Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“—and would be just for a few days—”

“ I really don’t—”

“Jim, please. Sam won’t answer my calls.”

“….fine. Yea. I’ll be there, Mom.”

“You sure are quiet,” McCoy says suspiciously as he reaches for the pepper shaker. “Y’know it works better if you use the fork to stab the food.”

Jim doesn’t look up, just continues to push a cherry tomato around his plate like he has been for the past few minutes. The earlier conversation swirls in his head like storm clouds rolling in. It takes effort to ignore the way his skin starts to crawl as he imagines her tired face on the vid screen, eyes pleading.

“My mom called.”

McCoy doesn’t answer right away. He shakes pepper on his potatoes and takes a bite before speaking. “Everything alright?”

Jim looks out the window of the cafeteria, watching as a couple of cadets walk across the courtyard. He’s unsure how to answer for a moment, never allowing his mind to settle on any one emotion since the call.

“They’re moving Frank to hospice. He’s sick. Liver and kidney failure,” he says finally, voice flat.

“Well…I s’pose that’s what happens when you pickle your insides with Hawkeye vodka for 30 years,” McCoy shoots him a sympathetic look. Jim smiles humorlessly and nods in agreement. “So she’s just calling to let you know?”

“Not just that, she wants me to come h—” Jim hesitates, the word catching in his throat, “—to go back to Riverside for a few days to be there. Apparently she’s selling the house and wants my help going through some stuff.”

“Sorry, kid,” McCoy says, and Jim knows the condolences aren’t about Frank. “Are you gonna go?”

Jim pierces the tomato and looks up to meet McCoy’s eye.

“Yea, tomorrow,” he points the fork at him, “and you’re going with me.”

“The hell I am,” he replies with a snort and picks up his glass of iced tea. “I’ve been to Riverside, if you’ll recall. Once was enough for me. Looks like the kinda place you’d see creepy kids crawling out of the corn. Speaking of creepy—why don’t you ask Spock?”

Jim follows McCoy’s gaze behind him to see Spock approaching their table briskly with a tray of food in his hands.

“I’m not asking Spock—”

“Ask me what, Captain?” Spock sets his tray at the table and sits, scooting his chair close.

Jim makes a pained face. “Spock, we’re on leave, don’t call me—”

“He wants to know if you’ll go with him to Iowa tomorrow, he’s got a plus-one.”

Jim shoots McCoy a dirty look that gets ignored.

Spock unfolds his thin paper napkin and places it in his lap, head quirking inquisitively. “A plus-one? May I ask what sort of event we are attending before I make my decision?”

“Oh, Jim’s stepdad’s going into hospice.” McCoy says, matter-of-factly as he sets his glass down with a smack of his lips.

Spock raises an eyebrow.

“Frank isn’t the reason I’m going. I’m going because my mom asked for help going through some stuff at the house before she sells it. Thanks, by the way,” Jim adds with a pointed look to McCoy, who shrugs and continues eating.

Bones is the only one that gets to hear about his mom or Sam or Frank or Riverside, a privilege that Jim may soon be taking away. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Spock, it’s just he’s had more drunken late nights commiserating with Bones. Plus, emotional vulnerability isn’t either of their strong suits. Jim slips sometimes, letting some things through the cracks when he’s talking to himself on the bridge, or when he and Spock have their own late nights playing chess. Spock never presses because he’s Spock, but Jim can tell that the information is stored away in that massive Vulcan brain for later use.

“Your mother, Winona Kirk?”

“That would be her,” Jim isn’t hungry anymore, if he even was in the first place. He taps his thumb anxiously on the end of his fork for a moment and stares down at his plate. An ugly old anxiety runs through him like a chill, one that really only rears its head when he’s truly under stress. After a moment he methodically continues to eat his salad. “But I honestly don’t even know if I’m going to go.”

McCoy frowns. “Jim, you just told me that you were—”

“It doesn’t matter!” Jim exclaims, skin starting to prickle. The table next to them looks over. He sighs and lowers his tone, shoulders slumping. “It doesn’t matter what I said. Now, I’m saying I don’t know if I’m going.”

“If I may interject,” Spock’s voice floats between them. “I believe visiting the Captain’s home town could be quite enriching. I have seen much of the western coast but not the more central part of the country. I know very little about the region and would be interested to do some research for personal growth as well as accompany the captain to his—to Frank’s transition into hospice.”

Jim stares at him.

Bullshit.

Spock could barely be torn away from his station long enough for their shoreleave in San Francisco while the Enterprise underwent routine maintenance. There’s no way he actually wants to go, so why is he offering?

“See? You’re not going to deny Spock enrichment, are you?” McCoy says waving a hand, a little too pleased with himself.

The image of Spock standing outside the house he grew up in makes Jim feel nauseous. He forces himself to swallow his last bite of food. It sits heavy in his stomach.

“Listen, I appreciate it, Spock. But this wouldn’t really be a fun trip.” Jim begins piling his refuse onto his tray.

He needs to be done with this conversation now, needs to go find something to take his mind off of the whole thing.

“I would have no expectation or desire for ‘fun’, Jim,” Spock says, the corners of his mouth just barely upturned. “I would be pleased with some basic data collection.”

Shoulders tense, he imagines Spock moving through the farmhouse with his tricorder, taking scans and measurements. Frowning slightly. “This place seems to be uninhabitable, Captain.”

Jim stands to leave and McCoy opens his mouth to say something, but Jim holds up a hand.

“I don’t even know if I’m going, but—” he ignores McCoy’s scowl, and instead looks at Spock. “But if I do, I’ll keep you in mind.”

