James Tiberius Kirk (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
boldygoing) wrote2017-12-01 10:31 pm
boldygoing) wrote2017-12-01 10:31 pm
Entry tags:
How Long Will I Be Picking Up Pieces
[TW: disordered eating, depression, PTSD.]
The farmhouse is too open.
It's not the first time that Jim has felt uncomfortable in the house he grew up in. Nor is it the first time that he's found himself packing up what little he owns, using his magically-expanded shoulder bag to hold all his clothes, his books, and all the food he can carry, strapping it to the back of his motorcycle. He doesn't have much to his name, not even now. Nothing that he really cares about. Collecting too many things is dangerous. And this is why. You never know when you're going to have to leave.
This time, however, he doesn't leave without scribbling out a note for his mother, sticking it to her bedroom door. She may not be his favorite person in the world, but she deserves that much.
No one bothers him on the shuttle ride over.
Jim secures his bike down with safety straps and sits nearby, unwilling to allow it to be unguarded, carrying its precious cargo of the few items he owns. The book in his hands deters anyone from speaking to him, though he catches some glances from fellow riders, clearly trying to place where they know him from, or just eyeing up the dark bruises purpling his face. He ignores them all, staring stubbornly through the pages of the ancient paperback without really seeing it, occasionally turning the page to keep up the pretense that he's actually reading it. That he isn't growing numb to the world, struggling to shut out the pain that he knows is lurking behind his eyelids when he closes them at night.
The public shuttle route from Iowa City to the neighborhood of Nob Hill is a three hour journey, long enough that he could catch a quick nap, but he doesn't dare try. Doesn't dare give in to the exhaustion plaguing his every waking moment, the hypnotic hum of engines singing their sweet lullaby through his entire body, knowing that far worse awaits him in his dreams, leaving him vulnerable and unaware. No. The thought of having a nightmare in public, of leaving himself open to attack, is more than enough to keep him awake, no matter the siren song of sleep beckoning.
It seems to take forever. But the shuttle finally touches down in San Francisco, and Jim hauls stiff joints from the shuttle seat to retrieve his bike and wheel it off, just another commuter in the small sea of traffic. It reminds him of being sixteen again, always on the road, always looking for a new place to rest his head for the night, in hopes that it might drive the nightmares from his skull. Just Jim Kirk, his bike, and a small bag containing all he has in the world.
It's with some reluctance that he turns the wheel to seek out his new apartment instead, a new refuge from prying eyes and even more prying questions, unwilling to expose his bleeding heart to the one who will know at a single glance which old wounds have been ripped open. He can't trust her. Not like that.
His new apartment is nothing like the penthouse he enjoyed as captain of the Enterprise. But that place is gone, flattened under the bulk of the Vengeance when it crashed to Earth. The city is slowly rebuilding, the wreck of the warship mostly cleared by now, and if he wanted to, he could probably have gotten one of the new flats being constructed in its wake.
But the Jim Kirk that owned that soulless apartment is dead and gone. He died in the heart of his ship, and all of his arrogance went with him.
He wheels the motorcycle through the lobby of the apartment building to the lift, riding it up to the fourth floor, pressing his hand to the scanner next to the door of his new home. The flat is a small one, but the stark absence of anything beyond bare-bones furnishings makes it feel bigger, emptier. The single bed sits alone in an otherwise empty bedroom, the replicator in the wall of the kitchen unaccompanied by any other appliances, not even a food stasis unit. No tables, no chairs, no couch. No bookshelves. Just the basics.
It's all he needs.
He only lasts a week before it becomes clear that it isn't enough.
Jim hasn't made it to the Academy a single day since Halloween, mustering up the energy every morning to call the nice lieutenant and report that he's still sick, the roughness of his voice a testament to his unfitness to report to his post. No one needs to know that it's because he wakes up in a panic every time he closes his eyes, that he's woken himself screaming damn near every night, tasting blood and meat on his tongue and fighting not to retch up his dinner, throwing himself out of the tiny bed and prowling around the empty spaces to check for intruders, his hands grasping for a knife that isn't there anymore, vulnerable and isolated. No one needs to know that he always gets more food than he needs at every meal, unable to shake the dread that he won't have enough, eating it all anyway until his stomach hurts and he has to fight to keep it down. He hasn't slept through the night in days, and it's taking a heavy toll on a body that just doesn't have anything left in reserve.
