Chapter Text
When Carol tells Jim she's pregnant, he laughs. How else is he supposed to react? They're sitting in a bar, for fuck's sake. Jim just ordered them both drinks. It's objectively hilarious. “Very funny, Care,” Jim chuckles, but then he sees the look on her face. In an instant, his blood runs cold. “Carol…?”
“I'm serious, Jim. It's yours.”
And she certainly looks serious. Jim can tell that much. He pauses for a moment to take in the sight of Carol, trying to decide if she looks any different (he's heard it said, after all, that pregnancy gives a person a certain glow; maybe, if he can pinpoint it for sure, this'll stop feeling like some sort of off-color prank). “But we never even— oh. Oh.”
"Glad to know it was memorable," she says drily, but her smile is kind.
It happened after everything with Khan. Once the dust settled, the 'fleet organized a whole fancy ceremony — lots of commendations, far-too-long speeches, and then booze. So much booze. From what Jim's spotty memory can piece together, he knows this much: he and Carol had sex. Not necessarily good sex (considering they’d both been pretty drunk), but sex nonetheless.
It started when Carol approached Jim in the corner he'd taken for himself, murmuring something about 'getting out of here.' Her expression was kind, maybe even pitying, but her eyes were dark with lust.
Jim, who had been not-watching Spock and Uhura be all over one another for at least an hour at that point, was all too eager to have a distraction. Especially one of the pretty, blonde variety. So he finished his drink, discarding his glass on a nearby surface, and took Carol's outstretched hand. From there, it sort of just… happened.
Once. It happened exactly once.
Jim blames the liquor for the route his mind takes immediately upon learning of his impending fatherhood. Before he can think better of it, he's already begun to ask, "Are you sure it's mine?"
Which... shit. How's a guy supposed to come back from a blunder like that?
Carol looks about ready to smack him across the face (and he wouldn't even blame her if she did). “Yes, Jim," she responds instead, holding his gaze for several prolonged seconds. "I’m 'sure.' I don’t exactly make a hobby of sleeping around, especially with my superiors.”
“Wasn’t your superior when it happened,” Jim mumbles into his glass.
Which is true, mind you — he wasn't her superior. Not anymore. Carol had already submitted her letter of resignation at that point, citing 'differences in principle' between herself and the 'fleet as her primary reason for leaving. Jim had dutifully signed on the dotted line, passing it along to the brass, and that'd been that. It was the reason Jim said 'yes' to her proposition in the first place. Even drunk, he knew better than to mess with frat regs.
Now, equipped as he is with this new knowledge, Jim takes another much-needed swig of his drink. He hisses at the burn of it, using an embarrassing amount of his willpower to set the glass down on the bar (placing the thing on a coaster, no less) and look the blonde in the eye. “Look, Care. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. Of course it's my kid. Do you need me to— um. I’m not sure what you’re planning to do, but regardless of your choice, just know that—"
“I’m keeping the baby, Jim,” Carol says. There isn't even a hint of hesitancy in her voice. No indication that she might be considering her options. She’s clearly made her decision.
“You’re—” Jim starts, feeling uncharacteristically tongue-tied. He brings the glass right back to his lips. One sip turns into two, until suddenly Jim is downing the whole thing and hissing at the taste all over again. He does the mental math, attempting to figure out just how far along this would make her — and, shit, when would her due date be...?
It isn't until he slams the empty glass back onto the counter, gesturing for the bartender to pour him another, that Jim manages to say, “Okay. I’m— yeah. Okay. What do you need me to do?”
"Well," Carol starts, eyeing Jim for a moment. "The way I see it, you have two options."
Always so analytical, that one. It's a mystery why she and Spock didn't become fast friends. "Hit me."
Carol smirks, wordlessly sliding her still-full glass across the bar towards Jim, and says, "Option one: you leave Starfleet— permanently. Settle down with me somewhere nice and quiet. You get a normal, non-life-threatening job. Then we raise the smartest, most pig-headed child to ever roam the Earth."
To which Jim can only hum, running a finger along the rim of Carol's forfeited glass before slowly raising it to his lips.
"Option two," the blonde continues, tearing her gaze from Jim's face to assess her nails discerningly, "You do absolutely nothing."
Which... isn't what Kirk expected to hear. He can only manage to choke out a quick, "I— what?," staring slack-jawed at the woman before him. Is she serious...?
"I mean, not nothing," Carol quickly clarifies, sounding far too cheerful considering the topic at hand, "You keep doing whatever it is you want to do. Meanwhile, I settle down somewhere nice and quiet and raise the smartest, most pig-headed child to ever roam the Earth."
Which, okay. Jim's no idiot. He can connect those dots. "You don't need my help," he says, and it's not a question.
"Not in the slightest."
From there, it all sort of falls into place.
The thing about it is, Jim can't just give up the Enterprise.
Not only because he's worked so damn hard to get where he is (though that certainly does factor in). Not only because he's already committed to captain a crew of over four hundred individuals on a five-year mission into unexplored space, either.
The truth of the matter is that Jim lives for this shit. Thrives off of it. He doesn't know who he is without command. Without being in constant motion.
And anyway, Jim reasons, he spent his formative years in the exact kind of tiny town that would fit quite well into Carol's 'somewhere nice and quiet' description. He knows for a fact that he wouldn't last a day cooped up in a place like that. He simply wasn't built for it.
Carol clearly knows it, too, because she sounds all too certain of Jim's answer before she even asks, "Could you give it all up?"
Jim couldn't. He can't. More than that, he doesn't want to. He never knew what it felt like to touch his destiny until he first stepped onto the bridge. He never felt like he belonged anywhere — not really, anyway — until he found himself in the chair. Until he put on that gold tunic.
