
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/60214.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      Multi
  Fandom:
      Star_Trek_(2009)
  Relationship:
      James_T._Kirk/Spock/Nyota_Uhura
  Character:
      Leonard_McCoy, Montgomery_"Scotty"_Scott, Gaila_(Star_Trek)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Apocalypse, Alternate_Universe_-_Slavery, Forced
      Prostitution, Female_Character_of_Color
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-02-06 Words: 19920
****** The Hounds of Morrigan ******
by ninhursag
Summary
     In an alternate world where the federation fell and it all went
     horribly wrong, Nyota Uhura has two hounds, dark and bright. And
     they're going to save the world, even if they have to break it first.
     After all, what did the world ever do for them?
Nyota Uhura's had her dark hound since she was still in the cradle. It was her
grandmother's crazy idea, bonding the blank faced, empty eyed Vulcan child with
the soft, squalling infant, newly orphaned and alone.
"That's insane," Nyota's Aunt had said. "He'll kill her. Even a full grown
human can't take on a Vulcan. And this one isn't... look at him. Just look at
him!" The Vulcan boy didn't look back at them. He stayed settled in the corner,
where they'd left him, rocking himself slowly back and forth. He'd eat if they
gave him food. He'd scream and kick, fight with nails and teeth, elbows and
knees if they tried to touch him. He didn't respond to words, Vulcan or
Standard. Just hands and sometimes boots.
He'd been like that since they'd bought him from the market. Strong,
ridiculously strong, but feral and absolutely useless for any purpose. A waste
of good money.
Grandmother just pursed her lips. "Maybe," she said. "But who else is there to
care for the girl? You've got your own still at the breast and I'm an old lady.
We'd try, she's our kin, but if this works it might be something...
interesting."
"Interesting? Hmph. Lethal, more like it." But they try. They pull the infant's
cradle into the room with sullen, rocking boy and watch and wait. At first he
ignores her like he ignores everything that isn't touching him. Then she starts
to wail. Maybe she's hungry, maybe her diaper is dirty, maybe she's just alone.
Whatever it is, the sound makes him lift his chin. He has big, dark eyes under
a rat's nest of hair no one can get close enough to wash or comb. Eyes that
don't blink. The baby keeps crying while he stares at her, sound pitching
higher, more desperate. Grandmother and Aunt settle back and watch it play out.
Watch him stare. Watch him move, climb slowly and tentatively to his feet and
stumble toward the cradle. His small hands grasp the edges of it, holding
tight, still just watching the scrunched up, red face of the weeping baby. He's
soundless the entire time, soft footed and sure.
For what seems like forever, he just stays there while the baby screams. While
those screams get louder and more forlorn. Abandoned. It's not until the
screams dissolve into sobs and hiccups, soft sounds because the baby is too
worn out to do more, that he reaches out to touch. Nyota's Aunt jerks forward
like she's going to stop him, but Grandmother grabs her by the shoulder,
holding her back.
Two fingers, one to the infant's soft cheek, the other resting against her
chin. He mouths something, but no sound comes out. When he touches... when he
touches Nyota stops crying. Instantly, like the world has just righted itself.
She reaches out with a tiny hand until she brushes over his fingers. Then she
grasps on tight, fist wrapping around one finger. The boy stares down at her,
face still impassive until Nyota's dark infant eyes focus on his and she makes
another noise, a soft, gurgling coo.
He smiles down at her. There is nothing human in that smile, nothing sweet or
joyous, but it is a real thing, alive if not quite tender. Across the room,
Grandmother smiles too, bright with victory. Aunt shudders and averts her eyes.
It is a beginning.
Her bright hound she gets later, much later. She's sixteen, tall and wiry, and
two hundred years ago she'd have been considered still a child in the
schoolroom. She's a woman grown in these dark times. Phaser in her hand, hound
at her heels and the beginnings of the reputation that will shake a galaxy
swirling around her head.
He's obviously human, so he can't be any older than she is. He might be
younger, it's hard to say. He's so skinny you can count his ribs and so bare
that they're all available to be counted. He's scarred viciously, in patterns
made with obvious deliberation, like someone wanted to see just how well fair
skin can hold marks. Very well, it happens.
His hair glints gold under a layer of filth and his eyes are blue and bruised
around the edges when they meet hers. He bares his teeth at her in what might
almost be a smile. Lips peeling back and curling up. They're surprisingly good
teeth compared to the shape the rest of him is in. White and even.
The Klingon woman holding his leash cuffs him across the back of the head.
"Don't look at the customers," she spits. "Worthless human." When she looks up
at Uhura, though, her face is all smiles, as close as a Klingon can get to
eager to please.
"You like this, girl?" she asks, tugging the leash, forcing the boy's neck to
arch. It's a long neck with a nice curve. If he were better fed, Uhura can see
where he'd be beautiful. It's a waste, she decides.
She doesn't let herself look too interested, not yet. Just shrugs and looks
back at her hound, at Spock. He's by her heels and a pace behind, arms at rest,
face dispassionate, almost bored, as usual. It's only when she meets his eyes
and he lifts his eyebrow just a little that she can see that inside, he's
almost vibrating. He looks past her for just a moment and she follows his gaze
to the human boy's sprawled figure and vivid blue eyes. There's something here
her hound wants. Definitely. She looks back again and grins at him and lets him
slide closer, close enough for his warmth to fit in at her side, a solid
presence.
Then she turns to the Klingon woman. "He's kind of scrawny and filthy for my
taste," she says and cracks a yawn. "My hound likes him, though. For sale or
for rent?"
"Either, whatever you prefer." As if to show what's on offer, the Klingon woman
pulls the boy back with a violent jerk. It sends him sprawling over her knee,
legs spread. His cock is soft, but not ungenerous. There are scars there too,
but nothing severe.
Still, Uhura frowns. "Does that work?" she demands. "They're no fun if you
break them."
The Klingon woman laughs. "His hole works, if your hound is the one that wants
him," she cackles. "But, no, fair question, human. I'll show you." She puts her
own hand over the boy's cock and jerks it roughly. He winces, but it's a barely
visible motion.
He stays soft for a long moment and the Klingon woman spits something nasty in
her own language that makes Uhura frown. Then he looks up at her-- those eyes.
Something feral and twisted and hungry... out of all the emotions there, it's
the hungry that Uhura recognizes. Starvation in so many forms, though, that's
common. She's seen so many who've just given in to it, but this boy, he still
wants things. He's not broken.
Then he lowers his gaze and she knows he's looking at Spock. Licks his lips,
just once and smiles. A dare. Shivers under the Klingon woman's touch and then,
finally, his cock stirs. She laughs at that too, a mocking sound, "Little human
slut," she mutters. "Always ready. Comes when he's fucked too, in case you're
wondering."
Uhura doesn't pay attention to her, she just keeps watching her boy-- in the
back of her mind, he's already hers. Splayed thighs, smooth line of back. Well
made. He watches her, watches Spock, like he's imagining that they're the ones
touching him. When he comes he smiles at her. It's so sudden-- like light
coming through after a planetside storm-- bright and sunny and real.
It's only when the Klingon woman wipes the come off her hand and onto his face
and that the smile fades. She smirks when she sees Uhura's expression. "You do
want him, I see. Won't be cheap, but will be worth it."
"Cheap enough," Uhura says softly. "At least for me." She turns back to Spock,
who nods at her. Just once, just the bare inclination of chin. She nods back
and drops the lead from her hand. Spock moves. Fast, inhuman. Beautiful.
Uhura's seen that before, though, and will again. Now she just watches the
boy's eyes, summer blue and fixed on the spectacle of destruction before him.
He smiles again, but this smile is different. Just as sweet, but full of razors
and death, bleeding things. Uhura steps up to him, closer and closer, close
enough that he could snap at her if he chose.
She keeps her hands open and shows no fear, none at all, when she takes his
smiling face between her palms. He looks at her, compliant, at least for now.
They'll see. "Definitely worth it," she tells him softly. "That I won't
dispute."
He's beautiful, Uhura's new boy, but the scars on his throat make her frown.
Like another smile line, thin and white. She threads her fingers against the
scar, following when he tries to jerk away. "Shh," she soothes, like she's
talking to something without sense. "I just want to see if you're hurt. Can you
talk?"
He glares at her for that, jerking back further, but not out of reach. He can't
get far, she can see that. There's a chain on his ankle, dull and heavy
looking. She's going to guess the answer is no, he can't speak or he would, but
she might as well find out for sure. She looks up without taking her hands off
the boy's skin.
"Spock," she says. "Bring her to me."
The Klingon woman isn't crying, but that's only because she's a Klingon after
all. She's shaking, thick rage and madness in her eyes. There's blood on her
face and wet spots on her dark clothes. Spock has her arms twisted behind her
back, but his expression is as cold as her's is hot. Empty. Uhura nods to him
and then looks the woman in the eye. "You're going to die," she says.
"So I'll die," the woman spits back. "For what? For trash? I'm not afraid of
you or your little Vulcan slave."
Uhura shrugs. The boy's pulse is steady under her hands. He's not afraid
either. That's how she knows he's for her. "Answer a question," she says out
loud. "This boy, does he speak?"
The woman laughs at her. She shrugs again and nods at Spock. He breaks her
arms. Just a jerk of motion, perfectly timed, but it's enough. When Uhura
speaks again, it's in Klingon. "Answer the question and your death will be
honorable," she says, softer this time.
The woman spits again, but she speaks. Slow, careful, hiding the tremors of
pain. "No, he can't. It wasn't me that did it, if it's anything to you. It was
the little slut's own dam. Stupid whore-- she begged us for his life when we
first caught her, said she'd do anything and did. After all that she slit her
own son's throat as soon as he was old enough to be useful. We had to get rid
of her and what a waste that was."
Uhura nods, she's heard what she needs to. The boy under her hands is still.
She looks back at him, at those endless beautiful eyes. Then she leans down and
kisses him on the mouth, tastes what he has to offer. Once, but once isn't
enough. She laughs when he sinks his teeth into her lower lip-- not hard enough
to break skin, just a nip. Just to show off. He bares his teeth at her and she
kisses him again.
His mouth is filthy but warm and she can imagine what it will be like clean.
She'll find out soon enough.
"Boy," she tells him, voice soft, coaxing. She slides the knife out of her
sheath, hilt first, and wraps his fingers around it. That startles him. He
stares down at it, gleaming in his hand like he's never seen anything like it
before. It wavers in the light, reflecting his dirty face. Uhura smiles at him.
Then she points her phaser at the chain on his ankle. One blast and he's free.
"Show me," she whispers. "If you want to. Show me what they did to your
mother." And she sees it, that knife's edge gleam in those eyes to match the
edge in his hands, watches it come alive.
The Klingon woman only gets it a second after he does. "No!" she howls. "An
honorable death. You swore. Not like a slave. Not at the hands of a... a human
slave!"
Uhura shrugs and says nothing. She sits down and watches, let's the boy show
her. As far as she's concerned, there's honor in this.
 
(The Doctor)
Leonard McCoy was having a bad day by any human standards... and these days?
Human standards are really fucking low.
Today was the day that one of his few remaining hypos broke, his landlady told
him the rent was due, or else, and he got a message from his ex-wife saying she
was taking the kid out of this hell hole and high tailing it for fresh air,
blue skies and the supposed safety of New Terra. McCoy, who remembered Old
Terra well enough even though he'd been a kid when it went, thank you very
fucking much, was not interested in fantasy reenactments.
He'd have done it for Joanna, though, if he'd had the chance. So, yeah, Leonard
McCoy was already having a motherfucking bitch of a day-- it was just that it
was about to get a lot worse.
