understood until I spoke with him today. It is the only lesson I have ever failed."

For a long moment, Pavel watched Spock's expression, trying to read it for a hint of what he really meant. "I did not get lessons like that from Jim," Pavel said at last. "He was not a teacher in that sense. With me, the process was more collaborative. What was it he meant to teach?"

"A secret," Spock replied.

Pavel glanced away. "I am sorry, I do not mean to intrude-"

"No," the Vulcan said. "His lesson is not a secret. Rather, the lesson was meant to expose a secret. I do not know why he did not share it with you instead," he admitted. "Or with Doctor McCoy. You were both his friends long before I ever met him."

"What was the secret?" Pavel asked.

"That nothing is as it seems. That he was not what he seemed."

"How did he teach this lesson?"

"He presented a game with no rules," Spock explained, "that was not a game, that only seemed to be one because he prepared me to expect it. It was a lesson on perception. Later, he used a salt shaker, which had been a token of our game that was not a game, to indicate that the lesson continued. I did not recognize the movement as a hint until he reminded me of it in our recent meeting. The game was only a game because he arranged a situation where it was logical to assume it was a game. Similarly, he was only a member of the mob, or a murderer, or an informant because of the years he spent arranging a place where it was logical to accept he was. He gave me the tools to see through to the truth of it, and I could not." Spock looked away again, back straight, hands locked, jaw tight. "He would have done better to give the lesson to you."

"You do know," Pavel said gently. "You must know, of course. He never treated you as just another one of us. You were always unique, from your first meeting. He told me about it, about the snow and the Vulcan, about the Academy instructor who kept up with his twisted way of speaking. You were always special, Spock. Different even than McCoy. Of course he would give the hint to you. You were the one he was most desperate to keep."

Pavel heard Spock's teeth grind. "And yet," he said flatly.

"There is no point to this," the navigator pointed out. "To looking back and seeing things differently. It is not logical, and we have no time for it. Put it aside. Come, we must save our captain from himself.

"We must speak to Uhura."

.

Nyota didn't know what Pavel wanted from her, but she knew it had to be big.

He was working with Spock again, and their body language indicated true collaboration. Neither of them appeared annoyed or coerced. Would wonders never cease?

"What did Jim do this time?" she asked when they approached her station on the bridge. Sulu scowled over from his position but seemed more inclined to eavesdrop than launch further objections to Spock. "Is he hurt again?"

"No," Pavel said, then paused to consider. "Well," he amended, "he is no worse than he was, which could change depending on how well he follows Doctor McCoy's orders, so actually I don't know. I hope not."

"Captain Kirk is preparing to send a set of recommendation letters to Starfleet that, if left untouched, will ensure the permanent placement of the entire bridge crew as it currently exists," Spock explained, "with the notable exclusion of the captain himself. His intention appears to be for me to assume command while he is court-martialed for mutiny."

"He'll be killed!" Sulu yelped.

Spock barely glanced at him before continuing. "It is the opinion of Ensign Chekov that you can catch these letters after they are sent, edit their content to be more representative of the actual events as they occurred, and then complete their transmission without alerting Captain Kirk."

Nyota spun back around to face her station. She dug through the communication logs throughout the ship, poking around a few layers too deep in order to locate the drafts of Jim's letters. Then she pulled them up, making mental notes about how to correct the language once Jim finalized and sent them off. "Oh," she said as she scanned Spock's letter, "ha, I knew he didn't assign you a team for no reason. Everyone knows you could have easily arranged the Vulcan safehaven on your own. Look," she pointed at her screen, "see how this is phrased? He gave you a team to re-establish your abilities as a leader, which translates into a chance for you to see a major project through to its conclusion. You didn't 619 this one, and that will look wonderful when you're recommended to take command of Enterprise."

"But he'll be killed," Sulu insisted, finally getting up to cross the bridge and read over Nyota's shoulder.

"Yes, which is why I'm not going to let these letters through until they're fixed. He'll probably want to send them off before we rendezvous with the fleet," she said to Spock, "and I'll have an easier time sneaking around his paranoia if he's distracted. So you go be distracting while he sends the letters, and I'll make this right."

Spock blinked at her, an endearing expression of befuddlement she thought she'd never see again. "How do you suggest I-"

"That's your problem." Nyota began working on the algorithm to catch Jim's transmissions, dismissing Spock and the others from the majority of her attention. "Whatever it is, you should do it fast. We have less than an hour before the fleet is here."

"...Jim's in McCoy's room," Sulu said reluctantly. "He's supposed to be on bedrest for a few hours, but we couldn't even get him to do that when he was sick, so. He'll be working. You should go," he added when Spock hesitated.

Once he was gone, Sulu traded a long, quiet look with Pavel. "I guess we're getting the band back together," he said.

Nyota felt Pavel's smile even with her back turned.

.

Of all the interruptions Spock anticipated that might disrupt his mission to find Jim, he had not considered his mother. Yet there she was, stepping onto the turbolift Spock was currently using, her expression surprised but please.

"Spock," she greeted warmly, reaching out to enfold him in the gentlest of hugs. "I've been looking for you since I got on the ship. Are you alright?"

"Yes, Mother," Spock replied automatically, returning her hold as he had not since he was a very small child. "I am...pleased. That you are unharmed."

"I nearly wasn't," she said as she stepped back to smile up at him. "There was a young man who came to help me at the orphanage. I would never have gotten the children out in time were it not for him. He's also the one who suggested I take the ship to low-orbit, which I'm sure you know is the only reason we survived. I hope he survived," she murmured, looking momentarily sad. "You've suffered heavily losses. It's possible he was among them."

Spock reached out to stop the lift, thinking about the strange things that happened in his life, the odd and the fortunate, and the disproportionate degree to which they revolved around Jim. He had taken five shuttles to the surface, but there could be only one responsible for the rescue of orphans and salvation of Amanda. "The man who saved you. Was he blond? With blue eyes? An objective person might call him beautiful."

Amanda look startled. "Yes, but how did you-"

"He handled the children himself, didn't he. He took the Vulcan orphans and delivered them into the ship with his own hands."

"Do you know him, Spock?"

The Vulcan inclined his head. "His name is Jim Kirk, and I am also seeking him. You may accompany me and see for yourself that he is well."

"I'm so glad!" Amanda exclaimed. "How do you know him? Is he assigned to your department."

One corner of Spock's mouth tried to tick up in something like a smile as amusement curled under his customary layer of calm. "Rather the opposite, in fact. He is Acting Captain of this ship."

Amanda stared at him in amazement, one hand over her mouth. "Oh my goodness. Well, then! If that's the case, I have one more question, if you'll humor me."

"It isn't humoring you, Mother. Ask me anything."

"It has to do with your description of him." Her dark eyes glittered with mirth. "You're an objective person, my son. Do you call him beautiful?"

Spock fought down a rush of heat that tried to stain his cheeks, started the lift, and didn't answer.

His mother's soft laugh indicated it didn't matter.

Determined to ignore the implications of both her question and its related observation, Spock strode confidently out of the turbolift when it finally opened. Amanda followed him, radiating contentment that her son tried to unobtrusively revel in. Once, not long ago, he thought her lost. Jim had saved her, in every sense of the word.

Of course Spock thought him beautiful.

Scott, still half inside the walls of the Enterprise, let them through without so much as a glance, exactly as Chekov had said. They reached McCoy's room and signaled their presence.

No one answered.

After activating the door chime a few more times, Spock realized Jim might be sleeping, and huffed at himself mentally as he keyed in an override. Jim was indeed inside.

He was not sleeping.

The Acting Captain was collapsed on the floor, back curved and pressed to the wall, arms wrapped tightly around his stomach. His face was pale, his forehead covered in sweat, his eyes closed tight in apparent pain.

Amanda broke out of her surprise first. "Captain Kirk!" she cried, rushing forward. "Spock, quickly!" She dropped to her knees by Jim, calling his name and touching his face gently. "Can you hear me, Captain Kirk? What's wrong?"

Spock sent an emergency alarm to the medbay and stepped quickly to Jim's side, kneeling to help his mother try to shift him out of his curl.

Jim moaned, pressing his face to the floor. His eyes opened in bright blue slits, unfocused before they slid up to Amanda's face. "...Director Ross?" he croaked. "Feels like I got run over by a Cadillac. Did I get made?"

Amanda glanced up at Spock, confused, and frowned at the growing distress on her son's face. "Spock?" she asked.

He shook his head. "A medical team will arrive shortly. The chief medical officer is deeply invested in this man's well-being. Until then, we must attempt to keep him calm."

"What does he mean-"

"Mother," Spock said softly. "There is more to him than a simple Starfleet captain, but it is not a story I can tell. It is barely a story in which I feature at all. Please help me to keep him calm."

Amanda studied his face for a long moment before nodding. "I'm here, Captain-"

"Jim," Spock corrected.

His mother nodded without looking up. "I'm here, Jim," she murmured, taking his hand. Her breath hissed out in concern as she raised his hand to touch the back against her cheek. "You're so hot, poor darling. What happened?"

Jim head rolled restlessly until Spock reached out to carefully gather Jim's overly warm body in a comfortable hold. "Did I get made?" he asked again.

"I don't-" Amanda looked to Spock helplessly. "I don't know what you mean, Jim."

"You're safe, Jim," Spock added, hoping Jim wasn't so delirious he wouldn't know who Spock was. "You have not been discovered. Your secrets are safe."

"Secrets." A small smile cracked Jim's dry lips. "You figured it out after all. Had to be subtle, keep it close. Didn't think you would. But you did. Too smart for me, P'fessor."

"Why are you ill? What has happened?"

Jim's forehead crinkled in deep thought. "Georgia. Bones. Georgia."

"He is on his way, Jim. What do you need?"

"...he's gonna be pissed."

Doctor McCoy chose that moment to burst into his quarters, a handful of medical support behind him. "What the hell, Jim! You had one job!"

Jim lolled against Spock's shoulder, fingers curling in Amanda's skirt.

"He's in distress," Amanda said firmly. "You will help him without adding to that distress or you will step aside so someone else can."

McCoy stared at her. "Lady," he began flatly. Jim interrupted with a weak, pained moan that perfectly redirected his doctor's ire. McCoy hurried to his side, scanning him with a tricorder and cursing at the results. "All you had to do was take a single course of antibiotics with a meal and sleep for two hours. That's it, Jim."

Their captain made another upset sound, at which point McCoy directed his staff in the process of-gently-loading Jim onto their stretcher. Once he was situated, McCoy turned to Spock. "I don't know what you're doing here. Rumor is you've turned over a new leaf. Or, well, turned back to the old one. I don't much care. What I care about is this: If you do to him what you did the last time you had him, and you and I are assigned to the same ship or station at any point, I guarantee you will go to sleep one night and not wake up. Get it?"

Spock inclined his head.

McCoy nodded, once to Spock and then again to his mother. "Ma'am," he said politely.

Then he was gone, and Jim with him.

"If you ever have the right to tell me the story behind this," Amanda said eventually, "I really hope you will. Because I would love to know why a trained medical professional just threatened to kill my son."

"It is...complicated," Spock said.

"Yes," Amanda agreed, "I noticed."

.

Spock visited Jim while he slept in medbay. McCoy knew he should throw the Vulcan out after all the drama he'd caused for so long, but he couldn't quite bring himself to actually do it.

Jim had always been affected by Spock, more than he should, even from the very beginning. But then Jim was a fool.

Maybe McCoy was a fool too, because he let Spock be. After the third visit, though, he felt he had to at least say something. Guilty Vulcans were the absolute worse. "He's doin' fine," he said under the pretense of checking Jim's vitals. "I've got him sedated because the idiot clearly can't be trusted to care about his own life, so that gets left to me. He's on antibiotics to help with various infections, and I'm increasing his fluids because he's dehydrated, and he's unconscious because he needs the sleep." He glanced sideways at Spock. "Which means, of course, that you don't need to be hovering here all the time."

"Yes," Spock said calmly.

"...So why are you here, then?"

Spock turned to face him fully, back straight and shoulders perfectly squared. "I will see him take official captaincy of the Enterprise. Or I will follow him into exile."

"Well then." McCoy made a note in Jim's file about vitamin deficiencies: hard to combat in someone as allergic to the all world and sundry as Jim, but McCoy had his ways. "It's good to see you finally got around to taking your head out of your ass." He motioned to the spot where Spock usually stood during his silent vigil. "Carry on."

"You have no objections?" Spock pressed.

McCoy shrugged. "I already let you know what would happen if you had a relapse into your little land of denial, wounded pride, and idiocy. Long as you don't harm him, we're fine. For now. My personal issues with your more generalized green-blooded hobgoblinry can wait until we're done with Starfleet Command, one way or the other. You know I'll follow him too," McCoy said. "We all will."

"Yes," Spock said again. "In fact, I am counting on it."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"Leverage."

McCoy was still laughing when Jim woke up.

.

