Jim's been on autopilot since leaving the mess hall. He doesn't remember a single crewman he passed in the corridor, vaguely knows he wished a few people good night, that he waved off Spock trying to draw him into a chess game with some excuse from the usual repertoire. And in the safety and solitude of his quarters, he's discarded the mantle of the captain of the Enterprise both physically and mentally, leaving just Jim behind.

He doesn't want to go to bed early, knowing just what kind of dreams are bound to be waiting for him. It's been a year. But the memories are not so easily buried, no matter how well he's learned to ignore them. And one little comment is enough to scrape away at the surface, scratching at the scars, threatening to break them open.

He sits in his quarters, lit only by the blue glow of warplight swirling outside his window, lost in his own thoughts. Alone.

Until his communicator chimes.

He doesn't hear it the first time, or the second, but the third shakes him from the daze. It takes him another handful of moments to understand what Hunter is asking. He wants to come over? Here? Now?

He's probably not fit for company. And it's late. But neither of these facts occur to Jim as he looks at the message. All that matters is that Hunter already knows. He'll understand. And even if he doesn't want to talk about any of it, not again, it would really be nice to have a friend right now.

He locks down his quarters, and sends a reply. Door's open.