Pike thinks he is prepared to do this with his son. He isn’t. Not when the bright lighting enhances every terrible mark upon Jim’s face.

It’s only because of his iron will—and Archer’s subtle shift of body to block any irrational action Pike might take—that Chris does not tear his son loose from the deputy’s hands and hit someone for the way Jim looks.

And the kid does look bad. Oh, Pike knows that things between cops and criminals can get rough; he’s been in a fistfight more often than he cares to count. But police brutality is not something Pike can tolerate. A badge is not a right to abuse the weak.

Jim cracks an arrogant smile at them all as he is summarily shoved into one of the table’s chairs, having regained his bravado some time between seeing Pike and the walk to the interrogation room. That smile falters when Jim’s eyes land on Pike’s arm. Almost unconsciously, Chris lifts a hand to feel for the bandage beneath his clothes. Catching himself in the act, he drops his hand back to his side. Yet Chris is unable to keep the father in him at bay and ends up asking roughly, “His face—has it been seen to?”

Jonathan—no, Sheriff Archer, corrects Christopher mentally—replies in a rather too casual tone, “We let his doctor friend look him over.”

Pike grinds his back teeth and pulls the chair opposite of Jim out from beneath the table. He seats himself and without looking at the other men in the room and tells them, “You can go.” The young deputy begins to creep toward the door but Archer does not move. Chris gives Jonathan the full brunt of his this-is-business-so-do-as-I-say stare and re-emphasizes word by word, “You can go.”

Once again, his longtime friend weighs something about him, comes to an unknown decision and, however reluctantly, concedes ground to Pike. “I won’t be far,” Archer reminds him, like Chris is a fool twice over, and leaves. The deputy looks relieved as he hurries from the room on his superior’s heels.

Pike focuses on the young man across from him. For a long minute, they watch each other in silence, taking measure of what they see. Chris wants badly to make certain that Jim is all right because the sight of Jim is proving to be more worrying than reassuring. Jim’s left eye isn’t quite swollen shut but it is bruised spectacularly, and there is a red mark along his jaw that hasn’t yet darkened. Chris knows he has seen Jim in worse condition (he’ll never forget the boy’s disastrous prom night, ever) but a parent hates to see evidence that someone has done harm to his child.

This is an opportunity Archer won’t give him again, not without a fight, so Chris can’t waste time by interrogating the boy about his injuries. He plants his elbows on the table and leans forward, steepling his fingers. Because this is Jim, who once as a child nearly forced Pike’s boss into early retirement by aggravating the poor man’s heart condition, Chris forgoes the civilities and the verbal dance. He asks bluntly, “Who is trying to kill Montgomery Scott?”

Jim’s eyes widen a fraction, meaning he hadn’t been expecting Pike to cut to the heart of the matter—or, perhaps, to even know what the heart of the matter is. Which is Jim’s mistake, Pike thinks to himself. Jim has yet to learn that, if anything, he has unknowingly helped Chris hone his detective skills over the years by falling into disaster after disaster.

Before Jim can answer the question, however, the room’s heavy metal door is punched open with great force and Archer swoops back in, livid. “What the fuck is—Chris, what the fuck!”

Chris ignores the sheriff’s return and presses his son, “Who?”

Jim straightens in his seat and Pike has the sudden hope that the boy will answer honestly rather than skirt the question altogether, but in the next moment the spell is broken as Jon grabs the lapels of Pike’s jacket and tries to drag him bodily out of his chair.

“Let him go!”

Jim is diving across the table for Jonathan in an instant, never mind that his handcuffed limb limits his range or that Pike is old enough and experienced enough to handle his own fights. The Chicken McNugget deputy comes hustling into the room in time to pin Jim back in his chair.

Chris elbows Jonathan sharply in the side and knocks away the hands at his throat, annoyed. “Stop it.”

“Outside. Now,” growls the sheriff but he backs off, allowing Chris to stand on his own two feet.

“He doesn’t take orders from you,” Jim fires back, red in the face from struggling against the two men holding him down. When one multiplied into two, Pike doesn’t know.

“Jim,” Pike warns, “be quiet.” To Archer, he says, “I’m not leaving. You owe me this. I need to talk to him.”

Jon looks grimmer than ever, and his voice is low, close to deadly. “We talk first, or the deal’s off. Your choice, Detective.” The man breathes deeply, just once, and tries to communicate something else to Pike in the struggle of emotion on his face.

Well damn. He hadn’t expected Archer to flip out. Not yet, at least.