Three days after they returned to Earth, Jim stormed Spock's quarters at Starfleet Academy.

"What did you do?" he snapped as soon as the door slid shut behind him.

Spock, who had stood abruptly when his rooms were breached, settled into the appearance of calm with his hands folded at the small of his back. "You must be more specific."

Jim threw a handful of crumpled papers at him. "They're giving me a commendation!"

"You performed admirably in your capacity as captain." Spock collected the wad of papers, smoothing them out methodically. "Ah. They wish to have you maintain your command as well." He met Jim's furious gaze calmly. "Congratulations."

"You know this is wrong," Jim hissed, blue eyes narrowed. "You know this is stupid! You are the only one who always saw how damaging this Starfleet plan of Chekov's was. How could you do this!"

"Do what?" the Vulcan replied blandly.

Jim stared at him in disbelief. "Are you...are you trying to bluff? Do you really think that's going to work? On me, of all people?"

"You of all people," Spock echoed, studying Jim's anger and helpless confusion. "You must elaborate, Jim. Why you, of all people?"

His captain flinched back a step. "I know you," he whispered. "I've known you, and how your mind works, since... I don't even know how long. And in the same way, you knowme. You know what I am. It's why you fought so hard, even against a gag order, to protect the others. Because you know what I am."

"I know you are a good captain," Spock replied plainly, ignoring the way Jim shied away, curling in on himself. "I know you are a brave, clever, cunning man. I know you plan better than any being I have ever met. I know you care deeply, fiercely, for those you consider under your protection. You are loyal even to your own detriment. You are," he asserted again, "a good captain. And I will see you in command of the Enterprise, or I will retire from Starfleet to dog your heels, as Doctor McCoy might say. You should know," he added when Jim seemed ready to flee, "that I will not be alone in my pursuit of you. McCoy, Scott, Uhura, Sulu, and Chekov have all vowed to follow you wherever you go, even if where you go is away from Starfleet. You said yourself, Jim: The others are here for good. I consider myself fortunate to once more count myself among them. You cannot be free of us, not now or ever. Accept your command with grace, and come with us to the dark of space, where even the mafia cannot find you."

Jim's whole body shuddered with what looked to Spock like pure rage. His chest heaved, his cheeks flushed red. The blue of his eyes snapped with the force of it. "You son of a bitch," he hissed. "You were supposed to be able to see through it. Out of everyone, you were meant to stop this happening, to stay between the myth built by the others and the truth of what I am.

"You want me to lead? You think I'm good for it? Why? Because I set Nero up with an offer of mercy I knew he had to refuse? No? Then is it because I saved your mother? Or the orphans? Because I didn't kill the witnesses? Do you think that means I never killed anyone? Then you're a bigger fool than I ever thought. Listen to me, you bastard. Because I am only going to tell you this once: You challenged the claim that I'd been a hero on Tarsus IV during the famine. You were both wrong and right. I was on Tarsus IV, but I wasn't a hero. I was a coward. I was a killer. And since you're so eager, get comfy.

"I'll tell you all about it."

Chapter Text

My mother died when I was twelve. House fire. It happens. In ordinary circumstances, I would have gone into the foster care system, but the circumstances are never ordinary when the great hero George Kirk's son is involved. So I stayed out of the system, which I supposed is good. Instead, I was sent to school.

Why?

Why isn't the point, but I'll humor you. The Federation wanted to see my…natural abilities encouraged. I was already a challenge to my teachers by then, and there was an exciting new program off-world that might be able to help. To keep me engaged. It should have been just the thing to turn me from a tragedy to an asset.

I can't believe you're surprised by that. And stop interrupting. I'm trying to tell you a story.

Where was I?

Oh yes.

My new school was called The Academy. I went there immediately after my mother's funeral. To prevent potential favoritism, and to keep media vultures from following me during my 'great time of sorrow', I was enrolled under a pseudonym, of sorts. Tiberius James.

The school was on Tarsus IV. My principal was Kodos. In two years, he would sentence half the colony to death.

I told you to stop interrupting. Do you want to hear the story or not?

At first, everything was fine.

Well. For a given definition of 'fine', anyway.

I was a cold child, after my mother died. After the fire. I didn't make friends. I didn't even really talk to the other children, although I did spend more than my fair share of time debating with the instructors. They didn't want my friendship or to provoke an emotional outburst. They liked my calm, my…rationality.

We might have actually gotten along if we'd met back when I was on Tarsus.

Don't make that face. The cold didn't last long.

During the first year, I established myself as the top student at The Academy. In everything. Math, science, literature. There was an art program, but it was optional, so I didn't take it. Waste of time, or so I thought to myself. My superiority wasn't challenged that entire first year. But in the second—

Well.

There was a transfer student. Elsie. She was a few years older, but she was also the only one who ever challenged me. She kept up, sometimes edged out in front, and she was in the art program, so some people argued that she was better than me just by virtue of being a better-rounded student.

That might have been a rumor though, I don't know. Like I said, I didn't do a lot of socializing.

The point is that Elsie was the only person who challenged me, who forced me to see them. Remember her; she'll be important later.

When the famine started, we had no idea. The Academy was very well supplied, and since we were the best and the brightest—the future of the colony—we were sheltered from the world. We were still having feasts while the less-worthy people of Tarsus IV starved in the streets.

I knew something wasn't right. We all did. Best and the brightest, remember? We knew Kodos was holding planning sessions with the staff when he usually wouldn't. We knew there were dignitaries, high-ranking members of the government, having secret meetings with Kodos, and that had never happened before. Something was wrong, and we knew it, but we were sheltered all the same.

We knew that, too.

Over time, some of the other students started to go missing, mostly the older ones. They would sneak out at night to find out what was wrong, and eventually, inevitably, they'd get caught. Then they'd get pulled into a disciplinary meeting with Kodos and the board.

The students never came out of those meetings. We didn't know what was happening to them.

But we suspected.

I didn't care. I knew whatever was happening outside the compound walls was bad, but I just…I didn't care.

The fire was bad, Spock. It took from me the last things I had to hold on to. My whole home and family burned, and I had nothing. I never wanted to feel that again, and the best way to prevent it was to never have things, or family, or home, ever again. You can't lose what you don't have, right?

I was twelve. Faulty logic happens.

Anyway, the point is that I knew something was wrong, and I didn't care enough to do anything about it. Whatever it was could be someone else's problem. I had my books to read, my homework to finish, my research to publish. I didn't need the outside. I didn't need anything. Or anyone.

Then Elsie started to sneak out.

We had a very strange rivalry. She seemed to want to make me mad as much as beat my scores, and I hated her. With everything I was, I hated her.

She was my touchstone. The only person I saw as anything close to an equal.

And she was sneaking out.

I let her do it for a while without saying anything. I let her go at night and come back before dawn, let her walk through her days exhausted and pale. I didn't say anything. She began to get…thin. Like the food they still fed us three times a day wasn't sticking.

I still didn't say anything. I still thought I didn't care.

But I did follow her.

Outside The Academy, things were exactly as bad as I thought. I'd done the math, of course, and analyzed the data and knew what had happened, even though I knew I wouldn't do anything with the information.

It was a famine. Planet-wide. Fungus had destroyed the crops, which was a detail I hadn't been able to work out on my own. People were starving to deaths, whole families and neighborhoods and town. My family died in a fire, but at least that was quick. At least we didn't have to watch each other slowly waste away until there was nothing left.

We were eating like royalty, and people were starving.

I told myself I didn't care. It was someone else's problem, Starfleet's or the Federation's. Not only could I not do anything, I refused to try. It wasn't my problem.

Elsie had a group of children, ragged, dirty things she was keeping hidden and fed as best she could. They were the ones getting her food. They were why she wasn't sleeping or eating, why she was also wasting away. I hated her, she was my bitterest rival, but she was still mine.

And she was fading.

We both knew she would die in the effort of saving the children. She would either starve herself or be caught by Kodos. He had no mercy, and certainly none for a girl who occasionally out-performed his star pupil.

I caught her once she left the children. 'Why are you being so stupid,' I asked.

'This isn't stupid,' she said. 'What we're doing in there, pretending none of this is happening, that's stupid. None of us will survive this if we don't pull together.'

'None of us will survive this, period,' I said. 'There isn't enough food for the whole colony. I've hacked through to the inventories; I've done the math.'

She got really quiet at that, for a long time. Then she asked, 'How much food is there?'

'Enough for about half, if it's rationed very strictly.'

As I said it, we looked at each other and had the same thought: Kodos, our principal, whose guiding star was outdated and poorly rationalized eugenics, would ration the food. He would give it to those he thought worthy.

And he would kill the rest.

We were worthy. In Kodos' mind, the students at his school were the paragon of human achievement. We would be spared, as long as we stayed in line. Stayed under his control.

Once I knew the truth, I went to Kodos. There still wasn't much room for fear or concern in me, and I wanted to know. I didn't mention Elsie, because she wasn't the point.

The point was math, was population statistics and food rations. The point was not everyone could survive.

So I confronted him with it. I asked him about the starvation, the death, the four thousand colonists who could potentially survive if four thousand other colonists were put down like dogs.

He smiled at me as though he were proud and let me be the first to see his newly drafted execution orders.

'Why?' I asked him. Nothing else. I remember. Just 'Kodos. Why?'

'For the good of the colony,' he said.

The killings started the next night.

Elsie ran away that morning. She stole food for her kids and ran to keep them safe. By the time I found her that night, in a field of withering tall grass, she was already dead. So were her children.

All of them.

The food she'd stolen was still in the sack she's used to carry it. No one had even bothered to take it back, because food wasn't the point. It never had been. They shot her and her children trying to run, and the field was red with their blood. It was the only thing I could smell for a long, long time. The copper of their blood and the rotting of their food.

I buried them. It took all night.

But I buried them.

When I got back to The Academy, I was cold and sore and exhausted, filthy, and Kodos met me at the gate. He seemed…pleased. Fond, as though my excursion had been a natural but easily overcome rebellion of childhood.

'Welcome home,' he said.

The Academy was silent, so I asked, 'Where are the others?'

'They tried to leave,' he said. 'They panicked a bit, I'm afraid. It was really disappointing. When they ran, I knew they wouldn't come back. Not like you. So they're gone now. You're the best and only student this school has produced. Well done, my boy.'

He hugged me. I can still feel it, sometimes.

The massacre continued on for another week. I was locked in the compound with Kodos and his closest advisors, all the men and women who were responsible for organizing the executions of more than half their populous. When only ten percent of their black-marked citizens were left, they planned a small feast to celebrate.

I helped prepare it. I helped serve it. I sat at Kodos' right hand as it was eaten.

Ten minutes into the meal, they finally began dying.

I'm not a stupid man, Spock. I know how to make a good poison.

By the time Kodos realized what was happening, and why, and who was its architect, it was too late. He turned to me. 'Why?' he asked. Nothing else. I remember. Just 'Tiberius. Why?'

'For the good of the colony,' I said.

Even after they were dead, I sat in that room, unmoving. Sometime later—and I can never be sure how long it really was because I sort of…wasn't fully aware of my surroundings—Starfleet arrived. They asked what happened; I didn't answer. They asked who I was; I didn't answer. They asked who had poisoned the dinner party.

I didn't answer.

Eventually they decided Kodos had done it, because there was poison in my food too. (It would have been strange if I had a separate meal, after all.) They say he found out Starfleet was coming and poisoned all his most valuable assets so they couldn't be turned against him, couldn't smear his name after death.

Some of the rescue workers suspected the truth, I think. But they never asked.

So you see, Spock? Do you finally see me? This is the monster you want in one of the most prestigious commands in all of Starfleet? I've been killing people since I was a child. I don't regret it. I wish I had done it sooner.

I was on Tarsus, but not like I said. I wasn't a hero. I couldn't save anyone, particularly not the people who mattered. The story I tell people about what I did there is a fabrication built on the analysis other stories, the stories of people who did fight, who were heroes in that time of darkness. Maybe if my family hadn't died, or if I'd been sent to live with my aunt instead of to The Academy and Kodos... I did learn a valuable lesson from it though: You cannot trust someone else to do a job for you. It doesn't matter what. Calculations. Messages. Assassinations. Everything, it's all better if you just do it yourself, because no one else can do it right.

That's why, when I finally got released from my Federation-mandated stay in a mental ward, the first thing I did was find and join the Scaretta family. Because they were a problem that Starfleet and the Federation had failed to solve for the entirety of their existence. And, well…if you want someone killed right.

You have to do it yourself.

Chapter Text

In the great silence that fell after Jim finished telling his story, Spock studied him unabashedly.

He was panting, a ragged sound that seemed to fill the whole room. His cheeks were red, but otherwise his skin was stark white. His whole body trembled finely, which was almost certainly why his hands were curled into fists at his side. The blue of his eyes was fever-bright, manic with the emotions evoked by the memories. His entire body seemed braced as though he were expecting a blow.

