Title: For Holiday’s Sake
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Characters: Kirk, Pike, others
Summary: Fourth installment in Holiday!verse; sequel to This is No Holiday. Jim didn’t always see the value in Christmas. When he was a kid he thought it was a stupidly festive time of year that had maybe one tiny redeeming quality: it gave him plenty of opportunities to make a fool of others. But unfortunately once he got adopted, Jim’s crazy guardian was set on changing his mind.
Author’s Note: Written as a gift for hora_tio. My dear, you deserve a lot more than this story. Thank you for being my friend. I’m wishing you the merriest of Christmases this year!
Previous Installments: The Holiday Waywards | A Holiday Letter | This is No Holiday

“Jim, c’mon, keep your eyes open.”

Jim would love to do that, he really would, if only because his boyfriend sounds scared, the kind of angry scared that means he thinks his world is about to fall to pieces. Jim hates the thought of Bones’ heart breaking over him.

He forces his eyes open once again and stares up into the fuzzy darkness encroaching on his vision. It makes Leonard’s anxious face seem very distant. He tries to tell Bones that he’s okay, he is. Maybe he manages to slur it.

Somewhere behind him is a cacophony of voices. The loudest of them is cursing and barking out orders, probably scaring the EMTs and deputies alike. The guy has been handling the situation better than Jim imagined he would.

His stomach does an unexpected flop but luckily he doesn’t throw up. He has already puked blood on the Sheriff’s boots.

Sometimes Jim seriously hates his luck. If he had been able to figure out in advance where his assailants intended to drop off his broken body, he would have told them anywhere but there. (Seriously, guys, just put me in the dumpster!)

But they had a message to relay, he realizes now. Why it had to be in the form of him dying in the middle of the county Sheriff’s Department parking lot… well, Jim can guess at that too.

He really hopes Archer is the one to call his father. Shit is going to hit the fan in a major way. Dad, he thinks, is going to murder some people. Archer at least has a chance of stopping the rampage.

Oh hell, who is he kidding? Jonathan Archer will help dig the unmarked graves. Unfortunately, he likes Jim’s father that much. Jim grows more frightened of their relationship by the day.

Someone slaps at his face, not hard but just enough to refocus his attention. It’s Bones again, mouthing (or screaming), “You are not dying on me, Jim!”

Jim wishes he could promise that. The last thing he wants to do is die.