—

–I’m sure if I talked to Frank he’d tell me a very different story—

full marks again, Jimmy, my little genius—

you know that I’m in the air for another two months, if you would just behave for once—

commemoration vigil goes until 9:00 and then we’ll get ice cream for the birthday boy—

Do you understand what it’s like to get a call that—

I’m a horrible mother for ever sending you to that place—

You know that after your brother left—

Be home soon—

Just for a few days—

Be home soon.

Jim inhales sharply through his nose and blinks, bringing himself back into the present.

He sits up in bed and looks around his room, one reserved for high ranking officers. The ceilings are too high and the room itself too big. Too silent. Too steady. Jim hadn’t realized how much he’d miss the sheer amount of noise that the Enterprise made until he was suddenly without it.

“Lights 40%…” Jim instructs, rubbing his eyes with his palms. He reaches for his PADD on the nightstand.

After lunch he’d tried to keep himself busy. He’d gone on a run and signed off on maintenance checks before using the combat simulator until he could barely stand. Anything so he didn’t have to think about Riverside or his family.

Family.

The word feels wrong in his brain somehow, like when the universal translator misjudges alien lexicon and substitutes a word that was understood to be ‘close enough’ but still causes dissonance.

Is that really what they are? Have they ever been that?

—

“—since he wants to be so fucking ungrateful! He’s lucky I got him anything after the shit he pulled! D’you know last week that little asshole—”

Jim turns in his bed to face the ceiling. He doesn’t bother to try to muffle the sound of Frank screaming from the dining room, even though he’s the subject. Frank’s wrath is inescapably loud and if there’s a good way to block it out, he hasn't found it yet.

Jim is 12 and it’s Christmas for another 20 minutes, not that it’s felt like a holiday at all. His mother’s return to Earth had been delayed due to a minor rescue operation. He hasn’t seen her yet. Not for almost six months. Jim had barely heard the door shut when Frank’s heavy steps creaked through the farmhouse and he started in.

He strains his ears trying to hear his mother’s voice, steady and serious. Frank’s voice interrupts her, echoing.

“I don’t want any fucking excuses, I’m tired of it, Winona! Both of your brats need to learn—”

Jim turns to get out of bed and pretends like he can’t hear Frank’s threats. He’s been threatening a lot more lately. Frank can yell and grab and push, but he’s never hit them before. Sam says he’s a coward that doesn’t think he has it in him. Jim isn’t so sure.

Jim walks in practiced silence, toe to heel, over the warped wood of his bedroom floor to the door he’d left open just enough to slip through. He waits for a beat before walking the 7 steps to Sam’s room, sidestepping a creaky floorboard.

Jim carefully opens his brother’s door and is hit with a gust of biting cold air coming from the open window on the opposite wall. Sam has one leg over the sill and is moving to duck his head under it, a backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Jim asks in a panic at full volume, causing his brother to flinch and wheel around, the contents of the backpack clinking as the bag threatens to fall off his arm. Sam bangs his head loudly on the window and bites his lip in pain. He looks at Jim with a murderous expression.

They both hold very still for a moment. Waiting.

There’s silence from downstairs. Bad sign.

Jim’s heart races and he gives Sam an apologetic look as they wait for the sound of feet on the stairs.

Jim holds his breath…

…and lets it out again in relief when he hears the clink of a bottle cap and the murmured voice of his mother followed by a grunt from Frank, who must’ve tired himself out.

“Are you stupid? You’re going to get me in even more trouble,” Sam hisses, eyes angry, brow furrowed.

“Where are you going?” Jim repeats.They’ve talked about running away more times than he can remember, but he didn’t know it was serious. Sam can’t leave. Not without him.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You can’t run away, Mom just got home, she’d be so sa—”

“I know Mom just got home, Jimmy. Thanks to Jackass screaming at her, the whole town probably knows that Mom’s home. Merry Christmas.”

Sam looks bitter. These days he’s usually bitter at their mother for leaving them with Frank while she runs off to space. Jim tries to defend her whenever he can, but secretly, he’s bitter too. He just feels too guilty to admit it.

Sam turns and begins to duck under the window again and Jim’s heart drops.

“Sam, It’s freezing outside, you can’t just leave,” he’s having a hard time keeping his voice low with his throat so tight. There is no snow on the ground yet, but the temperature has reached -20F with the windchill the past few nights and Sam’s not even wearing a hat.

Sam hesitates and stares out the window into the black night. He sighs.

“Listen, I’ll be back in the morning and we can hang out,” he stares at Jim, eyes softer than they were before. “They won’t even know I was gone. Okay?”

It’s not okay.

Still, he nods. Watches Sam go.

Jim sits at a chair , leaning with his head propped in his arms on the sill of the open window. He stares out as Sam crosses the empty field behind the house. Watches him as long as he can before he disappears into the night.

Jim lets the frigid air sting his face until it’s painful, and then until it’s numb.

Jim can’t remember how his mother found him the next morning, just knows he woke up in the hospital being treated for mild hypothermia. That, and Sam had returned home to a very pissed off Frank and then didn’t talk to Jim until New Years.

He blinks and realizes he’s been scrolling through the messages on his PADD aimlessly.

What does she even need help with? He sure as hell isn’t going to sort through Frank’s garbage for him.

Maybe the boxes in the attic, filled with reminders of his mother’s happier times. The life she should have had.

No, he doesn’t want to do that, either, and shouldn’t have to. There are reasons that Jim hasn’t been back to Riverside since he enlisted.

Probably all of the same reasons why Sam skipped town for good at 16 and moved on with his life.