Neither can he ignore his friends anymore, his absence from their lives - and his duty at the Academy - suspicious at best. The last thing he wants is for someone to sound the alarm and have him hauled off to the psych division.
He meets McCoy a little ways down the road at a small cafe, the first time they've seen each other in person since the party, and Jim doesn't miss the way the doctor's eyes widen in surprise at the greenish splotches on the captain's face where the bruises have begun to fade, then narrow in concern.
"You," the doctor says, stabbing a finger towards him as he takes a seat on the other side of the table, "were just supposed to be going to a damned Halloween party. Is this what you meant by it 'going south'? What the hell happened?"
Jim smiles weakly, grateful that the cold weather doesn't mean it's odd that he's wearing long sleeves, that the warm hoodie he's burrowed into hides the half-healed scars marking his arm and shoulder. Better that McCoy just thinks he got into a fight or something. "Nice to see you too," he says, but he can't hide the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hands shake from exhaustion as he lifts the coffee cup to his lips, struggling against the heavy weight that seems to want to pull him down into the dark of sleep, knowing that it's a trap he can't allow himself to fall into. "Sorry it's been so long. Been busy."
It's a blatant lie, avoiding the question entirely. So obvious that even McCoy doesn't fall for it, the signs of his lack of sleep unmistakable to the doctor's expert gaze. He just puts out his hand, palm up, and twitches his fingers back towards himself. "Come on. Give it to me."
"Bones," Jim protests faintly, but it's a token protest. He's just too tired to fight, and at the doctor's incredulous look, he fumbles for his PINpoint and slides it across the tiny table.
"You sit right there and don't move a muscle," McCoy warns him, flipping open the device and scrolling to a familiar civilian's number. Jim winces, but does as he's told, sipping at the coffee as if it will help chase away the need for sleep.
"Jim? How are you feeling?" The voice is familiar. Concerned. Jim feels a pang of guilt, lost to his own thoughts, so tired that most days he hasn't managed the effort to reach out, convinced he has nothing to say. No confessions to make, no lies that he's all right. Just... existing, from day to day.
"Hunter, this is Leonard," McCoy says, eyeing Jim across the table as if he doesn't trust his wayward captain not to pull a runner on him. "Listen, I don't know why Jim looks like he spent an evening as a Klingon's punching bag, but he looks like he hasn't caught a wink in days and I know damn well he's not going to tell me what the hell happened. As his doctor, is there anything I should know about?"
A long pause, Hunter clearly struggling with the decision of how much to say, not wanting to betray Jim's trust. "Did you say he isn't sleeping?" he answers at last, avoiding the topic of the Nightmare entirely, the concern still evident in his voice. "Listen... Leonard... I have a friend who can make sleeping draughts. If I get it to you, would you make sure he takes it?"
"Hey," Jim protests, frowning across the table at the doctor, a little annoyed that they're talking about him like this to his face. Like he's not even here. And he remembers all too well what happened the last time Hermione dosed him up with sleeping potions. "If it's more of that dreamless stuff, forget it." Going without nightmares was not worth the backlash the next morning. Whether or not it was a side effect of Austin's curse, Jim would rather suffer through the lack of sleep his own way than inflict that living horror on himself again. Especially now that his subconscious has even more trauma to fuel the nightmares.
McCoy gives him a sharp look, silently promising that they're going to have words later. But his attention is drawn back to the PINpoint as Hunter's voice filters through the transmitter. "It's not," he reassures them, and Jim feels another pang of guilt at the relief in his voice. He hadn't meant to leave Hunter hanging, to stay silent too long. He just... hadn't been ready, too tired to make the effort. "It's a milder potion than that. It won't stop any dreams, but you'll stay asleep."
McCoy's frown deepens as he considers that, muttering medical terminology under his breath, and Jim catches something about REM cycles and delta waves before he cuts himself off and looks over at Jim. "I won't give him anything without checking it out myself first," he tells Hunter, watching the captain carefully as he speaks. Maybe suspicious why Jim would be worried about his dreams so suddenly, wondering what exactly he's been putting in his body away from modern medical advice. Jim doesn't give him an inch, stubbornly silent as he stares down at his coffee cup. Let him assume it's the exhaustion if he wants.
