
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1103459.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Star_Trek:_Alternate_Original_Series_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      James_T._Kirk/Spock, James_T._Kirk/Others
  Character:
      James_T._Kirk, Leonard_McCoy, Spock, Winona_Kirk
  Additional Tags:
      Sex_Addiction, Implied/Referenced_Underage_Sex, Angst, Childhood_Sexual
      Abuse, Prostitution, Depression, Pining, Self-Destruction, Multiple_Sex
      Partners_One_Love, Kinda_AU
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-26 Words: 2717
****** Looking for Paradise ******
by ALiCEonLSD
Summary
     On Stardate 2233.04 in medical shuttle 37, a child is born. The
     mother is diagnosed with postpartum psychosis.
     This is the story about James Tiberius Kirk. About his happiness and
     joy, about his sadness and sorrow. How he came to be, his hardships,
     his blessings and how he in the end let himself, for once, love and
     be loved in return.
Notes
     I am a very Swedish Swede who speaks Swedish, and I have not yet a
     firm grasp of the English language, so be patient with me.
                                   The Child
 
The blinds were pulled down in all the rooms, so one could not tell the hours
from night or day, morning or evening. A constant smog floated in the air,
filling the murky apartment to every nook, along with a nauseating smell of
sickness. A smell of weeks old coffee grounds, cigarette butts, spoiled milk
and moldy oranges. A smell of dirty linens and underwear. Of gin, human sweat,
rage and despair. The child lies awake in the small bed, intertwined with his
brother, listening to his mother's rapid footsteps and nervous talking on the
other side of the nursery's door.
"...can't take them from me... my babies..."
The brother's slow breaths had become faster. He was awake. The child felt his
arms closing around him, hugging him tighter.
"...Leave this place... Rivers... Fra-..."
Silence fell on the other side. Minutes later, the door bursts open and the
mother comes in, with a brown, worn coat hanging over her silk night garb and
gloves covering her hands.
"Get up, boys. Take only what you need. We're leaving this place."
The child manages to grab his teddy, before he is pushed down the staircases
and almost thrown into the hover car along with his brother. They hug tightly
as their mother places herself behind the steering wheel, and drives away with
a roaring engine.
"Mom, you're driving too fast!" The brother cries out as the vehicle barely
makes it around a sharp curve, bordering to a scarp.
"Quiet, dear", comes her snappy response, as she lights a cigarette. The child
needs to go to the toilet. Very much. But everytime he tries to tell, all which
comes out is incomprehensible stuttering. Because this is a quiet and usually
invisible child, who always has been told to "be seen but not heard." People
don't like chatty children. Children are merely enviromental accessories - they
are to be cuddled and get their cheeks pinched, not to think or talk or have
opinions.
"If you don't know how to speak, you're better off not doing it at all!"
Outside the window the Arizona landscape flies by in 160 kilometers an hour.
It's almost midnight, but the humid heat clings in the air, making the child's
breathing become difficult. It makes him think of the asthma attack he once
had. They have driven for a long time before he finally wets himself. The
mother has crescents of sweat under her arms, and she almost immidiatly notices
the smell of urine.
"You hopeless boy! Why didn't you tell me! You did it on purpose, didn't you!"
The child is very ashamed. He hugs his teddy to his chest and puts his thumb
into his mouth, not daring to meet his mother's angry eyes in the rearview
mirror. She stops on the side of the road, pulls him out and strips him out of
his pyjamas, and throws him in again, nude. His cheeks are flushed pink of
embarrasment as he starts to suck his thumb more frantically in a desperate
attempt to comfort himself. It is nearly five hundred hours in the morning when
they pass the border to New Mexico, followed by Texas and Oklahoma. It's
nightfall when they finally stop for rest. Older men in the tavern are eyeing
the mother with hazy, lustful gazes, as she pushes the boys forward.
"Whatever happened to the lad's clothes?" one of them hollers. "Get somethin'
on him before all the ladies go crazy!"
The child flushes even brighter and hopelessly continues to suck his thumb,
clinging to the brother like a castaway to a lifebouy.
"I need a room for myself and my hopeless sons," the mother says loudly. "We
have been driving for a very long time, all the way from Phoenix."
"Sure thing, ma'am. But may I ask, why is the little one naked?"
"He behaved naughty, the little rascal. Peed all over himself in the car-" the
crowd jeers, and the child wishes he could sink through the floor
"-but it's entirely my own fault, really. I brought him into this world. One
can't help being born, huh?" She smiles a false and sugary smile. The child
becomes even more ashamed. Of himself, of his mother. He wants to scream and
wildly thrash about. “My mom is sick! She's out of her mind! You have to do
something!” But he doesn't. Because the said child is quiet, invisible and
sometimes seems to be lacking a voice.
"That is true, madam. Here is the key to your room."
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
 