But mostly, he thinks, recalling a memory while everything else turns hazy and mist-like, the consequences of an action are unavoidable.

~~~

He had been Jimmy for as long as he could remember. He thinks his brother called him that. And of course the others at the Boys’ Home had used that name too.

Jimmy figures on the day he walks out of that place of miserable, angry, envious kids it is time to be the person he imagined himself to be when he drove the Corvette over the embankment: the person who doesn’t really care what the world has planned for him. He is going to make his own plans. So he tells the sucker who thinks having a kid is worth the government kickbacks (or, worse yet, must be a pervert in disguise) to forget that ‘Jimmy’ crap. He’s Jim now. And Jim is a kid who can take care of himself.

The name doesn’t stick. In fact, his legal guardian decides on using the entirely wrong name. “James,” the man says, sounding disapproving and dismayed.

Jimmy wrinkles his nose.

“James T. Kirk,” clucks the only other adult in the room as he reads the name on a school id he had taken out of Jimmy’s backpack. He offers the id to Christopher Pike, who takes it and tucks it into a pocket without changing expression.

“James,” Pike says again, “what were you thinking?”

He had said the same thing last week when they stood in the Principal’s Office while the balding old principal went on and on about the fiasco caused by the frogs in the cafeteria. They had had to send some of the children home because of the ensuing hysterics. Jimmy likes to remind himself frequently the school staff never did catch all of the frogs. He saw one just yesterday in the boys’ bathroom.

“It’s not just the spray paint either,” the Head of Mall Security says to the policeman. “Although I should warn you that might have some legal repercussions, considering the message your boy scribbled on the wall claims the food booths failed their health inspections. We had people in line for tacos who up and walked away—and everybody knows how good the tacos are here, Mr. Pike. We’re hoping the press doesn’t catch wind of it.”

Jimmy’s guardian corrects, “It’s Officer Pike,” then clears his throat and adds a little sheepishly, “Sorry about the tacos.”

Jimmy grins. Pike is positively the most awkward person in the world when he’s apologizing, and it’s very funny. He rattles the handcuffs attached to his right wrist to gain the attention of the adults.

The security guard grimaces. “The Helper Elves couldn’t figure out why the little ones were having screaming fits when they were lifted up into Santa’s lap. Turns out, someone spread a rumor among the kids that Santa had cooties. We have James here on tape wandering up and down the line around the approximate time we lost control of the crowd.”

Pike pinches the bridge of his nose.

Jimmy points out for the benefit of all, “That was a public service. Take one look at the dude under the beard and tell me he doesn’t have something.”

“James!”

Jimmy firms his mouth and widens his eyes, hoping to seem as innocent as possible.

“And then there’re the mannequins,” the guard adds grimly. “Somehow he got into the Employee Only zone of the JCPenny’s and dressed the male ones in lingerie.”

“The door was propped open. Also, it’s a commentary on gender roles,” Jimmy pipes up helpfully. “We need to liberate the public mind. That’s what my social science teacher says. Her ideas are totally cool!”

Pike bends down to his level and looks in him in the eyes. “Vandalism is not cool, James. Traumatizing young children is not cool. And neither is trespassing through restricted areas.”

The boy asks, feeling philosophical, “But do they really mean it when they say Do Not Enter?”

“Yes,” his guardian replies, entirely without humor. “The signs are not there as a personal challenge to you.”

Jimmy sniffs and looks away.

“Some of the owners may want to press charges, Mr. Pike. We haven’t been able to reach all of them yet but—”

“Then you won’t be pressing charges at this moment,” Pike interrupts, straightening to a decisive stance. “That said, you have our contact information and I daresay you know where to find me if you need to. Rest assured I will be in communication with you before then. Now,” his gaze settles once again on Jimmy, “take those off before I decide to press charges myself. What are you thinking, handcuffing a twelve year-old to a chair?”

The guard looks insulted. “He might have escaped!”

“You’ve got a hundred pounds on the boy. I highly doubt it.” Pike stares at the man until the key is retrieved from a desk drawer.

Once the handcuffs have been removed, Jimmy rubs at his right wrist and wonders if he can stick his tongue out at the idiot security guard without being restrained again.

Pike orders, “Get your book bag. We’re leaving.”

Jimmy does, and they walk out of the tiny office and across the mall. Pike’s hand stays clamped to the back of the boy’s neck all the way to his squad car, forcing Jimmy to march in order to keep up with the man’s ground-eating strides.

“So I’m not going to jail?” Jimmy remarks once they are crossing the parking lot. “That’s pretty cool, man.”

“I dropped you off at school this morning. Why aren’t you at school?”

“School’s boring. We were supposed to make paper ornaments like we’re in kindergarten.”

The severity of Pike’s tone stays the same. “How did you get here?”

Jimmy rubs at his nose, deciding in some cases uncertainty may be safer than fact. “Hitched a ride?”