So now he's in a sleazy bar, all the worldly possessions he'd managed to
scavenge before the landlady got him crammed into a small bag for medical
supplies and a duffel for everything else, just as simple as that. He's in a
bad, nursing something purple and toxic looking that puts hair on your chest
and then burns it right back off in one easy step. He knows something's up when
the room goes a little quieter.
That's when she walks in. If she weren't what looked like a decade too young
for him he'd figure she was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. Human, with a
sharp face and smooth dark skin, hair bound up tightly behind her. It was the
way she carried herself that made him look, though. Head up so high, like the
queen of the motherfucking galaxy. McCoy can't remember the last time he'd seen
a human woman-- a human anything-- walk like that that.
He can't help but watch, mouth open like an idiot. It's not the last mistake
he'll make that day, but maybe the worst. She catches his eyes. Smiles. Then
she strides up to the bar, easy as you please. He can half hear muttering in
the background, guttural languages. Human bitch, like she owns the place
followed by shushing hisses Don't be an idiot, you know who she is, that's
Uhura. In the back of his mind, McCoy knows he's heard the name before and it
means nothing good.
She just ignores the whispers like they're not even real to her and leans in to
say something to the bartender, a green skinned Orion girl with a shady smile.
The bartender frowns, shrugs and then suddenly nods. She points right at McCoy.
Like an idiot, he doesn't get up and run, but later he figures that wasn't a
mistake. If he'd run, Uhura would have caught him.
When she walks over to him, she says, "Gaila says you're a doctor that needs
work. I happen to need a doctor."
He gives her the up and down and goes back to his whiskey like he's not still
staring from under his lashes. "You look perfectly healthy to me," he mutters.
She laughs at him. It's a nice laugh, rich and warm. It shouldn't feel like
nails on his spine. "Not for me," she says. "For my hound. Sometimes...
sometimes he needs to run for a while. This time he got himself hurt."
"Your what?" McCoy sputters. "Lady, I'm a doctor, not a veterinarian. Go bother
someone else."
Her eyes narrow. "I really don't have time to argue with you about this," she
says, thoughtfully, like she's talking to herself, not to him. "He didn't like
the last doctor."
McCoy's about to tell her exactly how much he cares about what her stupid dog
likes or doesn't like when he feels something pressed into his side. He looks
down and blinks. Swallows. It's a phaser. Her expression hasn't changed a whit.
She's still looking over him with a proprietary, thoughtful air. "I think he'll
like you better," she says. "Shall we go?"
McCoy stares at her and she just smiles. That's when he recognizes he's in the
hands of a madwoman. He was pretty sure there'd been a class on dealing with
armed pyschos in med school, but he might have missed that day. "You're the
crazy with the gun," he mutters and stands up, trying not to let his hands
shake. Maybe if he doesn't show it, she won't know his pulse is pounding and
his skin is crawling where she's got a fucking phaser on him.
She dimples at him. "Thank you," she says. They go... or rather he walks ahead
and she's a pace behind, telling him where to go. It's down to the shuttle
docks, the parts where no self respecting-- or sane-- human would go. She
doesn't seem to sweat it. She does urge him to move faster, but he's pretty
sure it's just that she wants to get back to her fucking... dog or whatever.
McCoy spends the whole time twitching, trying to decide if he's more freaked
out about the things that have to be lurking in the corner, the filthy dock
side diseases, or the woman behind him.  Then she leads him into a small, but
exquisitely high tech looking shuttle docked out of the way and it all falls
away.
There's a kid bleeding on a pallet by the wall. Okay, to be fair someone's
taken the time to staunch the flow and there's the tell tale shimmer of a field
bandage keeping pressure on it, but McCoy has never felt fair about bleeding
kids. This one can't even be eighteen-- pretty face, but too skinny, bare to
the waist with visible scarring, eyes closed and bruised looking. But all of
that is something McCoy pushes to the back of his brain, since that's not
important now, the fact the kid has a hole in his side is.
Everything else is pushed away and he's reaching for his medical bag with one
hand and walking right toward the kid when something hits him from the side.
McCoy hasn't had a lot of call to encounter a hand on his throat, but there's
one now and it belong to a blank faced young Vulcan who looks like he fits
right in with the nursery school of crazies brigade on this shuttle.
"Spock," the girl chides. She sounds like she thinks it's funny. Maybe. "It's
fine. He's the doctor, for James."
The Vulcan-- Spock, whatever, looks at her and raises an eyebrow. She looks
right back, like there's no fucking medical emergency and they have all the
time in the world. "Let me see that kid, damn you," McCoy manages to wheeze
out. "An injury like that--"
The Vulcan drops him and it takes his all not to fall on his ass. He didn't
sign up for this, not even close. The girl just sighs. "I'm sorry," she says.
"Spock needs to be sure if you're all right. The last doctor was really not
acceptable at all, he didn't understand about James."
McCoy shrugs it off, now isn't the time to argue about this. He kneels next to
the boy and breathes a sigh of relief when he gets up closer. The wound is
messy, but shallow, like something sharp had glanced off skin. No wonder the
nursery school brigade isn't that worried.
He cleans it off first, because infection is the real danger from something
like this. Then a few minutes with a dermal regenerator and the wound starts to
close. This wound won't scar, but the kid has enough of those to last him
anyway.
McCoy waits until he's finished sealing things up before he turns back to the
girl. Her homicidal Vulcan looked like he'd taken himself somewhere else, which
was something, at least. "Want to tell me what the hell is going on here?" he
spits, too wound up to be afraid. "What happened? You said you needed a doctor
for your dog."
The girl slides past him, quick and easy, so she's kneeling next to the boy's
prone body. She puts her palm against his face, like she's trying to read
something in his skin before she looks back up at McCoy like she'd suddenly
remembered he's still there. She nods at him. "And you've done very well. I
think this will work out."
"What the hell is wrong with you?" McCoy asks, even though he's guessing the
question is futile. "Work out? Someone... it looks like someone tortured that
kid for years. Those scars." He runs his fingers through his hair, probably
dripping drying blood onto it.
"I know," she says, but he can hear the hiss of her breath. It bothers her, at
least. He thinks it bothers her. It's hard to tell.
"You did this to him?" McCoy spits, growling down at the mess of boy on the
bed, like she doesn't have a phaser and a crazy Vulcan under her boot-heel
somewhere. "For running?"
Uhura shakes her head. For the first time, including when she held a fucking
phaser on him, she looks horrified. "Of course not. He's mine, he can run if he
needs to." She frowns and tilts her head a little to one side. "Actually, it
was my hope you could do something about the scars." She runs her fingers over
the boy's neck and McCoy can see the line of his throat move under her hand,
like he's starting to stagger toward consciousness. "At least here," she says.
"Around the vocal chords, you mean," he says. For a second he actually thinks
about it, before he shakes his head. "It's a delicate operation. I can't. I
don't have that kind of time or equipment."
She frowns. "What kind of equipment would you need?" she asks. "I'm sure we can
get it at the next port."
It takes a second for what she's saying to sink in. It just doesn't make any
sense. He even has to ask before it quite hits him. "Next port?" he repeats
softly.
She nods and smiles at him. It's a very pretty smile, even white teeth, shining
dark eyes. She doesn't look crazy at all. She looks like a little girl, all
proud of herself, like an older version of Joanna when she first learned to
write her own name. "Spock took us into warp about twenty minutes ago and our
ETA should be about twenty standard hours," she says. She waits, like she's
expecting him to say something, but his mouth is still hanging open.
She answers the question he hasn't raised the stamina to ask. "Gaila told me
she had a doctor for me, Dr. McCoy," she says. "One that didn't have anywhere
to go. How did you think I knew to find you?"
"You... you can't... you," he sputters. He puts his hands over his face, but
when he takes them off, it's still all real. She's still smiling at him. She
can and she knows it, damn her. There's no one and nothing left to miss him.
"This is kidnapping," he says anyway, like it might penetrate.
"I needed a doctor," she explains, like that's all there is to it. "You'll do,
just as long as James like you." Her smile fades momentarily. "Just remember
one thing. He can touch you if he wants but if you touch him before he does,
I'll put you out the airlock." Then she claps him on the shoulder, hard and
hearty. "Welcome aboard, Dr. McCoy."
He wants to yell at her, to scream, to shake her until her smile rattles off.
He might even be gearing up to try, when the expression on her face changes and
suddenly she's not looking at him at all anymore, but behind him.
When he turns to see what she does, the kid is awake. His eyes are very wide
and very blue. He mouths something that looks like a name, maybe 'Uhura' and
grins, a brilliant, lightening smile that makes McCoy's breath catch. She
kneels down next to him and kisses him on the mouth, deeply enough that McCoy
has to flinch and close his eyes, like he'd caught a private moment through the
cracks in someone's blinds. When he opens them again they're not kissing
anymore, but the boy's hands are spread wide on the back of the girl's neck and
her forehead is pressed against his.
"Next time," she says, "Don't take on a Klingon with your fists. Use a phaser.
You're lucky we found you."
He laughs soundlessly, but it's obvious from his face that laughing is exactly
what he's doing. His hands move quickly, gracefully, and it takes McCoy a
second to recognize an old version of a sign language. He can't make out what
it means, but at least he knows what it is.
She laughs back, out loud. "Always," she says, like she's agreeing with
something he said. "We always will. Now, say hello to our new doctor."
And then blue eyes fix on him, curious and wide, like he's a brand new toy.
McCoy gets the barest inkling of how deeply screwed he really is going to be.
 
Before
The first time you didn't have the words for what was happening to you-- you
barely had words at all and the ones that were still there all trapped in your
head, ricocheting like a projectile gone bad. Later, when you could have talked
about it, it would have come out in colors, smells, the touch of hands on your
skin. Later, when you can talk, it's only a shadow of what it was.
This is the important part-- her and him.
You remember the stench of cooling Klingon blood. It was on your hands, your
face, dripping down your stomach, blinked out of your eyes. Like come after
getting fucked too much, only the taste was different, metallic, sharper. Only
this time you weren't the one that was hurt.
You don't feel sad about it or happy either. Just cold. You're always cold.
"You're mine now," the girl says, the tall, dark girl, who holds her head up
like a Klingon warrior. It makes you want to bow your own head, offer
submission, but you don't, you won't, you keep your eyes on hers. She smiles at
you, and the Vulcan nods, acknowledging something. You don't know what they're
looking at, but you don't look away either.
They don't ask your permission. You wouldn't have known how to give it anyway.
You remember thinking they'd take you then and there, with the body still
cooling on the floor. Maybe you even wanted it, then it was hard to know for
sure. Your body felt strange to you sometimes, disconnected. Fragments of
thought and and cold and want and hunger that didn't go in any order.
They do take you, but not in any way you expected. It starts with a touch. It's
just a warm hand on your cheek, his, fingers sliding through the drying mess of
blood and coming to rest. His eyes are dark and he mouths something to you.
No words, he doesn't talk. It's okay, you barely understand.
Except when he touches you, you do hear, you do understand. My mind to your
mind. Let us know you, see who we are, who you are. And you think Who am I? and
you know he can hear you too.
It's not words, but you don't have words then either, so it's better like this.
The mess on the surface is easy to cut through. They saw what you are already,
what was done to you. They're not interested in it, Spock's thoughts slide
deeper, helping you push it aside, away from you. Where it belongs.
He gives you sense memories instead, tasting what you are, how you feel, your
skin and blood and bones. He takes all of that in, and then-- then the world
shifts. He's done taking and instead he gives you something. The world shifts
and you're not you anymore, you're so much smaller. You're Spock and you're
watching a whole world end.
The sound of a woman's voice and her arms wrapped around you, pulling you in
tight and close and, yes, that's her, MotherMom, Mama, Mommy. And you can see
her, it's so crowded, people pushing in, trying to be orderly, but they fail.
