Title: Goodbye, Holidays (4/5)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Pairing: Pike/Archer, Kirk/McCoy
Summary: Sequel to For Holiday’s Sake. The aftermath of Nero’s attack leaves the Pike family on edge.
Previous Parts: 1 | 2 | 3

Noon has yet to arrive. The house is quiet to the point that Pike has prepared himself to face another day of uncomfortable isolation and hopeless waiting. He is trying to read the newspaper to pass the time.

When the words of an article start to swim across the page, Chris slides his fingers up under his reading glasses and massages the bridge of his nose. Though the letters are stationary again afterwards, he has lost interest in reading them. He discards the paper on the side table and picks up his coffee cup. Before he can take a sip, a surprising sight greets him: a blanket monster with slippered feet sticking out, lumbering into the living room.

Said monster cuts an unsteady path towards Chris. When it arrives at the recliner, it sheds one of its layers, dropping a fluffy pale blue blanket into Pike’s lap. Then Jim pokes his head out of the top of his self-made cocoon and tells his father, not quite demanding but not making a request either, “Wrap up.”

Chris frowns. “I’m fine,” he says, trying to hand the blanket back. “You use it.”

But Kirk refuses to take it, instead shuffles over to the couch and lands there with an oof. Porthos appears from behind the couch and jumps up on top of the mound of blankets. Jim wiggles around until his arms are free and tucks the dog between him and the back of the couch. Seeming happy enough despite the relocation, Porthos settles his head against Kirk’s chest with a gusty sigh.

Not certain what Jim is about, Chris arranges his gift across his legs.

Jim holds up an empty hand, calling out imperiously, “Remote.”

Chris tosses the remote control on top of Kirk’s padded legs, and Jim picks it up, clicking on the television. To Pike’s surprise, his son bypasses every marginally interesting talk show for something far more different.

He swallows a groan. It’s been an unspoken rule in their house for years that they don’t watch cop dramas. Pike simply can’t tolerate them. He had explained his reasoning to Jim once as “I don’t leave my work at the office so I can watch it at home.”

“Jim,” he says.

Jim turns up the volume, hissing, “Shhh.”

What is Jim up to now? Trying to run him off from his own living room?

Pike resolves to stay put. He picks up the newspaper again and snaps it open, holding it up to cover the sight of the television. He reads the first line of the same article three times in a row.

Jim laughs out loud all of a sudden.

Chris wills himself not to look. He won’t look. Won’t.

He turns down the top of the paper and stares at his son. “What’s so funny?”

“These idiots,” Jim says, waving the remote in his hand at the TV screen. “They left the perp at the booking desk and turned their backs.”

Almost involuntarily Pike seeks out the show. The perp in question has fled during the moment of inattention and when the cops try to corner him in a hallway, he takes a hostage, an elderly little lady probably trying to figure out how to pay her parking ticket.

“Those idiots!” Chris declares furiously, tossing his newspaper aside. “They put everyone in danger!”

Jim’s sidelong glance is speculating. “What would you have done?”

His father snorts and folds his arms across his chest. “The first thing any rookie learns is why there are steel handles attached the side of every desk.”

“Yeah,” Jim says, flexing his wrist as if testing how unfettered it really is, “I know why.”

Chris can’t help it. The corner of his mouth quirks in memory.

During his teenage years, Jim had often been apprehended for some misdemeanor, dragged into the precinct by one of Pike’s colleagues, and handcuffed to a desk to wait for the captain or his father to arrive and blister his ears with a lecture. The one time Pike had discovered his son already behind bars, he had nearly punched the cop in the face who had locked his son up. Carl had taken him aside and thankfully talked him down, then given the fellow—a relatively new transfer to the station—a warning on Pike’s behalf, saying for Chris’s son special protocol had to be followed. Jim heeded the authority of only a handful of people, so sticking him in a cell didn’t teach him a lesson unless it was someone he respected who did it and that person gave him a frank explanation of why he had to stay there. Jim was smart but also exceedingly willful; once he perceived an injustice had been done to him, he would refuse to listen to excuses and, moreover, refuse to accept responsibility for any initial wrong-doing. Chris had learned the hard way that one couldn’t discipline James T. Kirk by normal methods. It had to be Jim who accepted that he had broken the law—or broken a trust—and only then would Jim agree to atone and, hopefully, learn from his mistakes.