The person Jim used to look up to the most is a stranger now. He does something in the sciences, Jim isn’t sure what, and lives very happily on Deneva with his pregnant wife. Or at least she might still be pregnant. He can’t really remember when he and Sam spoke last, a thought that makes a distant part of him ache.

Jim wants to call his brother and yell at him. Doesn’t he owe her? After he abandoned her? Jim wants to tell him to be a man and just go deal with it. Jim had to deal with it after Sam left.

Had to deal with their mother growing more detached than she already was, with Frank’s unrestrained rage, with fucking Tarsus. All of that while Sam got to start his life over and pretend nothing ever happened, while Jim never stopped having to deal with it. With everything.

At some point, Jim selected Spock’s direct communication tab without realizing.

He stares at it.

Would it really be so bad taking Spock? He knows it wouldn’t be. He and Spock had traversed the galaxy together for 9 months and managed to share a bathroom while doing it. Jim had gotten used to most of Spock’s idiosyncrasies and had even grown fond of more than a few of them.

But the problem isn’t Spock. The problem is that he’s spent his life burying exposed, raw nerves and if Spock were to see them, he’ll be incapable of not poking at them. For science. Spock has without a doubt read his personal file as a bedtime story and learned everything about him that was objective or measurable.

Jim knows he looks impressive on paper.

Spock has expectations of him and of how people perceive him. Jim usually tells himself that he doesn’t care what others think and usually can believe his own lie, but not this time. He unfortunately cares very much what Spock thinks and has worked very hard to make himself better than he was when they met. More considerate, more approachable, more level-headed. If Spock went with and saw him broken down to the shitty kid he was when he left Riverside, saw the ways people looked at him, surely his perception of his captain would change.

But what’s the alternative?

As if on cue, the PADD chirps and a new message pops up in their chat.

[01:09:48] Comm. Spock —

Captain, I have attached the systematic review of the bio-indication sensors to be signed off at your discretion.

Jim hesitates. Even though Jim’s frequently up, Spock rarely messages so late.

[01:10:15] Capt. Kirk, J. —

thanks will look in the morning

He receives a reply almost immediately.

[01:10:20] Comm. Spock —

Understood, Jim. Please let me know if there is anything else you need.

Jim rereads the words. He understands now. This isn’t about the report. Spock is playing his first pawn.

But there’s no way Spock actually wants to go. There is nothing of interest there for him, or anyone else for that matter. No, Spock wants to go out of obligation to him as the first officer of the Enterprise. A responsibility. A duty. Jim admires Spock’s loyalty. More than admires it. It’s dizzying to know that if Jim said ‘jump’ Spock would simply ask ‘what is the height of the jump you wish for me to achieve?’

The PADD chirps again.

[01:10:42] Comm. Spock —

Our conversation at lunch piqued my interest and I took the time to do some initial research on Iowa. I was not aware that Iowa was a top producer of corn and hogs.

[01:10:59] Capt. Kirk, J. —

Iowa is a top producer of bad smells & meth

Jim chuckles, imagining sharp, scrunched eyebrows as Spock tries to interpret his joke. The ‘typing…’ icon pops up and disappears three times before he receives a response.

[01:11:21] Comm. Spock —

Understood.

Jim’s smile fades and he drums the stylus rapidly against his leg.

[01:13:14] Comm. Spock —

I apologize if my asking to accompany you to your hometown was overstepping a boundary. I hope that you are not reconsidering going to assist your mother on my account. I would not take it personally if you preferred to go alone.

Jim stops the movement of the stylus.

Checkmate.

The alternative is going to Riverside alone.

No buffer between him and the past, between everything he’s pushed away. Between who he is and who he was.

[01:14:45] Capt. Kirk, J. —

We’ll need to leave here at 1000 to get to the shuttle station on time

[01:14:51] Comm. Spock —

I will meet you in the lobby at 0945.

Chapter Text

—

‘ —and that ain’t what you wanna hear, but that’s what I’ll do.

And the feelin’ coming from my bones says, “Find a home.”’

Sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, Spock keeps his hands folded in his lap. The scenery passes by too quickly, at least twenty miles faster than the posted speed limit. While he would have preferred to simply shuttle straight into the shipyard, Jim had been insistent they drive the 40 minutes from Cedar Rapids to Riverside in a rented hover car.

Being at his new captain's side had become quickly routine, perhaps even comfortable. Despite the circumstances, Spock had thought nothing of offering to accompany Jim to Riverside. It is his duty, of course, but since the conversation in the cafeteria, Spock can't stop thinking of Jim's demeanor. So closed off and prickly, without even the thin veil of Jim's usual lighthearted arrogance. So, perhaps Spock's company will prove emotionally beneficial.

When they met in the lobby that morning, Spock had immediately taken note of Jim's appearance. Dark circles and pallid skin, a raw spot where his lower lip had clearly been chewed, a smile that didn't reach his usually bright eyes.

Though he'd wanted to chase his curiosity and press for information, Spock chose to stay quiet, sure that the captain would relax as their journey progressed. However, Jim had seemed lost in thought as they flew from San Francisco to Cedar Rapids, staring out the window of the shuttle as Spock read reports on his PADD. The silence was unexpected, though not unwelcome, and had continued until they reached Iowa.

But now, the deep, thumping bass of the song over the car radio makes Spock's temples ache, the volume ear-splitting. Jim very loudly attempts to mimic the piercing sound of the electric guitar in the song’s post-chorus, adding to the cacophony. Spock chooses not to point out the poor quality imitation.