He isn't ready to give that up. Doing so would only lead him to resent the kid, anyway.
(And Jim knows better than most how it feels to be resented by your own parent; no child of his needs to grow up carrying that kind of burden on their shoulders.)
When Kirk finally responds to Carol's question, he can hear the defeat in his own voice. "No," he whispers, suddenly unable to hold the woman's gaze. He looks instead at a spot on the wall, just behind her head. It takes everything in him not to fall apart right then and there.
But Carol just smiles, looking at Jim like she can see right through him, and tells him it's okay. Assures him that she's more than capable of doing it on her own. That she wants to.
When they eventually part ways — Carol leaning forward to press a chaste kiss against Jim's cheek, reminding him one more time that there are 'no hard feelings, genuinely' — Jim can't help but wonder if he's just made the biggest mistake of his life. He waves at her retreating figure, murmuring, "Goodbye, Carol," to an audience of zero. Then, he orders another drink.
What Jim doesn't know, in this moment, is that it will be the last time he sees Carol Marcus alive.
If he had known, he might've insisted on a hug.
✧ ✦ ✧
It makes sense not to tell anyone at first.
Jim certainly thinks about telling someone (namely Bones) on more than one occasion — especially the times when the two manage to get a bit of liquor in them — but, when it all comes down to it, Jim can never manage to form the words.
How do you tell your best friend, a man who spends half his time yapping about missing his little girl back on Earth, that space is about to gain another absentee father? That, unlike him, you are actively choosing this arrangement?
You don't. That's how.
And then there's Spock, who — god. Spock.
On paper, he should be a perfect candidate for spilling the beans. They're friends now, after all. Spock said as much, didn't he? It was the last thing Jim heard before everything faded to black — just Spock, sounding so broken. So unlike Jim has ever heard him.
'Because you are my friend.'
The words still haunt Jim at night. That, and the sight of Spock — blurred through the veneer of Jim's dying, poisoned eyes, but recognizably Spock all the same. Hand to the glass. Touching Jim and yet not, so devastatingly close and yet far, so far, and—
It'd been faint, through the barrier, but it was there. A connection. A bridge between their almost-touching hands. An understanding. Of that Jim is one hundred percent certain.
And then there was nothing.
Then Jim died. Came back to life. Had a one night stand with a beautiful, intelligent woman — just one drunken tryst in a string of probably hundreds before it (Jim's not exactly keeping count) — and now he's about to be a father. It's not exactly rocket science how they got from point A to point B. Even if it was rocket science, it's Spock. The guy could give a lecture on that shit in his sleep.
Like Jim said, it should make sense for him to go to Spock about this. He should have no problem explaining the sequence of events rationally. And maybe Jim would — maybe he could — except for that whole thing where Vulcan imploded, and then Spock almost left behind everything he'd ever worked for (not to mention everything he and Nyota built together, which still sort of blows Jim's mind) just to do his part for the Vulcan people. Just to help rebuild. To fulfill a sense of duty — and probably, to some degree, to honor his late mother.
If it hadn't been for the other Spock stepping in, the younger of the two would probably be on New Vulcan at this very moment — doing his stupid duty. Changing diapers and filling bottles. Raising little pointy-eared children to be just as catty and gentle and infuriating as their father before them.
Because Spock is good, and honorable, and righteous. Spock is a man with a sense of right and wrong. Jim, on the other hand...
Jim can't bear the idea of either of his closest friends — or anyone, really, but especially Spock and Bones — looking him in the eye when he admits that he chose the life of a Starfleet captain over being a father. That he was more than willing to let Carol do it on her own.
So Jim keeps it to himself.
The Enterprise sets off on her next five year mission less than a month after Carol's bomb-drop. It's rough, at first — hard for Jim to do much else besides wallow in his own self-pity as it stews in the monotony of space — but eventually, missions pick up.
Eventually, shit gets interesting.
So Jim spends the next seven-or-so months being Captain Kirk. Kicking ass, taking names — all the usual stuff. He rarely has time, other than the rare interlude between missions, to think about the not-yet-person carrying half of his DNA. Growing inside of a brilliant riddle of a woman, halfway across the galaxy. Jim relegates those thoughts to the times when he'll get an occasional update from Carol — things like ultrasound photos and stories of strange cravings —and lets himself wallow. Just for a second.
On a day-to-day basis, though, it all feels pretty... inconsequential.
Which is probably why, when the comm comes in, Jim is utterly unprepared for his own reaction.
He's in the rec room, getting his ass handed to him in chess (as he so often does with this particular opponent, much to the delight of literally everyone other than Jim). Kirk has just made his next move, only around sixty percent sure it was the right one, when the device beeps quietly.
"One second, Mr. Spock," Jim murmurs. He lifts himself off of his seat just enough that he can grab the comm from his back pocket before plopping back down and grunting exaggeratedly. Jim's eyes scan the lit-up screen, barely registering the words. He's just about to put the device away and return to the game when—
Suddenly, Jim feels the floor fall out from under him.
Dr. Carol Marcus | 19:23: Thought you might like to know.
Dr. Carol Marcus | 19:23: [3 Photo Attachments]
"I have to go," he announces, ignoring several disappointed noises from the small crowd of crew members who regularly gather to watch their command team go head-to-head. "Sorry, guys, it's just— urgent. We'll have to finish this game another time."
"Captain?" Spock prods, moving to stand, but Jim raises a hand to stop him.
"It's fine, Spock. You should stay. This isn't ship business."