Knowing his friend has drawn a line and won’t back down from it, Chris nods and tucks his chair under the table. Then he strides around Archer and to the wide-open door, ignoring the curious faces on the other side of it. Once in the neighboring room with soundproofed walls, Chris shoves a hand through his hair and releases a pent-up, peeved sigh. “Damn it, Jon, what’s gotten into you?” he begins as the door swings shut behind Jonathan, granting a measure of privacy to their conversation.

Chris doesn’t anticipate the punch. The blow glances off his jaw, more like a badly aimed clip than a solid hook but it successfully sends Pike crashing into the wall at his back. Because he has felt Jon’s fist before, he knows right away that the blow was deflected on purpose. That means it’s a warning, not a precursor to an outright brawl.

Then abruptly Jonathan is much too close, breathing heavily on him, pinning him to the wall and talking furiously. It takes a second before Chris’s brain comes online and starts to translate the outpouring of words.

“…my investigation, Pike, my fucking investigation! You know something, you don’t fucking keep it to yourself!”

“Archer—” Chris shoves back at the man’s shoulders but he doesn’t budge. “Jonathan. JON!“

The intensity in Jon’s eyes abates somewhat, and he focuses on Pike. That focus ends in a growl. “I ought to kick your ass, you son of a bitch.”

No choice, then, but to fight dirty. Jim would be so proud. Unexpectedly, Chris goes limp in the sheriff’s hold and makes a grunt of pain, one that is not altogether feigned. “My arm,” he grits out, “…at least let go of my arm.”

Almost immediately, Jon releases him.

Chris straightens. “Thank you.” Then, with a flicker of a grim smile, he puts a fist in the sheriff’s gut. Blindsided, Jon staggers back and doubles over with a gasp. “Ow, fuck” comes a pained wheeze. “What was that for?”

Chris probes at the sore spot on his jaw tentatively. It doesn’t hurt overly much. Hopefully it won’t bruise. “If you hit a man, expect him to hit back.”

“It was just one punch!”

Pike snorts. “Ditto. Quit whining, you baby.”

With an expression warring between affronted and pissed, Jonathan glares up at him, hands braced on his knees. “Fine. I won’t hit you anymore.”

“I think you told me that once before.”

“I’m not sorry.”

“Neither am I.”

They stare at each other. It’s Archer who caves first with a slight droop to his shoulders. “Why are you holding out on me, Chris?”

“Would you have believed me if I told you what I was thinking?”

Archer grunts contemplatively and rubs a hand across the stubble along the bottom of his chin. “Doesn’t matter. If you’ve got a theory, you’re supposed to share with the rest of the class. Do you know what kind of jackass I look like when somebody starts spouting about murder—”

“Attempted murder,” Chris corrects.

“—and I don’t even have a fucking clue what he’s going on about?” Archer comes to stand an arm’s length away. “Now why the hell is Montgomery Scott at the top of anybody’s hit list?”

Chris just looks at him.

Archer’s eyebrows draw together like thunderclouds. “Damn. Why can’t a theft just be a theft?” He turns away slightly, muttering under his breath. “—fuck my life, like somebody’s goddamn daily soap.”

“Did you think that gunman earlier was just a wackjob, Jon? C’mon, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your training since you’ve been behind the desk. The bullet hole was less than two feet from where the kid was standing. An amateur could figure it out.”

“Don’t insult me.”

“If the shoe fits.” Chris leans against the wall, hating that he suddenly feels drained. He smirks so Archer will take the movement as casual rather than necessary.

“I hate you,” his friend says without any real heat. “All right, I’ll bite. Somebody wants that idiot dead and was stupid and desperate enough to take him out before we had a chance to question him. But damn it, Chris, we have the star! So what was the point?”

“That’s why I have to talk to Jim. He knows. I think Scotty’s escape wasn’t out of fear of arrest.” Chris pushes away from the wall in a swell of frustration. “But why? What part does Jim play?”

“Chris…”

Pike goes to the mirror and stares at his son in the next room, who is slumped in his seat, arms crossed in a show of defiance. With a glare fixed upon the table, Jim is the perfect image of a surly adolescent, despite having left adolescence behind years ago.

“Christopher,” Jonathan says softly, having snuck up on him. With gentle fingers, Jon tugs Chris’s injured arm away from his side and inspects it. “Do you need McCoy?”

“Hm? No.”

“You’re bleeding again.”

Chris had not realized that. He peers at the darkening wet spot on the fabric of his jacket. Just another problem in a long list of them. Maybe it is the blood loss making him so tired.

Jonathan’s expression is tinged with regret. “I lost my temper and hurt you. Chris, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, all abused wives say that.”