No one else should have to know. Not if Jim can help it.
"I'm coming over," McCoy decides, and pokes his finger at Jim's chest. "You, don't go anywhere. You pull a fast one on me, I'll haul you back to Medical in a heartbeat."
Jim believes him. He would, wouldn't he.
To say that McCoy is not impressed with the state of Jim's new apartment is an understatement.
He doesn't say a word, but Jim can tell he isn't happy. The way his gaze flits across the empty, hollow spaces, the cant of his eyebrows and the way his lips press together into a thin line. The severe frown as he turns his attention to the captain sitting on the lonely bed, ignoring the orange cat trotting along at his heels, and hefts the small glass bottle in his hand, waggling at Jim. "You know this is witch doctory, right?"
Jim sighs, leaning forward and rubbing a hand across his face. "Yeah. You good with it?"
McCoy snorts, pouring a dose of the purple-blue liquid into a shot glass. "Hell no. That's why I'm staying to monitor you until I know you're not gonna have a reaction or something. Look, Jim, I don't know what the hell is going on with you. But I'm your doctor and your friend, and this isn't healthy, what you're doing. All this," he adds, waving a hand vaguely towards the empty apartment. "It's something else, and if you don't talk about whatever it is, it's gonna eat you alive."
Ordinarily, Jim would be indignant at the doctor's prying, sticking his nose where it doesn't belong, trying to drag his deepest darkest secrets out into the open when they've already been too fully exposed to the light. Touched by the concern, sure, still not something he's fully used to. Ready to insist that he's just fine, thank you very much, distract from it all with a joke and a smile. But right now, he's just... tired.
Done.
"Yeah, I know." He downs the small dose of potion like a shot, herbs and lavender cutting through the bitter taste on his tongue, and waits for the brew to work its magic.
He wakes hours later, oddly refreshed but with screams echoing in his head, a familiar soft furry lump purring away against the side of his chest, the room dark and empty of any sign of McCoy. The potion sits on top of the small crate near the bed that still holds his stash of ration bars, a note in Hermione's writing tucked under it, McCoy's scribbling on the back.
An inquisitive meow draws his attention to the creature cuddled up against him, and Jim fights past the familiar post-nightmare panic to recognize the kneazle in his bed, looking up at him with those almost luminous golden eyes. "Hey," he whispers, his voice too loud in the silence. "You're not supposed to be here. Hermione's probably missing you."
Crookshanks just blinks at him, unconcerned, and butts his head against Jim's hand as if to tell him that he's being stupid. Hermione doesn't need him right now. And if the doctor thinks that somebody needs to watch the captain while he sleeps, then he's just the right cat for the job.
Jim sighs, absently burying his fingers in the cat's fur, giving in with only a token protest. "Okay. But just for a while."
'A while' turns into one day, turns into three, turns into a week. Every day, he awakes from magically-induced sleep to the comforting small weight of the kneazle resting against him, and every day, the expectant hungry meows pull him out of bed. It's hard to stay wrapped up in his own thoughts, in the nightmares and self-neglect, when he has someone else to look after. Someone who expects him to do more than just exist. Daily demands to be fed, eating the excess of his own meals so he doesn't have to eat it or feel the twisting guilt of waste. Curling up on his lap if he wants to spend his time in silence, or listening attentively when words trickle out of him bit by bit, somehow easier to talk to someone who won't ask awkward questions, who won't pry into sensitive memories either accidentally or on purpose.
Someone who is there for him, no matter what.
And slowly, piece by piece, Jim begins to return to life. The apartment seems too empty, too bare of anything for Crookshanks to sit on or explore, so he pulls himself together and goes out to buy a couch. Then a bookshelf. Then a table, and chairs. A painting to hang on the wall, something that reminds him of Hunter. A food stasis unit for the kitchen, fresher food to go in it than long-lasting ration bars and canned goods. A small bowl of apples to sit on the table, available whenever he feels like eating but doesn't want to cook.