Spock resettled his hands at the small of his back and considered his answer. "You appear to be under the misapprehension," he began rationally, "that knowledge of your survival mechanisms-established in a time of great physical, emotional, and mental stress-will, for some reason, change my opinion of your character. Allow me to assure you: It will not." Jim's expression became flatly incredulous, so Spock endeavored to explain his reasoning. "You were a child. Your family had just died in what must have been extremely traumatizing circumstances. Instead of being sent to counseling, you were placed in the path of a madman, who then orchestrated the murder of the only person who managed to establish herself as being of any value at all. You are still, today, not a man who suffers the will of the corrupt for any reason other than to be the key to its eventual destruction. Why should your story shock me? What logic would there be? I now know the name of the place where your ruthlessness grew to become something admired by the mafia. I do not revile your tale. Rather, I am grateful for it."

"The loss of Vulcan hit you harder than I thought," Jim said hoarsely. "You need to get your head examined."

"Illogical," Spock dismissed. "I have already been to see one of the Vulcan healers, and I am, overall, much less impacted by the loss than most others. It could be said that I was lucky. I am in my right mind, Jim. You may believe me when I say nothing of this has changed my original assertion. I will see you captain the Enterprise. If you refuse command, we will follow you, even out of Starfleet. We are not allowing you an option: You are stuck with us."

"Damn you," Jim whispered, neck and shoulders curving in a graceful line of defeat. "God damn you all."

"Perhaps," Spock said.

After a length of silene Jim used to collect himself, he finally looked up with an expression that might have been cut from stone. "Alright," he relented, "I'll do it, since I don't have much choice. I'll take the captaincy, and we'll all go out into the black together. But I still know what I am, even if you're as deluded as the others about it. Our mission will be to seek out new worlds and peoples, won't it?" His smile then was sharp and cruel. "Not all of them will be friendly. Not all of them will be safe. I will protect you from me even if the only way is by throwing myself on an alien sword."

"I will be dead before I permit such harm to come to you again," Spock pointed out.

"Then I guess it's a race." Jim held out his hand. "May the worst man lose."

Spock took his captain's hand, clasping it tightly, and did not tell him what the gesture meant. "You will live," he said instead.

"No," Jim replied with terrible kindness. "But you will."

.

They gave Jim command of the Enterprise in a lavish ceremony. He received his commendation at the same event. At some point between then and the official relaunch of the flagship, he destroyed the award, turning it into a warped lump of metal and blackened ribbon.

Chekov rescued the ruined decoration, cradling it in his hands like a broken bird when he showed it to Spock. The teenager's expression was wounded, as though Jim had hurt him in destroying what should have been an honor.

"I will care for it," Spock said as he lifted it from Chekov's hold, "until Jim is ready to take command of it once more."

Though not fully healed, Chekov at least seemed appeased. "Better you than anyone else," he said, "if it cannot be Jim."

Spock wasn't sure he understood what the navigator meant by that, but he let it pass without comment.

.

The others had believed distance from Earth and the demons of his past would help Jim to find peace. Even after Spock appraised them all of Jim's suicide mission, they clung to that belief. Space would heal Jim; it had to.

They couldn't bear the loss of him.

"We'll just never let him go down without a security team," Sulu said during one of their regular sans-Jim senior crew meetings. "If he always has a protective detail, he can't get into enough trouble to die, right? Right?" he pressed when the others began to look skeptical.

"You're underestimating his ability to get tangled up in all manner of bullshit," McCoy said gruffly. "He might do himself damage tripping on a rock through willpower alone. Plus he does have that little gun still."

"He will not take his life through conventional means," Spock assured them. "That might reflect poorly on his senior staff, particularly the bridge crew and Chief Medical Officer, since we interact with him on such a common basis. He wants to protect us from what he perceives as his intrinsically negative influence, so his death must be accidental and due to his own incompetence."

"Or his valor." Scott shrugged when the others turned to him. "I've seen enough funerals to know a person can die as easily for a crewmate as despite him. It's a way to preserve the reputation we've put such effort into, anyway."

"Then how do we protect him?" Chekov asked a little desperately. "How do we save him?"

"Those are two very different problems with very different solutions," Uhura pointed out. "We protect him the way Sulu suggested, by using the security team, by having them prioritize his protection as a matter of course, like it's second nature. We make them as close to obsessed with his health and wellbeing as we can."

"And the second problem?" Sulu asked.

She shrugged. "That one's up to Jim. He has to be the one to decide he wants to stay with us."

"How?" McCoy demanded, shifting in frustrated little motions in his seat at the ready room's conference table. "We've been trying for years now to make him sink his roots with us. It's not working. He's not doing it. In fact it's making him pull away harder!"

"We must do more than arrange a harbor for him," Spock said, coming to the realization only as he articulated it for the rest of Jim's support system. "We must build again what he lost in a fire as a child, what Tarsus taught him to shun, what the Scaretta family prevented him from finding. We must make this place his home."

"So now we're back to how," McCoy snapped.

"Yes," Spock agreed, "we are. I do not have an answer. I do not know what home would be to him. But home, regardless of what it is or might be, will be the second phase of this plan to keep Jim with us. The first is refusing to let him die. To accomplish this end, we will utilize the security team, of course. However, we will never be able to expect them to be as devoted to this cause as we ourselves, so we ourselves will have to see it. He will never go to the surface of a planet, or meet a new peoples, or attend a formal function, without one or more of us present at all times. We are used to his tricks," the Vulcan said, "and, more importantly, we will be aware that he has tricks in the first place. We will be on guard and ready and with him. And in that way, we will maintain his existence."

"Just stay with him and he'll be fine," Jim's CMO sneered. "Sure. That'll be easy. I didn't know Vulcans could be naively optimistic. Color me educated!"

"No," Chekov insisted, "it will work. We will make it work. It is not a good plan," he admitted with a guilty glance at Spock, "but it appears to be the only we have, since your plan of keeping him in a medically induced coma in the medbay is what might be considered infeasible."

"And unethical," Sulu reminded him. "Don't forget massively unethical. I can't even believe we're still talking about it."

"This isn't getting us anywhere," Uhura interrupted, planting her foot on the edge of Sulu's chair and giving it a good shove. "The plan we have is the best we have to work with for now. We can develop a better one if we figure out what a better one with look like, but since that probably isn't going to happen between now and our first mission planetside, we go with this. He always has a security detail, one or more of us is always part of that detail, med staff is always on hand. Okay?"

"This can only in tears," McCoy muttered to himself.

"As long as it doesn't end in death," Uhura replied anyway, "tears are fine with me."

.

Seven planets and two first contacts later, Spock was beginning to reevaluate the feasibility of his plan.

"I don't understand how this is happening," the Head of Security, a man named Giotto, said, scrubbing both hands through his hair in frustration. "I send my best people with him-my very best people-and he comes back from a survey mission with lacerations-lacerations, Commander Spock! The planet is practically made of bubbles, what in the hell cut him!"

"I will investigate this matter," Spock replied. "Rest assured, I do not think the issue lies with your people. The captain has a...particular inclination toward the improbable, which in this case is a danger to him. We are continuing to develop strategies to counteract this phenomenon. Thank you for your continued support in maintaining his life."

"Continued support my ass," the other man spat. "Protecting the captain is our prime objective and we're failing it. You let me know what you develop, but I'm not waiting around for it. I'm putting my people through their paces until nothing-not even a goddamned bubble-touches Captain Kirk. We will not allow so much as one more drop of blood to be spilt on our watch, or I'm busting everyone back down to ensign, myself included." Giotto snapped a sharp salute for Spock, turned on his heel, and stalked angrily away.

Spock watched him go with a sense of caution satisfaction. Having an entire department trained to protect his well-being to an almost manic degree would doubtlessly annoy Jim, but the captain's crew was clearly getting tired of his troubling penchant for injury.

If Jim didn't want his people developing psychological ticks in response to the suggestion that he might visit a new planet, all he had to do was abandon his current behaviors. If he chose to continue along his current path, well, then, more than four hundred other members of Starfleet would doubtlessly have some visceral reactions to repeated wounding of their captain. It was really all in Jim's hands.

Rather than returning to his quarters to begin the process of writing up yet another report regarding Captain Kirk's reckless exploits (which was always a challenge because of how much delicate phrasing it took), Spock took the turbolift down to medbay. Furious security personnel aside, he didn't really know the extent of Jim's wounds. Lacerations could mean any of a variety of injuries, to literally any part of Jim's fragile human body. The level and quality of McCoy's ranting as Spock approached the main doors indicated damage that looked worse than it was, likely to a non-vital bit of Jim's anatomy.

So not as bad as the previous mission then.

"Oh come on, Bones," he heard Jim complain. "It's just a flesh wound, calm down!"

"Calm down?" McCoy sputtered in outrage. "Damn it, Jim! I'm a doctor, not a saint. I don't just calm down when my patients can't even be trusted to follow a simple course of antibiotics!"

"I told you that was a one-time mistake," Jim said, sounding annoyed now. "I'm not gonna get you brought up on charged of medical malpractice, Jesus."

"So that's where you draw the line, huh? You'll trash your own life, but not at the cost of my medical licence?"

"Well when you phrase it that way, yeah, that's about it."

"I should have you shut in with the ship's counselor all the time."

"Do it," Jim challenged, "see what happens."

Spock stepped in then, as much to prevent McCoy's outraged undertaking of the bet as to not be caught lurking. "Captain," he said in calm greeting. Then he inclined his head a degree to McCoy, who was wrapping Jim's left arm, wrist to elbow, in bandages soaked with antibiotics. "Doctor."

"Hobgoblin," McCoy returned with a facetious little nod of greeting. He finished with the medicinal bandages and began to wrap a protective layer over them. Doubtlessly he'd selected neon pink as part of his ongoing mission to irk Jim in little ways whenever possible as retaliation for the stress of Jim's death wish. "I suppose you've had a chat with Giotto?"

"Yes," Spock agreed. He leveled a bland look on Jim, who probably knew what Giotto had said and so made a disgruntled face. "The security department is doing drills," he informed them anyway. "The entire department, to be more specific. Lieutenant-Commander Giotto seemed quite instant that they, as he might phrase it, 'step up their game'. He would not accept my assurance that the fault was not with his people."

"And I'm sure you tried so hard to convince him," Jim muttered.

"No," Spock said, "there would be no logic to dissuading his newfound resolve. It serves my purposes as well as his. I am only glad I did not have to broach the idea myself."

"Serves your purposes?" Jim wondered. "In what way?"

"You live," Spock said, "still. It is the stated mission of the security team and the unwritten rule of your command crew that your life must be preserved, despite your best efforts to the contrary."

"You think these are my best efforts?"

"Within your self-imposed restrictions, yes."

"I don't see how this is helping," McCoy grumbled. "You'll just make him want to try harder."

"Nah," Jim dismissed, "I've done this before. Not to myself, granted, but it can't be much different than arranging it for someone else. There's an art, really, that can't be rushed."

'We're talking about your life," McCoy said helplessly. "Please, Jim, just stop this!"

"I can't," his friend replied. "You mean too much to me. Give it a few years, Bones, you'll see."

"You're insane," McCoy hissed.

"That is neither accurate nor particularly useful," Spock pointed out. "The captain's reasoning is perfectly rational, if flawed in its premise. The goal is to help him accept and correct that flaw. Insults are irrational."

"See?" Jim teased McCoy, who gritted his teeth and stormed out of the room muttering about "damned fool idiots".

"There is no logic in your treatment of the doctor," Spock added. "You are cruel to him despite your stated goal of somehow saving him from future pain."

"I am saving him," Jim said. "It'll save all of you."

"Your reasoning is flawed," Spock said again.

"Prove it," his captain said calmly.

"I will," Spock promised. "If you will give me the time."

"You know I can't. The longer I stay, the more dangerous it becomes."

"I know no such thing. You have stated repeatedly that we must be saved by your death, but you have failed utterly to explain your reasoning in anything approaching a convincing manner."

"Give me time," Jim echoed.

"I would give you all the time that was mine to give," Spock said, "if I thought you would take it."

Jim shook his head almost helplessly, getting up from the exam table at last. "You're such a smart guy. I don't understand how you're not getting this solution as the logical one."

"Because it is not," Spock insisted. "But I do not need your belief on this matter. We will demonstrate its vitality. You will see."

"I'll see you around, Spock," Jim said in parting, neither acknowledging nor rebutting the point.

It was better than Spock had fared the last time they had this conversation.

"Baby steps," McCoy called from his office. He appeared in the doorway, leaning his weight against it in a manner intended to project casual disinterest. "So what's the plan for demonstrating the validity of your claim?"

"I and a medical professional of your choosing-"

"Me," McCoy interrupted. "If it's to do with Jim, I'll take my own work over anyone else's any day."

"You and I," Spock amended accordingly, "will accompany Jim every time he leaves the ship from this moment forth. Every mission, every event, every meeting, every first contact or survey expedition, we will be there, to support or save him. Given enough time, our tenacity itself must convince him. He will see for himself and accept that we will not, under any circumstances, abandon him."