While the Captain’s music taste could be considered a little eccentric and wildly outdated to most, it is something Spock has grown accustomed to, though not at this volume.

On the Enterprise, Spock has come to expect music at a certain time every night when Jim takes his shower in the bathroom that connects their quarters. It had been a shock and slight annoyance at first, but turned into a curious routine that he found himself almost looking forward to. While Vulcans certainly appreciate music, the specific behavior is just so human, and Spock finds himself fascinated, as he does with most things his captain does.

He watches as Jim drums on his leg in time with the music with one hand while he steers with the other.

Spock closes his eyes for a moment and steeples his fingers together, breathing deeply.

The captain's music choices usually coincide with his mood, something Spock supposes must be beneficial. So while the sound is uncomfortable, Spock does what he usually does: he silently endures while Jim tries his hardest to self-soothe.

The song ends and another’s intro begins. Snapping. A rhythmic beat.

‘I don’t know why I like it…I just do.’

The music jumps in tempo. 119 beats per minute. E minor.

Spock breathes deeply through his nose.

“Whitney Houston? Next.”

There's the sound of songs rapidly being shuffled through, never landing on one for more than a second. His stomach lurches as he feels his side of the car momentarily swivel upwards and then corrects.

Spock opens his eyes.

“Jim,” he says, but his voice is drowned out by the music. Jim continues to search for the perfect song, eyes drifting from the road. Spock eyes the speedometer marking their ever increasing speed. The car begins to shudder slightly in the wind, surely not made to handle this sort of driving. Raising his voice, Spock repeats himself, more insistent. “Jim.”

“There we go.”

A song starts playing and Jim reaches to turn the volume up to maximum. The hand on his leg resumes drumming, erratically now, out of time with the rhythm. Jim’s foot presses further on the accelerator, the music blaring so loudly that Spock's skin feels like it's sizzling.

“Captain.” Spock’s voice is loud and commanding. He shoots out a hand to turn down the music until it isn’t audible.

“Hey!”

“Captain, I must insist that you slow down.”

Jim grips the steering wheel with both hands and lets his foot off the accelerator altogether, causing the car to slow considerably. He gently presses the brake until they’re moving only slightly faster than the speed limit.

For a moment they sit in silence and Spock keeps his eyes trained on Jim.

“Would you prefer if I drove for the remainder of the journey?” he asks, watching how Jim’s eyebrows twitch down almost imperceptibly, his eyes now glued to the worn road.

“And why would I prefer that?”

“Your fluctuating mood, not to mention your driving becoming increasingly erratic—” Spock stops himself and sighs. “I believe you may be over-tired and in need of rest.”

“I’m fine,” Jim flashes another half-hearted smile.

“I do not believe you are. I have done what I can to be accommodating, but I cannot let you risk both of our lives—”

“Risk our lives? Yea, because there’s so much to crash into here,” Jim gestures widely at the nearly empty highway. The driver of a slow moving tractor in the oncoming lane takes the gesture as a wave and returns it. Jim sighs. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I do believe that you are the one being dramatic,” Spock says before he can stop himself.

“Or maybe I’m just so excited to get away from the stink cloud around Cedar Rapids. Maybe I can’t even contain myself.”

Jim is trying to either diffuse or deflect, likely both. Spock decides to allow it for now.

Besides, he would be lying (something Vulcans cannot do) if he said he didn’t notice the detestable smell that greeted them upon arrival in the city.

“The air did have a peculiar scent of…”

“Oatmeal and dog food?”

“Your description is as evocative as it is accurate, Jim.”

He watches the muscles in Jim’s forearm relax. His jaw untenses and he smirks, seemingly more at ease than before.

Spock reaches down and turns the music back up to a level that is still too loud for himself, but quieter than before.

‘—drivin’ down the road I get the feelin’ that I should’ve been home

Yesterday, yesterday.

Country roads, take me home—’

Jim reaches down and shuts the music off altogether.

-

They drive in the same heavy silence that they did on the shuttle.

Spock watches out the window, taking in the Iowa landscape as it flies by him in a blur.

His quick research showed images of flat, sprawling fields of tall, green corn stalks against an endless blue sky punctuated with white, fluffy clouds.

What he sees instead is gray, mid October sky and stretches of gently curving hills of harvested fields, covered in the leftover dry, papery husks. Some crops are still intact with golden stalks stretching upwards, waving gently in the breeze, unaware that they will soon be mowed down. Occasionally he notes a farmhouse or a barn, some abandoned, some not.

“I did not expect so many cattle,” Spock remarks to no reply.

By his calculations, taking into account the accelerated speed in which Jim had been previously driving, they will be taking their exit for Riverside in 9 minutes and 32 seconds. He keeps this information to himself.

Spock can feel the tense energy radiating off of Jim’s psyche, buzzing in the air. Notes the way he grips the steering wheel with one hand, knuckles white.

Spock stares out his window at a flat, sandy colored field, already harvested and stretching to the horizon.

If he lets his eyes unfocus, it almost looks like desert.

-

In the distance on the flat stretch of road, Spock sees a mass of carnage.

“Captain, something up ahead,” he says, voice tinged with urgency.

Jim brakes reflexively at Spock’s word, the car slowing. He squints, brow furrowed and jaw set in concentration for only a moment. It's a look Spock sees often when they are exploring planetside, when they see something of concern. After a moment, Jim’s expression softens and he snorts.

“At ease, Commander,” he says with gentle sarcasm. “Someone just hit a deer.”

They drive by, the pavement beneath them smeared red from the ill-fated, mangled animal that is now scattered in bits across the tarmac. Spock has to look away, unease creeping through him. Is this typical? Based on Jim’s unbothered reaction, he can only assume that this is a common, unfortunate occurrence.