When Pike stops walking, he does too. He’s prepared for the yelling, the shaking, even a fist. But Pike just looks at him for an unnervingly long period of time without moving.

Jimmy shifts on his feet and points out Pike’s car. “Are we going or what?”

“You promised me you would be careful, that you wouldn’t jeopardize your safety needlessly.”

Oh, that’s not fair. The guy should have known he isn’t the kind of kid to keep his promises. How can he look so disappointed?

Jimmy has to avert his gaze. “If you’re gonna give me shit about getting in cars with strangers—” He points from the police car to Pike. “—Exhibit A.”

When Pike doesn’t say anything, Jimmy’s curiosity gets the better of him and he sneaks a peek at Pike’s face, seeing a resigned kind of unhappiness there. The hand on the back of Jimmy’s neck slips away.

“Am I still a stranger to you?”

Jimmy crosses his arms and narrows his eyes at their reflection in the car window. “You adopted me—so what? That doesn’t mean I know you, dude, or that I’ll ever know you.” He adds, feeling belligerent, “And it’s Jim—I’ve told you like a million times already.”

Pike goes to the car without another word and unlocks it. Jimmy hurries around to the passenger seat to get in before he’s left behind. Once he is settled—and his seatbelt is buckled, as Pike will refuse to start the car otherwise—he says, “Pancakes.”

“No.”

Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “But I missed lunch. And aren’t you responsible for keeping me fed? So… pancakes.” When Pike refuses to reply, he asks, suspicious, “You’re not taking me back to school, are you?”

“I couldn’t if I wanted to. Your school let out fifteen minutes ago.” The man sighs through his nose, then; it is a grim sound. “We’re going to the precinct, where you will remain with my colleagues until my shift ends.”

Jimmy turns his head to look out the window. “Great,” he mutters. “Just great.”

“When we get there,” Pike goes on to say, “we’ll talk about the volunteer service you will agree to do at the mall.”

Jimmy slumps into his seat. “Major suck.”

“There are consequences for everything you do, Jimmy. And those consequences will most assuredly suck if what you do is wrong.”

The boy cuts a disbelieving glance at his guardian. “And you never do wrong things?”

“Sometimes I do,” Pike admits, which surprises Jimmy, “but only if I know the other option will lead to something much worse.”

“I don’t get it,” Jimmy says, furrowing his brow. “How can the right thing be worse than the wrong thing?”

“I hope you never have to find out,” the man driving replies, and says no more on the subject.

Even if he would never admit it out loud, Jimmy is grateful to be back in the room designated as his own in Pike’s apartment. It isn’t very big, but Jimmy can’t recall the last time he didn’t have to share space with another kid, and so it feels special to him. As soon as he is certain Pike has gone to the kitchen, he closes his bedroom door and goes about disengaging the various booby-traps that are meant to dissuade intruders.

With that done, he crawls onto his twin-sized bed and turns his book bag upside down, dumping its contents onto the bedcovers. The math book he pushes onto the floor. He shoves aside the science book too, along with various pens, pencils and spiral-bound notebooks. Then Jimmy picks up the latest book he has as a reading assignment in English class and thumbs to the ending, which he has read a few times already. Satisfied there aren’t any more mysteries to be solved within the pages, he places the book on his night stand.

The last item on the bed is a comic. The boy lays on his back and flips it open to a middle page. The superhero is trying to fight off a gang of criminals. He’s doing pretty good too, up until the point where the villain reveals himself from a shadowed corner with the superhero’s girlfriend by his side. She looks more sinister than the villain.

Betrayed, Jimmy thinks, biting down on his lip. That has to suck.

There’s a knock on his bedroom door. “Jimmy?”

Jimmy drops the comic to his chest and turns to stare at the doorknob, waiting for it to turn. It doesn’t.

“Time for dinner,” Pike says from the hallway.

Jimmy listens to the receding footsteps. Then he shifts his gaze to the ceiling, idly tracing the patches of spackle beginning to peel. He really has no idea how he ended up in this place, or with a weirdly nice police officer for a father.

The boy sucks in a breath, hating the automatic prickling at the corners of his eyes.

No, not father. Christopher Pike could never be his father because his real one is dead. Just like his mother and his brother. He’s the last of the Kirks and nothing can change that. Nothing.

Pike is doing him a favor, really, by taking him in. That’s what the director had said: “He’ll make a project out of you, boy, for the sake of advancing his career, and in return you get a roof, a bed and regular meals. That’s the kind of good deal a lot of orphans never see, so think twice before doing anything to screw it up, you hear me?”

Well, he doesn’t want to play nice so Officer Pike can get a promotion. He doesn’t want to be the poster child of ‘Saved By Adoption’. He doesn’t want anything, and he hasn’t asked for any of this!

Jimmy tosses his comic to the floor and rolls off the bed, coming to his feet. He’ll go to the kitchen because he’s hungry, but Pike will never get a word of thanks out of him. Adults think they can play these mind games with kids and get away with it, which is probably what that stupid cop says to himself every time they’re in the same room.