You can see her, the way she pushes you--pushes you onto a shuttle full of
silent, wide eyed children. You can see her.
You never see her again. Spock gives you the memory of her face, of love of
Mother.
You remember that.
The world shifts. This time you are you, you remember this. You, but before, in
the time before. Your Mom holds you like his did, just like that, arms wrapped
around you, clutching tight enough to bruise. Her hairy feels stiff and dirty
on your cheeks and she's crying. You keep trying to reach up, to tell her it
will be okay, to make her feel better, but she shushes you and holds on harder.
She whispers that she's got something for you, pushes into your hand. "My
favorite thing to eat when I was little," she whispers. "Never thought I'd see
it again. Try it." It's brown and weirdly soft, smells sweet, not like what
you're used to, but good. It smells really good.
You look at her. She smiles, pushes your hands to your mouth. "Try it, Jimmy,"
she says. And, oh, yeah, that's who you are. "It's chocolate." It melts on your
tongue and you can feel your eyes get wide. You take another bite. Another.
You stop close to the end of it and hold it back up to her, "Mom, don't you
want some?" you ask in a whisper. You always whisper, it's bad if they hear you
be loud. "If it's your favorite?"
She looks at you and cries.
And then the world shifts and you're small, but you're not you, because you
never felt like this in your life, in your skin like this. You're Nyota and,
yes, you're small but fearless. You don't know what fear means because nothing
can touch you, nothing ever has.
You're not alone, you're never alone. In your oldest, deepest memory, he's
there, usually close enough to touch, to reach out and press skin to skin
whenever you need it. Even when he's not you can feel him, wrapped close, like
silk threading through your mind.
The other children keep clear of you, you can see them with their sidelong
glances and their nervous hands, but you're not interested in them. One day one
of the braver ones, a cousin of yours, catches you alone in a ship's corridor
and says, "What's it like having your own dog following you everywhere? Does he
sleep at your feet and wear a leash?"
You look at him and smile. Then you go after him with your fists, going in hard
and fast, no hesitation. Like Spock showed you. Your cousin gets in one good
hit that splits your lip, but you just laugh and kick his knees out from under
him.
When Spock sees you, his eyes go narrow and he touches your bruised mouth with
his fingertips and you can hear angry, buzzing thoughts in your head. You just
smile and kiss his fingers where they brush your lips to show him you're not
hurt. You're victorious.
Your cousin loses two of his teeth mysteriously. He'll never say who punched
him, but of course you know. So does everyone else.
You don't like the way your Aunt looks at Spock after that, but you're not
worried. Nothing can touch you, Spock tells you that with every stray glance
and raised eyebrow. No one ever will.
And then you're Jim again, and you lose the thread. When you're Jim you know
how fear tastes, and you also know it doesn't matter. Being afraid never saves
anyone.
Mom has a knife in her hand. You stare at it blankly, like you don't know what
it is, even though you've seen lots of them. They carry them, not us. We are
not supposed to touch weapons. You know that. You don't understand.
Mom has a weapon in her hand. She smiles at you and you bite your lip and force
yourself to smile back. "I love you, baby," she says. "My beautiful baby. I'm
so sorry."
"I love you too, Mom," you whisper and your voice comes out soft, like a little
kid's. She's crying again, slow tears that drip down her chin and onto your
skin.
"I won't let them do this to you," she says, and her voice sounds firmer,
determined. She's sure of herself. You just shake your head, confused. When she
tells you to close your eyes and lift us your chin you do it.
She's your mom. You trust her. You know she's trying to save you.
After this, you mostly remember pain.
The world shifts and so do you. You're on that shuttle crammed with rocking,
eerily silent children. Dark eyes, blank eyes. No one speaks, no one whispers.
On a view screen of the shuttle you see Vulcan looming on the horizon, the
black ship hanging above it like a predator, a monster from a story. You hold
out your hand like you can touch it, like you can...
And Vulcan, Vulcan, the planet, it shudders. It shakes. In your head, in your
head you hear them scream. You hear them scream and there's so much quiet, so
many voices, empty and quiet.
You're alone. There's no one. You're all alone.
And the world shifts, forcing you out and you're you again, but something
sticks. Your thoughts are fragments, wordless, but they weren't always this
way. Someone talked to you, someone...
The black ship? Wait. That... the black ship. You know this one. Think.
"Think, James," Mom snaps. She takes you by the shoulders and makes you look at
her. "I might have been a Starfleet officer once, but now I can't give you
anything but this. If they take your mind, if you grow up so that you can't
think, they'll have taken everything."
Her voice is sharp, mad, but her eyes are wet. She's shaking. You bite your lip
and lean back down over the calculations and formulas she's drawn with her
fingertip in the dusty floor. This one is for the speed of light and this one
is at the core of a warp engine. This one is...
No, not here, this isn't what's important. Think.
The world shifts and you're Nyota, sitting in a classroom full of other
children, cousins and refugees. In front of the room is the teacher, a tired
looking man sitting on his desk, talking about the end of the world.
"A black ship of unknown origin," he says and shakes his head. He looks like he
wants to cry. "It happened quickly, within hours. No one knew it was coming."
And then you're James, in a dark, dusty corner, and your belly hurts because
you're hungry.
"The Kelvin was destroyed by a black ship," Mom says. "George-- your father, he
saved us. He gave us time to escape." Her mouth twists and she doesn't look
happy.
"What kind of ship?" you ask, softly, face turned up. You imagine your father
saving you now, running in and getting you and Mom away from here. Then she'd
never cry and you'd get to eat all the time and you wouldn't have to whisper or
hide. "How did he save us?"
Your Mom frowns. "It hailed us, but there was so much chaos. I was in labor, I
wasn't really with it, but the word was that it was the Romulans. I don't know,
maybe... the technology wasn't like anything we'd seen."
"How did he stop them?" you demand again, wanting to hear the story where your
dad won. "Tell me." She shakes her head. Replaying the memory now you realize
he didn't win at all.
Replaying the memory through Spock and Nyota you know something else. The black
ship-- that was the Romulans. Maybe? They're the ones who did this to us, to
all of us. Maybe we should do something about that.
But that's something for later.
The world shifts and you open your eyes. You're sprawled on a dirty floor, with
your head resting on Spock's knee, his hands on your skin. Nyota is holding
your hand and she's smiling down at you, beautiful and perfect and absolutely
without fear.
"I knew you were perfect the second I saw you," she tells you. She says,
"James," and no one has called you that since they slaughtered your mother.
Perfect? You want to ask, but you can't. But you don't have to ask, Spock can
hear you and if he can, she can too.
Spock lifts you up, arms under your knees and shoulders, easy as if you were
still the kid in your memories. You feel like you could almost get there,
almost remember what it means to be a person again. He's so warm. You can feel
his thoughts, just vague and under the surface and those are warm too. And this
is how Nyota felt when she was small and safe because he was with her so you're
not sure if any of this is real or an echo of her memories.
It doesn't matter. You close your eyes. You're so much more tired than you
expected and there's nothing different you can do if you stay awake.
You expect to wake up where you'd been-- chained in a small dirty room, no
escape, just the fragments of dreams in your mind. Instead you're scrubbed
clean and covered up with soft sheets and blankets. When you lift your head,
you see Nyota and Spock, sprawled in a chair.
She's curled in his lap, close and comfortable, eyes closed and breathing
evenly, like she's slept that way a thousand times before. He's awake, watching
you. He smiles when he sees your eyes are open and he leans forward carefully,
like he's trying not to jostle her. He drops something on your pillow, a small,
silver package.
You blink and stare and then you open it, because why not? It's something brown
and smooth and sweet smelling. Chocolate. You can hear Spock without him ever
opening his mouth, My mother once said that on Earth, such things were courting
gifts. When one wanted to express one's intentions. Nyota also thought it would
be appropriate.
You can't help it. You roll your eyes and grin at the same time. Then you break
off a square and pop it into your mouth. It's as good as you remember, the way
it melts on your tongue. Like a kiss. Better.
Before
It was Nyota who saw the connection first, when she was fifteen and apprenticed
to the camp's archivist, trying to piece together old records, but Spock had no
trouble following her logic.
"It's practically a myth," she says and frowns. "If it hadn't happened, it
would be considered a myth. One day and four planets die. The four federation
home worlds. In one day. And the story is that no one, I mean no living being,
saw what was inside that black ship. A mystery race."
He raises an eyebrow, as if to ask where she intends to go with a story they
all know, but she just shakes her head. "I don't believe that's true," she
says. "I think someone has to know more and I want to know who did it."
Spock frowns and he shakes his head slightly.
That's when Uhura presses her hands against his and comes to her point. "I saw
an old transmission in the archives this morning—completely by accident. I
think it got lost in the chaos of—well, everything. Spock, less than a day
before the destruction of Vulcan, a federation vessel was attacked by a black
ship." When Spock meets her eyes, they're shining. She's breathing hard,
excited.
He nods, as if urging her to go on. She does so. "The USS Kelvin," she says.
"If what I learned is right, they hailed that ship. They spoke to the people on
board and they know who and what they were."
They know who did this to us. To our worlds. It is-- there is a logic to this.
"Yes," she breaths. "Exactly. The only issue is finding them, survivors. If
there were any. Whoever made the transmission seems to think there were."
And then? But the answer is obvious. He nods. She smiles and leans forward,
quick and fearless to kiss him. The kiss is warm and wet and eager with her
thoughts, her excitement. To her it's a puzzle, a mystery. She doesn't remember
Earth, never walked on its shores, not the way he remembers Vulcan.
When she grieves, it is with him, never for herself. He kisses her and tastes
the lack of it. It's the only time he can. It's why he belongs to her. She
slides her skirt up and climbs into his lap like she's coming home and his
hands tighten on her hips, pulling her close. She grabs his hands by the wrists
and pushes them back down again, presses them against his sides, and he lets
her.
She's ice cool and beautiful. Nyota he thinks, and she smiles at him. Pulls his
trousers down just enough to pull his cock out and slip it in.
After that, they make plans. Plans to chase rumors of escaped shuttlecraft.
Plans that need money, ideas, power.
"We'll hire out," Nyota says. "As bounty hunters. Retrieval experts. Whatever
else-- we can do that. Unless you're afraid to."
He frowns. She is human and small, in a galaxy that has not had much use for
humans since their planet fell. Vulnerable. She just laughs at him. "They call
you my dog, did you know that, Spock? So be that. Be my hound. Protect me and
nothing will ever touch me."
If she wants it, she knows he'll do it. He nods.
They chase rumors and blood for a year until they hit a small space station
orbiting a gas giant in the Vega system. There is a bartender there who stares
at Nyota hard enough to make Spock hang a little closer, meet his eyes until he
bites his lip and looks away.
He coughs nervously, but Spock keeps his gaze steady. Imagines what he could do
to the man if he tried to move too close. Smiles, just a bit.
"The Kelvin," the man stammers, tearing his gaze from Spock's. "Yeah. Old
Federation ship, right? There was a shuttle came through here, fuck, sixteen
years ago, almost. I doubt that any of them are still around, though-- Klingons
got'em, you know? For the slave markets."
"Klingons?" Nyota repeats. Her voice is calm, deceptively so. Spock can feel
her excitement pick up, like electrons stirring under her skin. The knowledge
that they may not be chasing ghosts.
The man nods. "Nasty fuckers." He frowns, scratches his head. Gives Spock a
long, wary glance. "Look, like I said, most of em got sold on a damn long time
ago, but there is something. I mean, if it were worth my while, I might have
something a little more concrete for you. Something real close at hand and very
sweet."
Nyota smiles. Bright, vicious. "Is that so?" she croons. Spock settles in close
and watches her work.