From her seat nearby, Uhura says, "Ship business or not, maybe we can he—"
"Thank you, Lieutenant, but that won't be necessary," Jim interrupts, wincing at the brashness of his own tone before promptly turning on his heel and high-tailing the hell out of there. He'll have time to apologize later. For now, he needs to see whatever the hell Carol sent him.
Jim stumbles into his quarters, fumbling to connect his comm with the large viewscreen where he usually takes personal calls. The screen flickers to life, blinking obediently at him. Jim commands the computer to pull up Carol's photos.
The first is a photo of Carol in a hospital bed, face flushed from exertion. She's beaming from ear to ear, holding an infant child securely in her arms. It's tough to see the kid from so far away, though the Captain is sure that he sees an almost-full head of sandy blond curls.
Jim's stomach feels hollow when he prompts the computer to go to the next image.
The second photo is what looks to be a scan of a birth certificate, complete two tiny, inky footprints in its bottom right corner (which Jim didn't even know they still did on Earth, mind you — so maybe it's a location thing, or maybe Carol's just that good at getting what she wants). The certificate tells him that David James Marcus, weighing in at just over three kilograms, was born to parents Carol Marcus and James Kirk on November 20th, 2259. Once the Captain's greedy eyes have scanned its contents, he prompts the computer to switch images yet again, and—
In an instant, Jim's entire world shifts.
There on the screen, clear as day, is an image of the most beautiful baby boy Jim has ever seen. He reaches out instinctively, running a hand along the digitized version of his newborn son's face. "Hi, David," he whispers, voice hoarse and near-unrecognizable to his own ears. "Welcome to the universe."
By the time Bones arrives outside Jim's quarters, grumbling about having received worried comms from Spock, Uhura, and several others, Jim is on the floor. It's anyone's guess, really, how he got there — or how long he's been frozen in position, face wet with tears. Staring up at a now-dark viewscreen and drowning in his own self-loathing.
"Jim...?"
And although the Captain hears his best friend's voice from the other side of his door, he finds himself incapable of responding. Jim can't move. Can't breathe. Can't think, honestly — much less turn those thoughts into words. He's frozen in place. Even as the door beeps, signaling that Bones has used his override code, Jim remains motionless.
"Goddammit, Jim! Are you injured? Is it your head? I knew I should've insisted on that concussion test—"
"Bones," Jim manages to choke out, forcing himself to meet his best friend's worried gaze. "Please. I can't— I don't know how to—"
Which is when the doctor comes closer, kneeling beside his shaking friend, and hoists Jim into a more proper sitting position. Kirk grunts. His head lolls back. Bones forces him to keep it straight with a hand on either side of his face. "You gotta breathe, kid. Gotta get yourself together so you can tell me what the hell happened, goddammit. What's got you so bent out-of-shape, Jimmy?"
"It's... Carol. She—" Jim cuts himself off, gesturing toward the black viewscreen, and says, "Just. Turn it on. I can't... I can't, Bones. I'm sorry."
With a curt nod, Leonard McCoy stands — going all stoic doctor, like he only ever does when a patient (usually Jim) is seriously at risk of bleeding out — and approaches the viewscreen. Kirk sort of feels like he might be sick with guilt if he looks at that little face for much longer, so he focuses instead on staring at his own shaking hands.
For a while, Bones says nothing. He just looks and looks. Keeps on looking for what feels like an eternity. It's only then, once he's seemingly processed all of the information at hand, that the doctor whispers, "He's beautiful, Jimmy. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
And that, for whatever reason, is what breaks Jim completely.
It's unclear how much time passes before Jim finds himself lying on top of his bed. He's cradled in the arms of one of the only people in the universe who has seen him cry — and certainly the only one who has seen him cry like this.
These aren't pretty tears. They're the ugly, snotty kind. The kind that leave Jim feeling gross and phlegmy even hours after they're gone.
Bones holds his best friend and captain in a strong, sturdy embrace. "It's okay, kid," he whispers, rubbing Jim's back in a circular motion. Showing the man more tenderness than he's had in years (maybe ever, if Jim's honest). "I know it hurts, Jimmy. I know..."
And it does hurt. It hurts so goddamn bad.
✧ ✦ ✧
The updates are pretty frequent at first. Jim gets a new message from Carol several times a week. Usually, it'll be a picture — captioned with a little anecdote about one thing or another — but other times, when Jim's lucky, he'll get a video.
The videos are amazing. They also break his heart.
He saves every single one, along with every photo and message. Jim can't bring himself to rewatch them, though. To revisit that pain. Not when almost every video and picture includes the small, stuffed rabbit that Jim arranged to be delivered to Carol's apartment after she returned from the hospital (along with a bouquet of yellow roses and a note that simply said 'From Jim').
So Jim watches through a viewscreen as his baby boy gets bigger and bigger.
With every photo and video, Jim sees more personality. Finds more things to love about the tiny little human with the fluffy blond curls. It's devastating and painful and perfect and wonderful and — god. He's never even met the kid.
Jim wonders again and again if he's made a horrible mistake.
The first time Jim hears David's laugh through the tinny speakers of his PADD ends with Bones threatening to put him on medical leave.
He finds Jim in his quarters, nursing a near-empty bottle of Andorian Ale, and all but explodes.
"D'you have a death wish or somethin'?" the Doctor questions, eyes wild, but then quickly adds, "Don't answer that. Forgot for a second just whose blood you've got swimmin' around in there. Can't imagine that helps with the sanity."
It doesn't. At least, Jim doesn't think it does. The whole Khan thing is one of those topics that he'd rather not touch with a ten foot pole, much less think about in great detail. Tarsus is another. Used to be that his Dad was, too, but Pike sort of bulldozed right through those walls.