And as the bruises fade from his skin and his scars seal closed, the fractured mess of his soul slowly sets to knitting itself together.
Jim Kirk has always been a survivor.
This is no different.
The farmhouse is too open.
It's not the first time that Jim has felt uncomfortable in the house he grew up in. Nor is it the first time that he's found himself packing up what little he owns, using his magically-expanded shoulder bag to hold all his clothes, his books, and all the food he can carry, strapping it to the back of his motorcycle. He doesn't have much to his name, not even now. Nothing that he really cares about. Collecting too many things is dangerous. And this is why. You never know when you're going to have to leave.
This time, however, he doesn't leave without scribbling out a note for his mother, sticking it to her bedroom door. She may not be his favorite person in the world, but she deserves that much.
No one bothers him on the shuttle ride over.
Jim secures his bike down with safety straps and sits nearby, unwilling to allow it to be unguarded, carrying its precious cargo of the few items he owns. The book in his hands deters anyone from speaking to him, though he catches some glances from fellow riders, clearly trying to place where they know him from, or just eyeing up the dark bruises purpling his face. He ignores them all, staring stubbornly through the pages of the ancient paperback without really seeing it, occasionally turning the page to keep up the pretense that he's actually reading it. That he isn't growing numb to the world, struggling to shut out the pain that he knows is lurking behind his eyelids when he closes them at night.
The public shuttle route from Iowa City to the neighborhood of Nob Hill is a three hour journey, long enough that he could catch a quick nap, but he doesn't dare try. Doesn't dare give in to the exhaustion plaguing his every waking moment, the hypnotic hum of engines singing their sweet lullaby through his entire body, knowing that far worse awaits him in his dreams, leaving him vulnerable and unaware. No. The thought of having a nightmare in public, of leaving himself open to attack, is more than enough to keep him awake, no matter the siren song of sleep beckoning.
It seems to take forever. But the shuttle finally touches down in San Francisco, and Jim hauls stiff joints from the shuttle seat to retrieve his bike and wheel it off, just another commuter in the small sea of traffic. It reminds him of being sixteen again, always on the road, always looking for a new place to rest his head for the night, in hopes that it might drive the nightmares from his skull. Just Jim Kirk, his bike, and a small bag containing all he has in the world.
It's with some reluctance that he turns the wheel to seek out his new apartment instead, a new refuge from prying eyes and even more prying questions, unwilling to expose his bleeding heart to the one who will know at a single glance which old wounds have been ripped open. He can't trust her. Not like that.
His new apartment is nothing like the penthouse he enjoyed as captain of the Enterprise. But that place is gone, flattened under the bulk of the Vengeance when it crashed to Earth. The city is slowly rebuilding, the wreck of the warship mostly cleared by now, and if he wanted to, he could probably have gotten one of the new flats being constructed in its wake.
But the Jim Kirk that owned that soulless apartment is dead and gone. He died in the heart of his ship, and all of his arrogance went with him.
He wheels the motorcycle through the lobby of the apartment building to the lift, riding it up to the fourth floor, pressing his hand to the scanner next to the door of his new home. The flat is a small one, but the stark absence of anything beyond bare-bones furnishings makes it feel bigger, emptier. The single bed sits alone in an otherwise empty bedroom, the replicator in the wall of the kitchen unaccompanied by any other appliances, not even a food stasis unit. No tables, no chairs, no couch. No bookshelves. Just the basics.
It's all he needs.
He only lasts a week before it becomes clear that it isn't enough.
Jim hasn't made it to the Academy a single day since Halloween, mustering up the energy every morning to call the nice lieutenant and report that he's still sick, the roughness of his voice a testament to his unfitness to report to his post. No one needs to know that it's because he wakes up in a panic every time he closes his eyes, that he's woken himself screaming damn near every night, tasting blood and meat on his tongue and fighting not to retch up his dinner, throwing himself out of the tiny bed and prowling around the empty spaces to check for intruders, his hands grasping for a knife that isn't there anymore, vulnerable and isolated. No one needs to know that he always gets more food than he needs at every meal, unable to shake the dread that he won't have enough, eating it all anyway until his stomach hurts and he has to fight to keep it down. He hasn't slept through the night in days, and it's taking a heavy toll on a body that just doesn't have anything left in reserve.