It leads them to a narrow, dirty room that stinks of sex and filth. Death. Even
before he steps inside, Spock thinks that it is fortunate they are here now and
not later-- whoever this room contains does not have much life left in them.
They are dying.
That is before he meets James Kirk's blue eyes and life is all he sees.
Poisoned and bruised, beaten to the brink, but still pouring out. For the first
time since he was a small, empty souled child poised over an infant's cradle,
Spock sees something he wants.
Nyota goes still at his side, and he knows she sees what he sees, feels what he
feels. They will not be leaving this place without that boy. He will not die.
Later, when James is in their shuttle, passed out from exhaustion, they wrap
him up in clean sheets and confer. There are words for what they experience
when they see him, touch his mind, in the Vulcan language, but Spock was a
child when that world ended.
The human word might be destiny.
"We should seduce him," Nyota says, and smiles like she's discovered a new
theorem or stumbled over a once untranslatable alien language. "Make him want
to be ours."
Spock shrugs minutely. He takes her hand and shares the thought that it would
not be necessary. James would undoubtedly agree to any proposition of that
nature without any thought. Nyota should and does know this.
Nyota shakes her head. "That's the reason why we should do it, because it's
unnecessary."
Humans are irrational. Nyota normally far less than others, but even so.
Nyota laughs. "Not at all. Watch and see." She doesn't say, trust me. She
doesn't need to. They are in accord.
 
Now
The weirdest thing about sharing a ship with the people McCoy's always going to
think of as the nursery school brigade of doom is the absolute quiet of it-- or
at least the lack of human voices. It's worse than he imagines a solitary
shuttle must be, because he knows that they're out there. Even Uhura, who can
talk, doesn't bother to much up here. It's just the ship sounds, engines and
machines, gliding through the emptiness of space and McCoy's never been big on
emptiness.
It should be better when he's in the same room at Uhura or Spock, because even
homicidal maniac company is still company, but it's worse. It's like they're
thinking at each other and fuck knows what they're thinking. Maybe how he'd
taste spit roasted. The whole thing makes him shudder.
At least on the first day out he has a patient to see to and the patient is
badly enough off to spend most of his time unconscious after a few brief
moments of wakefulness when McCoy finished gluing his insides shut. Later on
McCoy will learn that an unconscious Jim is the best kind when it comes to
administering medical care.
The first day, though, he's just frustrated and angry and tries to reduce what
he has in front of him down to clinical terms. A young male human, of
approximately 18 to 19 standard years. The most recent evidence of injuries, of
which there are plenty, are primarily superficial. They bear the
characteristics of short term, non-lethal trauma. Fist fights, probably, that
kind of thing. The kid's knuckles are scarred from them. If he had to guess,
McCoy would have said that anything more serious had received prompt medical
attention, high quality enough to not leave traces behind.
The older injuries... those left traces. Scars. Knife scars in such deliberate
patterns that he could have sworn they were words dug into skin. Something in
Klingon, maybe? Other things, burns, broken bones and torn up muscle. The deep
scarring all the way into the meat of his throat, where someone had sliced it
open years ago. The biggest part of McCoy doesn't want to know the stories his
tricorder tells him, but he can't help seeing them anyway.
It makes it weirder when the kid wakes up and proceeds to violently remove
himself from the category of patient by pushing the doctor trying to keep him
from hurting himself out of the way and wandering out into the corridor while
he was still at risk of his insides falling out.
"Hey," McCoy calls after him, even though he hasn't got the slightest clue if
the kid can or will listen to him. "Hey, kid! You're gonna hurt yourself! Kid!"
What had the crazy girl called him? "James!" That makes the kid turn around and
grin and wink, hitting McCoy with the sight of those blue eyes again.
The kid makes a sweeping, dismissive gesture, almost as good as any verbal blow
off McCoy's ever gotten from a testosterone laden teenager, and keeps walking.
McCoy chases him down the corridor. He doesn't know how Uhura or Spock would
react if he let the kid reopen his wound.
It turns out he doesn't have to worry. The shuttle's not big, and McCoy's
shouting brings Spock out of whatever coffin he was sleeping in. The Vulcan's
blank face seems to twitch just a little when he sees them. James stops in his
tracks and grins at him, bright and thoughtless, like a trusting kid. Spock
raises an eyebrow at him and then over his shoulder, giving McCoy a long, hard
look.
"He can hurt himself," McCoy says, clear as he can, not backing down. "He
should be on bed rest for at least another day."
James makes a scoffing gesture but Spock nods, just once. They look at each
other, like they're fighting out some kind of battle McCoy doesn't know the
rules to. Fighting with just their eyes, like two hopped up, adrenaline laden
wolves. He has no idea how long it would have gone on just like that if Uhura
hadn't walked in, her flat boots clicking against the metal floor.
"Listen to the doctor," is all she says. "It's what we have him for. If you're
bored, think about that the next time you need to hit things. If you want to
work on something, we'll bring it to you."
Work, it turns out, is a PADD full of twisted mathematical equations, at least
as far as McCoy can tell from looking over the kid's shoulders when Spock and
Uhura finally maneuver him back to bed. Math had never been his subject in
school but he'd put his all into it because anything that got you out of the
refugee camps was a damned good idea.
This though... it was so far out of his league that even a glimpse gave him the
beginnings of a pounding headache. The kid just hunched over it, though, line
of concentration bunching between his eyes.
"What is that even for?" McCoy mutters after about an hour of just watching
that shit gets really old. The kid looks up and just blinks at him, like no one
ever asked him a direct question in his life, and McCoy feels like an idiot for
bugging the mute. He's about to apologize, but the kid waves him off and taps
something onto the PADD.
Temporal navigation the words say. For something we're working on.
"Temporal navigation?" McCoy repeats blankly. "What on God's green Earth for?"
James blinks again. God? he types.
McCoy shakes his head. "Nothing. Just something my father used to say. What's a
kid like you need to do with temporal-- whatsit? Do you mean time travel?"
James rolls his eyes and laughs soundlessly. If I'm doing it right? I'll need
it to destroy this universe, he types and then smirks at McCoy, all bright
white teeth and brilliance.
McCoy grits his teeth. "Fine," he mutters. "Don't tell me anything, then. Just
make shit up."
James looks at him blankly and then shrugs his shoulders before bending back
down to his math problems. After a while at, his hands start to waver and he
yawns heavily. McCoy waits him out and pulls the PADD free and tucks the
blankets around him when he finally falls asleep.
For a while, McCoy thumbs through the available files, but none of it tells him
anything. There are three authors noted, by initials and it only takes him a
few minutes to see why the kid's so careless with it in front of a stranger.
There's no way he'd get shit from this.
JK is mostly those weird, unfathomable equations with a couple of side notes
about a girl in a bar on a planet that has a name made up mostly of consonants.
McCoy skips through that part hurriedly.
S is more math and text typed out in Vulcan, which McCoy doesn't read.
Naturally the translation program on the PADD is disabled.
NU is a linguistic jumble. The only parts written in standard are the headers
and those look like names of people. From the format, he'd guess he's looking
at transcripts of conversations. The only words that he can pick out in the
scraps he can find are 'black ship'.
All of it just leads McCoy back to the idea that he's been kidnapped by crazy
people. All he can do is make a run for it at the next port. His... patient, or
whatever this kid was, he was obviously going to be fine.
It's probably a good hour before he starts to move. REM sleep, McCoy figures,
and doesn't worry much about it. Not until it goes on too long and then James
starts to shudder in his sleep.
McCoy doesn't know what to do with that, if he should say something, shake him,
wake him up, or let him sleep through it. The sounds he makes are muffled,
deep, from a ruined throat. They barely sound human at all. While McCoy
hesitates, the door slides open and someone pushes him aside, not roughly, but
implacably, like he's an object in the way.
The Vulcan, McCoy knows that without having to see him. Spock kneels down next
to the sleeping kid and slips his hand against his face in a gesture McCoy
doesn't really understand. Whatever it is, though, it works. James stops making
those awful low, guttural sounds, stops shaking.
McCoy's pretty close to a psychic null, but even he can feel something. It's
thick and heavy and it pounds in the back of his skull like an Orion's
pheromones.
"What is it you people really want from me?" McCoy whispers, and Spock looks up
from his task for just a second with dark, wide eyes. If he sees McCoy, if he
has any real interest in him at all, it just slips away, like slick on glass.
"What is it you people want?"
There's no one to answer that question.
 
Before
James needs to run. He manages it for years, those long years of nameless,
mindlessness where all he knew was blood and flight. Reflections of knives and
the deep burn of sex. He can't get away often and it gets harder every single
time he gets caught. He always gets caught, but it's always worth it, the rush
of adrenaline in his blood, steel under his bare feet. Ducking into corners and
seeing what else is out there, the width and breadth of the station that's his
world.
Being caught means being hurt, but not doing it-- well, that's just saying that
you wouldn't jump because you don't like the way it feels to hit the ground.
James always jumps.
Even after everything changes, the first time that Spock and Nyota's ship
slides into dock he ducks out the back cargo bay while they're speaking to the
customs officer and goes. He's got shoes on his feet, food in his stomach and
clothes that fit covering him from neck to wrist to ankles so he's already
better off than he's ever been before. He's even got a knife strapped to his
ankle. Vaguely, he thinks he'll get really far this time.
He does, too. It's not easy, the ground is heavy under his feet and his body
twitches under it. Artificial gravity is supposed to be as good as real, but
James is a space station brat from birth. Being on a planet feels different.
It's not just the weight, it's everything. The smells. The motions of the air,
how free it moves, but no one's afraid, no scared whispering about possible
hull leaks and depressurization. It's the smells, heavy and sweet, like the
insides of the hydroponics lab he'd escaped through once or twice, but a
million times stronger. He just wants to hold up his hand and feel it move
through his fingers over and over, but there's no time. He runs instead, and
it's not easy, but it's not hard either, he's stronger and healthier now than
he ever remembers being. The air is so warm and he eats up the ground
underneath him.
Out of the spaceport, through the gate, and no one stops him. No one even gives
a second look to the human boy dressed in soft synthetics, cutting and dashing
through the port crows, up and away. Off the main path the ground turns green
under his feet and it feels wrong somehow, like slamming his feet through the
hydroponics gardens that provide the oxygen a working station needs. These
plants, though, they go on forever, like there will always be enough. They feel
so soft, make his tread so light.
He runs until he can't anymore, until his knees lock up and his muscles shake.
Vision gone black at the edges and panting for air. Half way up a hill with
only the green all around him, lights of the spaceport in the distance,
blinking and shining. He falls where he stops, on his knees and watches and
waits. The ground is soft and wet and alive under his palms.
He waits, like he expects something to happen. It does. The sky starts to shift
and change color, the stars fading out as it does. From a formless gray to a
deep, vivid, spreading blue.
He remembers a hand, careful, but not gentle, lifting his chin up and a mouth
smiling down at him. Speaking about him but not to him, no one talks to him,
"Your whore has eyes like the morning sky. Beautiful." He never knew what that
meant.
This is what it means. The light spreading, changing the sky from black to
blue. And then other colors, violet and orange and red, pouring in from the
east. He can only sit there, open mouthed, and watch. He's so caught up in the
moment he doesn't notice when he's not alone anymore.
Not until there's a soft thump on either side of him and hands reach out to
slide between his lax ones. "It's risky to run like that on a strange world.
You're not trained to defend yourself and you don't know where you're going,"
Nyota tells him softly. Spock doesn't say anything at all, but he can feel the
echo of agreement, like a rumble in the back of his head.