“It is a shame to see a gentle creature meet such a violent end.”

“Yea, well maybe they shouldn't run into the road."

"Deer flee when they feel threatened, often picking a random direction," Spock replies, imagining the poor animal being disoriented by the blinding lights of a vehicle, accidentally sprinting to its demise. "Even if it seems illogical, you cannot expect a creature to go against their instincts of self-preservation."

"I guess so."

—

Jim’s driving gets slower and slower the closer they get. He takes the exit towards Riverside, but does not turn the direction of town. Instead, they drive down a winding road flanked by soybean fields being harvested by large combines.

Eventually they turn and pull into the lot of a sprawling complex with a large sign reading Riverside Casino. Jim must take notice of Spock’s raised eyebrow because he says,

“This is kinda the only hotel in town. Was planning on Bones coming along and thought he might have fun, but don’t worry I won’t make you indulge in any vices against your will.”

“Vulcans do not have vices, Jim,” Spock responds automatically, reaching to unbuckle his seat belt. “I have to admit that I was not expecting to be staying at a hotel.”

Jim puts the car in park and stretches, arching his back against the seat with a chuckle. “Yea? What, did you think I was gonna take you camping?”

Spock shakes his head. “I simply assumed we would be staying at your family home.” The already strained mood shifts in a way that is palpable, Jim sitting frozen and silent with his hands in his lap. Seeing his captain still and quiet is disconcerting, especially after such a raucous display in the car. Spock tries to course correct. “My apologies if I—”

“It’s fine, Spock,” Jim mumbles, rubbing tired eyes with the palm of his hand. “C’mon, lets go get checked in. I want to relax before the busy day tomorrow.”

Jim pats his forearm and the split second of crackling, unstable emotions that seeps through is almost enough to take Spock’s breath away.

They check into the hotel and make their way to the fourth floor. Jim scans his room card and pushes the door open revealing a large, but unremarkable room. Unremarkable save for the single large bed taking up most of the space. Spock tries to keep his face neutral, but feels an eyebrow betray him as he sets his bags on the dresser.

"I figured Bones would be coming along," Jim says again without further elaborating, putting down his own bags. "You can have the bed and I can sleep on the floor or something."

"Under no circumstance will I allow you to sleep on a hotel floor," Spock says resolutely. "It would go against my responsibilities as first officer to look after the health and safety of the captain."

Jim chuckles, his cheeks a little red. "Well…what do you suggest then?"

Spock looks around the room, then nods to a terra cotta colored armchair in the corner of the room that looks towards the bed. "I will sleep there."

"In the chair?" Jim moves to a wall control panel and begins fiddling with the temperature controls. Spock fights a shiver as he feels the air conditioning kick on.

"I assure you, I will be quite comfortable there."

"If you say so," Jim says with a yawn. He kicks off his shoes and falls backwards onto the bed, eyes closed, while Spock begins to unpack his bag.

—

Spock sits in the room alone, resting on his knees with a cushion beneath him, hands on thighs, and his eyes closed. He breathes deeply through his nose, trying to steer his senses away from the unfamiliar input surrounding him. The room is warm and silent, with only the occasional sound of other hotel patrons moving through the hallway. The tension melts from his shoulders as his mind steadies, ready to sort through the day.

The silent shuttle, the tense drive, the way he felt the soul-deep turmoil buzzing under Jim's skin, ready to latch onto whatever it touched, begging for attention, screaming for recognition of its existence. Spock lets out a long, steady breath. He categorizes the feeling away into the section of his brain reserved for Jim, a section that has been growing very rapidly.

In the short time that Spock has come to know his captain, he's learned all of the different tells. All the ways he holds tension in his jaw and his brow, the way his hands can't hold still. The thing he's still learning is what to do about that tension. He knows he's not the most comforting presence, especially to humans. Not enough warmth in his body or his words. Stiff. Awkward. Spock's thoughts drift, sand blowing in the wind, before settling on McCoy. The doctor knows Jim better, knows how to care for him. An arm around the shoulders and a dark joke, a commiserating smile and sincere eyes. Things Spock can never provide, not in the same way.

He lets his mind smooth over the insecurity before it begins to root itself too deeply. There's no logic in comparing himself.

—

Spock opens his eyes as he hears the beep of the keypad outside of the door to their room. Jim enters, a towel around his bare shoulders, water dripping from his hair down his forehead and catching in his eyelashes.

"Shit, sorry to interrupt."

Spock follows a drop of water as it travels down Jim's chest, though merely for the purpose of distracting himself from the irritating scent of chlorine now filling the room.

"No need to apologize, Jim," he says, getting to his feet and placing the cushion back on the armchair in the corner. "I assume you went swimming after your workout and did not instead have an unfortunate mishap around a body of water?"

Jim doesn't answer right away, instead Spock watches as he sorts through the prepackaged snacks and fruit taken from the buffet line at dinner. The neat piles on the corner of the desk sit untouched, just as they were the first time he checked them over. After a moment, Jim seems satisfied with his inventory and then turns to Spock.

"Hm? Oh. Yea, I figured I'd do some laps and sort of lost track of time," Jim rifles through his duffel bag and pulls out a change of clothes before heading to the bathroom.

Spock changes into his pajamas while Jim showers. He closes the curtains and turns on a lamp, casting a dim light on the desk where he sits to read over a maintenance summary, though it's hard to focus without Jim's usual playlist in the background adding to the ambiance. Or perhaps that same tension wound tightly in Jim has bled into the air, clouding his thoughts.