His mouth quirks of its own volition. “I’m not your wife, Jonathan.” Instantly, Chris wishes he hadn’t said that.

But Jon merely lets go of his arm and orders, “Go change your bandage, make certain the stitches didn’t tear. We can finish this discussion after.”

Chris hates to lose time because of an injury. Now, more than ever, his instinct is saying they are running out of time. Jim is in the interrogation room, not under a murderer’s gun, yet time is still running out. He needs to know why.

“Don’t worry,” Jonathan says, no doubt reading something in Chris’s troubled expression, “Kirk’s safe for now. How about if I order one of the deputies to bring him a cup of coffee?”

“He doesn’t drink coffee.”

“Soda then. Paranoid little shit will probably think we’re trying to drug him with truth serum anyway.”

Pike slants an amused look at the sheriff. “Don’t call him a ‘little shit’.”

Jon’s mouth curves too. “Well, the boy’s your son, isn’t he?”

And just like that, they are back on even ground, familiar ground. Chris couldn’t be more relieved. He heads for the door, hand pressed against the bloody patch on his jacket.

“Why’s he still here?”

Archer shoves a booted foot against a table leg, rattling the furniture in warning. “He is the Sheriff, One Eye. Since you’re in my town, you’re my problem. Suck it up.”

Seeing fire kindle in Jim’s blue gaze, Pike intervenes with “Gentlemen, please. Jim, this is Archer’s case. In fact, he has more right to be here than I do.”

A muscle in Kirk’s face twitches. He goes with the old line: “I want to speak to my lawyer.”

Jonathan retorts, “It’s Christmas. All the lawyers are dead.”

Pike puts a hand over his eyes. He had forgotten Jon’s level of maturity is far below Jim’s. This is not going to be fun—not for the only adult in the room, which sadly is him. “If you two are done trying to figure out whose balls are bigger, can we proceed with the interview?”

“Wow, Detective, you make it sound so nice. If this is going to be a tea party, can I have cake?” Jim responds, natural smartass that he is.

Archer snorts.

“Mr. Kirk, you will be silent unless you are directly and helpfully answering a question. Do I make myself clear?”

Jim grins then mimes zipping his mouth shut.

Jonathan leans over to Pike and whispers unnecessarily, “My balls are definitely bigger than his.”

Chris is going to kill them. Both of them. And no one will convict him for the crime because of their asshattery. The joke is on Jim and Jon. “As you are undoubtedly aware someone attempted to end Mr. Scott’s life a couple of hours ago.” Pike pulls a mug-shot from a manila folder and slides it across the table. “Do you recognize him?”

Jim’s gaze drops to the photograph of the male hooker, and his jaw tightens. “No,” he says.

“Look at it carefully, Mr. Kirk. Have you seen the individual before?”

“No,” Jim repeats. He pushes the picture away. “But the tattoo… maybe.”

Archer picks up the photo. “The mark probably belongs to a local gang. You hang out in gangs much, kid?”

“Only the kind that frequent coffeshops.”

“And dress up as elves,” Jon adds dryly.

“Enough,” Pike breaks in. “J—Mr. Kirk, tell me about the tattoo. Where else have seen you it?”

Jim looks at him, steady but silent.

“At the scene of the crime, then,” Chris guesses.

Next to Pike, Archer straightens in his seat. “Don’t put words in his mouth, Pike.”

“I don’t need to. The kid has an easy tell.”

Jim’s mouth drops open. “I do not!”

Archer relaxes, crossing his arms. “Actually you do.”

“Yeah, well, your face is ug—”

“Jim,” Chris warns, despite his growing amusement, “play nice.”

Jim rattles the pair of handcuffs noisily. “Whatever, man. You’re wrong anyway. I saw the guy last week. Scotty needed a ride to run an errand, and I borrowed Bones’ truck to take him.”

“What was the errand?”

Jim’s eyes cut to the side then the ceiling. “Turn off the cameras.”

“Hell no,” Jon says at the same time Pike tells Jim, “They’re off.”

“Why the hell did you turn off the cameras?” demands an incredulous Archer.

The corner of Jim’s mouth rises. “Spies,” he replies.

Archer’s look is more than enough to warn Jim to shut up. Only Jim has never been good at heeding warnings, Chris remembers belatedly.

“Who brought the tattoo-head in?” Jim points out.

Jon is out of his seat and leaning over the table in a heartbeat. “Watch what you say in my presence, Kirk. I don’t forget easily and I sure as hell don’t forgive.”

Chris puts a restraining hand on Jon’s arm. “Calm down. He’s made a valid assumption, though I don’t believe it is a correct one.”