Jimmy won’t play his game. He is Jim now, and Jim knows better.

The next morning Pike doesn’t go through the designated car line for dropping off students at the back of the school. He pulls to the front of the building, parks, and hand-delivers Jimmy to his homeroom teacher. It’s embarrassing, majorly embarrassing. When the boy mutters as much, Pike says, “This is one of those consequences, Jimmy.”

“For what?” he counters, aggravated at the way the other children are cutting their eyes at him. There will be mean jokes about this later, he can tell.

“For leaving the school grounds when I trusted you not to. And don’t think about skipping again,” Pike tells him. “I called each of your teachers last night. They know to get in touch with me immediately if you don’t show up where you are supposed to.”

“Shit,” groans the twelve year-old.

Pike says, tone mild, “Don’t use that word.” Then he nods his goodbye and marches off, probably pleased with himself for having ruined the rest of Jimmy’s life.

The boy kicks angrily at a trash can on his way to his desk. Surprisingly, none of the other kids ask him about the cop who brought him into the school. Well, no one says much with the exception of one: the boy two desks ahead of him turns around, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and blinks owlishly at him. He says, “Sucks to be you.”

Jimmy crosses his arms and sinks down into his chair, thinking about how much it really does suck to be him.

“They want me to do what?!” he nearly screeches at the man looking at him. “Ew, no way, man!” Jimmy says, disgusted. “I’m not touching toilets where old people park their asses!”

“Language, Jimmy.”

“It’s Jim,” Jimmy snarls back, “and you can’t make me!”

“The other option is a court hearing and time in a juvenile detention center.”

Jimmy paces to the television where he’d abandoned his Nintendo controller after hearing Pike’s news and stares down at it, truly ready to rage at someone. “I can’t believe this.”

He hears rather than sees Pike leave the couch.

“Why not?” the man asks him in his infuriatingly even tone of voice.

Jimmy spins around, fists balled. “Because it’s not fair!” he shouts. “I was doing them a service, I was making a statement, I was—”

“You were breaking the law,” his guardian counters. “I told you can’t do that and expect there will be no consequences for your actions.” For the first time, Pike doesn’t seem so unaffected. He looks away, raking a hand through his hair as if he’s frustrated by Jimmy’s reaction. “I did what I could in minimizing the damage but—”

“But what?” Jimmy breaks in, voice having fallen to menacingly quiet. “Do you want me to be grateful, Officer Pike? Because, without you, I could have gotten worse? I won’t thank you,” the boy spits. “I won’t ever thank you! It’s not like you had to adopt me!”

“Jimmy,” Pike says, for a moment looking stricken.

Jimmy takes a step back, scoops up the controller and throws it toward the coffee table. It hits the mug of hot chocolate Pike made for him at the start of the evening. The mug shatters, spraying its content across the carpet and couch.

Jimmy flies to his room and slams the door, locking it with the triple-bolt mechanism he had installed himself and fitting his desk chair up under the doorknob. Then he drops backwards to the floor, his anger spent, and swipes at his dry eyes.

The apartment is deadly silent for a long time.

Eventually Jimmy releases his arms from around his knees, turns off his bedroom light, and unlocks the door. When he looks down the hallway, he sees nothing except for the shadow of Pike’s bedroom door standing slightly ajar, the room beyond it dark. He knows no one is in there because he would have heard Pike walking down the hall in his hyper-vigilant state. So it is with a bit of fear that he edges into the hall and creeps toward the light coming from the other side of the apartment. No lamps are turned on in the living room; the television is off. The coffee table is bare and clean. Trepidation growing, Jimmy slips up to the partition which separates the living area from the kitchen and stops there.

Pike is seated at the small round table they use in the morning for breakfast; his head is pillowed on his arms. A tall glass bottle is next to him, something Jimmy has never seen in all his curious searching through the cabinets. It’s a strong liquor, he knows that much. But the bottle is full nearly to the brim, and the glass by Pike’s hand is empty and dry.

Everything about what Jimmy sees is wrong.

Feeling slightly sick to his stomach, the boy returns silently to his bedroom and cocoons himself in his bedcovers. He has no better understanding of Christopher Pike’s misery in the morning.

Jimmy’s guardian has a truck he drives when he isn’t using a police vehicle. Jimmy likes the truck for the fact it feels like he can see the entire world from his passenger-seat vantage point when he’s inside it.

“What if you hit a deer?” he asks. “Would it go splat on the big thing in the front?”

The man at the wheel sighs in his tolerant way. “The grill—and yes it probably would. Can we talk about something a little less morbid?”

Jimmy contemplates that. “No,” he decides. “I like morbid.”

“What about Christmas? You still haven’t told me what you want other than video games.”