"Listen, Jim. Off duty or not, this level of alcohol consumption is a cause for concern."
"M'fine, Bonesy," Jim counters, though the slurring of his speech doesn't exactly work in his favor. "Why don't you go and... I dunno. Save a life, or whatever?"
Bones sighs, reaching out to pat the top of his best friend's head, and murmurs, "I'm trying, kid."
Missions continue. Life continues. It's not that Jim forgets about David — hell, he thinks about the kid almost every second of every day. But slowly, over time, Carol's updates become less frequent. Her stories become less detailed. Jim tries to tell himself it's just the stress of motherhood — that Carol wants to reach out more often, but she simply doesn't have the time. Deep down, though, he knows it isn't as simple as that.
Carol meant what she said in that bar. She doesn't want Starfleet to be a part of her kid's life.
Jim understood it then, just as surely as he understands it now. It's not difficult to see why Carol in particular might want her child to be spared a life in the 'fleet's shadow. She lost a father in all of the bullshit that happened with Khan (regardless of the Admiral being more-or-less at fault for his own demise), and Jim — well. Jim lost Pike. Lost his actual Dad decades before that.
He even lost his own life out there, which...
Yeah. Jim died. And the truth is, if it hadn't been for one particularly frustrating super-human's blood (and the genius bastard who managed to figure out how to use it), he would've stayed that way. Another in a long line of Kirks quite literally giving their bodies to the cause.
Carol's right. It isn't something a kid should be exposed to. Jim doesn't want that life for David, either. He wants the kid to get the quiet, simple upbringing he deserves.
So he lets go.
✧✦✧
The next time Jim hears from Carol — other than the twice-a-year updates she sends via holo, which amount to no more than a handful of vague sentences and the occasional picture — is right at the end of their five-year mission.
They talked in vague terms — mostly before they stopped communicating regularly — about Jim meeting David once he got back to Earth. Nothing special, really. Just a meeting. Just a chance to look one another in the eye.
Despite everything, Jim sort of thought he and Carol were on the same page about that.
Which is probably why he feels so blindsided when the woman on his screen says, "I'm sorry, Jim. David and I haven't lived on Earth for almost three years now."
"You— what? What does that even mean, Carol?"
"It means you won't be meeting him next month. It's better this way, Jim. Meeting you now would only be... confusing, for him."
And before Jim can ask if David, who is just under five years old at this point, even knows who the hell he is, Carol ends the call.
Jim spends his first month back on Earth in a haze of binge-drinking and sex, attempting (and failing) to forget just how fucking screwed up it is that Carol didn't tell him she was moving their kid off-planet. He wants to think about other things. Wants to be present in the moment. Hard as he tries, though, it all comes back to Carol. To David.
Where are they right now? Jim wonders. Are they happy? Are they safe? Is David as curious as Jim was at that age — always looking for answers in a never-ending chain of 'why' and 'how'? Getting into all sorts of trouble, tracking dirt throughout the house? Or is he more shy and reserved, like Sam was? Or maybe he's like something else entirely. Maybe he's like no one Jim's ever met.
(Jim can't know what David's like, though, because Jim doesn't know David. Every time he manages to remind himself of that fact, his heart breaks a little bit more.)
It ends with an intervention in which everyone — Spock, Bones, Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, and even Scotty (the traitor) — explains, in no uncertain terms, that they're worried about his health. That they can't let Jim go on like this. "It's just not safe, Captain," Nyota whispers. "I don't know how I'd live with myself if— if you—"
She cuts herself off then, stepping away from Spock's steadying hand on her waist, and disappears down the hallway. Scotty tries to talk — even opens his mouth, more than once — but it's like he has no idea what to say. Or maybe he's just afraid he'll start crying, too.
They leave the room one by one until the only one left besides Jim is Spock. "Captain," the Vulcan says after several seconds of drawn-out silence. He waits for Jim to meet his gaze, hands coming to grab the human by the shoulders, and for a second Jim thinks he's about to get strangled again. Instead, he gets... whatever this is. "Jim. Please. I have already watched you die once. I do not wish to relive the experience."
And Jim really has no choice but to get his act together, after that.
✧ ✦ ✧
It's unclear what it is that compels Jim to reach out to the elder Spock. It's a coin toss, really, whether he'll pull the old 'butterfly effect' excuse — god knows the guy's selective with his application of that particular rule. In the end, Jim decides it couldn't hurt to ask. To try.
So he does.
"Carol Marcus," he says, apropos of nothing, and the elder Spock raises a brow. Jim can work with that. "Heard of her? Blonde, beautiful, English..."
Spock's brow goes even further up on his forehead (which Jim wouldn't have thought was possible). "English?"
"Um, yeah?" is Jim's (frankly) caught-off-guard response. "As in, like... 'from England.' I mean, her Dad's not— or, I guess, he wasn't. I think he got stationed there, though? And presumably started a family with someone local..."
"Fascinating," the Vulcan murmurs, taking several seconds to think before he speaks again, "For what purpose do you speak of Dr. Marcus?"
It's hardly a trick question. Jim's not sure what about it has him tongue-tied — maybe just the idea of saying it out loud. Admitting the truth to someone other than himself. Because even though Bones knows, Jim didn't exactly tell him — so much as point at a photo and say 'look.' "She's, um—" Jim starts, swallowing thickly before he starts all over again. "We— she and I, that is— have a son."
"David," the elder Spock says instantly. From the look on the Vulcan's face, Jim's relatively certain he surprised himself with the outburst.
Jim sort of can't breathe. "You've met him? You've— in your timeline, was he— was I...?"