Jim emerges from the bathroom in shorts and a t-shirt, steam pouring from the room behind him. Spock glances up in acknowledgment before turning back to his PADD. His eyes scan the screen, reading and rereading the same sentence as he tries to ignore the way Jim has begun to pace the length of the room. Another tell, a sign of unease he sees often.

Spock knows better than to press or pry, but can feel the discomfort radiating off of him, unsettled and apprehensive for the next day.

"I recommend you sleep," Spock says after several minutes, looking over his shoulder.

Jim doesn't stop his loop around the room. "Gotta wear myself out first."

"Between the travel, workout, and swim, I am confident that you have sufficiently worn yourself out. Perhaps you are overly tired?"

"Yea, maybe," Jim sighs and finally stops, sinking onto the bed. "I guess I didn't get much of a nap in earlier."

Spock turns back to the desk. "You have a busy day tomorrow, Jim. Sleep. I will be awake for awhile longer."

There's a grumbling from behind him that sounds like 'don't remind me', and then the sound of blankets being pulled back and pillows shifting.

"G'night, Spock."

"Sleep well, Jim."

The minutes turn to an hour, and Spock has finished reading the maintenance summary. In the bed behind him, he can hear Jim still tossing and turning, giving the occasional aggravated sigh. Spock thinks again of providing comfort. But what can he even offer? Of course there are Vulcan techniques, but to propose any of them to Jim feels somehow too intimate. Like it would draw more attention to the things he is clearly trying to diminish, maybe even causing him to withdraw further. Again, the prickling insecurity tries to take hold, but Spock waves it away.

Instead, he prods at the screen of his PADD until he brings up the catalog of works by Charles Dickens. Opens A Tale of Two Cities. He finds the place he left off and begins to quietly read aloud, as if to himself.

"In such risings of fire and risings of sea—the firm earth shaken by the rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on the flow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders on the shore—three years of tempest were consumed." Spock pauses, but when he hears no protesting, he continues. "Three more birthdays of little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful tissue of the life of her home…"

Spock reads aloud until Jim lies still in bed, until he begins to snore softly, and then just awhile longer.

—

Jim wakes automatically before Spock and before the sun.

It’s not unusual for him to be up earlier than everyone, just as it isn’t unusual for him to be up later. He’s always been like that, always sought out the cracks in the day that were safe and quiet. When almost everyone’s asleep, he can simply be.

Jim gets out of bed quietly, not wanting to rouse Spock from where he sleeps. He dresses warmly and pulls on his running shoes, gloves, and beanie. On the way out, Jim grabs his communicator and room card, then throws a glance at the Vulcan in the corner of the room as he opens the door to leave. Spock sits in the chair with his hands draped over the end of the arm rests, eyes half-open, even in sleep. He’s stiff and limp at the same time, looking very much like an android awaiting activation. Maybe at one point this would have given Jim the creeps, but something about it is almost comforting to him now. He shakes his head and smiles a little before shutting the hotel room door behind him.

It’s still dark, the air crisp and cool, a gentle breeze ushering in rose-colored memories that only take a moment’s focus to deteriorate. Still, Jim tries his best not to think as he begins to jog down Highway 22, away from the hotel and towards town. He passes Bud’s Custom Meats, the veterinarian, the abandoned auto-body shop, all sitting still and vacant like pieces of a set.

The road straightens out and there’s nothing on either side for awhile, just quilted, corrugated cornfields dotted with deer that pause and meet Jim’s gaze as he passes by. The sky is impossibly big, but Jim’s emotions are bigger, and he doesn’t allow himself even a moment to feel small. He just keeps running.

The highway turns into East Hickory, which will eventually curve into West First, and the thought makes Jim’s stomach feel a little hollow with anxiety. The town starts to come into view properly and he takes a sharp turn to get off of the main road, beginning to jog uphill towards the residential area. He pushes himself harder, focusing on his breathing, the sound of his feet hitting the pavement. Blinders on, not ready to take in his surroundings.

Jim reaches the top of the hill and stops to catch his breath, the cool air stinging his skin and contrasting with his too-warm body. He keeps his head down and his eyes closed, almost afraid to open them, as if phantoms of every bad memory will be waiting for him if he does.

The air around him smells so familiar, tinged with dreary dawn petrichor and a heavy nostalgia that eats away at him. For a moment, there's nothing but eerie, early morning quiet. No bosun's whistle, no red alerts. No birds, no trains.

Jim lets himself drown in the silence.

Feels the weight of his body on solid ground.

Counts to three.

Opens his eyes and peeks his head up.

No phantoms.

Jim sighs in quiet relief and allows himself to scan the street. The neighborhood is familiar, though everything is familiar in a town as small as Riverside. Old houses, some kept better than others, sit still sleeping as the sky begins to lighten.

Jim begins to move again, walking now. A tabby cat runs across the street and into the yard of a small two-story with a wrap-around porch. Jim's eyes linger and he lets his masochistic mind indulge in a memory he hasn't thought about in years.

"Hey...uh, my mom wants to know if she can give you a ride home on her way to town."

Jim looks away from the window where he's been staring up at the clouds. Jim has been 15 for a week, and has only been back in Iowa for a couple of months after spending too much time in a Starfleet hospital. Currently, he sits on Steve Miller's bed in Steve Miller's bedroom, as if he didn't know this was coming.

"Does she need help? I could come along."

Steve hovers in the doorway but makes no move to come in, like the chicken-shit he is. Steve Miller isn't Jim's friend, at least not now. They were close before, but Jim doesn't have friends anymore. He doesn't really have anything. Nevertheless, Steve's house is peaceful and his fridge is full. They no longer have anything in common, but it doesn't matter.