“What else is there?”

“Clothes.”

The boy plucks at the ugly green sweater Pike wanted him to wear that day in order to keep warm, then eyes the matching mittens with distaste. “Ugh.”

“Books?”

“Can’t I get them from the library?”

“Jimmy,” Pike says, rueful, “you’re killing me here.” He clears his throat like he might be nervous. “I had thought about, well… a bike.”

“A bike!” Jimmy twists against his seatbelt to stare at the man, eyes bright with the image of said bike. “Yeah, I want that! Red—no, blue—with silver on the side!”

“Do you know how to ride one?” Pike asks the question in a serious way but he says it while smiling.

“‘Course I know how to ride a bike” comes the indignant retort.

“So no training wheels?”

“Hell no!”

Pike flicks on the left turn signal and slows the truck at an intersection. “I’ll think about it,” he says, like he hadn’t just gotten Jimmy excited over the prospect. “Although the likelihood of you getting one is directly proportional to how many bad words you continue to say.”

“You mean I should use them a lot?”

Quirking his mouth, Pike shakes his head. “Nice try, but no. It’s inversely proportionate.”

“Sh—I mean, sucky.” Jimmy crosses his arms and stares out the windshield. “So, if I don’t cuss until Christmas, I get a bike? Okay,” he says, nodding, only to quickly amend, “But I’ll need that in writing, Mr. Pike.”

Pike smiles again, although Jimmy can’t figure out why the smile looks unhappy. He settles for playing with the radio dial to alleviate the awkwardness of not knowing. The truck pulls into a parking lot and the engine shuts off.

Jimmy focuses on the wooden shack he can see, where some little girl is dancing around and tugging impatiently at her father’s hand, and then observes the activities of the other people. “We’re getting a tree?”

“Don’t you want one?”

Jimmy shrugs. “Don’t know. We had one at the Home every year but we weren’t really allowed to touch it. It was for show, you know, when people came visiting.”

They sit in silence for a long moment until Pike offers, “When I was growing up, we never had a Christmas tree. We couldn’t afford one.”

Jimmy steals a glance at the adult. The man is staring ahead, gaze unfocused. “Where’s your family?” he asks. He has never seen any pictures around the apartment of people who bear the same resemblance.

“Gone” is the man’s simple answer. “My dad’s still living, I think, but we’re not—we’re estranged.”

“Oh,” Jimmy says. Then, “Is estranged like far apart?”

Pike looks at his hands on the steering wheel and peels them off. “It means more like strangers than family, when two people aren’t close to each other anymore.”

“Oh,” the boy says again.

Pike turns and looks at him, giving him a small smile. “C’mon, let’s find us a tree.”

Jimmy nods and pushes at the door handle. “You can help but I get final say,” he decides, unbuckling himself so he can jump down into partially melted snow.

“Why not me,” Pike wants to know as he comes around the truck, “when I’m the one paying for it?” He tugs something out of his jacket pocket.

“Because you’re old. Seriously?” Jimmy scowls at the floppy green knitted cap. “Why do you want me to look so stupid?”

The man only replies, “It’s cold,” and shoves the hat down onto the boy’s head before striding in the direction of a row of trimmed trees for sale.

Jimmy tears it off and considers dropping the thing into the nearest mud puddle. It has ear flaps.

Pike turns back and gives him a long stare, the kind which is akin to a silent command.

Resigned to impending mortification and figuring he might not get the tree he wants if he disobeys, Jimmy puts the green monstrosity back on his head and settles for a glare. Pike rubs at Jimmy’s covered head as Jimmy stomps by.

The boy flaps his arms in disgust and declares, “I hate you!”

The recipient of Jimmy’s ire, being so utterly stupid, just laughs at him.

Christmas break would be awesome except that on the days Pike works, Jimmy has to be babysat by some overly cheerful officers at the local precinct. His boredom always grows to massive proportions within a few hours (once he’s explored a majority of the station and wheedled stories out of Pike’s colleagues) but he manages to control it the first and second time Pike leaves him behind.

The third time—and, admittedly, because of his own failure to stop himself—he concocts a plan. A twelve year-old can only take so much for so long, after all.

The first cop that comes out of the men’s bathroom with red hands has Jimmy bursting into laughter. The dolt just looks so bewildered! The second cop tries to hide his hands in his pants pockets. Jimmy laughs harder.

It isn’t until the captain of the local police force slams into the hallway, bellowing, “Who was it?!”—thereby causing the whole building to freeze in fright—that Jimmy realizes he might be in trouble. His laugh turns into a hiccup when the angry man turns his flame-eyed gaze in Jimmy’s direction.

“Uh-oh,” remarks Doreen, the secretary Jimmy likes a lot because she keeps candy in a jar and lets him have as much of it as he wants. She rolls her chair over to Jimmy’s and says, “Child, please tell me you didn’t do that.”

He wishes he could.

“Boy,” says the Captain, stalking over to Pike’s desk where Jimmy is sitting while failing to look innocent, “what have you done!”

What Jimmy has done, he can see now that the man is nearly nose to nose with him, is put food coloring in the soap dispenser. People were supposed to have their hands dyed. Apparently the Captain had tried to wash his face too—his now very, very red face.