He flinches involuntarily. The hands in his aren't rough or demanding, but he's
been here before a dozen times or more. Caught running means punished, means
knives and blood and screams that get tangled up in his ruined throat. He's
used to that but pain didn't mean as much then when his mind slipped in and
out, tangled and confused. They'd made him an animal and animals can forget.
It's different now. He knows his own name now and that means that it can hurt,
that the pain can last beyond the moment. He'll remember it. He shudders deep
down and then forces himself to stillness, but he knows they can feel it
anyway. Feel uncertainty echoing in the link, waiting for the blow to fall.
There's a slow, soft exhale, breath ghosting against the rim of his ear and
skin of his cheek. A voice in no language he knows, human or Klingon or any
other race Dear one, be at peace. Jim breathes out too, only realizing he's
been holding his breath when he stops doing it.
Sorry, he thinks at the voice, at both of them, and tightens his fingers in
theirs. He's felt them, felt their minds, they let him all the way in. He knows
what they are, even if he's not really sure what they want him for yet. He
knows it's not for his pain.
"Don't be," Nyota says and she presses her mouth against his cheek, light and
delicate. He nods and turns around to kiss her for real, slide his tongue over
her lips, wet and easy. For a few long breaths, she lets him, strokes her hands
through his hair while Spock rubs careful palms over his shoulders and back in
slow, soothing circles.
She breaks the kiss too soon, just as it deepens, and he pushes after her like
he's homing in on her touch. She catches him by the cheek and holds him back,
but she smiles at him. "None of that. When you're being courted, James, there's
no need to rush it."
He honestly can't help it. He laughs at her, bright and loose, something in his
stomach relaxing and letting go. He can't hear it, but he can feel it,
vibrating in his belly. She grins right back, bright and in his face while
Spock's arms wind around his shoulders, holding him loosely. He thinks they've
both got the madness, the way Klingons get, but stranger. Better. If this
madness wants blood, it isn't his.
"Crazy," she agrees. "But that's fine. Now we know you like chocolate and
running and watching sunrises. Why don't we find out what else you like?"
He doesn't know what that means, not really. He shrugs and looks away, but that
just brings him face to face with Spock. Who smiles at him, just a hair, but a
real smile.
"It's a human thing, a Terran thing to draw someone to you like that. You'll
see," Nyota says and draws his hand up to her mouth before pressing a kiss over
his knuckles, sweet and sure. He blinks.
Maybe he doesn't much mind being human today.
Now
McCoy has no idea how hard it might be to get off the shuttle after it docks.
How close an eye they're going to keep, how much it matters to Uhura that she
hold on to the pet doctor she nabbed.
In the end it's easy. He just has to follow Jim out the back way and not make
him turn around or notice he was being shadowed. McCoy figured he was lucky,
the injuries and meds were probably making the kid slower than he'd normally
be.
The next thing he should do, if he weren't a complete idiot, would be to high
tail it in the other direction like his ass was on fire. The dumbest thing he
could would be to keep following Jim and see where he went to.
Dumb apparently needs to get added to his name, because the next thing he
knows, he's going after Jim-- who is fast, goddamnit, and seems to know exactly
which way he's headed. Kid barely pauses to look at street signs, just runs,
weaving through crowds and jams of people like he's been practicing it all his
life. McCoy almost loses him a few time before he turns into an alley and walks
through a curtain into a dirty looking dockside bar. He hates to think what it
would be like trying to tail him if he was 100%.
Anyone with the brains of an Andorian cockroach would have to know that the
right thing is to run the other way. But, hell, McCoy's known some really
bright Andorian cockroaches. He waits a few breaths and then goes in.
His head aches and fuck if he knows what he's doing. Kid might be damaged, but
he could obviously take care of himself and if he couldn't, the Vulcan and
Uhura clearly had a handle on it. Kid might be the prettiest damned trap McCoy
had ever seen outside of his dreams, but he was too fucking young, and there
again, someone a hell of a lot scarier than McCoy was had a handle on that.
None of that makes him do the smart thing. Closest he can come is settling in
by a corner table near the door while the kid heads right for the bar. He tells
himself if anything happens, he'll still be able to get away. Self-delusion
ain't pretty, but it's what he's got.
He has no idea what he's expecting to see, but it isn't for the blueskinned
barfly with an outfit that shows off everything to pull up the stool next to
Jim and lean in to put her hand on his shoulder. It's dark, so he can't see the
expression on Jim's face, only imagine it. Upturned blue eyes and that smile,
wide and deep.
McCoy has never seen anyone pick up a girl that fast without saying a goddamned
word to her. It's kind of terrifying in a remarkable way. Then again, if it
were a dark night and someone with a face like James sat down next to him and
tilted his head, he couldn't be so sure he wouldn't have followed. Too damned
young or not.
And, damnit, he's not going to follow them into the alley, not going to see
what happens next. He's going to sit here and order a drink and think about how
the fuck he's going to get to New Terra and Joanna without a cent of money.
Never mind pay for his drinks.
He doesn't either, just sits in his seat and motions over the waitress. Except
that's when he sees the Klingon, nasty looking one with a wide bladed knife,
stand up and walk out the back way into the alley where Jim and his blue
skinned girl had wandered.
He gets up and goes, cursing himself the whole time. The man probably has not a
damn thing to do with anything and even if he does, McCoy doesn't give himself
great odds against a heavy from an alien race that everyone knows is stronger
than humans. Whatever happens, he doesn't know if there's anything he can do
with it but watch.
What he sees, though, is about as far from what he'd expected as it got.
There's Jim and the girl, but they're both fully dressed, leaning against the
wall. The only place they're touching is hands, just fingers pressed together.
Jim's sleeves are long enough to cover half way up his palms, like they were
made for a bigger man. There's no way to even see his scars the way he's
dressed, he just looks like a kid, holding hands with a girl. Up close, she's a
little older looking than he'd have guessed, but other than that, it's a
picture. If there's more, McCoy can't see it.
On the other hand, the Klingon looks huge in front of him, a hulking mass. "You
want her, human? She ain't free and you better show me the credits up front,"
he growls.
Jim tilts his head, like he's thinking about something. The girl smiles. Her
teeth are sharp, filed to a point and her blue skin gleams like she's flushed,
excited. Her voice is pitched high, almost painfully so. "Don't you remember
him, Torak? He remembers you, in fact, he's come a long, long way to find you
and you made it so easy. He wants me to tell you, five down, two to go."
McCoy can't see the Klingon's face, only his back, but he can hear growl.
Something incomprehensible about humans and then the fucker lunges and McCoy
thinks he's going to have the sew Jim's insides in again.
Right up until Jim pulls the phaser out of his sleeve and shoots the Klingon in
the head. The setting must have been the highest, because the bastard goes down
like a sack of rocks. Jim and the girl let go of each other, ducking out of the
way of the crashing body.
She's laughing, wild sounding, like she just got a hit of adrenaline. Jim waits
a breath and kneels down by the body. For a second, McCoy can't tell what he's
doing, then he realizes he's going for the credit chip and coin pouch. McCoy
just finds himself staring, shaking and breathing too hard. He can't imagine
what he looks like when Jim raises his head and sees him there watching. He can
only stand there under the weight of the kid's eyes and not like what he sees
there.
"You set that man up, didn't you? All that and you rob the dead too?" McCoy
mutters. "Or was robbing him the whole point?"
The kid makes a sharp, palms up gesture, like a shrug. The blue girl shakes her
head. "It's our money," she says. "Believe me, we earned it."
"What, finders keepers?" McCoy says, and he has no idea what's driving his
tongue. He knows, he really knows that's not what this is.
"No. By right," she spits. That flaring blue of her skin almost blinds him. Her
knuckles are tight, wound into fists. "Ever been a slave, human? Ever been a
whore that didn't even get to keep the profits?"
He stares at her and doesn't flinch. The punishment for slave-running isn't
death in any world he knows of, even the ones where it is any kind of crime.
Then again, he wonders if those worlds had ever seen something like the marks
on Jim's body or the glare of this woman's eyes.
"No," he says. "I haven't been."
Jim doesn't pay any attention to him. He just stands up and spills what looks
like an even half of the chips and coins into the girl's hands. If McCoy can
count there's enough there for a decade of living, if someone's careful, a year
if they're extravagant. Jim leans forward and kisses her on the forehead, light
and chaste and she smiles at him.
"Thank you," she says. "I never thought I'd see you again and definitely not
like this." Jim shrugs and makes a quick string of signs with his hands.
Whatever it is makes her laugh out loud. She secrets the money away, so fast
McCoy can barely tell where it's gone, and then lays her hands on Jim's
shoulders. "You look so good. So grown. Your mother would be pleased, gods'
rest her. If you ever need anything..."
Jim allows the touch for a few quick moments and then shrugs her off, still
smiling, but in a softer way. He waits until she slips off into the dark before
turning to look at McCoy, both eyebrows raised. Vaguely, McCoy wonders if he
could leave now, if the kid would try and stop him.
There's still a naked phaser in easy reach so he doesn't even try. Instead
McCoy raises his eyebrows back at Jim. "Do you do this kind of thing often?" he
mutters, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
He gets a wide, brilliant grin and a nod in response and he feels something
deep and tight in his belly uncurl. One more reminder that he is unfathomably
screwed.
 
\
Sometimes James arches his back in the mirror, craning to get a better look at
his scars. Most of them are just marks, methodical and deep, but without any
special meaning. They're just so he can't forget what punishment was.
Some of them mean something else. The one on his lower back he's glad only
remembers getting in the haziest way is one of those. Sli'Vak. Someone had
whispered that to him while they carved the letters in, slow and deliberate,
millimeter by millimeter. Slow enough that the pain never numbed, just shot on
and on while he could feel the blood dripping and pooling down his spine and
into the crevasse of his ass. There'd been drugs, paralytics so he couldn't
move, but nothing to keep him from feeling. They wanted him to feel.
Sli'Vak. The closest Standard word is whore. It makes him laugh, because he can
see it on his skin, he can remember it in muscle and blood and bone, but he
isn't that anymore. If he isn't, the word shouldn't be there. It makes him
laugh because it's ridiculous.
After a while, maybe he laughs too long, because Spock comes in to see what
he's doing. He doesn't touch, doesn't put any words through their link, just
looks in the mirror, meeting James' eyes and then following his gaze down to
the flesh and the carved in word. Then he frowns and James can feel the silky
tangled whisper of his thoughts.
A dermal regenerator can remove such a thing. And behind the thought there's
the press of distaste. Spock doesn't like the mark, that someone else put it
there. Not just because it isn't true any more-- they all know that. But that
someone else put it there.
The sensation of those thoughts makes James shiver, like cool hands cradling
the back of his neck. Daring, just a little, James turns and puts his hands
over Spock's, letting the touch of skin on skin magnify their connection. What
would you call me if not that?
Before Spock can answer, James pulls his knife from the sheath he always wears
these days. He hands it over, hilt first, pressing his fingertips against
Spock's palm to show him how much he means it, how much he wants.
Then he leans forward, so he's bent over the counter, back exposed like canvass
to be rewritten. He can hear Spock breathe, fast and even. Like he feels it.
There's a hesitation, but James matches it with his impatience, turning to
glare at Spock over his shoulder until the man moves.
The knife is so sharp and sweet it barely stings sliding over skin. James sighs
and lets his fall back down, neck bent and breath fogging the mirror. Otherwise
he holds himself perfectly, perfectly still while Spock changes the patterns of
his scars. Spock moves fast and clever, fingers warm where they touch skin. The
first cuts start to ache and sting just as the last ones are opened up, but
James still doesn't move, doesn't even let his breathing change.
Spock uses the dermal regenerator after, carefully, to close the wounds but
keep the scars. James closes his eyes as the pain fades from a white and red
throb to something duller and then to nothing at all. When he opens them again
the afterache of adrenaline and endorphins makes his knees weak, but when he
looks at Spock, meets his eyes in the mirror, he smiles.