“I’m not wrong,” Jim says in a voice that means he is feeling slightly wounded but won’t admit it aloud.

“Yes, you are,” Chris tells him calmly. “I talked to the arresting officer. The perp basically handed himself over on a platter. He wanted in this station, tonight, for a reason. Unfortunately, in hindsight we know why.”

“The guy could have lied.”

“Yes, he could have but I would bet he didn’t.”

After a few seconds Jim nods, accepting of Pike’s instincts. Pike turns to Jon and says, “I shut the cameras down in case you begin to feel violent at any point during this conversation.”

Archer stops grumbling and starts to smile slowly. “Oh, Christopher,” the sheriff murmurs, “I always did love your loyal streak. I’m touched!”

“No point in losing your job over a recalcitrant witness like Kirk. Also,” Chris’s eyes crinkle at the corners, “no witnesses.”

Disbelievingly, Jim eyes his father-turned-traitor. He not so subtly begins to tug at the handcuffs.

“Anything to add, Jim?” Pike asks mildly.

“I’m not recalcitrant.”

“That’s wonderful news. Why don’t we go back to where we left off? What was your friend’s errand?”

Jim looks at the ceiling and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. “If I have to tell you this, I should start at the beginning.”

Archer leans forward, looking both eager and consternated that Jim is willing to talk so freely all of a sudden. “Then start at the beginning, kid.”

“Don’t call me kid.”

“Why not? Your boyfriend does.”

Jim’s face flushes to a deep red. “McCoy is my best friend. There’s a difference, asshole.”

Chris pounds a fist on the table to gain their attention. “Jon, shut up already. Jim, not that I don’t appreciate your willingness to cooperate, but stay on topic. You wanted me here so here I am.”

Jim looks like he is fighting the urge to squirm. “I told you about Scotty a couple of weeks ago, remember? The guy who repairs the forklifts?”

Chris leans back, thinking. “…At your job?”

“Yeah.”

He is silent for a moment because he is irritated at himself. How had he not made that connection? Chris had seen the client list Montgomery Scott had reluctantly provided (the young man is an independent contractor, repairing odds and ends at various businesses to make a living) but hadn’t seen it, not in the sense that Jim’s place of work is one of Scott’s employers.

“Dad?”

Chris puts aside his self-reprimand at the sound of his son’s voice. “Scott’s the one who shared his turkey sandwich with you on your first day.”

Jim’s expression softens marginally. “Yes. He’s a decent guy. Smart.”

“Shy,” Pike adds.

Jim nods. “People think that means they can push him around, or cheat him even when he’s done more work than they asked for.” Pike doesn’t have to read too far between the lines to realize how Jim would handle the idiots who tried to take advantage of someone Jim considers his friend—in other words, under his protection. Not many individuals know this but Jim is fiercely overprotective of those he feels close to at times, to the point that it can be annoying. Pike wouldn’t want him any other way.

“Are we done lauding the criminal?” Jonathan interrupts, no doubt annoyed to be left out of the reminiscing.

Jim visibly bristles. “Scotty is not a criminal.”

“That’s not what’s in my report—unless you’ve got a good reason for it to be otherwise.”

“Jim, listen to Archer for a minute.” Pike exchanges a quick look with the sheriff before saying, “It’s not just Scotty who’s at stake here.” Time to use the knife. This isn’t going to go well at all. “McCoy confessed. Said he masterminded the whole thing as a some kind of prank.”

Jim doesn’t seem to comprehend his words, or has lost his ability to comprehend them. He looks utterly blank, staring at them as Pike’s statement ripens in the silence. Until Chris calls his name.

Then Jim is on his feet, his handcuffed arm wrenched awkwardly out of joint as he braces himself one-handed on the table. His skin looks paper-thin so up-close and pale, nearly translucent. “It’s a lie, Dad, he’s lying.”

Pike sucks in a sharp breath, not expecting to see his son this desperate.

“Dad, you know he’s lying! Bones didn’t do anything.” Jim’s voice grows in volume, oscillating between demanding and panicked. “He didn’t even want me to go! Dad, Dad, please listen—”

Archer is the one hauling Jim backward, arms hooked under Kirk’s armpits. “Calm down—hey, kid, calm down! Jesus Christ.” Whether subconsciously or not, Jim is fighting him.

Chris goes to Jim’s side and puts his hand against the back of Jim’s neck. “Jim, we need you to calm down, son. It’s okay. Calm down. Take a deep breath.”

All of the fight shudders out of Jim as he exhales, and Kirk drops like a dead weight into his chair. Chris looks at Jon over the boy’s head.