“Get Chris on the radio,” the Captain snaps at the crowd of staring officers. He grabs Jimmy by the back of his shirt and hauls the boy to his feet, then proceeds to drag him toward the big office across the precinct. “Tell ‘im to get back here pronto!”

Doreen hurries after them. “Now, Carl,” she’s saying, “calm down. Remember your blood pressure.”

Jimmy is shoved toward a chair and ordered to sit. He does so out of a strong sense of self-preservation.

“I’ve given him a lot of allowances,” the man snarls, moving around to the opposite side of his desk while gesticulating wildly. “Damn if I haven’t—but this is no daycare! Something has to change—”

“Sir,” Doreen warns, looking pointedly at Jimmy.

All-at-once, the tirade stops. Carl drops down into his chair like a marionette with its strings cut. He releases a heavy sigh. “Doreen, pull one of those Family Act forms. He’s got to get this figured out. I know he needs time but I have to consider everyone else in this department, too. Maybe in a few months—”

“No,” Jimmy interrupts, hands curling around the armrests of his chair. He isn’t as stupid as they seem to think he is, to be talking about Pike’s future over his head like this. “That’s not fair.”

The Captain eyes him, demanding, “Why not?”

“You can’t kick him out for—for something I did!”

“It’s plenty fair,” the older man counters. “He picked you, so he has to live with the consequences.”

Jimmy is really, really getting tired of hearing about consequences. He lifts his chin and argues, “You don’t know that. He didn’t pick me, sir, he just got stuck with me.”

Carl narrows his gaze and leans forward. “You couldn’t be more wrong, kid. Chris picked you specifically—and believe me when I say I know that man a lot better than you. When I present him with the choice of his job or his kid, he’s going to pick you again.”

Jimmy digs his fingers into the chair to force his body to be still. “That’s stupid.”

“What’s so stupid about it?” asks the Captain, leaning back in his chair and settling his hands across his stomach. He nods toward a set of photos on the corner of his desk, in particular the one with three grinning kids. “Those are mine. Brats, all three of ’em—they’d be laughing themselves silly if they could see what you’ve done to their old Pops.” He makes a thoughtful noise. “I was going to college when my oldest was born. Wife and I needed an income and insurance so I dropped out and entered the police academy instead. That’s the kind of hard choice you make for family.”

Jimmy can’t think of anything to say to that. The man has taken to looking at him strangely, and when he opens his mouth to talk—

—the door to the office, which Doreen had closed on her way out at some point, flies open.

Pike nearly stumbles in, looking like he has run from the parking lot. “What’s—where’s Jim—” He stops speaking altogether when he sees his superior’s face.

Jimmy tries to disappear into his chair.

Pike looks from boy to captain and back again. His expression settles into a mixture of horror and resignation. He turns fully toward his adopted son, saying, “Jimmy…”

“Sorry,” Jimmy says, meaning it.

Carl clears his throat to address the newcomer. “Seems we had a mix-up in the bathroom with the soap.”

“Sir,” begins the pained-looking officer, “I don’t, I mean, Jimmy isn’t…”

The Captain lifts a hand, stalling Pike’s words. “It was a mix-up, like I said.” Then he fixes his gaze on the boy in the chair. “Right, Jim?”

Jimmy nods, not sure about what is actually going on.

Pike’s mouth thins. “Sir, you don’t need to—”

“Do what?” interjects his superior. “I know you’re not going to accuse me of lying, Chris.”

Pike closes his mouth and frowns.

“Listen,” the Captain says, turning his eyes up toward the ceiling, “I think your kid is ready to go home for the day.”

“I have two hours of duty left” comes the polite response.

“Make them up later, I don’t care.” The Captain’s gaze moves back down to Jimmy. “He’s young and we’re a bunch of old codgers, comparatively speaking. How about it, Jim? What do you say to Chris taking you somewhere more fun?”

“Okay,” Jimmy says as he glances sidelong at Pike. “But, uh, maybe I should help clean the bathroom first?”

“You can do it tomorrow. We’ll put a warning sign up ’til then.” Then Carl turns his back on them entirely, leaving Jimmy to blink at Pike in uncertainty.

Pike motions for him to get out of the chair. Jimmy follows him back to the appointed desk, sits down as he is told to do, and waits for Pike return from changing out of his uniform. The boy stares at the carpet between his feet for a while before swiveling his chair around to face Doreen.

“Why’d he do that?” he asks her. “Let me go?”

Doreen stops sorting through a stack of documents to answer. “Because he has told you what will happen the next time you act without thinking.”

“You mean Mr. Pike will get in trouble.”

“Yeah,” Doreen agrees. “So be good, won’t you, Jimmy? Your dad’s trying his best to do right by you… but you’ve got help him along, too.”

Jimmy says nothing and turns away again, fixing his gaze on a blank section of wall. Behind him, Doreen sighs a little and goes back to work.

The living room floor is littered with tinsel. Jimmy hadn’t been as much of an expert at decorating the Christmas tree as he had assumed he would be. Then again, Pike had been terrible at it too.