"I cannot disclose such things, Jim. I apologize for my temporary lapse in control."
"No, I get it. I mean— space, time, all that. I get it."
Spock starts to say, "That is—" just as Jim decides he's not done rambling, actually. Oops.
"... But what about Carol?" he sputters, smiling apologetically for having interrupted the man. "Sorry, it's just. I mean, clearly the other her — the presumably-not-English one, based on your reaction to me saying that — was different from this Carol. Different enough that you could tell me something about her. Right?"
Spock's eyes are wide and devastatingly honest when he insists, "I did not know her, Jim. Nor did I know David. I met him very briefly, at a time when I was not... wholly myself. That was the extent of our interaction. I wish that I could help you, but I must be cognizant of the unforeseen consequences of such an act. I hope you can forgive me."
"Nothing to forgive, Spock," Jim says honestly, quickly followed by, "Listen. I gotta go, but uh... live long and prosper, all right? That's an order."
"Peace and long life, Captain," Spock says, and Jim could swear his lips are tugging up into an almost-smile.
✧ ✦ ✧
They start their next mission a few months before David's ninth birthday. Jim knows it's ridiculous, framing his own life around the milestones of a child he's never even met, but it's the only way he can think to make sense of the gaping hole he feels in his chest whenever the boy comes to mind.
It took some convincing, especially with Spock, but Jim managed to get the whole crew back on board. He knows most of them got better offers — knows that Scotty, at the very least, could've had a ship of his own — but in the end, every last one of them chose the Enterprise. Chose Jim.
It's an honor he doesn't take lightly.
Jim is especially grateful that, despite whatever mysterious reasoning led to the pair's (frankly shocking) breakup, Spock and Uhura are doing a bang-up job of behaving like professionals. Which they are, of course, and maybe Jim shouldn't be surprised. They're Spock and Uhura, after all. Two of the most professional people he's ever met.
Still, though. Damn. Calling it quits after nearly a decade together is hard enough without having to see your ex's face every day at work. Jim's not sure about the specifics — has no idea who broke up with whom, or why — but he's grateful for their decorum all the same. He says as much over dinner, smiling at Uhura's tired face, and the communications officer actually laughs.
"Even if it'd been the most explosive breakup in history, Captain, there's nothing that could've kept me from the Enterprise."
Kirk's not sure what it is, exactly, that compels him to ask, "And Spock...?"
"Jim," Uhura says flatly, looking at him with an expression the Captain can't begin to decipher, "Do you really need me to tell you that he's in the same boat? That we all are? I mean, look at Scotty—"
"I know, I know," Jim interrupts, offering a sheepish smile. "And I don't mean to play coy. It's just— I dunno. That whole almost-raising-Vulcan-babies thing really threw me for a loop. Made me feel like maybe I don't know him as well as I thought I did. And then... well. You know. You were there."
Uhura has a faraway look in her eye when she murmurs, "Yeah. I was there."
(Jim decides it's best to steer the conversation away from Spock, after that.)
Jim feels strangely hesitant when he finds Spock sitting alone in the rec room later that night. "Hey," he says, hovering in the entryway. Crossing both arms over his chest tightly, just so he can have something to not-do with his hands.
When Spock murmurs, "Greetings, Captain," in response, he doesn't even bother to peel his eyes away from the screen of his PADD.
Jim rolls his eyes, wondering if he's somehow incurred the Vulcan's wrath. Is Spock mad at Jim because he got dinner with Uhura? Was Jim supposed to go to him in the not-divorce? Or is it about Kirk going to Sulu for help with a botany-related question, because if so—
But then Spock sets the PADD down, finally meeting Jim's gaze, and clears his throat. The sound tears Jim away from his spiraling thoughts. "My apologies, Captain. That was a message from my father."
"Something wrong?" Jim wonders, suddenly a lot less anxious about the possibility of Spock being pissed at him. He slides into the empty seat across from the Vulcan. Rests his chin atop two cupped palms.
"Negative, Captain," Spock responds, and his voice sounds... different. Softer, maybe. "I have found that, as of late, if I do not finish reading his correspondence in one singular sitting... the likelihood that I will respond in a prompt manner diminishes greatly."
Jim snorts, because he knows that feeling all too well. Winona Kirk isn't the type to respond kindly to a letter going unanswered — much less an unreturned comm, god forbid — and there's something about getting chewed out by your mother at thirty-five that is particularly humiliating. Jim can only imagine what the Vulcan alternative might look like.
"Are you well, Captain? Perhaps we should discuss the events of—"
"Hey, hey. No ship business, all right? That's not why I came looking for you, so hush."
Spock cocks his head to the side, just slightly, but says nothing.
Jim bites back an amused smirk. "Listen, Spock," he says softly, rejecting the urge to reach out and grab the Vulcan by the hand, "I just... I wanted to see how you were doing. You haven't been around as much, and I thought maybe— well. With the breakup and everything, I could understand if—"
"Captain," Spock mercifully interrupts, bringing the human's words to a screeching halt. "... Jim. The gesture, whilst appreciated, is entirely unnecessary. I am simply re-acclimating to the experience of being in such close proximity with several hundred individuals, many of whom are psi-null and as such wholly incapable of controlling psychic output. It can be... overwhelming."
"Oh," Jim says, because... oh. He'd never really thought about it like that. "Well, um. In that case, I can just—"
Spock grabs his Captain by the wrist before he can move to leave. "Jim."
(It really shouldn't feel that good when Spock touches him.)
"You were not included in that sentiment."
"...That so?" Jim murmurs, skeptical.
"Indeed. Your psychic output is remarkably quiet for one so... audacious."