"The others will want in on this," McCoy pointed out.

Spock inclined his head. "And they will, whenever we can defend the presence of additional crew. He will never have another opportunity to throw himself upon the cruelty of a foreign world or its people. We will be there, and we shall not allow it."

"Smother him with kindness." The doctor nodded. "I like it. Very southern of you. We'll make a real boy of you yet!"

Spock fought against the all too human impulse to roll his eyes and instead left without comment.

.

They arrived at their next new world to explore less than a week later.

It went rather more poorly than usual.

Which, actually, ended up working in the bridge crew's favor.

(Jim didn't much care for it though.)

.

Spock woke up.

Almost immediately, he knew something wasn't right. It was a vague sense, but persistent. He sat up in his bed, surveying the room thoughtfully.

It was his own room, wide and open as Vulcan architecture tended to be. The large windows looked out over the desert, sand on the horizon shining bright red in the sunrise.

Sunrise. Perhaps that was the issue, the source of the lingering sense of...

If the sun was rising, he was already late for his day.

Just as he was thinking about it, his mother stepped into the room. "Good morning, Spock," she said in her soft, customary manner. She smiled, and even that seemed...wrong, somehow. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, Mother," he said, calm but cautious. "Why have I slept so late?"

"You aren't late at all," she laughed, walking closer to sit beside him. "That's just your excitement talking."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You don't have to be up early for another week." She stroked his cap of dark hair, casual with her affection as she had not been since before he started attending school.

...Oh.

Spock looked down at his hands, finally realizing how small they were, how large the room seemed, how young his mother appeared. "I cannot be more than three," he observed.

Amanda's expression grew concerned. "Spock? What do you mean? Your birthday was last month. Do you feel alright?" She touched his forehead, and he permitted it, shutting his eyes to increase his concentration.

Nothing. She did not register to his telepathy at all.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"Spock," Amanda said pleadingly. "What you mean? You're home!"

"I am the First Officer aboard the Starfleet flagship Enterprise," he said to the room, ignoring the fabrication of his mother. As he spoke, his body expanded, filled out. Grew up. "My absence will be noticed, if it has not been already. You will release me from this illusion or suffer the consequences."

Amanda vanished.

Terminating program, the world whispered.

Spock woke up.

"It's about damned time," McCoy snapped, striding over to his side. He waved a tricorder over Spock with a deeply furrowed brow matching his dark scowl. "You've been asleep for six fucking hours."

"Where is Jim?" he asked. McCoy fussed with his readouts but didn't reply, so Spock wrapped one hand around the doctor's wrist. "Where," he said again, "is Jim."

McCoy glanced back over his shoulder wordlessly, and Spock finally began to catalog the rest of the room.

It was a slate grey color, metallic but somehow dulled. The room was circular, roughly twenty feet across, with no visible doors or windows. The ceiling, forty feet above their heads, was a bank of lights shining brightly upon them. There were no decorations, no furniture other than two reclining chairs strongly resembling examination tables from McCoy's medbay. Spock was sitting in one chair, feet propped on the step at the bottom, arms supported in a relaxed position at his sides.

Jim was in the other.

Spock leapt out of his chair, striding quickly to Jim's side. He appeared to be sleeping, body cradled by the chair, expression calm in a way Spock has never seen. His respiration and heartbeat seemed normal, in all he seemed fine, but he couldn't be sure. (According to McCoy, Spock had been sleeping for six hours. And Jim?)

He was reaching for Jim's temple when McCoy caught his sleeve.

"We don't know what's going on here," the doctor murmured harshly. "We don't know how we even got to wherever 'here' is. You didn't wake up no matter what I tired, and you know how strange that is for Vulcan physiology. Whoever they are, they have to be messin' with his brain somehow, just like they were messin' with yours to keep you under. I don't need you muckin' about in there where I can't help. What if something goes wrong? I might not be able to bring you back out, never mind Jim."

Spock thought over McCoy's objections for a while before carefully curling his fingers into a fist, drawing away from Jim. "I thought I was back in my childhood home," he said calmly. "Not just visiting, but as a child again. A version of my mother was projected into the vision, and she behaved exactly as she had when I was that age in reality. They reproduced the environment, important figures, and the circumstances exactly as they were. To do so, they must have pulled those factors from my mind. I felt no intrusion. When I realized what was happening, I demanded to be let go. A voice said 'terminate program', and I awoke."

"So it's a program of some type," McCoy mused, studying Jim with a professional eye. "I'm worried we can't see any machinery associated with it."

"I suspect the chair is the machinery," Spock said. "Or the room itself, or a combination of those and perhaps something else we cannot see. We are doubtlessly being observed in some manner, thus my prompt release. I suspect they will release Jim in a similar way if he becomes aware that what he is experiencing isn't real."

"And I'm just sure you have no suggestions for how to get in there and help him wake up," the doctor drawled dryly.

Spock flexed the fingers of his right hand. "It need only be a surface touch. I would not violate him by searching his thoughts. I mean only to render assistance to our captain."

"Your powers of persuasion bullshit are just mystifyin'. We sure could have used that talent back at the academy."

"I was absent then," the Vulcan said. "Allow me to make up for that absence by rendering assistance now."

"Fine," McCoy sighed. "I don't see as we have any other choice. But I'm monitorin' your vitals, and if anythin' goes sideways I'm grabbin' you and thinking loud, terrible thoughtsuntil you wake up."

"That is acceptable," Spock agreed easily. He stepped close to Jim, reaching out to touch the fingers of his right hand to Jim's psy-points. A faint glimmer of pure Jim tingled up his arm to settle warmly in his thoughts.

...Perhaps this was not the wisest of ideas.

"I'm ready when you are," McCoy grumbled.

Then the moment for doubt was over, and Spock fell into the mind of James Tiberius Kirk.

.

He woke lying in a field. For a moment, he stayed there, still and quiet, waiting to settle. Briefly he took stock.

He was Spock son of Sarek, previously of Vulcan, First Officer aboard the Starfleet flagship Enterprise. His captain was Jim Kirk. They were on an unknown planet, had been on surface less than a minute before they were kidnapped from the rest of the landing party in some as-yet unknown fashion. He had woken in a something like a dream, then woken from that once he realized the trick of it.

This was another something like a dream. Jim's dream.

But where was Jim?

Spock stood and realized he was in a field of some sort, entirely surrounded by waist-high Earth vegetation. It didn't resemble anything Spock had studied, so he set its classification aside as something to ask of Jim later. The sun was already moving low toward the horizon, and Spock, not having any better ideas on how to find his captain, followed it. If this were reality, he might have walked in the wrong direction. It wasn't reality though.

It was a dream.

"What are you doing here?"

The unexpected voice caused Spock to blink in surprise. When he looked again, he was standing by a road, the field so far gone he could only barely see it in the distance. A boy stood before him, blond hair tousled in all directions by the wind. His blue eyes studied Spock curiously, cataloging his every move for review, and he was so young but Spock would always know those eyes.

"Jim," Spock said in casual greetings. "What is the plant growing in that field?"

The boy Jim Kirk, who could not be more than twelve, glanced over his shoulder in the direction Spock indicated. He shrugged absently. "Just weeds, mostly. Tall grass. No one's tended the field since my father died," he added, turning back to Spock. "Marc wants to try planting something next spring though. Melons or berries or corn or something, I dunno, we have to do more research first. Do I know you?"

"Yes," Spock said easily. "Is Marc a friend?"

Jim eyed him suspiciously. "You know me but you don't know Marc? He's my stepfather, dude. He and my mom got married when I was, like, six. Where have you been?"

"Far away. I am here now, though. Do you not know me?" he asked.

For a moment, he thought he saw recognition bright in Jim's eyes. His captain shown out of the face of his childhood self.

Then it was gone.

"I dunno," Jim said with another shrug. "Are you one of Mom's coworkers from the fleet?"

"That is not entirely inaccurate."

"You should come to dinner then."

Spock studied his young face. "Why?"

"Mom will be there. You'll want to see it."

"You mean I will want to see her?" Spock suggested.

Jim looked away, toward the house in the distance, and stood at perfect parade rest. "No," he said flatly. "You'll want to see this." He turned his attention back to Spock, face grave and drawn, mouth a flat line. "It's the last supper."

Spock blinked, and they were seated at the dinner table. When he first glanced over, Jim was an adult in command gold, watching his family arranged around the meal with an expression of deep pain. It smoothed away in an instant, and he was a child again.

His family carried on as though nothing had happened. They spoke to and interacted with Jim, but Spock was clearly not an active part of the programming. No one but Jim seemed to realized he was even there.

"Jim," he said, low and slightly imploring, "explain this to me so I might understand."

"It's the same," young Jim said. He blinked into his adult form, hand gripping the edge of the table. "We eat and go to bed, and I can't stop it or make it better, make it unhappen. I'm trying, I've been trying since- We eat," he said, a child again, and shut his eyes. "We go to bed." In a heartbeat, there were there, Jim snuggled under a pile of blankets in the dark of night, Spock standing against the wall by the window. The whole house was hushed with sleep. "And then-"

Downstairs, a door creaked open. People moved into the house, three of them by the sound of it, men with heavy but quiet footsteps. Spock felt his heart rate spike and tried to move closer to Jim's bed. He couldn't.

He could move no part of himself.

He was an observer.

"We eat and go to bed and then," Jim's adult voice whispered from every corner of the house. One set of footsteps crept into the room across the hall. Another continued further, slipping into the master bedroom. The third stopped by Jim's door.

Light flashed under the door accompanied by a muffled pop. It happened two more times. The knowledge of what he was witnessing came to him from Jim's own consciousness.

Muzzle flash.

Gunshots.

Assassinations.

Jim's door opened.

The third man stepped inside, brandishing an old Earth firearm equipped with what Jim's mind recognized as a silencer. He approached Jim's sleeping form, leveling the weapon on the lump of child under blankets. He pulled the trigger in a smooth, unhesitating gesture. The muzzle flash lit up his face.

Boss Anthony. Younger. Slimmer.

But Anthony all the same.

Jim's young body jerked upon impact, and he cried out weakly. Anthony looked uncertain, lifting the gun again as though he would shoot again.

One of the other hitmen stuck his head in the room. "You do it?"

"Yeah, but I think the kid ain't dead yet. I must'a missed his head with him under all those blankets, lemme do 'im one more time."

"Forget it, we're torching the place anyway. The fire'll get him."

"Hurry it up," the third said from the hallway. "We're tryin' to send a message here, and that message won't get through if we're nabbed."

"Fuckin' rat Marco," Anthony muttered. "No one'll go Federation's evidence on us ever again."

"Not if we do this right," the hitman in the hall snapped. "Let's go."

Spock blinked, and he was outside. The house was on fire, flames pouring out of the windows hot and fast and angry. Adult Jim was at his side, watching his childhood home.

"They didn't suffer," he said. "The coroner told me the bullets got them first. They didn't suffer.

"I did."

Jim was gone, then he as a child, covered in blood, coughing deeply and pushing himself out of the second story window to escape the blaze. He fell to the ground with a horrifying thud.

Emergency vehicle alarms blared in the distance, fire and paramedic teams rushing to the site.

Jim, Spock knew, would survive.

But he didn't know how.

He blinked. Jim was back. They stood together while trained professionals swarmed the building, trying to save it, then trying to prevent the spread of fire once saving it was clearly not an option. They saw young Jim get noticed, saw the frantic effort to save him too.

FBI agents arrived in a set of dark black vehicles. They took over the rescue efforts, transferring Jim's care from a local hospital to one of the state-of-the-art Federation hospitals in the nearby city. The emergency vehicle containing Jim left at a frantic pace.

Adult Jim and Spock stayed where they were, watching Jim's father's house burn to its foundation.

"Marc was in witness relocation," Jim said. "Took me ages to figure it out, way longer than I should have. I didn't remember Anthony or any of that until much later. Until Tarsus, actually, when I was sitting around that table watching Kodos die. His real name was Marco Scaretta. He moved into the area to hide from the mob after promising to testify. Marc Anderson, if you can believe it. He married Mom after he survived the trial, figured he was safe." Jim's mouth ticked in a bitter smile.

"He was wrong."

Spock blinked.

They stood in daylight at the side of the road, a large house far off in the distance.

It had started again.

How many times had it played through already?

"Jim," Spock said, reaching out to grab both of his captain's shoulders in a desperate grip. He blinked, and Jim was a child. "Jim, you must stop this. It is not real, you cannot change what happened. Do not let this program torture you any further, demand to be released and you will. Tell the program to terminate. Please, Jim, I came to rescue you. Come back with me, Doctor McCoy is waiting. Do you remember McCoy, your Georgia? He met you at the bar, we all did. You have had your revenge against the man who killed your family."

"I took them down," the child Jim Kirk said in a flat, dead voice. "It doesn't matter if I go down too. They're gone. They can't set anyone else's house on fire."