What did you name me? What am I now? he wonders.
Spock turns him around to show him, moves his hips and thighs with careful
hands so he can see best. James frowns and mouths the word soundlessly, even if
he's pulling the syllables more from Spock's mind than his memories and bare
minimum of language skills. It sounds Vulcan, but it's not one he knows.
T'hy'la. What's that?
There's a faint curve to Spock's mouth. His hands are gentle and steady, there
on his hips, there on the curve of his ass. T'hy'la. Ashayam. That's what you
are now, Spock tells him, like a buzzing in the back of his head that makes it
hard to think about anything himself. James frowns, bites the inside of his
cheek to clear the haze of adrenaline and touch so he can think, consider it.
Feel what Spock feels when he sees James, the glint of wildness and sweetness.
Sharp lines of flesh and cracked glass, chiming in a planetary breeze. Most
beloved. T'hy'la. He doesn't know what that means, but he feels seen. He can
see himself in the mirror, but he knows it's not what Spock sees.
One breath, two, in and out, and then nods slowly. Why not? He can be that.
He's hard. He doesn't even really notice until he feels the press of Spock's
palm, there and there between his legs, hot and flush against bare skin and his
breath stutters. He looks up again, startled, to meet his own eyes one more
time, sees the red veins of sleeplessness. The soft pink of skin hunger. He
looks like he wants it even if he didn't know he did.
Spock touches him, fingers over the head of his cock, too gentle, and down the
shaft making him gasp. Palm against his balls and lower, to the sensitive skin
behind. It feels stranger than being naked, weirder than being fucked, just
held like this, against a counter, mirrored so he can see.
Spock smiles at him, tongue out, brushing pink against his lower lip like he
can taste his thoughts, taste the disconnect. Then he lets him go. Not fast,
but carefully, while James watches, watches and waits for what comes next.
There's no next, though. Spock picks up the trousers and underwear he'd
crumpled in the corner and helps him back into them, one foot at a time, easy
and gentle over his erect dick.
His legs barely keep him up and he has to lean on Spock to stumble out of the
bathroom and into the main lounge. Nyota's sitting on a chair, curled up with a
PADD and she looks up when she sees them. Her eyes are dark, curious. It's hard
to think. She smiles at them, but it's not a knowing smile, not a smirk. It's
just Nyota, calm and curious.
James doesn't bother to expect anything so he's not surprised when she looks
him right in the eyes like she doesn't even see the bulge in his pants and
says, "Do you read Human Standard, James?"
He has to think about it longer than he should. He's still leaning against
Spock and Spock's so warm. His back doesn't ache, but it feels tender, too
present. Strange.
He finally shrugs in response and shakes his palm back and forth. Klingon,
sure. Orion, a little. Standard, though... someone... Mom, had tried to teach
him once, but that was a long time ago. Wasn't like there was much reading
material.
She nods, slow and thoughtful. "Well, let's see, why don't we?" Spock helps him
over to a seat and the back of the chair is just hard enough to feel it against
the raw skin of his back. If it makes his cock notice, he doesn't worry about
it anymore, just leans over to see the text Nyota's opened up for him.
He hums deep in his throat and bites his lower lip as he watches the symbols
resolve themselves into words. Maybe he remembers this better than he thinks.
Letters and sounds and the cool, careful touch of a human woman's hands on his
elbow.
He's half way through the first page before he realizes what he's reading. That
the way the words are put together is... familiar. Intimate. He recognizes
this. He frowns, teeth cutting into his lower lip and looks back up at Nyota.
At Spock.
In his sorrow and madness, he has marooned me on Delta Vega. He would force me
to share his pain. As he once did, I will watch my world die.
James scans the headers again, cutting through the string of numbers and codes
to the name. Personal log. Ambassador Spock. He puts his hands to his temples,
like he's fighting off a headache. Warm, careful hands rub his neck, his
shoulders.
He sighs, loosens under the touch. Bends his head down and keeps reading.
 
Before
They knew he existed, had known for a long time before Spock saw him in the
flesh. The whispers you could catch if you listened in the right places about
an ancient Vulcan survivor. Whispers that had led them to scraps of logs that
made no sense at all.
It was one thing to know, to anticipate. Spock could do both of those things
simply enough. It was another to see it, and more, to see it unprepared.
In a world where few things came about by happenstance, this one was. On a
planet with two blood red moons and strange tides, Spock came face to face with
himself. The others were not present and that, he decided, was just as well.
He could have asked a thousand questions about time and meaning and a lost
Romulan ship names Narada, but they have come so close to an ending that he
already has the answers.
Spock's world is not a wide one. There is only one thing he wants to know now,
one decision the right data can still shift. This man has that data.
Spock looks this ancient other self straight in the eye and for the first time
since his world died, he speaks. There has been no need for it, Nyota and James
can hear him and no one else is of any importance. His voice is much changed
since he was a child, deeper, louder, rusty from disuse. "Tell me," he says.
"In this other world, your world, what would they have been?" He does not say
who, he cannot imagine any world where any him would not understand.
The sorrow is visible in the other's eyes. It stains everything, spilling out
in waves. "As they are now, they would have been beautiful. That much remains
the same."
"Tell me," Spock says, louder now, words coming more strongly. "No, do not
tell. Show me." He lunges forward, and the other does not move to stop him. It
is as good as permission. To touch, to meld, to know.
In the other's mind, he sees them. Older, fully grown into their bodies. Nyota
in Starfleet red, bent over a book, looking up to smile at him. Her smile is
the same and absolutely different at once. The fierce edge that he knows that
humans would call madness is missing. He sees her with her friends, with her
work, with her languages and music. They do not turn away from her. He sees her
in his bed, smiling and at peace.
He sees James and it makes him gasp and stare as if he had completely forgotten
himself. James in gold, same proud tilt to his head, but unscarred. There was
focus in his eyes, like James at his best and steadiest, without the edge of
shattered things and confusion. James on the bridge of a starship, sprawled in
the captain's chair, like the universe was built for him.
"I would have this for them," Spock whispers to the other. "This is how I would
have them be." The course is set, then.
"I grieve with you," the other says, as if he does not understand what needs to
be done. "But that was another life."
"I would have it be this life," Spock says firmly, drawing his hand back and
his mind away.
"Spock, that is impossible." The other sounds old, weak. Withered.
And Spock shakes his head. "I do not have interest in impossibilities," he
explains, and still he does not understand how any other him could not know
this. "I will have this for them."
"Even if there was a way, you would destroy this entire universe to make it
happen. That is the only true way to eliminate this... possible future. The
loss of life in this galaxy and beyond would be... unfathomable."
Spock can only shrug. "It is of no great concern to me."
The other nods. He eyes are thick with emotion. Sorrow. Spock knows sorrow, but
it is of a different quality. "You are mad," the other tells him, kindly,
gently.
Spock shakes his head. "That also is of no concern."
"If I cannot make you see, I will talk to Jim," the other says. He stands
straight, hands clasped behind his back like a Vulcan. "He, at least--"
Spock does not say, You will not. You will leave him, leave him be. There is
not point to such a thing. He acts instead. The other is very old and frail,
after all. Even Vulcan strength fails given enough time. It gives him a chance,
in any case, to take what he can from the other's mind. More knowledge can only
be useful.
No one asks him where the blood on his collar came from. It is as well, he
would not like to discuss it further.
Now
James is the one who introduces him to Montgomery Scott. It's on one of his
crazy expeditions that veers from a street fair to a weird outbuilding that
looks like some holonovel's idea of what an engineer's lair would look like. If
engineers had lairs.
Scott was perched precariously on top of what looked like a ladder doing
something unlikely to what looked like a shuttle engine. McCoy tries not to
know too much about things like that.
The man's eyes brighten when they walk in and he calls out, "James, my lad, I
didn't know you'd be on planet again this soon. How are you?"
Jim smirks, wide and white and spits out some rapid fire array of signs that
McCoy doesn't know if he's ever going to learn to follow. Whatever it is, it
makes Scott laugh and clamber down off the ladder.
"Montgomery Scott, but you may as well call me Scotty. I assume your name isn't
actually Dr. Sawbones," the man says, and offers McCoy his hand. "It's hard to
tell with James."
McCoy shrugs. Sawbones? Who even knows? "McCoy," he says instead.
Scotty grins at him. "Pleased to meet you, Dr. McCoy."
When McCoy looks around for Jim's, he's vanished into a corner somewhere.
Kneeling beside a console, expression full of careful concentration, like he's
got the most amazing math in front of him. McCoy's never met anyone who's got
this much of a hard on for the stuff before.
Scotty laughs and walks over to him. "I see you found what I've been working on
for you. Does it meet your specifications, lad?"
Jim looks up, eyes wide and startled, like he'd forgotten he wasn't alone very
quickly. His pupils swallowed up by the pure blue of the iris. He smiles
though, and gives a slow nod, followed by more rapid motions of the hands.
Scotty makes a scoffing sound in reply. "Aye, I can build you that. You, Spock
and Uhura bring me the funding I need and I can build you any damn thing you
please."
McCoy asks the question of the only person he's met so far that he thinks might
answer it. "What are you building?" he asks.
Scott raises both eyebrows and looks over at Jim who just smiles and shrugs,
palms up. "If it works," he says. "Believe me you will have the opportunity to
find out." Jim makes that silent gesture that means he's laughing.
Later, while Jim's distracted picking apart some electronic toy, Scott puts his
hands on McCoy's shoulders and looks him right in the eyes. "He's quite mad,
you know. It's not his fault, but it's not gonna change, Dr. McCoy."
"I think I know that," McCoy mutters, keeping his voice soft enough to not draw
attention. "What do you expect me to do about it, I'm a doctor, not a fucking
miracle worker."
Scott gives a sad, head shaking smile that makes McCoy want to punch him in the
mouth. "All I mean to say is, you seem like a nice enough fellow. Watch out for
yourself."
McCoy snorts. "That's my specialty." It doesn't seem like a lie until Jim gets
bored with whatever he's been doing and comes out to grab McCoy by the hand,
touch coming fast and easy these days. He tugs him impatiently out the door and
McCoy doesn't look back.
He can feel eyes on the back of his neck all the way out, though.
 
Now
It's nearly two months after he's shanghaied into the nursery school brigade of
doom before McCoy actually performs the surgery he talked to Uhura about on the
first day. He lets Spock give Jim the sedative-- knows there's no way he'd get
close enough himself-- and then takes the tricorder readings to show him where
exactly he needs to work.
The scarring on the throat is horrific, it's a shock the kid didn't die of it,
but the underlying wounds are long healed. There's nothing there that should
have meant a delay of this long, fucking years, while the kid couldn't talk.
Uhura's right there and McCoy figures there's no way she'll be able to make him
regret the question too bad while he's got a scalpel within easy reach of Jim's
throat. God, that throat. It wasn't right. "Why didn't you have this done
before?" McCoy demands, staring down at the rigid line of scars that mar the
line of throat.
Uhura shrugs. There's a weight of something in that shrug that makes McCoy look
at her. "The doctors I spoke with didn't have much experience with human
anatomy."
"Even so--" She doesn't let him finish.
There's something in her tone, sharp as rusty tacks. It makes McCoy look at her
again, harder, and then flinch away from what he sees. Even after the sight of
her hands shaking is all too visible out of the corner of his eyes. "They,
were, of course, willing to experiment on my slave as long as I understood that
they couldn't guarantee anything but interesting results. They pointed out it
would be of great interest to science in any event and offered financial
compensation if it went badly."