The way Spock says the word makes it sound like a compliment and an insult all at once. Jim hopes his cheeks aren't as red as they feel. "Chess?" he suggests, mostly just to change the subject.
"I am amenable to that suggestion, yes."
✧ ✦ ✧
Just six days after David turns nine, Jim gets a comm from Carol. It's short and nearly impossible to decipher — mostly just a collection of static, with the occasional interjection of Carol's voice — but something about it strikes at the very core of Jim. He all but knocks down the door to Uhura's quarters, hardly waiting for the woman to allow him entry before storming in with guns ablaze.
"I need your help," he announces.
"Is something wrong, Captain? I'm not on duty—"
"Please, Nyota," Jim interrupts, voice cracking just slightly at the end. "I got a message from Carol Marcus. She's— well. I'm not sure what it says, exactly, but I just got this awful feeling, and..."
Uhura holds out a hand expectantly, smiling kindly up at her Captain, and promises, "I'll see what I can do."
At which point Jim hands over the device. He immediately begins pacing the room back-and-forth. Tugging at the ends of his own hair. Biting back little worried noises that keep trying to escape through clenched teeth. Eventually, the communications officer has no choice but to kick him out.
"I can't work with you being all... that," she explains, and Jim gets it. He hates it with a burning passion — don't get him wrong — but he does get it. He'd've kicked himself out much quicker. "Just go back to your quarters. I'll come grab you as soon as I know more, all right?"
And what's Jim gonna do? Say 'no, fuck you, actually' to the woman who is helping him? To his colleague and friend? "Thanks," he says instead, noting how his hand shakes when he reaches out to squeeze her shoulder, gently. "Really. You have no idea... just thanks."
Twenty-seven minutes later, Uhura's the one banging on the door to Jim's quarters.
"Computer, allow entry," Jim orders, and then there she is. Eyes red-rimmed and watery.
Jim might actually be sick. "Come in," he murmurs, swallowing back bile. He can barely wait for the door to slide closed behind her before he desperately asks, "What is it? What did she say? Is she— are they— oh god..."
Rather than respond verbally, Uhura reaches for the comm dock. There's no video to go along with the message, but the viewscreen speakers are far superior to the ones on the tiny device. Jim almost opens his mouth to tell her it's a good idea, but then the audio starts. Sure enough, just as Jim suspected, it's Carol. And she's—
She's—
'Jim,' says the voice on the other line, desperate and pained, and even though it's a recording — even though Jim knows that — he still has to bite back the urge to say I'm here, yes, it's me!
Something crashes in the background. Carol yelps.
'It's me. It's Carol, I—' then the audio cuts, just for a fraction of a second, and Jim nearly loses it '—we're at a research station orbiting a planet called Regula. My research, is extre—' more static, this time for longer '—and I don't think there's much they wouldn't do to— agh!'
Jim locks eyes with Uhura, who is covering her mouth with one hand, and has to grab onto the table to stabilize himself. The way Carol screams — low, guttural, pained — reminds him of how she sounded when Khan broke her leg.
It's getting more and more likely that Jim is actually going to be sick.
'Get away from me you motherfu—' Carol grunts, the end of her sentence drowned out by phaser sounds. Then there's just silence. Nothing but raw, open silence, for several excruciating seconds. Jim starts to wonder if that's the end of the recording, but then — 'okay. Okay. Goddamn Klingons, I swear to god— Jim. If you're still there, listen. Please. David is here, but he's— he's hiding somewhere, okay? I told him to stay there and—' more static, goddamn it; Jim's about to lose his shit '— only come out if— knows his middle name—'
She's cut off by her own ear-piercing scream, and then the recording ends.
Jim reaches for his comm, yanking it away from the dock, and presses a button on its side. "Captain to bridge. Is Lieutenant Sulu on duty?"
"Here, sir," is the helmsman's instant reply. "Everything all right?"
Rather than respond to that question, Jim says, "I need you to change course. Beta Quadrant. Get us to Regula as fast as you possibly can without compromising the ship or the crew. Understood?"
"Yes, Captain. Understood. I'll chart our course now and consult Lieutenant Commander Scott regarding speed."
"Thanks, Sulu. Kirk out."
The comm ends. Jim runs to the bathroom and promptly empties his stomach into the toilet.
The next thing Jim knows, he's lying on his back. He blinks up at several blurry figures, all huddled over him like goddamn vultures, and wonders for a second if he's in hell. Is this what dying feels like?
(Then he remembers, with soul-crushing certainty, that death felt nothing like this. Death was empty and cold. Death was nothing but pure absence, stretching out towards forever. Death was the noise Carol made just before the comm abruptly ended.)
Jim sits up, suddenly very aware of the fact that he's in a cot, in Medbay. "We need to call an emergency meeting."
"Are you certain that is wise, Captain?"
After blinking several times to clear his vision, Jim manages to decipher the general shape of Spock from the rest of the blurriness around it. Enough that he can look in the right direction when he says, "Doesn't matter if it's 'wise.' I'm telling you, as your Captain, that we need to call an emergency meeting. Are you disobeying a direct order, Mr. Spock? Is that what you're doing?"
Which is when Uhura steps in to ask, "Who do you want at the meeting?" Her voice is maybe softer than the Captain has ever heard it, which should be soothing, but... it's really not. Not right now. Though maybe it's just that nothing could be soothing for Jim at this particular moment. Maybe he's just past that point.
(He sure feels like he is, anyway.)
"Just everyone," Jim says, rubbing at his aching temples. "I mean— y'know. You three. Scotty, Sulu, Chekov..."
"Got it, Captain. I'll get right on it."
When she's gone, Bones says, "It'll be okay, kid."