"No," Spock agreed, curling one hand around Jim's delicate neck to cup the back of his head. "You stopped them, Jim, you won. Do you understand?"

"Do you?" Jim asked. "They killed my family and shot me, set the house on fire, set all of us on fire. I didn't die. Everyone else did but I couldn't. The Federation failed to keep Marc and his family safe, and we burned because of it. They wanted to make up for it, so as soon as I got out of the hospital, they hid me in a place they thought I could be happy, a school where I would be challenged. I left the hospital and went to-"

"Tarsus," Spock breathed, shutting his eyes. He bent forward to touch his forehead to Jim's. "You went to Tarsus, and learned not to trust the abilities of others. You returned to Earth and found the Scaretta family still operating, just as they had. And so you went to war with them, a silent war, one they did not even know they were losing. You met us, and it did not matter if we were friends because you were still at war. And then I held you responsible for finishing that war at the expense of my pride. Oh, Jim.

"I failed you."

In a heartbeat, he was still pressed to Jim, but no longer bent over. They were nearly of a height.

"You aren't the one who failed," Jim said. "I am. I'm always failing. Even when I win, I fail, and everything gets shot up and burned all over again. I'm tired of it, Spock. I'm tired."

Spock opened his eyes and pulled Jim close, trying to hide him from the program. All around them, images skipped. The field, the road, the house. Dinner, bed, and then. Bullets, fire, falling. Again.

And again.

And Spock could not stop it.

He could try to get them out though. "Stay with me," he murmured to Jim, holding him tight through the chaos. "I am with you. Outside this place, McCoy is waiting. You have a ship with a loyal crew. Uhura is monitoring you always, with Scott and Sulu beside her. Chekov has already changed the world to accommodate your place in it, do not ask him to survive with that space unfilled. We are with you now, always. You found us in the bar and let us stay, even though you were at war with the world. Now that the war is over, let us keep you. Let us find you in the ashes and help you stand once more. We are with you; I am here. Stay with us."

Jim lifted his arms to grip the back of Spock's science blue shirt. The world went still around them. "I don't know how," he whispered. "I wasn't supposed to survive this far. It should have been the gun, then the fire, then Tarsus. Then I chose my own end in the Scarettas. Now even that's gone. I don't know how to live without an end. I don't know how to stay."

"Then let us teach you. We can show you what you missed. Give yourself to us. We will build a home for you that cannot burn."

"Everything burns," Jim gasped.

"No," Spock promised. He moved back just far enough to cradle Jim's face in his hands. "Stay with us. And nothing will burn, not ever again."

"Please." Jim shut his eyes tight. "Don't lie. Please."

"I am a Vulcan," Spock said imperiously. "Vulcans do not lie."

Jim laughed, a wet, broken sound. "Alright," he said on shuddery breath. "Alright. Teach me how to live without burning."

Spock crushed him close. "I will, Jim. We all will. Come home."

"Program," Jim called into the world. "Terminate."

They woke.

Chapter Text

Jim opened his eyes.

Wherever they were, it was grey. And chilly. Georgia was fussing at him, as usual, brandishing a tricorder in place of his habitual barrage of hyposprays. Spock was-

Warm.

The Vulcan's fingers were still pressed against Jim's temple and cheek, and he had to fight a strong impulse to push his face further into that soft hand.

I would not mind if you did, he heard murmured in his thoughts.

Jim shut his eyes again, shaking his head minutely. Stop, he thought at the gentle sense of other in his mind. I'm awake now. Time to go.

Spock sat up, retracting his hand (and his mind) with a faint impression of reluctance. "It is satisfying to see you functioning properly again, Captain," he said blandly.

Jim snorted, but Georgia cut him off with a snarled, "I believe the trained medical professional will say when he's functioning properly, thanks so much for your input though."

"I think," Jim said, trying to sit up even while Georgia shoved him back into the chair. Jim wrinkled his nose at his doctor, who ignored him with practiced ease and began to take his vitals manually, comparing them to the data on the tricorder. "I think," the captain continue to his First, "that our priority should be to get out of here, find out who's holding us and why, determine whether or not they're dangerous, and get back to our ship."

"Aye, Captain," Spock agreed.

"Bones?" Jim prompted.

"I will agree," he said grumpily, taking a step back, "very provisionally, that you two do seem fine."

"Aw, us two, you do care about Spock."

"You shut up," Bones said, stabbing a finger at him. "Spock has given me less trouble in the whole time I've known him than you give me in a slow week. And yes, that's includin' the period of time when he lost his damned mind. He might be a green-blooded, sour-tempered, overly-logical sonofabitch, but at least he's not on a suicide mission that is-ironically I might add-gonna drive the rest of us into an early grave."

"About that," Jim began, heaving himself onto his feet.

They were interrupted by a door opening abruptly in the wall. Jim's hand jerked back in an instinctive grab for the gun he usually kept tucked at the small of his back.

He'd left it on the Enterprise. The transportation techs could tell when it was there, and their questions were hard to answer, especially with the whole crew perpetually on edge from Jim's misadventures.

Damn.

What had to be their captors stepped into the room. It was a trio of aliens, all angles and dark, humanoid but tall and so thin. Their limbs seemed stretched, elongated, their fingers delicate nearly to the point of fragility. Fine cloths dyed in rich tones draped over their bodies in intricate twists. Their eyes were huge and almond-shaped, pale as nothing else on their bodies was.

The alien standing point stretched one hand out toward them, palm up, causing a slight scuffle as Jim and Spock both tried to step forward to protect their small group. It curled all but its forefinger into a spindly fist, until it was pointing at Jim. Spock took advantage of Jim's surprise by shoving Jim back behind him. "You need not devise a method to get out of here," it said in an airy, light voice set in an unexpected low octave. "We see your awakening and release you. Who we are is the Taina. We hold you to examine your essence in our point of turning. We are not dangerous. We will return you to your ship."

The Starfleet personnel stared at them. "... Okay," Jim said at last. "That was... informative? Thanks, we usually have to- Uh, well, it usually isn't that easy."

"The Taina do not set out to cause harm."

"Uh, okay." Jim glanced at Spock, then at Georgia, neither of whom seemed all that excited about how forthcoming their... hosts... appeared to be. "If you're in the question-answering mood, maybe you can humor me here a bit. What is a point of turning?"

The spokesalien shifted its hand until the long, fine finger was indicating one of the chairs Jim and Spock had been in. "The point of turning is a psychic program used to locate and examine moments in life when the direction is changed, permanently."

"Why did you use it on us?"

"To satisfy our curiosity."

"... Not very forthcoming, are you? Okay then, why were you curious?"

"We have not seen your like before. We were curious to see what you would have as points of turning."

"And Bones?" Jim indicated his doctor with a jerk of his hand. "Why didn't you examine his... point of turning?"

"Georgia-Bones McCoy is your physical health monitor and correction specialist. We do not know your physiology. It seemed prudent to leave him unexamined as a precaution."

Jim felt his jaw clench. "How do you know those names."

The Taina brushed one finger against its own hairless head. "You give the knowledge to us. We do not seek it. It simply is."

"Passive telepaths," Spock observed, the tight clench of his fingers behind his back giving the lie to the utter calm of his voice. "Do not worry. It should only be a surface touch, Captain."

"That's real comforting," Georgia muttered. "Thanks tons. I'm content as a cat in a sunbeam now."

"How did you take us?" Jim asked.

"We detected movement energy. We had not detected it before. The results of the energy were moved to this location for observation."

"So you picked up the energy signal from when we beamed down and... what? Teleported us again? Here?"

"That is not inaccurate," the Taina said.

"Then why haven't our people beamed us out of here?" Georgia demanded. "They know we're missin' by now, they have to. Why are we still here?"

The Taina motioned to the high ceiling. "Our building materials are synthesized to prevent extraction."

"Well that makes sense," Jim said dryly. "Otherwise they'd just be... like, teleporting each other all over the place without anyone's consent. And that wouldn't be bothersome."

"You are disturbed by our method of transportation," the Taina observed.

Jim clenched his jaw again.

"The captain does not object to your method of transportation," Spock corrected. "It is similar to a particularly common method of transportation among our own people, as you must have concluded from our arrival upon your world. Rather, he objects now-and in most circumstances-to intelligent life forms being moved against their will or without their consent. Had you asked it of us, many among our crew would have willingly volunteered to sit in your machines and provide you with data. However it occurs on your world, the 'points of turning', as you call them, are rarely benign for residents of the Federation of Planets. By taking us without our agreement and subjecting us to this process, you may have unwittingly brought to conscious thought wounds from the past that can only cause more distress. Regardless of your intent, it was... quite thoughtless to inflict upon a human. You might have done grievous harm."

"Thank you, Commander Spock," Jim said shortly. "That will be sufficient."

Spock settled beside him, projecting an aura of calm that Jim saw right through. He seemed, to Jim (who knew him), a suppressed type of satisfied, which was... fair. He'd managed to speak his mind, anyway. Why not be satisfied?

"We meant no harm," the Taina said. "We will guide you from the building. Your crew may retrieve you. We will not request further contact."

"I'm sure that's not necessary," Jim said. "Completely severing contact doesn't serve either of our best intentions. Our purpose here is discover new worlds and peoples; you fit both those profiles. We may not have started out on the right foot, but that doesn't mean we can't learn from our... assumptions and move forward. Starfleet is all about coming to understand differences." He offered the aliens his best smile, which might or might not help him, depending on cultural norms. "No one was hurt, and Spock was right. Most of the science department would probably love to take part of your... project. Some of my crew might be just as interested as you in finding out what their points of turning were. What do you say? Start over with us." He stepped forward, keeping the thought of handshakes, and what they were, what they meant to humans, at the front of his mind. "I'm Captain Kirk of the Starfleet flagship Enterprise. These are my crewmates, Chief Medical Officer McCoy and First Officer Spock. It's nice to meet you."

The Taina stepped forward, carefully wrapping its long, slender fingers around Jim's hand. "I am H'nell, what you might call Chief Scientist of Taina. I am the First Leader of my people.

"It is also nice to meet you."

.

It became one of the most lucrative trade agreements in Starfleet history.

For one thing, the Taina homeworld was rich in minerals the Federation always needed, including dilithium crystals. Even more advantageous were the terms the Taina set in order for the Federation to be allowed to mine the rich veins: They wanted Federation citizens to visit, and they wanted access to the technology needed to travel the stars. The Taina had known for generations that other peoples existed in the stars, but so few of them were interested in the engineering of space-worthy vessels that they had barely broken free of their own atmosphere. Starfleet had ships but needed dilithium; the Taina had dilithium aplenty but no means of using it.

They were, to put it plainly, a match made in the stars.

Another beneficial aspect to the partnership was the Taina's fascination with the multitude of peoples and cultures represented on the Enterprise. Jim's crew, somewhat predictably, were equally fascinated by both the Taina and their particular brand of technology. Humans had a natural desire to peer into their own consciousness, and that seemed to be a focus the Taina were singularly well-equipped to explore. The ship's psychologists, perhaps more than anyone else, spent hours in close discussion with the Taina, trying to see if their technology could be adapted to help patients who otherwise couldn't be reached by modern Federation advancements.

Jim didn't sit in on those conversations.

Spock, meanwhile, always seemed to be around, hovering at the edge of Jim's vision even when they weren't on duty. He ate all his meals near Jim, until Jim just got in the habit of making him eat with him, and then that became the norm. Georgia joined them when he could, but the medical team's obsession with the Taina was keeping the CMO very busy.

When Jim was exercising, Spock "happened to be passing by" and offered to spot for him, then volunteered to continue his hand-to-hand training. When Jim was in the rec room or observation decks for a bit of reading or just to hide from increasingly-rapturous reports from his young crew, Spock was either already there or arrived shortly after, ostensibly to meditate.

The whole thing was embarrassingly transparent.

"I'm not going to disappear," Jim finally said one night while they sat together off-shift, settled on the observation deck and watching the planet-the Taina called it Valstek-turn beneath them. Spock straightened an impossible degree beside him, doing the Vulcan equivalent of stiffening because he knew he was caught. Jim glanced at his profile for a moment before turning back to Valstek. "What I told you before, in the... dream. The point of turning. I said I'd give you time to teach me. To help me stop burning. I don't know if you can do it," he admitted. "I think it might be too late. I've been burning too long. Hell, I've been actively adding to the fire for... Well. A long time. Which, I don't even know why I'm telling you, you saw for yourself. But. I promised, didn't I? That I'd let you try? So I won't go. Even though it'd be easy, it would be so easy, I don't think you even realize- That's not the point," Jim said, sighing as he slouched into the wall they were sitting against. "The point is, you can stop following me around. I won't leave until you teach me or unless you fail. So calm down, okay?"

After a pause, Spock said, "I do not know how you discovered my observations. By my calculations based upon average levels of situational awareness in Terrans, I was quite subtle."