Neither can he ignore his friends anymore, his absence from their lives - and his duty at the Academy - suspicious at best. The last thing he wants is for someone to sound the alarm and have him hauled off to the psych division.
He meets McCoy a little ways down the road at a small cafe, the first time they've seen each other in person since the party, and Jim doesn't miss the way the doctor's eyes widen in surprise at the greenish splotches on the captain's face where the bruises have begun to fade, then narrow in concern.
"You," the doctor says, stabbing a finger towards him as he takes a seat on the other side of the table, "were just supposed to be going to a damned Halloween party. Is this what you meant by it 'going south'? What the hell happened?"
Jim smiles weakly, grateful that the cold weather doesn't mean it's odd that he's wearing long sleeves, that the warm hoodie he's burrowed into hides the half-healed scars marking his arm and shoulder. Better that McCoy just thinks he got into a fight or something. "Nice to see you too," he says, but he can't hide the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hands shake from exhaustion as he lifts the coffee cup to his lips, struggling against the heavy weight that seems to want to pull him down into the dark of sleep, knowing that it's a trap he can't allow himself to fall into. "Sorry it's been so long. Been busy."
It's a blatant lie, avoiding the question entirely. So obvious that even McCoy doesn't fall for it, the signs of his lack of sleep unmistakable to the doctor's expert gaze. He just puts out his hand, palm up, and twitches his fingers back towards himself. "Come on. Give it to me."
"Bones," Jim protests faintly, but it's a token protest. He's just too tired to fight, and at the doctor's incredulous look, he fumbles for his PINpoint and slides it across the tiny table.
"You sit right there and don't move a muscle," McCoy warns him, flipping open the device and scrolling to a familiar civilian's number. Jim winces, but does as he's told, sipping at the coffee as if it will help chase away the need for sleep.
"Jim? How are you feeling?" The voice is familiar. Concerned. Jim feels a pang of guilt, lost to his own thoughts, so tired that most days he hasn't managed the effort to reach out, convinced he has nothing to say. No confessions to make, no lies that he's all right. Just... existing, from day to day.
"Hunter, this is Leonard," McCoy says, eyeing Jim across the table as if he doesn't trust his wayward captain not to pull a runner on him. "Listen, I don't know why Jim looks like he spent an evening as a Klingon's punching bag, but he looks like he hasn't caught a wink in days and I know damn well he's not going to tell me what the hell happened. As his doctor, is there anything I should know about?"
A long pause, Hunter clearly struggling with the decision of how much to say, not wanting to betray Jim's trust. "Did you say he isn't sleeping?" he answers at last, avoiding the topic of the Nightmare entirely, the concern still evident in his voice. "Listen... Leonard... I have a friend who can make sleeping draughts. If I get it to you, would you make sure he takes it?"
"Hey," Jim protests, frowning across the table at the doctor, a little annoyed that they're talking about him like this to his face. Like he's not even here. And he remembers all too well what happened the last time Hermione dosed him up with sleeping potions. "If it's more of that dreamless stuff, forget it." Going without nightmares was not worth the backlash the next morning. Whether or not it was a side effect of Austin's curse, Jim would rather suffer through the lack of sleep his own way than inflict that living horror on himself again. Especially now that his subconscious has even more trauma to fuel the nightmares.
McCoy gives him a sharp look, silently promising that they're going to have words later. But his attention is drawn back to the PINpoint as Hunter's voice filters through the transmitter. "It's not," he reassures them, and Jim feels another pang of guilt at the relief in his voice. He hadn't meant to leave Hunter hanging, to stay silent too long. He just... hadn't been ready, too tired to make the effort. "It's a milder potion than that. It won't stop any dreams, but you'll stay asleep."
McCoy's frown deepens as he considers that, muttering medical terminology under his breath, and Jim catches something about REM cycles and delta waves before he cuts himself off and looks over at Jim. "I won't give him anything without checking it out myself first," he tells Hunter, watching the captain carefully as he speaks. Maybe suspicious why Jim would be worried about his dreams so suddenly, wondering what exactly he's been putting in his body away from modern medical advice. Jim doesn't give him an inch, stubbornly silent as he stares down at his coffee cup. Let him assume it's the exhaustion if he wants.
