Jim lifts his hand to cover Hunter's, warm and alive, knowing that it isn't enough. Not for himself, not for Hunter. This won't be a bump in the road that they can just laugh off and forget. Jim died, he fucking died, and he's still struggling to come to terms with that. He's reminded every day by his weakened body, the ache in his back where his spine had to be repaired, the way his hands still shake a bit, his body still raw and new, rebuilt from the cellular level up. He can't forget, even if he wanted to.

He can talk to Bones or Spock about anything, he knows. But it's hard, sometimes, knowing he has to look them in the eyes every day, knowing that - if Starfleet lets him keep the captain's chair after all this - he'll have to make life and death decisions for all the crew that serve under his command, even his friends.

He doesn't have that power over Hunter's life. And maybe that's why it's not as hard to open his mouth and admit, "I can't stop wondering if that's how it felt for my dad."