"Well, sure," Jim agreed with a companionable shrug, "but I'm not the average Terran, am I? I spent a good percentage of my life hunted in one way or another. I had to increase my situational awareness by a lot just to survive, never mind the levels of paranoia it took to trick all those assholes for so long."

Spock made a small noise of agreement. "Jim," he began in a low, cautious voice. "If I may pose a question."

"Shoot," Jim said. He winced a little when Spock stared at him in blatant (for a Vulcan) disapproval. "Sorry, bad colloquialism for this situation. Uh, go ahead. Ask away."

"Before, when you told me about Tarsus IV, you implied that you joined the mafia shortly after you returned to Earth and were released from the mental health facility. But you could not have been more than fourteen or fifteen at that time."

"Ah." Jim stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankle. "You probably want to know how I could join the mob at fifteen-nearly sixteen though, they kept me a while-and still have been an FBI agent. Which I was," he added, recrossing his legs. "That wasn't a lie. I got out on my own at just about sixteen and started setting up a cover as a street-smart runaway looking to escape an abusive father."

"Jimmy Georgeson," Spock said. "The last name from our confrontation in the ready room that I did not recognize."

"Yeah," Jim agreed with another shrug. "Not very subtle, I know, but it was the first one I made up on my own. The Federation guys said the trick to a good alias is to make it sound like something you're used to replying to. Like with Tiberius James. They were already part of my name, so I was used to hearing them. Jimmy worked because, y'know, Jim. And Georgeson-"

"Son of George," Spock said. "It was cleverly done."

"Nah." Jim shook his head a bit. "It was just what I had at the time. Anyway, street waif, hungry and desperate but not so desperate as to go home. Desperate, in fact, not to have to go home. The perfect mark for the mob. All I had to do was 'accidentally' fall into being helpful to one of the soldiers once or twice-warn them about police I'd called to be at a heist, protecting a package they dropped because I cut their bags, that sort of thing-before I got noticed. And once I got noticed, well, it was really only a matter of time before I proved my worth. I'm kind of good with tech, and even better with bullshit, which made me excellent at being in the mafia. Eventually I got in close with Anthony, who had no brains at all, and made him see I was the ticket to his place as underboss. It was Anthony who eventually made me family."

"Then how did you become part of the Federation Bureau of Intelligence?" Spock wondered. "Surely they would not accept a fully fledged member of the mob into their ranks."

"No," Jim agreed with a wicked grin. "That's why the day after my eighteenth birthday, not long before the offer to become family went through, I found an FBI agent and laid out my plan."

"To infiltrate the Scaretta family?"

"Yes, and to do it as a sworn member of the FBI."

"How?" Spock demanded.

"That's the trick," Jim laughed. "I was willing to just go as Federation's evidence, but Agent Douglas-"

"The agent at your side during the trial?"

"The very same," Jim agreed. "Anyway, Douglas brought me to Ross, who wasn't director yet but was on her way, and they put me in the FBI class closest to graduation. I fed Anthony a line about having to go, uh... tie up some loose ends with my old family, if you get my meaning."

Spock nodded. "He thought you were going to kill your abusive family as a final end to that part of your life."

"Yeah. So I got a month away, got trained and sworn in, and went back with an FBI-sanctioned fake news clip about the mysterious and brutal slaying of a pillar of my old community, Marc Georgeson."

"You were close to the truth with that."

Jim nodded. "Yes, but like I said, Anthony was dumb. He bought it. And I was welcomed into the Scaretta family as a full member of the FBI, with Douglas as my contact and Ross as our supervisor and, eventually, a whole team of lab guys to help with details. So what we said in the trial was true. Well, that part, at least." He shrugged again. "And that's the whole story."

Spock sat beside him, still and contemplative, considering what he's said. "What you have told me," he said carefully, "and, for that matter, what I have... seen." He shifted minutely beside Jim. "You said I am allowed to teach you how not to burn. You also mentioned the others, but-"

"It's alright." Jim bumped Spock's shoulder with his own. "I never thought you would try on your own, and they won't be much help if they only know pieces. You can tell them. Spock, you can tell them. The others. What you saw. I mean, maybe not all of it, some of it's not pretty, in fact I'd go so far as to call it ugly, but- Yeah. Whatever you think they'll need to know, if they're gonna help you teach me-" He motioned vaguely with one hand. "Whatever. Not to burn. Or," he added quickly as another thought occurred to him, "you don't have to, y'know, whatever you think is best-"

Spock laid a calming hand on the human's closest knee. "Jim. I will tell them the... relevant information. What there is of it. They will need to know, for instance, why it is you burn at all, and how many names you have answered to, and the circumstances of those names. However, some of what I learned I will also keep to myself. None of it was ugly, but I am... Vulcan. We are a possessive race." He turned to Jim, who looked up at him from his slouch. Once the captain's face was exposed, Spock reached out, brushing his psy-points gently. "The details are my own, and I will keep them."

Instead of pulling away, Jim pushed into his touch, something lost and longing filtering through the faint connection. "Do you really care that much?"

"More than you know," Spock said, "if you must ask. That, too, is something I will teach you."

"You don't have to." Jim reached up to grip Spock's wrist. "It'll be hard, it if works at all. You have to know, you don't need to do this."

"You are incorrect," the Vulcan said with bold certainty. He stroked a thumb over Jim's cheek, taking on a smug edge when Jim leaned into it. "This is not only something I need to do; I desire to do it. It is imperative that you learn to live so that you might live with me, and we can continue to explore the stars, unharassed by the history that has stalked you your entire life. You will live, and enjoy living, and we will build our future."

"Boy," Jim said eventually, still clinging to Spock's wrist. "When you change your mind about something, you really change your mind."

"I am a scientist," Spock said with that trace of smug pride. "Scientists adjust their hypotheses when new evidence presents itself."

"And what was your new evidence?"

Spock pressed their foreheads together. "This universe is a better place," he murmured, "with you in it. So I will keep you, Jim. I will keep you.

"No matter the cost."

.

Spock gathered the rest of Jim's command crew together for a mission update two days after they left Valstek. The update had nothing to do with Valstek, of course. It was about Jim.

When they were gathered around the conference table, Spock told them his story, chronologically, starting with the loss of his father.

"It is part of Federation record, and propagated through both Starfleet memorial services and Starfleet Academy training materials, that George Kirk sacrificed himself to save his wife, newborn son, and several hundred of his crew from certain death. The Federation lost interest in Jim shortly thereafter. When he was six, his mother remarried. Her new husband went by the name of Marc Anderson. What he never told his new family was that he was in Iowa as part of the Federation Witness Protection Program in order to hide him from the mob until such a time as he could testify in a high-profile case against them. His real name was Marco Scaretta."

"Jesus," Sulu muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

Spock didn't even glance at him. "When Jim was twelve, the Scarettas found Marco. They sent assassins, one of whom was Anthony Scaretta, the underboss Jim later worked for at his bar. The assassins shot each member of Jim's family, including Jim, and set their house on fire. It burned to the ground. Jim survived the gunshot wound and managed to crawl through his bedroom window. Medical and fire emergency response teams arrived. They found Jim exsanguinating by his burning home and attempted to save him. Federation agents reported to the scene and gained custody of Jim's care. He was sent to a Federation hospital, where he eventually recovered. When he was healed, they determined to hide his survival by sending him to a promising school for exceptionally gifted youth."

Uhura frowned. "I never heard of an off-world school that-"

"It was located," Spock continued, standing tall and straight at the head of the table, hands locked behind his back, "on the failed colony world called Tarsus IV."

"No," McCoy said viciously. "Not that too. No."

"I do not understand," Chekov said, glancing around hesitantly. "What is Tarsus IV?"

Scott, who looked vaguely ill, shook his head. "Let him finish. You'll see."

"While Jim was attending the school," Spock continued, "famine broke out. The leader of the colony, a man by the name of Kodos, now called the Executioner, used eugenics to determine which of the colonists would be allowed to survive and which would die."

"But eugenics is bad science!" Chekov exclaimed.

"In this way, and for these reasons," the Vulcan said calmly, "half of the colony's four thousand humans were sentenced to death. By the end, some of this number included all of Jim's classmates. When only a tenth of the two thousand selected to die were left to hunt down and exterminate, Kodos held a banquet."

"A banquet!" McCoy snarled. "That fucking-"

"Jim, as Kodos' finest and final protege, prepared some of the food for the banquet. Then he attended. During his preparations, Jim poisoned the food, and so Kodos and his cohorts died. Starfleet arrived some time later, and found Jim still at table with the corpses. He was rescued and sent to a Federation mental facility. While he was there, he did extensive research into the Scarettas, trying to determine if the Federation was making any headway into dismantling the organization that killed his family. They had not. So he determined to do it for them."

"This is crazy," Uhura said, pushing back from the table but keeping her seat. She looked around at the others, expression nearly desperate. "He was a kid. This shit doesn't all happen to one person, this is crazy!"

"It is fact," Spock said calmly. "Whether or not you choose to accept it, these are the facts of Jim's life. If we wish to save him, we must understand how he came to be who he is. Will you listen or not?"

Uhura gripped the table with both hands and pulled herself back into place without a word.

"When Jim was released from the facility," Spock continued, "he assumed the name Jimmy Georgeson and began the task of infiltrating the Scaretta family. When it seemed clear that Anthony himself would take Jim on as family, Jim found and approached Federation Bureau of Intelligence Agent Douglas, who connected him with Agent Ross. Ross, now director of the FBI, and Douglas sat by Jim during much of the trial, once his true identity was revealed.

"Ooh," Sulu said with a note of understanding. "So that's how they knew him."

"Douglas and Ross, together with a team of specialists, trained Jim, who was eighteen by then, and saw him sworn in as an FBI agent. Once he had his credentials, Jim completed his infiltration. In that way, he was able to establish himself as an official on the witness stand when the time eventually came. He was nearing the completion of his-officially-six year mission when he met Doctor McCoy. He completed it a year later. Ensign Chekov ensured Jim was hidden at Starfleet and not lost forever, and so we find ourselves here today. We have our orders from Starfleet, but our mission is clear: We must teach Jim to live. Or we will lose him still. He has agreed to give us the chance," he said in conclusion, "but we must work together or we will fail. And now I will open the floor to discussion."

The room fell into silence.

"Well," Sulu said. "We're kind of screwed."

Uhura swiveled sideways in her chair to punch him in the arm. "Shut up," she said over his bark of surprise. "This isn't a bad thing. Learning about it isn't a bad thing," she amended. "What actually happened is horrible. But learning about it, getting the details, that's the best thing that could have happened. We never knew why he wanted to... leave us so desperately." She spread her hands out on the table, palms up and open. " Now we do. Our plans can reflect that."

"Do you have any thoughts to use as our beginning?" Chekov asked Spock. Then he turned to McCoy. "Do you?"

McCoy drew a deep breath, pushing it out in a long sigh while he scrubbed one hand down his face. "Hell, I don't know. We have to show him we're here, I guess. That we're not leaving." He clenched his jaw. "That we won't die, or allow him to die. How to do that, though? Without it seemin' like it's just a ploy?" He shook his head.

"Maybe that is the answer," Scott suggested. He sat forward when everyone turned to him, lifting his hands. "Just listen. Jim's been part of an act longer than he's been just a person, right? He might not know what genuine care looks like. So let's show him. Let's just do all the things we wanted to but held back because we were afraid to scare him off. He says he won't leave; we cannae scare him off, at least not now. All those little acts of kindness we held back, well, let's just not. They're genuine impulses," he added to McCoy. "Let's treat him like a friend, like family, like we treat each other, and he'll see, in time, that we mean it. When we don't come back for our pound of flesh, or make demands of him, or expect anything in return, he'll see. It might take a while. But he'll see."

"No more meetings to plan his life," Chekov agreed. "No more study sessions or rumor management. We let him live, encourage it, and live beside him. Da, I am in agreement with this plan."

"Operation: Friendship is go?" Sulu suggested, clearly half expecting someone to scoff at him.

"Yes," Chekov said instead, firm and determined as he'd been when he alone had refused to let Jim be taken from them. "Operation: Friendship is definitely go."

And whatever it was they each meant by that, they ended the meeting with the same sense of resolve: They would be Jim's friends if it killed them.

(Of course, because it was Jim, it nearly did.)

.

Almost immediately, their kindness seemed to backfire on them. Jim very obviously didn't know how to react to it, and his default had been paranoia for so long that prolonged exposure to benign gestures began to make him jumpy.

Uhura tried talking to him, as her family talked to her, and he was alright at the beginning. She'd set up her favorite tea and snacks during the first shift off they had together, arranging it on a picnic blanket on what she knew to be Jim's favorite observation deck. He played along with a laugh, trying not just to humor her, but to understand. It worked, at first. He grinned and enjoyed the food and listen to her stories, trying to share his own. When he stumbled, or didn't know how to go on, she prompted him with gentle questions. And it worked. At first.