The trip goes on. The mother has dark circles around her eyes, and she sips
scalding coffee (containing a large dose of aspirin) out of a travel mug. They
pass a sign which says 'IOWA' written in uppercase letters. Even though a young
age, the child knows how to read while his older brother yet doesn't. This
isn't a usual child. But no one knows that yet.
After what seemed like a small eternity, the hover car finally comes to halt. A
two story house and a large brushy man is there to greet them. The mother turns
around and looks at her confused sons with an austere face. "This is our new
home. And that is Frank. Your new father."
It is the summer of 2238, in Riverside, Iowa. James Tiberius Kirk is five years
old, and has never felt more lost.
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
                                    The Boy
 
It is the summer of 2246 when the brother packs his bags to leave for good. Jim
feels torn as he watches Sam disappear behind the heat-quivering horizon. Like
he had a part of himself ripped out - Sam, his beloved Sam, who was the only
reason for staying in this Iowa shithole. And now he has left for Deneva,
leaving Jim alone in the hands of their wicked stepfather. Their mother had
been hospitalized on Betazed three months ago, suffering "severe mental
instability and postpartum psychosis." Jim had hacked into their database and
read the diagnostic files. A thirteen year delayed postpartum psychosis. He
snorts. She would have mourned for Sam, too. With his rye colored hair and
hazel eyes, he had always been her favourite. Or at least the one of them who
was a bit less unbearable to look at. But James, dishwater blonde with orbs
blue, was a reflection and a constant reminder of a this man who was so utterly
forbidden to speak of. "Don't you dare," she had sputtered every time he had
tried. "Don't you dare! You're making it difficult enough as it is!"
Jim crashes Frank's 65' Chevy Corvette that afternoon. One week later he is
sent away to Tarsus IV. And not even motherly love is a strong enough motivator
for Winona Kirk nèe Davies to prevent it.
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
Food. There was none. The fungus spread like a wildfire, just like the panic
among the colonists. The parents were setting up their children for adoptions
in desperate attempts to save them from starvation. And even though little Jim
already was thirteen years old, there was a lovely Betazoid couple who were
eager to adopt him. They had fallen for his blue eyes. If you adopt me, I will
be the best son ever, Jim promised himself, hands clasped in a prayer. He could
almost see his new home in front of him, with a garden with trees blossoming
with fruit and life... But Winona Kirk nèe Davies puts a stop to that, refusing
to sign the adoption papers.
Little Jim had never hated her more than he did then. She'd rather see my death
at the hands of Kodos than in a family with a mother and father who would love
me, he thinks as he rams his fists into a wall until both the wall and his
hands are dripping with scarlet.
No one else requests to adopt him. No – adoptive parents wanted small cubs,
infants, or kids who couldn't talk (and therefore had no memories). The other
children were left. The broken ones. Those with scars, bruises and eyes glazed
with apathy, suggesting they have once been abused by adults and therefore
would never forgive.
Little Jim receives a letter not long after,
 
My boy,
I will fight, until the day I die, for what is RIGHTFULLY MINE.
Signed, YOU KNOW WHO.
 
He gets a job offer only days after that.
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
Pleasure boy.
It was a fairly easy job, if you were adept at closing your eyes and imagining
being somewhere else – a skill Jim quickly mastered. If he was lucky, he could
even get a dry piece of bread or an apple core before he was sent away, bruises
forming on aching flesh, blood trickling from his rear down his legs.
Kevin and Thomas would glance at him with worry the times he came home from
work, starting to divide the food into three equal shares. When every bite and
chew was a battle due to sore jaw, when swallowing was a torture for his raw
throat and when sitting down meant agony.
Both Kevin and Thomas would cry silently as they ate, while trying to ignore
the freshly made violet marks on Jim's neck and thighs.
But Little Jim is a good student. And he learned not to cry fast.
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
“What have they done to you, child?” The Starfleet Medical Officer asks and
scans Jim for the fourth time. He stares at the unchanged results on the
tricorder with a horrified facial expression. “A small boy like you shouldn't
have diseases like these.”
“I was a pleasure giver,” Jim explains. “I didn't have any choice. We would
have died otherwise.”
The CMO looks like he's ready to vomit. He injects Jim with five different
hyposprays before sending him away.
Little did Jim know that these readings would cause the Doctor vile nightmares
and two years of therapy, which finally ended in a resignation from Starfleet.
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
                              The Repeat Offender
                                        