He likes the colored lights, though, and the popcorn garland he got to make. Out of the corner of his eye, he occasionally admires his handiwork. His hatred for Christmas seems a little less firm some days.

“I don’t get it,” Jimmy mutters, returning his attention to the television screen. “Why does he sleep on top of the doghouse? How come he doesn’t fall off?”

“He’s Snoopy,” comes the answer. “It’s just what he does.”

Jimmy dips a finger into his slightly cooled hot chocolate to stir around the melted marshmallows. Then he licks his finger.

“I hope you washed that hand,” remarks Pike.

The boy honestly can’t remember if he did. He rolls onto one hip and looks over his shoulder at the grown-up. “Did you get my bike?”

“It’s not Christmas Day yet.”

“But did you?”

“Eleven more hours.”

Jimmy does the math. “That’s like eight tomorrow!”

“Because we’re not getting up at the crack of dawn.”

He sits up, affronted. “I haven’t used a bad word for like two whole weeks, which is hard, and I can’t have my bike when I wake up? Man, you suck at being Santa Claus.” He jabs the Off button on the television remote with more force than necessary and sniffs. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you, Jimmy,” Pike tells him, trying to contain his mirth.

Jimmy scrubs the back of his arm against his nose, declaring, “Whatever.”

Pike sobers and leans forward to place the mug in his hands on the coffee table. “Really, son,” he says, “I wasn’t. I was just thinking about…” The man trails off.

Jimmy turns to look at him. “About what?”

“That maybe one day I’d have the chance to tell your friends about this moment—our first Christmas—and they’d see some humor in it.”

The words come from nowhere Jimmy can discern, but they come out of him all the same: “I don’t get you. Why do you do that? Why do you talk like you want me to stay?”

Pike folds his empty hands between his knees. “Because I do want you to stay.”

Jimmy has to make him understand. “I’m not really your son, Mr. Pike.”

Pike stays quiet some time, long enough that Jimmy wishes he hadn’t spoken. But then the man says like he doesn’t know quite how to explain, “A bond between two people isn’t always about blood, Jimmy. Sometimes you meet a person, and you just know that person is family to you.”

“Bullshit,” the boy retorts before he can stop himself, and instantly regrets having ruined his promise with such a careless slip. He adds angrily, to cover up his disappointment, “It’s Jim.”

“Jim,” Pike agrees, then stands and comes over to crouch beside him, not touching him but holding his attention captive nonetheless. “Jim, I know you think I have some ulterior motive for adopting you. I don’t. I thought I could prove that to you over time but I get now I can’t make you see what you aren’t willing to believe in. Just… just know that, no matter how you think of me, I won’t think less of you. To me, you are my family.” He adds softly, “No matter where your life takes you, you will always be welcome in mine.”

Jimmy widens his eyes because it’s an old trick to stop the urge to cry. “Where am I going?”

“Nowhere that I’m aware of,” Pike tells him, too quiet. “But someday you’ll decide to leave.”

Jimmy drops his gaze and sinks his fingers into the carpet to pull at the fibers. “Maybe I won’t. Maybe you’ll be stuck with me forever.”

“I’d be okay with that,” Pike says, sounding like he means it.

“I still don’t get you,” Jimmy admits. “I think you’re crazy.”

“Then that must be it. I’m crazy.” Pike offers him a smile. “…Guess you didn’t get off easy with this adoption after all.”

Jimmy shrugs and stops picking at the carpet. “You can’t cook either,” he points out.

The smile grows. “I know. But Chinese takeout isn’t so bad on Christmas Eve, is it?”

Jimmy straightens minutely. “It was pretty good—but that broccoli stuff stinks.”

“Next time we’ll try snow peas.”

He makes his ewww face. “If it’s green, it’s gross.”

“You have to eat some vegetables.”

“Says who?”

Pike lifts an eyebrow. “God?”

“Wrong,” Jimmy says vehemently. “It’s the government—like the part in charge of the food pyramid. It’s all a scam! We’re being duped into buying products that secretly fund international drug cartels.”

Pike puts a hand over his eyes. “Jim, stop. Please. And no more CNN before bed.”

“It’s all truth, justice, and the American way,” Jimmy steamrolls ahead because, truthfully, he has been thinking on this rant for a long, long time and—

“Let’s go to sleep,” Pike says, dragging the boy to his feet.

“But I’m not sleepy!”

“I am. And,” adds the man, sounding slightly desperate, “if you go to bed now, you can force me awake at an ungodly hour so you can see your bike.”

Jimmy considers that compromise and nods sagely. “Deal.”

They shake on it. Jimmy wants to seal it with spit but apparently the line is drawn at unhygenic negotiation.

As Pike oversees his teeth-brushing exercise then tucks him into bed like he is no older than two, Jimmy has time to think on his future Christmas requests. For that reason alone the holiday might have some merit.

“When can I have a motorcycle?” he asks, tugging the covers the rest of the way up to his chin. He is surprised to find his eyes don’t want to stay open no matter what he does.

“When you’re thirty,” Pike replies.

“Fifteen,” Jimmy counters.

“Twenty-seven.”

“Okay, sixteen.”

“Ah, Jimmy,” the man murmurs, brushing a hand over his hair. “Good night.”

Jimmy says it back, he thinks, or that part might have been a dream.