But after awhile, his posture began to shift, his expression blanked and then became fraudulently friendly, his stories became the sort of Frankenstein's monster creations they had come up with at the Academy. He hid himself like he did in meetings, in briefings, in interrogations. When it became clear to her he couldn't come back to honesty, she smiled and packed the leftover sandwiches for him and let him go.

He lasted less than ten minutes, that first time. And she thanked him for it.

Her gratitude shifted over his expression in a shadow of confusion that she'd never seen before. Jim left with one of his most manufactured smiles, but she knew he would chew over the interaction for days. Just when he finished puzzling out what he thought she wanted, she would invite him to another picnic, and talk a little longer, and leave well-fed and thoughtful, and demand nothing in return. She would continue that cycle until he settled into the idea that she really wanted nothing but his happiness.

During their second picnic, just as planned, he lasted a full three minutes longer than the first time.

Progress.

Scott's approach was, naturally, more direct. He brought Jim down into the heart of Enterprise, going over every inch of the mechanics with him. Jim kept asking, "What do you need?"

So Scott kept saying, "Nothing, lad. Don't you want to know your lady better?"

And Jim did, of course he did, he loved the Enterprise more than he would ever say, but he didn't need to tell that to Scott. The engineer could see it in his worshipful expression, in the gentle brush of his hand against every panel they passed, in the way he shut his eyes and just felt her rumble around him. Because of his love, he came down to the engines every time Scott called him.

Eventually he would wander down just to be there. Until then, Scott was content to call and be answered. Baby steps, after all.

Even Enterprise wasn't build in a day.

Hikaru taught Jim to fence.

Or, well, he tried to, anyway. Started to try to. He could tell Jim was interested in the way he watched Hikaru practice, so he just practiced around him all the time, at first. Whenever they were in the gym at the same time, Hikaru got out his rapier and worked hard to tempt Jim into asking for a demonstration.

It occurred to him, eventually, that Jim might not know how to ask. The very next day, he suggested that Jim might want to learn how to use a sword, just in case. It never hurt to be prepared, after all.

By that evening, Jim and Hikaru were sparring. It became a twice-weekly standing engagement that Hikaru saw less as a lesson and more as a personal victory. Besides, Jim really did pick up on fighting techniques with startling ease, and he also volunteered to help Hikaru improve his aim with a phaser.

Win/win.

No one asked McCoy what he did with Jim. They assumed it was medically related, another layer of the doctor's ongoing determination to prove his affection for Jim through hyposprays alone.

(If neither Jim nor McCoy ever told anyone about the long, rambling discussions they had in McCoy's office late at night or early in the morning when neither could sleep and both wanted to not be alone anymore, well, it wasn't anyone's business but their own.)

Jim and Pavel returned to their first mutual loves: coffee and theoretical mathematics. They debated and argued and percolated and wrote articles that turned several well-established disciplines on their heads. They agreed and disagreed and bickered about limited edition blends of specialty coffee grounds. They laughed and teased and, sometimes, got quiet and close and just sat curled together in contented stillness. They existed, together, outside the pressures of the mafia or Starfleet or anyone else who had expected too much of them.

It was all Pavel had ever really wanted.

Spock challenged Jim to a game of chess. After that first challenge, it became a ritual, and they played-sometimes several games in a row-every night.

At first, it was a learning experience for Jim, since he had apparently never played, not even classic chess, to say nothing of the three dimensional variety. So Spock taught him, and Jim's mind adapted to the game exactly as Spock had always known it would. He lost in the beginning, all the games but one, and that outlier occurred mainly because Spock kept getting distracted by the way Jim's fingers toyed so absently with the pieces he captured. During their seventh game, some aspect of the logic underpinning the entire thing finally settled in Jim's mind, and Spock was able to watch as understanding blossomed in his bright blue eyes. The captain shifted in his seat, stance becoming more cautiously aggressive and less passively observant. He switched the board so he was white and made an unexpectedly bold opening move.

Spock lost.

He won the next two games, then lost another three. Their average shifted from Spock's distinct advantage to a more even match.

Then, inevitably, it began to tip in Jim's favor.

"You are suited to this game," Spock observed as he made one of his final available moves. "I always thought you would be."

"You thought about how I would play chess?" Jim teased, taking his last bishop in a move Spock had not anticipated. (It reduced his play options from seven to three. Clever.) "Admit it, you only want me for my brain."

"Your brain is not the least of your attractive qualities," Spock allowed graciously. He moved his queen away from Jim's knight to buy a few more minutes of play.

Jim stared at him.

Spock raised a questioning eyebrow in response. "Have I said something to disturb you?"

"No," Jim said slowly, drawing the word out longer than it required while he made his next move. "I'm not disturbed, necessarily. Just… it's unexpected."

"That I would think about the way you would play chess?" Spock wondered, deliberately misunderstanding Jim's statement in order to watch his eyes narrow suspiciously. He countered Jim's attack on his king by taking Jim's rook with his queen.

After a moment spent studying him, Jim smiled warmly. "Of course," he said with a bright laugh, and took Spock's queen. "I mean, why would you even think about me and chess? It's shocking!"

"I am outmaneuvered," Spock admitted, tipping his king over. "Why should I not wonder about you and chess? It seems sometimes I wondered about little less. I did not understand for a long time," he said thoughtfully, "the way your mind works. I thought I might understand a little better if I could only see you play."

"…And now that you have?" Jim asked softly, reaching out to touch Spock's king. He picked it up, cradling it in his hands. "Is it what you thought?"

"Yes," Spock agreed, "and no." When Jim wouldn't look up at him, he leaned across the table and brushed two fingers briefly over Jim's cheek. "Have you forgotten? I have seen more deeply into your thoughts than the observation of a game would permit, however briefly that touch lasted. Now that I see the game, it does not shed light so much as permit definition. You play as I thought you would once I touched your thoughts. But I have wished to play with you like this since before I understood the desire. I would have taught you chess the day you showed me the salt and pepper game. I would have touched your thoughts that first day in the snow. The impulse to know you has never faded. Why else would I accept your calls when I thought you a murderer? You cannot have neglected to see the curiosity you have always drawn from me. You cannot mistake my interest."

Jim swallowed hard. "I knew you were curious," he admitted, looking at the far wall rather than Spock. "I just thought you were…" He shrugged. "I dunno, kind of crazy with it? Like just the way your mind worked prevented you from letting a puzzle go, and I was accidentally a puzzle you might never solve, and it triggered something like an obsession. But then I also thought you would be satisfied if you figured everything out, and… yeah. That doesn't appear to be the case yet."

"It will not be," Spock said with an easy gesture. "It was not that I could not solve a puzzle. It is that your mind is well suited to mine, better than any I have or will find in my lifetime. Of course I would cling to that discovery, even when I did not understand it. My people have a word for such a match, but I will not burden you with that knowledge when you have not yet even learned to settle into simple friendship. It will keep."

"And if I die?" Jim challenged, hands clenched in white-knuckled grips, one around the arm of his seat and the other still around Spock's king. "If you die? I might never know at all."

"You will know," Spock said. "If I cannot tell you, Uhura knows the word. Or else my counterpart will contact you and explain, if you desire to know that badly."

"Counterpart?"

"Yes, you met him on Delta Vega."

"You know about him?" Jim demanded.

"Of course," the Vulcan replied, straight and calm in his seat. "He glimpsed your mind, Jim. He knew before I that you would try to run from us."

"He said he didn't see anything! That liar!"

"He did not lie. He implied."

"Is that a skill you learned from him?" Jim barked. "How to imply?"

"I will do what I must to keep you," Spock said. "I am Vulcan. I do not let go of those things that are valuable to me. And there is nothing more valuable to me than you and our friendship."

"What am I supposed to say to that?" Jim asked, voice harsh with emotion. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"I do not want you to say anything." Spock collected the chess pieces, leaving the king with Jim, and began to pack his game away. "You need not ever say anything to me you do not mean or want to say. I desire truth from you, Jim, when you have it to give to me. Otherwise I will take your silence or your humor or your teasing in place of it, until you are ready for it. You will receive nothing less from me." He stood, gathered the board and pieces, and dipped his head in farewell before turning to the the door between their quarters.

"You forgot your king," Jim said.

"No," Spock replied. "Keep it. It is your anyway. I will see you tomorrow."

He left before Jim could answer, which was really just as well.

Jim had no idea what he would say even if he could find breath for it. He clutched Spock's king instead, taking comfort in its ridges pressed into his hand, and shut his eyes.

Vulcans were exhausting.

.

In the end, it wasn't chatting or engines or fencing. It wasn't math publications or honest conversation hidden by hyposprays. It wasn't even chess.

It was a restless new addition to the Federation of Planets, a kidnapping, and eavesdropped ransom negotiations. It was yet another near-death experience.

Honestly, it would hardly have been Jim otherwise.

Jim hadn't even meant to be captured. Sure, a few months ago, before Valstek, Jim absolutely would have arranged to be taken hostage by angry locals. He would have played the brave, loyal Starfleet captain and died in an escape attempt.

But that was before Valstek. Nothing had been the same since Valstek.

He still didn't know what to do about that, but whatever. He had time. He always found the angle eventually.

This kidnapping, though, might put a kink in his plans. They roughed him up in a tidy, professional manner before they even started trying to contact his crew about terms. Then they tied him up, threw him in a cell, and left him to the thoughts swirling around his pounding head.

He wanted updates. He wanted to know what had happened to the rest of the security team that had been with him. He wanted to know if the scientists they had been shepherding around mineral fields was okay. He wanted Georgia to fix his head, or Spock to calm his thoughts, or Pavel to brainstorm his problems. He wanted Sulu's sword or Uhura's voice or Scotty's tech. He wanted—

He didn't know.

They came for him before he could figure out the correct word to describe what he wanted. "Your crew is discussing the terms of your return," the guy in charge (Jim kept wanting to think of him as the don, but he knew that wasn't… quite-) said. "Let's go listen in, eh? See what they really think of you. What you're really worth to them."

Jim didn't want to go. Situations like this never worked out for him.

He got dragged along anyway. Literally dragged, Starfleet issued boots squeaking on the floor, between two huge bulky muscle men.

Ugh, clichés. He didn't let Anthony operate like this for a reason.

…Hadn't. He hadn't let Anthony-

They had apparently hit him harder than he'd thought. Georgia was gonna be really pissed.

To put the finishing touch on the cliché, they tossed him into a small room, letting him crumple onto the concrete before grabbing his scruff and dumping him in a chair. Once he was kind of seated, he tried to lift his head and look around. One of the bruisers helped by grabbing a fistful of hair and yanking backward.

Thanks, goon.

He was on the see-through side of a panel of two-way glass. His bridge crew was on the other side, crowding one long edge of a small negotiation table. Scott alone of his senior staff was missing. Spock stood in the middle of the group, tall and elegant, as collected as he always appeared to be, though Jim noticed stress or frustration or something in the set of his shoulder, the line of his mouth. Georgia was at his right side, furious and vengeful, fiddling with a set of four hyposprays in a singularly ominous way. Uhura was beside Georgia, arms crossed, hip cocked, glaring fiercely. Sulu and Pavel were clustered together behind Spock's left shoulder, trying to put off the appearance of being too nervous to participate. Jim recognized the light in their eyes, though.

They were planning something.

Everyone's phaser holsters were empty, but Sulu still had his sword, which was weird. Had no one in the goon squad noticed he had a friggin' sword when they were taking weapons, or did they just not think a sword was dangerous anymore?

Whatever. Advantage to Sulu, then.

"You'll wanna hear this," the don-uh, not-don said, flipping a switch that let the conversations on the other side flood the room.

"We will not," Spock said flatly.

"This is insulting," Uhura added with a sneer. "You really think we'd agree to terms like that? No, wait." She held up on hand. "Actually what's insulting is the implication that we'd agree to any of your terms."

Jim felt his stomach sink. None of their terms, huh?

Good to know.

"We will give you one last chance," Spock continued. "You will release our captain to us, unharmed. You will surrender your weapons. You will cease your pointless revolution and turn yourselves in to the proper authorities. You will issue a personalapology to Captain Kirk, who only came to this planet to help your cause, for the inconvenience of being removed from his group. You will apologies to the security and science personnel you traumatized by kidnapping their captain. And you will do all these things within the hour.

"Or we will take our captain back by force and obliterate your base from orbit. Am I clear?"

Jim felt something swell in his heart, warmth and fondness and something else, a deep panging sense of… something. He wasn't sure he'd ever felt it before.

They had come for him. No excuses, no quibbling, no debates. They had come for him.

As no one else ever had.

"You'd better listen to them," he said hoarsely. "They mean business."

The don-not-don snorted. "Sure, kid. Whatever you say."

Jim felt a smile twitch on one corner of his mouth. "It's your funeral."

The don hit him, knocking him out of the metal chair.

It was the last thing he did.