She puts one hand on Jim's hair and strokes, like she's not sure if she's
soothing him or herself. McCoy wants to scream at something, but there's no one
here he can do that too. Even Spock, silent and pale in the corner, looks like
a family member in a clinic waiting room, trying to be patient while someone
found out if their brother/father/son was going to live or die.
"I can't guarantee anything either," McCoy admits softly. "Medicine is never
one hundred percent, even under perfect conditions. I might do further damage.
Even if I don't, he may never speak anyway. I'll do my damndest for him,
though."
She rolls her shoulders and he can see her shake something off. "Yes," she
says. "You will do your damndest. And it will be for him."
He meets her eyes and it finally makes sense why she waited this long. She
smiles at him, showing teeth. "And if you fail, of course, I won't even have to
touch you to make you regret it. That's very efficient. I like that."
McCoy doesn't wince, but it's a near thing. Instead he bends his head over his
patient and gets to the slow, intricate surgery that just might let him speak
again.
 
Before
The first time James has sex because it just seems like a good idea, the
surprise is that it isn't with anyone he knows. She's not human, but she's his
age and she has long dark hair that's so smooth and straight he wants to know
what it feels like and a soft red mouth that sets off brown skin. James likes
that shade of brown so much-- it's a living color. He could just watch the way
this system's starlight dances over it for hours and not get bored.
She smiles at him like she can hear him thinking when he hands over the credits
to buy engine components. Her hands brush over his, just fingertips. A warm
touch, like her body temperature's higher than his. He likes that too.
He can't say, may I? Instead he lets the touch linger and waits for her to ask.
She does and he smiles and nods, leans over to kiss her. She lets him take the
lead and yields to it, fearless and sweet.
She's got a machine shop that looks lived in, with a pallet in a loft on top.
Her thighs are warm and hairless and her hands are tender on his back, no
nails, just fingertips. It feels really good, light and easy and he rests on
top of her while she kisses him through it. Her mouth is warm and it takes what
feels like forever, but her heels dig into his thighs and he thinks she likes
that.
After, she puts her hand on his cheek and breathes something that sounds like a
well wish and he smiles one back at her. They keep smiling at each other while
he pulls his clothes back on and straightens himself out and he turns to wave
before he goes. She waves back. They never get each other's names.
He has his hands jammed in his pocket and there's a swagger in his step. He's
not worried anymore. He gets something he never really understood before except
as an echo in someone else's memory.
On the shuttle Spock and Nyota are asleep, curled up together. He can feel the
easy tenor of their minds slipping into his as soon as he comes close enough
and it makes him smile. He waits for the retinal and DNA scans to recognize
him, toes his shoes off, and pads over past the quarters that are de facto his
and into theirs.
He doesn't try to find a way to tell them, 'hey, guys, no more of this courting
shit', doesn't even wake them up to hear him think it. Instead he strips down
to a t-shirt and slides onto their bed, curling himself up by their feet and
listening to them breathe.
He thinks about staying awake, but he's warm and loose and languid, so he shuts
his eyes and wraps his arms around his knees, letting it all go.
He's used to jerking awake, sharp and sudden, from the voices clanging inside
his head and imaginary hands on his skin, if nothing else. But this time waking
comes easy. Something soft and hot and careful, touching his cheek and the
faint, bubbly sound of human laugher.
He yawns and stretches and fingers slide in through his, curling in close and
tight, the silk of someone's thoughts weaving in with the touch. The thoughts
are deep, not words at all, but they warm him up from the inside while hands
pull him up the bed, tugging him so he's stretched out between two bodies.
"Figure out what you want?" Nyota whispers into his ear when they're level with
each other. James nods and then sighs when Spock's hands slide free of his and
brush down the thin fabric of the shirt he's still wearing to seize the hem.
They're careful with him until something in his head breaks free and he's
kissing Nyota's neck at the pulse point and Spock's got hands on his hip, warm
and solid and all he can feel is this and them. Skin and hands and mouth and
the chords of their thoughts anchoring him here.
He's not stupid, he knows it won't always be this easy, but this time it is.
 
Now
 
Jim doesn't talk right away. The recovery period's not protracted, McCoy can
see the results with his tricorder and the swelling of the surgery goes down
after a few days. He thinks it might be a psychiatric thing and that's outside
his skill-set. Spock and Uhura don't seem to think anything of it and just keep
on ignoring him, which he can more than deal with.
Maybe it's just that Jim doesn't need to, that damn psychic thing. Who the hell
does the kid actually need to talk to?
Then, about five days after he should have been all healed up, he just frowns,
blinks those blue eyes at McCoy and tilts his head consideringly. "Tell me
something," he says. His voice is just a voice, a little husky and hoarse, but
McCoy can tell he did damn good work. His Standard is accented, but McCoy's not
good enough to say what the accent might be or why.
"How's your throat feel? Any soreness?" McCoy says, leaning forward instead of
answering. "Tingling?"
Jim makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, taking in his throat and the rest
of him by implication. "It's fine. Thank you. Now, c'mon, tell me something."
He sounds like a kid, too young and a little petulant.
McCoy manages to suppress the grin that comes with the thought. "Like what,
kid?" he asks instead, like there's nothing freakish going on here.
"Dunno," Jim says and frowns. "I don't know anything about you. Nyota brought
you here and then you were here."
McCoy can't help the startled laugh that spills out. "That didn't bother you
before."
"It doesn't bother me," Jim says and shrugs before grinning back. The smile
fades a moment later and he looks serious and still again. "I just want to know
why you're still here."
McCoy frowns. "It's not like I had a lot of choice."
Jim rolls his eyes, as visible and expressive as words. "Don't you?" he
mutters. Then he turns around, like he's lost interest.
"I resent whatever you're insinuating," McCoy says. Of all the nerve, like he
wanted to be here. Like there aren't people with phasers keeping him from just
wandering off without a by your leave.
Jim just stands up and walks out of the room. McCoy waits a few breaths before
following him, muttering under his breath but grinning too, because fuck if it
didn't work. Kid can talk. He did that. It's a hell of a thing.
When he follows him out into the main lounge, Jim's sitting crosslegged on the
floor, his head pressed against Uhura's knee while she does something with a
PADD. She looks up when McCoy enters the room, but Jim doesn't.
"Why don't you sit down, Doctor?" she says, in a tone that makes it more order
than question. McCoy shrugs and settles in on a chair across from her, not
looking at the boy at her feet.
She waits until he's stopped twitching to talk again. He doesn't know what he
expects her to say, but it's nothing like she does. "Does the name Narada mean
anything to you?" she asks quietly.
McCoy raises his chin and meets her eyes. "Sounds Romulan. Should it mean
something?" he demands.
She sighs. Out of the corner of his eye, McCoy can see her lean down to rest a
hand on Jim's head. "It is Romulan. It's the name of a ship-- to the best of
our knowledge, a heavily armed, retrofitted mining vessel. Armed with
technology that shouldn't-- in fact, that doesn't exist. It hasn't been seen in
nineteen years."
McCoy's hands fist at his sides. "You didn't kidnap me because you were looking
for a doctor, did you?" he mutters, even though the answer is really obvious
now.
Uhura shrugs. "I did need a doctor, in fact, I needed a doctor first. I'm
grateful for what you've done. James is as well." She leans forward and the
hand not touching Jim is one the table, steady and still. "I don't strictly
need the information you have about the Narada, but it will move things ahead
much more quickly."
McCoy snorts. "What makes you so damned sure I know anything?"
Uhura's eyes are fervent, brilliant. Shining from within. "Doctor McCoy," she
says. "You grew up in a refugee camp, didn't you? So did I. And we were the
lucky ones, there are so many like James. This entire world, this entire
universe, is a temporal horror show. It shouldn't exist."
He doesn't know how to argue that point. "It does exist," he says, because
there's nothing else to say. "We're all here. There's nothing anyone can do
about it now."
It's Jim who lifts his head up to say, "No. You're wrong." His eyes are as a
bright as Uhura's, the same fervent shade. He doesn't really get to his feet,
not all the way. It should be awkward as hell to move, but it isn't, not when
Jim does it. There's something graceful and too bright about the way he moves,
hands and knees, eyes on McCoy's until suddenly he's right there.
Right there, on his fucking knees, his hands spread over McCoy's thighs, like
he's offering something, anything. Everything. McCoy can barely swallow. Those
damned eyes and that crinkled little smile. Like Jim knows a secret, a whole
boat load of them. Like he'd whisper them all if McCoy came a little bit
closer.
McCoy can feel his hands shaking, and, god, fuck, he must be dreaming this,
it's exactly the kind of thing his subconscious would pull. Jim just smiles at
him and licks his lower lip. "Come on, Dr. Saws and Bones," he says. "There was
a Romulan, right? One with tattoos on his face. He came to find you in a bar,
in Gaila's bar, same as Nyota found you. He took you to his ship to treat a
wounded man, right?"
McCoy swallows hard, tasting spit and sour bile. He can feel the hot press of
his dick, about an inch and a layer of fabric from where Jim's hands are
resting. "So what if there was?" he whispers.
"Tell me something," Jim says. There's that air of something that McCoy doesn't
understand again. A tightness around the eyes, a softness in his mouth. He
moves so fast that McCoy doesn't even realize what's happening before he's
being kissed.
Jim's mouth is sweet but nothing like tender. Human hot and boy fierce, like
he's going to have his fill and it leaves McCoy gasping after him when he pulls
away, trying to follow, to taste a little longer.
"Tell me about the ship," Jim says. His eyes are clear and he's a little
breathless, but his voice is steady, unaffected. "Nyota asked and now I'm
asking. You don't want Spock to have ask, Bones."
McCoy can feel his bones ache and he wants to shake his head, close his eyes,
but he doesn't. "What are you going to do?"
Jim smiles. He looks young like that, he looks like a teenager, excited and
bright and so damn sure of himself. "Make things right," he says. He doesn't
look crazy at all. McCoy sighs and opens his mouth.
 
Before
James doesn't ask if they're sure, if they understand the implications of this
thing they want to pull. When they explain the plan to him it's mostly a
technical explanation. Spock runs him through the things he can't follow yet,
the gaping holes in his education. Nyota shows him the other side, the
possibilities. What will be if they make this happen.
He understands one thing fully before the rest-- everything could have been
different. It didn't have to happen this way, they didn't have to lose.
I'm tired of losing, he thinks at Spock when their hands brush together. I
wanna win.
T'hy'la, we will, Spock tell him and Nyota smiles and threads her fingers
through theirs. There's no question. James believes this, he believes in this,
he can.
It's better than being loved and known, feeling this undefeated certainty. The
certainty is Spock's and the fearlessness is Nyota's, but they both share it
with him so close and tight it feels like it's all his. It's like coming home.
 
Now
This is the story McCoy tells Jim Kirk. It happened during an active month in
terms of stellar flares and ionic interference. Lots of ships coming in wounded
with personnel needing medical attention. At first he'd figured the Romulan for
one of those, and hell, it wasn't like he didn't need the money.
He'd gone, and he'd never, never forget what he saw there. The Captain, with
his strange, gnarled hands, twisted up by too much time in a hard vacuum.
Dying.
"I know your face," the man had said and he'd touched his face, fingers on
McCoy's skin. It made him shudder. "You were in the history books. In another
life." Then he smiled, and the smile was empty, rotting from the inside. "A
life that will never be now."
And later, much later, Jim will look up at him with serious blue eyes,
practically kneeling between his legs. "And that's it?" he'll ask.
"He died," McCoy will say. "I couldn't save him, there was too much internal
damage. Space is a bitch sometimes."
"It hurt him. He died in pain," Jim sounds hopeful, almost. McCoy frowns but
his face is still.