Jonathan has a strange look on his face. “Well, that explains nothing… and yet explains too many things.” He sighs heavily and drags a chair next to Jim’s. Chris joins him there and wraps a hand around the top of the chair. “Kirk, God forbid, one hell of an act or not, I’m beginning to believe you. If Scotty didn’t do it, McCoy didn’t do it, and you didn’t either… who the fuck I am supposed to have in my jail?”

“It wasn’t a prank,” Jim says hollowly. “Why would Bones even…?”

“Leonard is more concerned with protecting you than himself,” Chris answers softly, giving Jonathan a look that says be patient, he heard you.

“But it’s my fault,” Jim admits, looking at his father. “He thought I was doing something stupid, and I told him he didn’t have to come along… but he did anyway. You know what he’s like, Dad.”

“Sure, I do,” Pike agrees sympathetically, even though he fears he doesn’t know McCoy well enough at all. It sounds as though Leonard acted against his better judgment—but since he did it in regards to Jim, Pike could understand that.

Jim’s gaze transfers from Pike’s to Archer’s. “Scotty doesn’t have a lot of paying customers. He takes what he can get. A couple of weeks ago he got a call from someone who said his services were recommended by the owner of the Village. You know he’s employed there during the season to keep their lights working and to fix circuits when they break.”

Pike nods, saying nothing. It would be foolish to interrupt when Jim clearly has something he wants to say.

“They commissioned him to recreate the North Star, wire by wire. Offered him a lot of money to do it, too.”

“Why would anyone want a replica of that piece of junk?” Archer asks, but Chris waves the question away with his hand and tells Jim to continue.

Jim looks away. “The next day, Scotty said he received an envelope of cash—enough to cover the first installment of payment. He used the money to buy the materials for the project. He was happy—until he found what they wanted the replica for.” Dragging his free hand through his hair, Jim stares at a spot on the wall. His voice is soft and detached, a storyteller’s voice. “That was the day I took him on the errand. They said they wanted proof he was working on it or he wouldn’t get the second installment. So we loaded what he had in the back of Bones’ truck. I didn’t get out, wasn’t my business.” He gestures listlessly at his forehead. “But I did see the guy who came out of the building. Bald head, blue tattoo.”

“Why do I know that tattoo?” Archer asks quietly.

“He took a look at Scotty’s work, they talked for a minute and then went inside. When Scotty came back out, he was nervous, anxious to get away. I thought maybe they had scared him or something, but he wouldn’t talk to me.”

“But he told you eventually?” Chris asks.

Jim meets his eyes. “He told Uhura. He’s sweet on her so I coaxed her into asking him. He looked sick, Dad, and that guy—there was something really off about him. I shouldn’t have let Scotty go in alone,” finishes Kirk bitterly.

Pike wishes he was sitting instead of standing. His heartbeat feels erratic. “Tell me the rest.”

“They made him wait in an office while they got the money. He saw blueprints on the desk and Scotty, being Scotty, had to look at them. I don’t think those bastards would have left the blueprints out in the open like that if they knew Scotty was smart enough to know what he was looking at it.” Jim’s expression remains unreadable as he explains, “It was a schematic of the star Scotty was building, re-engineered to accommodate explosives.”

The silence in the room seems to span an eternity though it lasts only seconds. Pike’s fingers dig into the wood of the chair. “Jim…”

Jim’s face comes alive again. “He was afraid, Dad. Not just because he knew what they intended to do with it, but because he couldn’t back out of the deal at that point. If they were already planning to hurt people, what would one guy like Scotty matter?”

“Kirk,” Jon wants to know, “if these… terrorists had the technical skills to redesign Scott’s work, why would they hire the services of a shop mechanic?”

Chris doesn’t know whether he is annoyed or proud that Archer is trying to tackle the flaws in the confession.

“To frame him for the crime” is Jim’s immediate, unwavering answer. His blue eyes blaze with anger. “Which will happen on a cold day in Hell.”

Stomach sinking, Chris’s brain comes to the conclusion he won’t like anything Jim admits to from here on out. “What are you saying?”

“What do you think? We came up with a plan to stop them.”

“You—” Chris tries to process that, fails and falls silent.

Jim looks at Archer. “We hid it, then Sulu called the owner and left an anonymous tip that someone was stealing it.”

Archer’s knuckles whiten against his pants leg. “You’re lying. We have the star.”

“No, you don’t,” Jim replies grimly, matching Archer stare for stare. “You have Scotty’s decoy, the one he failed to deliver to his client. And I hope,” Jim adds, jaw clenching, “those fuckers try and come get it.”

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