Jim grits his teeth, biting back the urge to smack the man, and hisses, "You don't know that."
Which is when Spock steps in. Because of course he does. "We are estimated to arrive at our destination in approximately three point six-eight hours. Lieutenant Commander Scott has assured me that, barring any structural issues within the station itself, we will have no problem beaming a team inside. He is quite proud of the fact that he no longer requires the standard equipment to do so."
Jim snorts, pushing out of bed, and is immediately met with the realization that he's hooked up to a goddamn IV. They're giving him fluids. "Was this really necessary, Bones?"
"Maybe not," the bastard says, because, well — he's a bastard. "But this is."
Before Jim can even begin to react, he's being stuck with two hypos at once. One on either side of his neck. He yelps, moving to put the Doctor in a headlock, but is intercepted by Spock's steadying hand on his chest. "Captain. I believe you should change before we move to the conference room. Wouldn't you agree?"
And Jim, who is still breathing heavily and feeling somewhat murderous, (reluctantly) does.
"Okay," Jim tells the group once they're all settled in their seats. He, on the other hand, is still standing — too wired-up to sit still — and gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles go a bit white. His eyes scan every face the the room. Every single one of them is staring intently back at him. "So... As you all probably noticed, we've recently changed course."
Chekov makes a surprised noise, followed by a pained grunt when Sulu proceeds to (presumably) elbow him under the table.
"I'm not gonna sugar coat it, guys. These aren't 'fleet orders. I'm going to ask for permission to do what we're already doing, but— oh. Mr. Spock. Am I on the record right now?"
The Vulcan blinks. "Negative, Captain."
"Great. Well, in that case, I may as well say it outright: if they tell me no, we're going anyway. Not that that should surprise anyone here. You're free to leave the room if you disagree with my decision. I won't hold it against anybody. But if you stay — if you don't walk out that door right now — just know that I'm expecting a certain amount of discretion. Whatever I'm about to say doesn't leave this room unless it comes from my lips. Is that understood?"
Several crew-members hum in agreement. No one stands to leave.
It's Chekov who says, "We all want to stay, sir. We want to help."
"He's right," Sulu agrees easily. "But... can I ask what this is all about, Captain?"
Jim sighs, resigning himself to the action of melting into his yet-unoccupied seat. He then spends a whole minute just rubbing his palms over his face. Trying (and failing) to calm his nerves. A good amount of time passes before Jim clears his throat to say, "This is about Carol Marcus."
Everyone except for Uhura, Bones, and (naturally) Spock reacts to the mention of the blonde. Despite her brief stint on the Enterprise — and that whole lying-about-her-identity thing, which should've been a major turnoff — they were all quite fond of her.
Though Jim's sure most haven't thought of the woman in years. If it weren't for David, he probably wouldn't have, either.
(Carol sort of disappeared, after all. Not just from Jim's life, but from everyone. From everywhere.)
"Earlier today, Dr. Marcus sent me a comm. It was pretty much just static, but Lieutenant Uhura was able to amplify the audio..." And, although the last thing Jim wants to do is hear that again, he knows it'll be easier than explaining things out loud. In truth, Jim's not sure he could get through the words without bursting into tears. He locks eyes with Uhura, noting the way her brow furrows with worry, and says, "This isn't, uh... it's not a fun listen. Just to warn you all."
Nyota's gaze falls to her hands. Jim leans forward and reluctantly presses 'PLAY.'
When the recording is done, no one speaks for a long while. It's Spock (surprisingly enough) who decides to break the silence. "Even if we are to save this child, Captain — in the event that the Doctor has perished but he is alive, how will we know his middle name?"
"We know it," is Jim's instant response. He can't stand the idea of 'if' and 'alive' being used in the same sentence — not when the topic of said sentence is David. He just can't. "That's, uh— that's not gonna be an issue. But thank you, Commander. It's a good question. Are there any others?"
No one raises their hand or speaks up. Jim surveys the room once more, taking note of their slightly worried faces.
"Like I said, you guys... I'm the one choosing to do this. You don't need to risk your lives or your careers for some kid you've never met. I'm not asking you to — though obviously I'm not gonna turn down the help. This meeting, though — this is me saying, 'here's what I'm gonna do,' and, uh. This is me asking, as politely as I can, that none of you get in my way."
"We wouldn't dream of it, Captain," Scotty insists. Several others echo the sentiment.
✧ ✦ ✧
By the time they're thirty minutes out from the planet, Jim's even more of a wreck than he already was.
He feels like he's a kid again.
He feels like he's right back on Tarsus.
Jim doesn't realize he's displaying his anxiety until Spock pulls him aside, voice soft, to ask, "Are you well, Captain?"
"I'm—" Jim starts, but what is there to say? It's Spock. Jim can't exactly lie to the guy. But he can't exactly tell the truth, either — still can't make his mouth move to form the words, so... here they are.
"Perhaps I can be of assistance. A shallow mind meld would—"
"No!" Jim interrupts, because — no. The last thing he needs is for Spock to see the whirlwind that is his mind in this exact moment. No way he could manage the amount of shielding he'd need to do to keep from spilling every secret he's ever had, all at once. "Sorry, I just— I really need to go into this with a clear mind, y'know? And when I melded with the other you, it was a lot. It... lingered."
Jim's not sure if Spock actually believes him.
And when the Vulcan says, "Very well, Captain," stepping back and removing his hands from Jim's shoulders, Kirk can't help but wish he'd said 'yes' instead.
They don't all beam onto the satellite. That would be overkill.