In a perfectly choreographed move, Pavel and Spock both ducked just as Sulu unsheathed his sword and struck out at the closest burly intimidation goon. Georgia intercepted the negotiator, dragging him half way across the table to inject a hypospray directly in his jugular. The other goon tried to escape, but Spock had him pinched and unconscious on the ground just before Sulu's opponent landed in a heap next to him. The quasi-gangsters in the room with Jim began to scramble, one trying to open the door, another scrambling for Jim, who kicked at him and scooted away. The don just watched the proceedings with an increasingly furious expression.

"Told you," Jim wheezed.

Then Sulu hurled his sword at the glass, which broke in a silver rain all over the floor. Most of Jim's crew flooded the room, leaping over the low window without pause. Sulu streaked through the door, incapacitating the guards trying to flee and warn their associates. He cornered them with a few expert swipes, eventually herding them back into the room, where he pinned them in a corner with their boss.

The don looked furious. "You think this is over?" he spat. "You think this means you've won?"

"Yes," Spock said, otherwise ignoring him as he carefully lifted Jim off the floor, steadying him on his feet while Georgia began to gently check him over.

"For the pain," the doctor murmured, injecting him with one of the remaining hyposprays. "I held onto it just for you, so don't go fussin' around and spoil it."

"Sure thing, Georgia," Jim slurred.

His vision must have been more affected than he thought, because it looked like Georgia's expression gentled even further. He pet a hand through Jim's hair. "Damn fool child," he said. "You only call me that when you're in trouble."

Jim buried his face in Spock's shoulder and tried not to think about it.

"You can't get out of here," the don sneered. "Even if you have him now, you can't get out."

"You will not enjoy what becomes of you if you do not release us," Spock informed him.

"What can you possibly do?"

It finally occurred to Jim why one of his crew was missing. "Beam us up, Scotty," he mumbled.

He felt Spock smooth a hand over his hair, pausing briefly when he encountered the blood growing tacky near his temple. "You have had your chance," he snarled. Teleportation energy began to swirl around them, and the don's eyes finally filled with fear.

"You wouldn't," he whispered.

They beamed off the planet before Spock answered, but Jim thought he knew what he would say. It's what Jim would have said.

Watch me.

"We're safe?" Jim whispered when they arrived on the Enterprise.

"We are," Spock replied, helping Georgia to arrange Jim on his usual stretcher.

"We made it?"

"Yes, Jim."

"We're… here. Back. On Enterprise."

Spock gripped his hand gently. "We are home."

"Home. Good." Jim squeezed back. "Don't leave me."

"Never, Jim."

"No one," he managed. "Everyone has to stay. You promised. They promised."

He felt hands touch him, different hands from different friends, petting and soothing and stroking, on his hair and cheek, down his chest. "We're here, Jim," they said. "We'll stay."

And Jim-

"He believes us," Spock said, voice suspiciously tight with emotion, which was fine because he was right. It was true.

Jim believed.

.

After he was released from the medbay under strict orders to take it easy, damnit, Jim dutifully retreated to his quarters. Then he sent a message to Spock, inviting him over for chess.

It wasn't about chess, which they both knew. Spock didn't even bother to bring over his board. Instead he brought calming tea, a healthy dinner, and some mild-smelling incense to burn in the background.

"It will aid in your recovery," he said. When Jim raised both eyebrows at him, he clarified, "It should decrease any feelings of agitation, so your wounds will not be disturbed, which will aid in your recovery."

"Uh-huh," Jim said dryly. But he accepted the tea when Spock pour it for him. They ate and drank in companionable silence. When they were nearing the end, Jim asked, "What happened to the… whatever they were. The bad guys. What even were they?"

"They called themselves a union," Spock explained, "but they killed the actual union representatives to take their places in name only. In reality, they were more like-"

"The mob." Jim set his fork down deliberately. "Yeah, I figured. The don-ah, I mean, the boss. He was in with me, wasn't he."

"He was," Spock confirmed.

"What happened to them?"

"Precisely what we said would happen if they did not meet our terms." Spock lifted one elegant eyebrow when Jim stared at him in disbelief. "The Enterprise opened fire on their base, wiping it from the face of the planet. Most or all of the personnel had been arrested by then, but we will never know if any chose to hide there despite our warning." He shrugged. "Our terms were recorded and broadcast to many of the populous. Those people will speak. Now what they say is that the crew of the Starfleet flagship Enterprise will not suffer the loss of our captain. They will say that those who attempt to harm our captain will come to harm themselves. I think it a fitting message, since it is true."

Jim swallowed, sitting back heavily. "But why?" he said bleakly. "I mean, I think I know. I-maybe. It's because we're… friends. And friends take care of each other, or so it seems."

"Yes, Jim," Spock agreed. "That is one thing friends do for one another."

"Gotcha." Jim fidgeted a bit before finally blurting, "What should I do?"

Spock tilted his head. "Do?"

"For you guys. To, uh… show my gratitude, I guess. Or make things even. Is that something friends do? Keep things even?"

"After a fashion," Spock said after a moment of thought. "Not in the way I believe you intend, though. Put more accurately, things will even out naturally. You do not have to go out of your way. You are generous with your time, knowledge, and possessions, and the others will doubtless consider your continued presence among us 'payment' enough, as I do. More to the point," he continued sternly, "we did not come for you with thoughts of future payment. If you came for us, would it be in pursuit of a reward?"

"No," Jim admitted with a sigh.

"Neither did we. We sought you for your own sake, because you are our friend."

Jim studied him thoughtfully. "You know a lot about this for a Vulcan," he said. "I thought you guys didn't believe in stuff like emotions and friendship."

"Vulcans generally do not," Spock said, motioning casually with one hand. "I, you will recall, am not merely Vulcan. I am also human, and humans have a great capacity for… emotion. Friendship."

"So it just came naturally?"

"Quite the opposite," he admitted. "I learned by watching the command crew, by studying what they would do for you and each other. I learned through meditation, by examining what I felt for the others and for you. I learned by studying you, particularly when you thought no one could see you. You are a great exemplar of friendship, Jim. If only you would let yourself see it."

Jim shook his head, a small, confused motion. "I don't understand," he said. He lifted both hands, trying to express his bewilderment. "You- I'm sorry. That doesn't make sense, Spock. I'd notice if I'd been a friend to any of them, and I haven't. I dragged all of you into a mafia war, knowing how it would end. I knew," he said desperately. "I knew how it had to end, and I did it anyway. Even if we're friends now, that's new. It's something I didn't decide on until today. And I'll probably be terrible at it."

"How can you not see it?" Spock wondered. "You are such a puzzle. What can I do to make you see?"

"I don't know." Jim reached a helpless hand toward him, then let it drop on the table. "There's nothing, I guess. We'll have to agree to disagree."

Spock opened his mouth, hesitated a moment, then said, "I know of a way. It would let you see what you are to us, how you've been our friend, what you mean to me. You would understand it from the perspective of one who has lived it, without the cloud of your past."

"How?" Jim begged.

"You experienced it once before with my counterpart. Very occasionally, you have experienced it with me, though those instances have been… light. Barely a touch."

"The mind meld," Jim realized.

"Yes. We would initiate a full meld, which I do not think you have experienced yet. It would require a great deal of trust on your part," Spock explained gently, "which I do not, of course, expect so soon after-"

"Yes," his captain interrupted.

Spock blinked. "…Yes?"

"Yes, I trust you. I've always trusted you," he pointed out. "I told you more than anyone. I tried to give you a hint, even though it was stupid one. When the op was ending and I had no one, when I'd killed or lost the entire group, you were the one I called. Of course I trust you, Spock. It isn't anything new."

"You will meld with me?" Spock asked, and Jim saw him startle at the depth of longing in his own voice.

"Of course," Jim said. "All I need to know is how."

Spock stood. He stepped around the table, holding his hand out to Jim. "It will be more comfortable on your bed, if you have no objections."

Jim arched an eyebrow at him even as he accepted the hand up. "I would never say no to having you in my bed."

The Vulcan's steps faltered a little, and his ears picked up a distinct green tint. He felt the truth of Jim's words through the anchor of their joined hands and wondered why he hadn't asked for this weeks ago. Months ago. Perhaps even at the first meeting in the snow. Could they have been in each other's thoughts this whole time?

What heartache might have been avoided if Spock had only asked?

Jim squeezed his fingers gently. "Whatever you're thinking," he said, "stop it. What's that saying you Vulcans have? What is, is."

"Yes." Spock returned the gentle pressure and drew them both down to the bed. "You are right." He touched Jim's face with great care, turning him until they were settled together like perfectly matched nesting dolls. "My mind to your mind," he murmured, pressing his fingers to Jim's psy-points. "My thoughts to your thoughts."

Then they were together, falling into each other with no effort of conscious thought. Their minds twisted around each other, exploring and being explored, touching all the quiet and lonely and broken places, filling them with warmth and understanding and love. Jim showed Spock secrets and loyalty and the deep patience of an apex predator, showed him lying to people who thought him their brother, show him hate and anger that sat more deeply than any other emotion, burning all the others out in a fire that did not know compassion or mercy. Spock took it all without flinching, saw it and still thought Jim precious, admired him for the ruthlessness that would always live in his bones. He treasured Jim's faults as dearly as he did Jim's best qualities.

When he had all that Jim was tucked safe in his mind, Spock took his turn, showing Jim friendship, showing him what Spock himself had learned from the others. He gave Jim the meetings he'd had with the rest of the command team, gave him Spock's own understanding of their love and devotion. He taught Jim to understand Uhura's picnics, Sulu's lessons, Scott's engine sanctuary as gestures of friendship, of people sharing the most precious parts of themselves in order to be closer to someone they valued. They looked at Chekov's coauthored math papers and finally saw the teenager stubbornly tying himself to his first and closest friend in a public venue that could not easily be erased. They turned to McCoy and saw his steadfast, unyielding determination to be Jim's confidant. Jim used Spock's understanding of humans to finally, finally understand himself.

And because of that connection, Spock was present when Jim's stunted, rudimentary grasp of human connections blossomed into something rich and bountiful. He felt the knowledge of Jim's new patchwork family slide firmly into place, never to be shaken free. He sensed Jim's love finally reach out in fine, unbreakable tendrils of resolve, and he knew they at last belonged to Jim in the way he had always belonged to them.

They were home.

Home, Jim murmured in his thoughts. Is this what home feels like?

Yes, t'hy'la. We will be your home, as you are ours.

T'hy'la. Jim filtered through his thoughts, taking the translation when Spock offered it. Ah. I see. Another type of home.

Yes, Jim. They curled more tightly around each other, echoed in the outside world when they tangled their limbs and fell into the bed. Any type of home you wish for me to be, then that shall I become.

…mine, Jim replied with faint, echoing uncertainty. Be mine and no one else's.

Spock filled their minds with conviction, with love. With the warmth and depth and never ending joy of having found each other, at last. As I ever have been, t'hy'la.

Jim basked in Spock's mind, taking comfort like he had never known and wrapping himself in it like clouds of peace.

They settled, and understood, and loved. And, eventually, they drifted together into sleep.

When Jim woke the next day, he declared it the best night's sleep he'd had since the fire, and vowed never to go to bed without Spock ever again. Spock called him ridiculous and shooed him into the shower to begin his morning routine.

(He was right, though.)

.

A few months later, the Enterprise found herself docked at a space station for mandatory maintenance that had Scotty foaming at the mouth. Because he was crazy, and because his team loved him, they finished their week-long upgrades in three days. On the last night in dock, Jim took his command team out for dinner, as much to show his gratitude as because he just enjoyed the freedom of being with them, whole and happy and well.

As they left, someone called Jim's name. The whole team turned, and most of them froze with a sharp flush of pure terror.

Jim alone smiled, lifting one hand in a wave. "Agent Douglas! Fancy seeing you here."

Douglas approached with a grin, badge gleaming from its place hanging around his neck. "Hi there, Captain Kirk. Small quadrant, huh?"

"Hmm," Jim said vaguely, shoving both hands into his pockets. "Can I help you with something?"

"Got a small problem," Douglas admitted. "Nothing too complicated. Director Ross thought you might be curious about it, though. Thinks it's right up your alley. Interested?"

Jim looked back over his shoulder where his command team was gathered. They looked impatient more than anything, and Jim felt that funny surge of warmth he usually got these days when he looked at him. "Nah," he said without any thought at all. He grinned at Douglas. "Turns out I have actual responsibilities, and I don't think my family would like it much if I abandoned them right in the middle of the adventure. Thank Director Ross for me, though. She was always a big help."

"I will," the agent promised. "And I'll tell her how you're doing. She'll be glad you refused." He nodded toward Jim's crew. "There was once an eighteen year old kid she knew, and this was all she ever really wanted for him."

"What a coincidence," Jim mused as he turned to his team. "It was all that kid really wanted, too."

"Goodbye, Agent Kirk," Douglas said softly.

"So long, Douglas," Jim said. He joined his crew, surrounded immediately by their chatter and casual touches, and never looked back.

And then, together, they went home.