"Yeah. Even industrial strength pain meds don't do much for that kind of
damage." It makes him squeeze his hands around Jim's, remembering the pain of
that death.
Jim just nods, slow, considering. His face is steady, serious. For once he
doesn't look like an overgrown kid. "Well, that's something. Thank you. Now
tell me about the ship," he'll say. "It might not all seem important to you,
but tell me what you can."
McCoy will tell him everything. He won't even see Uhura, still sitting across
from them with a PADD in her hands, taking notes on everything. He'll just see
Jim, his pretty face, the length of his lashes and the color of his eye. How
warm and close his breath feels, and how nice it is to feel the touch of his
hands.
That's just how it goes.
When it's over he feels wrung out, like those too specific, quiet questions
took physical work to answer. Like after his last round of med school finals,
himself the only human in the room and all eyes on him. This time it's just
Jim's eyes, morning blue, Jim's hands and voice, quiet and not unkind, but it's
just as bad, maybe worse.
He's still so tired. He just wants to curl up and sleep when Jim slips away,
those warm hands gone, leaving him cold in their wake. It feels like forever
later, but it can't be long, before Jim's back with a glass of water to push
into his hands. McCoy swallows it gratefully.
Spock is the one who takes it from him when it's empty. McCoy flinches, can't
remember when the man even walked into the room. He's here now, though. Dark
eyes, staring at McCoy like he can't quite figure out what he's still doing
there now that there are no more questions left to ask.
When Spock takes that heavy gaze off of him it's a relief, pure and clean, to
have those eyes anywhere but on him. Fuck, he needs a drink and he doesn't want
it to be water this time. For a few seconds he doesn't even notice what it was
that distracted Spock, he's so relieved the fucker isn't looking at him.
It's Jim, of course. One hand on Spock's, fingers interlaced. "You believe in
compassion?" Jim murmurs, so soft McCoy can barely hear him. Spock's eyebrow
goes up and Jim shrugs in response.
He can't hear their conversation, he can only watch it in the Jim's pale face
and the rise and fall of Spock's eyebrows and the curl of his mouth. The set of
Jim's jaw, stubborn and hard and the way he shakes his head.
Whatever they're saying, it stops when Spock puts his hand on Jim's lower back,
palm pressed close and fingers spread wide and holds it there. Jim shudders,
just for a second, barely visible and then closes his eyes. When he opens them
again, he's looking at McCoy. Spock doesn't, doesn't even spare him a glance,
just walks away like it didn't matter, like nothing McCoy ever said or did
could do anything but bounce off his pale, green veined skin.
Jim looks tired, bone worn. "If you wanted to leave now, Dr. McCoy," he says,
"No one would stop you."
McCoy doesn't move for a while, even with Jim watching him like he's waiting
for him to do just that. It feels like a long wait, like forever. "What if I
don't want to?" he finally asks.
Jim snorts, but he's not smiling. "Then I'd say you're willing to go pretty far
for a piece of slave ass you aren't even going to get."
That makes McCoy forget his exhaustion for long enough to stand up and give it
his best glare. "Is that what they think you are?" he says, too loud, but he
doesn't give a damn. It's not right. None of this is right.
Jim does smile at that, lopsided but wide. "Them?" he says. "If you mean Noyota
and Spock, no. It's not. Think about what just happened here. Try looking in a
mirror while you do it." Then he turns and walks away like he's daring McCoy to
follow him.
His legs feel like jelly. He doesn't. God, he should, but he still doesn't. He
needs to see this through.
Fuck it, it still doesn't feel hopeless yet.
Now
The last time he meets Montgomery Scott, McCoy has no idea how late and close
to the end things really are, not right away. He doesn't even know why he's
here, why any of them let him be here, like a love sick puppy on their heels.
Scott acts like this is completely normal. He's excited, but he hangs back a
little with McCoy while the nursery school brigade of doom goes off to inspect
their purchase.
"They're a sight, aren't they? Lovely," Scott says with a faint grin, gaze
following them as they walk down the corridor. Uhura in front, with her hand
reached out behind her for James to grab. Spock a pace behind, pace steady and
unhurried.
"Yeah," McCoy mumbles and tries to look away.
"They're completely mad, of course, but you forgive it of them on the strength
of looks. It's like one of those old Terran cats. Wee monsters and forces of
destruction, but when they curl up in your arms, you don't think of that. If
they were hairless and covered in warts, you'd think differently. All of us
would." Scott rubs his palms together vigorously and McCoy can feel himself
being watched.
McCoy shrugs. "I haven't seen a cat since Earth went," he says. "I was a real
little kid, then."
Scott catches him by the shoulder, the touch sudden and surprising. "Listen to
me, man," he says. "You still think there's something there to fix, that
there's something there for you. You're a doctor, maybe there's a medicine,
maybe there are words, maybe there's a way. Stop thinking that. You're not the
first to think like that."
And if that wasn't the last thing McCoy expected. "Wait. What?"
Scott's hand just tightened on his shoulder. "He will never be sane and he will
never be yours. You're a fool to think it will play out the way you want
because you like the look of him." Then he lets go and walks down the corridor.
It takes McCoy a little longer before he follows him. He hears Jim's voice, the
voice he built for Jim, damn him, Try looking in a mirror.
Fuck him.
"What did you build them, anyway?" McCoy calls after Scott, hurrying before he
disappears from view.
Scott turns and smiles at him, a wide, brilliant smile. "A temporal anomaly,"
he says. "In engine form. A work of absolute genius. I can't take all the
credit-- James and Spock dreamed up the underlying math, the madmen. But
without my practical knowhow it would have taken them years to build this."
McCoy shakes his aching head. "And they're going to use this to-- what? Go back
in time and stop the Black Ship? What happens then?" The Black Ship, the legend
that destroyed four worlds and brought down the Federation. The one he'd never
think of without remembering the stinking, pain filled breaths of a dying man.
Scott laughs and waves his hands around, as if to take in the whole room, the
whole world. Everything. "This all goes away, I hope."
He'd like to say he didn't understand before this, that he didn't really get
that it was real. That this was what the three of them had been aiming for all
along. This ship, to be in exactly the right time and place to disrupt the
Narada and change a timeline forever.
Destroy a timeline forever.
McCoy doesn't realize he's running until he's past Scott, down the hall and
into the room where Nyota's hanging back, watching, while Jim and Spock are
inspecting what looks like an ordinary engine block. Spock looks like the
emotionless bastard he is, but Jim is grinning, bright and brilliant.
He looks happy, damn him.
"Wait. Don't do this," McCoy says and his tongue tastes gray and heavy even as
the words leave his mouth. "You're killing a universe, don't you understand
that?" And he thinks of the dead and he thinks of Joanna, gone with her mother
to New Terra where he'll never see her again, but at least he'll know she's
there. "You're killing everything."
They look at him, like they're all surprised to notice he's still here, still
following like that damned lost little puppy after a pride of lions. He's the
insane one, he gets that now. Maybe he always has been.
Spock raises one eyebrow and Uhura shrugs. "It is what it is," she says. "It's
the wrong universe." There's no passion, no compassion in her eyes. Nothing
human in Spock's.
Jim, though, Jim is looking at him. Watching. Curled mouth and wide blue eyes,
like he's thinking something McCoy is too slow to follow. Like maybe he's
listening. Maybe. McCoy looks at him, really looks. "James," McCoy says.
Pleads. "Jim. Don't. Remember compassion? You asked Spock to have it for me."
He doesn't know if that's true, not really. There's so much he's nowhere near
understanding.
And then there's nothing but those wide, summer blue eyes. Confusion, chasing
consideration, chasing sense, like clouds. Finally, Jim smiles, slow and unlike
himself. He blow a kiss. He's beautiful-- it's like staring into a sun. "I have
to. I'm sorry for you, but it'll be better, you'll see. See you in another
life, Bones," he says in his slightly accented, steady voice.
They walk out the door and disappear. When McCoy goes back to the shuttle pad
he's not surprised to find that it and them are gone.
For a day after nothing at all happens and McCoy is sure it hasn't, can't have
worked. Time protects itself, doesn't it? It must, it has to. Somewhere out
there he has a daughter. Somewhere out there are a millions upon millions of
stars. Worlds. Lives. This can't just end, it can't be that easy.
He just hopes that the kid is okay, he tells himself that. He just hopes.
He's in a bar drinking something bright green and acrid tasting when the
universe stutters. Whispers. McCoy covers his ears. Someone screams, but he
doesn't think it's him.
Flatline. It doesn't hurt, it doesn't feel like anything. He blinks and it's
over.
Reboot.
Another Life
Leonard McCoy is standing on a landing platform of an outdoor shuttleport. He's
got the clothes on his back, a knapsack and some crumpled paper stuffed in his
pocket. All around him is something he hasn't seen since he was a kid in a
refugee camp.
People. Human people. Everywhere, laughing and talking, yelling at each other.
Sweat and blood and the smell that was right and familiar. Just everywhere.
Even the air smells right, homey. Proper, the way only one planet ever can, the
one that's built right into his DNA. He's on Earth and it's solid under his
feet.
His hands shake when he pulls the paper out of his pocket. There are two sets,
both written in Standard. One is a divorce order from the Campbell County
Kentucky Family Court, with a tiny holo of Joanna in a prettier dress than he'd
ever been able to afford for her tucked inside. The second is a set of
enlistment papers with a Starfleet logo on them for one Dr. Leonard McCoy of
Kentucky.
"Yo! Over here," someone shouts, practically in his ear. It's a woman, with
dark curly hair and a ferocious smile. She's wearing a uniform he doesn't
recognize, but he's going to guess is Starfleet. "Recruit shuttle is this way."
There's nothing else to do, so he follows directions and climbs on board, still
trying to make any kind of sense at all of what's in his head.
He almost falls in his tracks when he steps inside. There's this kid sitting
right next to an open seat, still dressed in civvies and looking like he
doesn't know how he got there either. There are bruises on his face like he
took the worst end of a barfight, but otherwise he looks unscathed. Unmarked.
His mouth is soft, like he smiles a lot.
His eyes are blue, summer blue. He's James. Jim. He looks older and younger at
the same time.
McCoy runs for the bathroom and hyperventilates there very happily until some
supercilious ass of a woman who's probably never watched a planet die in her
life herds him out again.
He sits down next to Jim and grins at him, waiting for the recognition, the
triumph. Something. He gets a blank stare back. "I might throw up on you,"
McCoy mutters. God, he wants to throw up.
When Jim's eyes get big and he pulls off an excellent 'back away from the crazy
man sidle', especially for someone's who's been the crazy man the whole time,
it finally hits him. Jim really has no idea who he is. Wherever they are, Jim's
probably not crazy at all here.
They did it. Those horrible fucking nursery school brigade of doom bastards
pulled it off and for some reason he knows it. They don't.
Fuck, he really is going to throw up. Jim's voice when he speaks is a little
hoarse but unaccented. Pure heartland Terran, born and raised. It sends shivers
down McCoy's spine.
He's got Jim talking to him and drinking whiskey (actual fucking whiskey,
excellent) out of his flask by the time the shuttle is airborne. It gives him a
nice buzz that helps plenty when Jim elbows him in the ribs and points out a
beautiful girl in red with long dark hair laughing with a bunch of other kids.
Uhura.
Fuck.
Jim grins at him and leans close enough for McCoy to smell the whiskey on his
breath. He says, "She thinks she hates me now, but that'll never last. It's
destiny."
McCoy rolls his eyes. "Destiny?" he says and knocks his knuckle against Jim's.
"Don't tell me you believe in that species of bullshit."
Jim laughs at him, wild and wicked and like it doesn't hurt at all. He doesn't
pull away from the touch. "Prove me wrong, my man. If you can."
It sounds like a challenge.
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