Jim takes Bones, Spock, and Uhura with him. He orders Chekov to keep an eye on their vitals. Orders Scotty to stand by for beam-up instructions. Orders Sulu to take the conn. "If the 'fleet calls," Jim says, looking Sulu in the eye for a moment before his mouth splits into a lopsided grin, "Don't answer. Sound doable?"
The helmsman grins right back, nodding enthusiastically, and asks, "If they continue calling, sir?"
"Stall," is Jim's instant response. "For as long as you can. You can tell them I'm... indisposed. Tell them whatever you want. I'm sure you'll have lots of fun with that."
Sulu is still chuckling quietly by the time Jim orders Scotty to energize.
The scene inside of the satellite is pure chaos. For one, the artificial gravity is fucked — which leads to random items floating everywhere. Leads to all four of them stumbling through trying to use their suddenly-weightless bodies.
Then there's the fact that at least three alarms are going off at once. The computer in the corner is on fire. Jim's afraid to look up, because he's pretty sure there are several dead bodies floating above them. So instead he pushes forward.
Spock grabs his arm just before he can head down a narrow hallway. Despite the fact that the Vulcan's mouth is moving, Jim can't hear a word of it over the alarms. He says as much, speaking as loud as he can, and then shivers involuntarily when Spock's mouth comes up close to his ear to make up for the noise. "I will target the alarm systems, Jim," he says, and his breath tickles Jim's neck. Holy fuck. "You should take the Doctor with you."
Jim pulls back enough to look Spock in the eye, nodding once, and then gestures wildly to get Bones's attention. It takes a second for McCoy to reluctantly float on over, clearly less-than-intrigued by the gravity situation. He had a hard enough time with the non-traditional transport method — which Jim told him he could avoid by remaining on the Enterprise, but Bones was insistent.
'I wanna be there for you, kid. Whatever happens. And anyway, someone might need a doctor.'
Which are all good points. Great ones, even. Didn't stop the bastard from complaining all the while. Jim rolls his eyes, looking for something he can grab onto so he can propel himself forward.
Jim's halfway down the hallway, making good time (if he does say so himself), when the first alarm stops. It's a strange relief — considering there are still two distinct blaring noises, threatening to blast through his eardrums — but Jim's brain feels less like it's about to explode now, so that's something. Nice one, Spock, he thinks, then promptly cries out in pain when the handle he reaches for turns out to be burning hot. "Goddamn it!"
"Y'alright, Jimmy?" Bones asks from somewhere behind him.
"Yeah, m'fine, just— don't touch this handle. The one under the red thing. It's hot."
"... Duly noted."
Alarm number two goes off just as Jim makes it through the hallway and into another, larger room. It looks a lot like the first one they were in — save for one major difference. The other room didn't have Carol Marcus in it.
And, unlike the other bodies — the ones Jim was able to ignore by averting his gaze — hers is front and center. She's strapped into her seat. Buckled up all nice, like she's waiting for takeoff. Like she might just open her eyes and say, 'Oh hello, Jim! I didn't see you there.'
But she doesn't say anything, because she can't say anything. Because she never will again. Carol's dead, and Jim doesn't need a doctor to confirm it (doesn't even need to check her pulse — he just knows) but he calls back to McCoy anyway. "Bones, she's— she's in here."
Jim pulls himself closer to the body, using the edge of a nearby table (which is, much to Jim's delight, nailed to the floor below it) as a sort of handrail. That's when he notices the contents of the table in front of her — sees a note that has his name on it, still clenched in her hand. He grabs the thing, shoving it into his pocket, and takes one last look at Carol. At the mother of his child.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss against the woman's temple. "I'm gonna find him, Carol. I'll keep him safe. I promise." And maybe it's just Jim going loopy from the tri-ox wearing off, but he's sure he feels her presence. Just for a second. Just a tiny hint of Carol. Then the third alarm turns off.
Jim blinks back tears, scanning the room around him, and tries to imagine where someone might hide a kid in this place.
It doesn't take long for Jim to find the door. It's small — more of a cabinet than a door, really — but, unlike all of the other cabinets, this one's built into the wall. This one's part of the satellite itself.
Spock has just entered the room, propelling himself through the doorway using those strong arms of his (which Jim really shouldn't be admiring right now, but like he said before — tri-ox wearing off; it's not his fault). Jim doesn't have to say anything when he and Spock lock eyes — when the Vulcan looks between his Captain and Carol's body, several times. Spock just knows.
Which is why he quietly leans forward, unhooking Carol from her seat, and carries her body out of sight. Jim's not sure where Spock puts her, exactly — he's too busy staring at the tiny door and trying to figure out what the hell to say. What to do. How to —
Jim doesn't even know what he's trying to do. He just knows he has to try.
"David?" he calls out, keeping his voice soft but not too quiet to be heard.
No response.
So he tries again. "Hey, kiddo," he says, then winces at the sound of those words coming out of his own mouth. Mom had enough boyfriends who called him shit like that — 'kiddo,' or 'buddy' — and he always hated it. Made his skin crawl.
The sound of Spock coming back in breaks Jim's concentration, just for a second. He considers telling the Vulcan to leave. Then he figures there's no use trying to keep his secret anymore. The cat's pretty much out of the bag as-is.
Turning back to the door, Jim says, "Your Mom told you not to open the door for anyone, right? Not unless they knew your middle name. Well guess what, David? I can do you one better. I know your full name. You're David James Marcus. How 'bout that?"
For several seconds, Jim hears nothing. He wonders if he's miscalculated. It's then, just as he's about to turn to look back at Spock and Bones, that he hears a quiet click. The sound of metal scraping against metal.
The tiny door opens to reveal a teary-eyed boy holding a stuffed rabbit.