Jim is fifteen when he discovers that his dick has other uses than just for
pissing. He also discovers the charm and allure of both girls and boys.
He is back in Riverside, Iowa. Back on the farm, back with Frank. Sam is still
on Deneva. Winona Kirk nèe Davies still on Betazed – whatever.
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
Jim finds a cause for living in his hot-wired motorcycle. He falls in love with
the explosions of signalsubstances whenever he manages to avoid a crash or a
scarp by a hair's breadth, or outclass the police in speed.
Adrenaline junkie, the adolescents call him.
Repeat offender, the adults call him, telling their children to “stay away from
that Kirk-kid. He is a bad egg.”
But in the quiet, husbands and wives were also warned to keep their spouses
away from Winona and George Kirk's son. You see, there was something alluring
about him. Something tempting and mysterious. The young man was an Adonis at
best, with the same handsome features and silver tongue like his notorious
hero-father.
But boy, did he behave like his mama.
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
Frank caught him in action once. Jim, then seventeen years of age, had the
neighbors' nineteen year old son bent over an old, rusty wood processor,
fucking him rapidly and soundly from behind with pants around their ankles.
“So you like dick, you little queer?” Frank had snarled when Jim came home that
night, forcing his head to his groin.
Afterwards, Jim stuck his fingers down his throat and puked until only bile
came up.
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
Jim is all of twenty-two when he stumbles into that bar. What should be the
best point of a person's life has become Jim's personal hell, his cage, his
prison. He does not plan to see 30. Hell, he's lucky if he lives long enough to
see 25. His father's brilliant mind and intellect. His mother's lack of
motivation and poor behavior, people tell him – whatever. He plans to live fast
and die young, so he plays the game he knows the best. Flirts with a hot chick,
makes inappropriate pick-up lines. Gets into a fight and ends up with a
roughed-up jaw and a nose pouring like a Christmas decorated faucet.
A regular friday night so far for Jim Kirk.
What makes it stand out is that George Kirk's old fellow officer, who tells him
the trite story about his father's heroism all over again, the story which has
incused his whole life.
 
“I dare you to do better.”
 
Well, Jim has always been a sucker for challenges.
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
                                   The Cadet
                                        
“You're a sex addict, you know that, right?” Bones says a Saturday morning when
Jim sneaks into their shared dorm, after a night spent with another one-night
stand. Jim shrugs.
“I guess. I've always been this way, ever since I discovered the multiple
functions of my dick.”
“It's not healthy.”
“Well. I figured having sex is a better addiction than shooting heroin.”
They don't talk about that topic again for a long time.
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
Jim quickly masters the art of putting on façades. He would joke, laugh and
fool around with his classmates but on the inside he hid the thousand tears of
a clown.
No one could see through his Jester veneer, his comedian exterior.
Besides Bones.
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
Jim finds consolation in Gaila Vro.
She would sneak into his bed at nights, and everytime he would fuck her good
and proper, pushing the bed's limits to the outmost.
Bones would groan in annoyance, mutter something about integrity and lack of
respect, before stumbling out of the room to have one of his very rare, sacred
and secret cigarettes. Smoking for a doctor is a solid and assured ticket to
the flunk-medical train.
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
When he sees the Vulcan for the first time, his whole world comes to a halt for
a second.
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
S'chn T'gai Spock kills him. Kills him.
So Jim drinks, steals out of Leonard's secret cigarette stash, plays poker,
wins, loses, gains and drops. He fucks a lot, too. Pulls every goddamn ace he
has in order to keep the Vulcan out of his head, making it spin faster than the
wheels on his hot-wired motorcycle.
 
The guy is sex on legs. (Even more than Bones, and Jim has spent three years
staring on his backside, wondering how it would look covered in vertical marks
made by his fingernails.)
Spock, in his clean-cut uniform ironed rigid and bangs spit-shined immaculate
is enough to make Jim crazy with desire, making him want to bring the illogic
out of him on every horizontal surface.
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
                                  The Captain
                                        
On the duration of one month, Spock has turned down seventeen requests to meet
up for a drink.
But if it is one thing Jim is known for, it is his stubbornness.
So, when he has a Zeppelin fly around Starfleet HQ for a couple of hours with a
44 yard long banner which read SPOCK, HAVE A DRINK WITH ME in Vulcan scripture,
perhaps it was a bit overkill. “A cheap trick”, some called it. “Totally
romantic”, others claimed.
 
But that evening, Spock finally agreed.
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
Twelve drinks and seven dates later, they kiss for the first time. Spock tastes
of heat, spice and desert sun. Nothing is tentative anymore. Hands groping
under clothing, wet kisses on flushed skin. Rose against sage. Cool against
hot. Small explosions of signalsubstances from his cerebral cortex. Breathing
becoming rapid, blood vessels dilating, their corpora cavernosa swelling.
When Spock slides into him for the first time, Jim nearly becomes undone on the
spot. He clings onto Spock as he sets a fast rhythm, whispering promises and
declarations into his neck, feeling his lover's quick heartbeat on the inside
of his ribs.
“T'hy'la,” Spock whispers into his ear as he releases himself inside of Jim.
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
When Jim for the first time told Bones about Tarsus, he started to cry. Jim had
sat and helplessly watched his best friend weep like an infant, unsure what to
do.
Spock's reaction was different. It was during a meld, when Jim suddenly felt
his lover's mind-landscape become clowdy, thundering with uncontrollable rage,
wrath throbbing through their marital bond, almost making his head physically
ache.
 
It was Spock who hunted Kodos down and brought him to justice.
 
                             *:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*:.:*
                                        
Jim didn't plan to see 30.
Now he plans to see 80, 90, hell, perhaps even 100.
 
As long as he has Spock by his side, it will all be well.
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