At least here, there's no one to throw him against the wall hard enough to bruise. No one to mock him when he's caught hoarding food, or threaten to send him back when he gets mouthy.

Steve shifts his weight nervously.

Jim stares him down, daring him to speak.

Finally, Steve sighs. "Jim, you can't just stay here, man. My parents were fine when you were coming to hang out, but they're being weird about it and told me you gotta go," he says, looking down at the carpet.

Thanks to the Millers' pity, Jim's been there for three nights. Three nights with double helpings of homecooked meals while he pretends he doesn't see the way they watch his thin frame with sympathetic eyes. He doesn't want their sympathy. He's sick of sympathy from people that will never understand. How could they? Jim barely understands, and he lived it. Regardless, he's tried to keep quiet and polite, like maybe if he doesn't make a fuss they won't notice he hasn't left.

But of course, he's not stupid. He knows it's inevitable.

No one wants Jim for long, no matter how much he tries. No matter how much he needs to be wanted.

Now he has to go back to the farmhouse and face whatever's coming to him. Not that it really matters, not like he's scared of Frank anymore. Jim's faced hell and was spared for reasons he'll never understand while those worthy of living died around him. Honestly, he should be grateful, but he's not.

At this point, Frank's abuse is almost a welcome distraction. If only he'd keep the pantry better stocked.

Jim pushes himself off the bed and grabs his backpack off the floor, feeling the reassuring weight of non-perishable food he'd snuck from the Millers' cabinets in the middle of the night. He slips on his shoes and starts towards the doorway, but then he catches Steve giving him that fucking pitiful look again.

"Sorry, Jim," he says the way someone does when they feel helpless. Jim can't stand it. He feels a fire inside him start to burn hot and angry.

"Shut the fuck up, Steve."

Steve looks at him with surprise first, and irritation second. "What the hell is your problem? I know things are shitty at your place and your life sucks or whatever, but you can't just decide to come be a freak at my house, and then act like an asshole when you get told to leave!"

Jim barely comprehends the words. His vision goes fuzzy at the edges, and before he can think, something inside him snaps and he's launching himself at Steve, fists flying at his head. Jim's not big enough to take him down, but that doesn't stop the rage surging from every nerve in his body, driving him to attack.

Jim punches and claws and kicks and bites, ignoring Steve's screams, still thrashing as he's pried off by Mr. Miller while Mrs. Miller calls the police.

By the time he's put into a holding cell at the sheriff's department the next town over, Jim is back to feeling numb and stays that way for a long time.

-

Jim anticipates the desperation and the anger and the guilt to consume him the same as it did back then. He squints up at the bedroom window, like maybe he'll see himself staring back, fragile and broken. Instead, the house stays dark and still. He waits a second longer, unsure what he's waiting for. Finally, he begins to jog down the road, following the steeple of the church at the end of the street.

After Tarsus Jim wasn't okay for a long time, if he was ever was again. He'd had therapy, of course, first at the Starfleet hospital, and then once a week in Iowa City following his assault on Steve Miller. Not that it did much good, or maybe he just didn't allow it to do much good. Frank drove him there for awhile, at his mother's insistence. Until, of course, he determined it a waste of time, that Jim was too damaged to repair. Jim had agreed with him on both counts.

Nothing could take away the things he'd seen, or the lasting nightmares of bone-deep hunger, the panic that clawed a his throat at random, threatening to pull him under into dark depths. There was no safe space in the farmhouse to practice grounding techniques. No space in his lungs for deep breathing. No God to pray to.

Instead, Jim tried his damnedest to find ways to fill the void until the chasm was too all-encompassing to ignore. Those were the moments he'd find himself curled alone in his bed, pleading for the pain to disappear.

Continuing on, Jim feels unfamiliar sense of calm. How many times has he been over this road? Walks to school, to town, summers spent on his bike, pedaling as hard as he can to catch up to Sam as they race to the park behind St. Mary's to hide out until Frank left for the bar.

Reaching the church, Jim pauses to stare up at the steeple, sweeping his gaze across the muted dusky sky to follow a turkey vulture flying overhead. For a moment, the bird slowly surveys, circling something below. Finally, it hones in on its target and descends down behind the trees.

Jim's communicator gives a quick chirp. He pulls it from his pocket and flips it open, scanning the screen. 1 incoming message from Winona Kirk. He ignores the wringing in his gut and taps the message.

Sign-off delays at spacedock, sorry for short notice. Plan to meet tomorrow instead. Be home soon.

He stares at it, reading and rereading. Of course.

Jim sinks to the curb with a sigh and stares at the ground. Any semblance of calm gained on his run disappears. It drains out of him and is replaced with sad, bitter surrender that sits heavy in his gut and clouds his thoughts. There it is. There's the feeling he's been waiting for. Maybe this was a mistake after all.

Jim closes out of his mother's message and hastily inputs a familiar frequency, almost unconsciously. Despite the difference in time zone, he gets an answer immediately.

"Jim? Y'alright? Are you hurt?" Bones sounds a little gruff and startled, just like he always does when he's woken up.

"No—" Before he can continue, Bones cuts him off.

"Good. Now then, how about you tell me what'n the hell you're calling me so early for? Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Suddenly, Jim feels small.

Hearing a safe, familiar voice causes the thin shell around Jim to crack he sucks in a shaky breath. There's second pause before Bones speaks again, softer.

"What's wrong, Jim?"