~~~

“Jim?“

Skin against skin—fingers, Jim recognizes through a medically induced haze. They’re against his temple.

He opens his eyes.

His father leans over into his line of sight. “Jim?”

“Hey, Dad,” he says, which isn’t easiest thing to do with a breathing mask on his face.

“Hey, Jim,” his dad says back, eyes red, worried.

“I was dreaming,” Jim murmurs.

Pike reaches across the bed to squeeze his hand. “About what, son?” he asks, voice soothing.

“First Christmas,” his son wheezes out. “Remember?”

“Of course. You loved that bike. Even when your legs outgrew it, you still wouldn’t let me give it away.”

“You painted the silver streaks on it, didn’t you?”

Pike squeezes his hand again. “How did you know?”

“Who else would’ve…” Jim’s voice fades with his strength.

“Jim?” his father says, sounding like he’s in pain. Jim feels a hand slip gently around to the back of his neck and stay there, as if to anchor him.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Tired.”

“I know,” Pike replies, “I know you are, son. Rest for me, okay?”

Jim nods imperceptibly and lets his eyes close. His hearing isn’t exactly to be trusted because voices weave in and out around him when he knows they ought to be clearer, more meaningful. He thinks he hears Bones’ inflection, saying something about head trauma, about the beatings having damaged a kidney. He does hear, as sharp as a bell, his father demanding, “Who?” and wishes he could stop floating in this not-quite awareness to respond.

He would say, Don’t.

But they’ll figure it out soon enough. Jim had, immediately after he was taken; the tattooed face with the scar belonged to someone he could never forget for as long as he lived. That face had meant Nero was back to claim his revenge.

He only hopes his suffering is the first and last of it all.

-Fini

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