No one else should have to know. Not if Jim can help it.
"I'm coming over," McCoy decides, and pokes his finger at Jim's chest. "You, don't go anywhere. You pull a fast one on me, I'll haul you back to Medical in a heartbeat."
Jim believes him. He would, wouldn't he.
To say that McCoy is not impressed with the state of Jim's new apartment is an understatement.
He doesn't say a word, but Jim can tell he isn't happy. The way his gaze flits across the empty, hollow spaces, the cant of his eyebrows and the way his lips press together into a thin line. The severe frown as he turns his attention to the captain sitting on the lonely bed, ignoring the orange cat trotting along at his heels, and hefts the small glass bottle in his hand, waggling at Jim. "You know this is witch doctory, right?"
Jim sighs, leaning forward and rubbing a hand across his face. "Yeah. You good with it?"
McCoy snorts, pouring a dose of the purple-blue liquid into a shot glass. "Hell no. That's why I'm staying to monitor you until I know you're not gonna have a reaction or something. Look, Jim, I don't know what the hell is going on with you. But I'm your doctor and your friend, and this isn't healthy, what you're doing. All this," he adds, waving a hand vaguely towards the empty apartment. "It's something else, and if you don't talk about whatever it is, it's gonna eat you alive."
Ordinarily, Jim would be indignant at the doctor's prying, sticking his nose where it doesn't belong, trying to drag his deepest darkest secrets out into the open when they've already been too fully exposed to the light. Touched by the concern, sure, still not something he's fully used to. Ready to insist that he's just fine, thank you very much, distract from it all with a joke and a smile. But right now, he's just... tired.
Done.
"Yeah, I know." He downs the small dose of potion like a shot, herbs and lavender cutting through the bitter taste on his tongue, and waits for the brew to work its magic.
He wakes hours later, oddly refreshed but with screams echoing in his head, a familiar soft furry lump purring away against the side of his chest, the room dark and empty of any sign of McCoy. The potion sits on top of the small crate near the bed that still holds his stash of ration bars, a note in Hermione's writing tucked under it, McCoy's scribbling on the back.
An inquisitive meow draws his attention to the creature cuddled up against him, and Jim fights past the familiar post-nightmare panic to recognize the kneazle in his bed, looking up at him with those almost luminous golden eyes. "Hey," he whispers, his voice too loud in the silence. "You're not supposed to be here. Hermione's probably missing you."
Crookshanks just blinks at him, unconcerned, and butts his head against Jim's hand as if to tell him that he's being stupid. Hermione doesn't need him right now. And if the doctor thinks that somebody needs to watch the captain while he sleeps, then he's just the right cat for the job.
Jim sighs, absently burying his fingers in the cat's fur, giving in with only a token protest. "Okay. But just for a while."
'A while' turns into one day, turns into three, turns into a week. Every day, he awakes from magically-induced sleep to the comforting small weight of the kneazle resting against him, and every day, the expectant hungry meows pull him out of bed. It's hard to stay wrapped up in his own thoughts, in the nightmares and self-neglect, when he has someone else to look after. Someone who expects him to do more than just exist. Daily demands to be fed, eating the excess of his own meals so he doesn't have to eat it or feel the twisting guilt of waste. Curling up on his lap if he wants to spend his time in silence, or listening attentively when words trickle out of him bit by bit, somehow easier to talk to someone who won't ask awkward questions, who won't pry into sensitive memories either accidentally or on purpose.
Someone who is there for him, no matter what.
And slowly, piece by piece, Jim begins to return to life. The apartment seems too empty, too bare of anything for Crookshanks to sit on or explore, so he pulls himself together and goes out to buy a couch. Then a bookshelf. Then a table, and chairs. A painting to hang on the wall, something that reminds him of Hunter. A food stasis unit for the kitchen, fresher food to go in it than long-lasting ration bars and canned goods. A small bowl of apples to sit on the table, available whenever he feels like eating but doesn't want to cook.
And as the bruises fade from his skin and his scars seal closed, the fractured mess of his soul slowly sets to knitting itself together.
Jim Kirk has always been a survivor.
This is no different.