"Just got news my mom's delayed until tomorrow but…I dunno, Bones. I think I'm gonna get Spock up and head back."

"Back here? Already?"

"Yea, I should've stayed. Shit sucks here."

Bones snorts in response and Jim can imagine the face he's making.

"You've not even been there 24 hours. It's what…6 am there for God's sake? Have you two even made it out of your hotel room, or have you just been sittin' around staring at each other?" Jim doesn't answer, which gives him away. "That's what I thought. Listen, I know you've got a lot of bad memories there…but it's one extra day, Jim. You're already there."

"Okay? So I'm already here? I don't want to be here. You know that I…I've told you—" Jim's starting to feel irritation creeping through his veins. He makes a frustrated noise and stands from the curb. The lingering fear of abandonment grips its hooks into him from the inside. "I don't understand why you're pushing so much if you're not even going to be here for me."

The words tumble out of Jim's mouth, childish and biting, almost a taunt. Like he's looking for a fight. There's silence on the other end of the call and suddenly Jim's face feels hot, embarrassed of his behavior. "Bones, I—"

"Save it, kid. M'not mad." Bones might not be mad, but he does sound weary. He sighs. "Did you ever consider that maybe it'd be good for you to face things without me there?"

Jim scuffs the ground with his shoe, answering honestly. "No."

Bones chuckles and Jim's tense shoulders relax minutely.

"You're gonna be alright, Jim," Bones says softly, like he's said a thousand times before. "Buck up and do what you need to, alright? At least you don't have to face your demons all in one day now, you can spread it out a little."

"Gee, thanks, Bones," Jim grumbles, rolling his eyes.

"It's not like you're alone, y'know."

Jim nods, more to himself, and thinks about Spock back at the hotel. About the awkward night they'd had, not to mention the car. "Yea. You're right."

He hears a snort. "Nice to finally hear you admit it," Bones grumbles. "Listen, some of us like to actually sleep when we get a break from galactic emergencies, so I'm gonna go. Just do what you need to, which involves letting Spock out of his enclosure, alright?"

Jim smiles now and shifts his weight. "Alright, alright...sorry to call so early."

"Don't worry about it. I'll be here for you when you get back…but since he offered, you need to let Spock be there for you now."

"Hey, I'll talk to you later, Bones."

"Bye, Jim."

Jim snaps his communicator closed and puts it back in his pocket as he starts to pace.

It's hard not to sink back into the easy mindset of rejection and anger. Shouldn't Bones be there too? He's the only person Jim can rely on—but no, that isn't true. Maybe it was before, but now? Now, Jim has his whole crew that he relies on, the closest of which is Spock.

Jim chews his lip and thinks again to Spock in the hotel room. He's for sure awake now, maybe wondering where he went. Even so, Jim's communicator sits silent in his pocket, something he's grateful for. Spock knows not to panic just because Jim isn't where he should be. Not that he's always had Jim on such a long leash, of course. It's a sort of a new privilege that he's been enjoying immensely.

Jim's never liked to be micromanaged, or managed at all, really. Unfortunately, since the Academy, he's had to come to terms with the fact that just maybe the structure might be good for him. While he's gotten pretty good at maintaining that structure on his own, it's still been a learning curve going from academically suspended cadet to the captain of his own ship basically overnight. But that's where Spock steps in to provide the support he needs, even when Jim doesn't realize he needs it. It felt a little stifling at first, always under Spock's scrutinizing gaze. But things settled and they shifted and sank into place. Now, it puts him at ease to know that Spock is there at any given moment, just to the right of him.

Jim stops pacing and looks towards the main road of the tiny town. After a moment, he begins to jog down the hill, towards the red beacon glow of the Casey's.

—

The door to the hotel room shuts behind him with a heavy click. He's still panting a little, his cheeks red from the brisk air, his hand clenched around the handle of a triangular plastic baggie. Spock looks up from where he sits at the desk, scrolling through his PADD.

"Welcome back. I had assumed you were making use of the hotel pool again, but it seems that is not the case."

Jim pulls one of his gloves off with his teeth and uses the hand to carefully slide a paper tray out of the baggie. He holds the greasy olive branch out to Spock. "Thought I'd go on a run and grab us some breakfast. I already had mine. Sorry if it's a little messed up. Or cold."

Spock eyes the food with uncertainty. "What is it?"

"Oh, come on," Jim sets the tray on the desk. "You've never had breakfast pizza?"

"Breakfast pizza," Spock repeats, carefully enunciating each word, as if he understands them separately but not together. He peers dubiously down at the slice, white country gravy and bits of scrambled egg spilling over onto the paper tray. "I have not."

"Well, this can be your first lesson in Iowa culture," Jim says as he starts shedding his outerwear, tossing it onto the bed. "And maybe a peace offering."

"A peace offering?"

"Yea, I uh…" Jim looks at the floor and drums his fingers against his leg, feeling his face heat up the same way it does every time he has to admit he's wrong. "I've been sort of a dick since we got here and you don't deserve that. It's my baggage to deal with, not yours and…I dunno. I appreciate you coming along is all."

When he looks up, Spock is staring at him in that imperceptible way that makes people squirm, which is exactly what Jim does. But then, the expression softens, just a little around the eyes and mouth, and Spock nods once.

"Think nothing of it," he says, gingerly picking up the messy slice of pizza. "I can assist in carrying any of your baggage. It is not yours alone to deal with. Although I am unsure why you would need help when you packed so light."

There's a glint in those dark eyes, one that he sees when Spock pretends to misunderstand. Spock takes a bite of pizza and Jim smiles, feeling lighter than he has in days.