Chris spent a lot of years teaching his son the difference between right and wrong. Even now, Jim maintains a unique perspective on the law which often lands him in trouble.

“Dad?”

Chris blinks. “Yes, Jim?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Sorry, I must have zoned out. What did you say?”

Jim studies him with a serious expression. “It was nothing.” The boy turns his attention back to the television and changes the channel.

Pike is disappointed for some reason. He toys with the idea of picking up the paper again but admits that he hadn’t had the ability to focus on it all morning and that isn’t likely to change now—especially not with his son, the mystery, deciding to be somewhat civil to him.

Jim scratches Porthos’ head and channel-surfs until he has come full circle to the cop show again. Pike takes off his reading glasses and rubs both hands over his face. There is something he does desperately need, he decides. Picking up his coffee cup, he starts for the kitchen.

“You should drink some water.”

Chris pauses, glancing back at the person still scrutinizing the television screen. “Excuse me?”

“Too much caffeine,” Jim comments, “can be bad for you.”

Strange. Jim has never criticized his drinking habits before. In fact, at the age of fifteen, Jim had tried to imitate him by drinking coffee in the mornings instead of orange juice. They had both quickly discovered that Jim and espresso-strength drinks did not mix well. He had an adverse reaction in that he couldn’t sleep for days afterwards.

Chris narrows his eyes as he recalls that, a niggling suspicion prompting him to ask, “Why is it bad for me?”

Jim sneaks a glance at him before quickly looking away. “Dunno.”

Chris turns to him, McCoy’s warning echoing in his head. “Jim… Jim!”

Jim puts the TV on mute with a sigh. “What?”

“Why did you bring me that blanket?”

“Blankets are comfortable.”

“Blankets are for sleeping.”

“Exactly,” Jim retorts then flushes.

Damn, thinks Pike. “I don’t need sleep.”

Jim sits up suddenly, dislodging a snoring Porthos. He almost looks angry as he challenges his father, “Really?” and without warning lobs the remote control across the room at Pike.

Chris is too slow to react, either to move out of the way or catch the damn thing. It falls just short of his feet. He stares at it, feeling betrayed.

But it’s Jim who is staring at him in betrayal. And it’s Jim who pushes off the couch, blankets and all, as he accuses, “You should have caught it.”

Chris tries to answer nonchalantly, “Maybe I didn’t want to,” but Jim’s expression is unnerving him so badly he nearly stutters his response instead.

“Last month, you would have caught it,” Jim presses.

Uh-oh. Jim does know that he can’t sleep.

Jim steps toward him, hands curling into fists like he expects a fight. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

Chris backs up. “I’m old, Jimmy. My reflexes aren’t what they used to be.”

“Bullshit.“

Sighing, Jim’s father stoops down to pick up the remote. He tosses it into his recliner and puts his back to Jim. He’s not going to have this conversation with Jim, nor is he going to stand around and be lectured. He moves toward the kitchen, wishing he had the option of putting something stronger in his mug than coffee.

His mistake is forgetting that when Jim Kirk decides to confront someone, Jim never backs down. Chris isn’t prepared for the impact of another body connecting hard with his back. He stumbles forward, almost loses his footing—only to be righted by his son who, for all intents and purposes, tries to smother him in a sea of blankets.

He attempts to detach the young man.

Jim tightens his hold and presses his face to his father’s back.

“Jim,” Chris says, feeling his anxiety build, “what’s going on? What are you doing?”

“What I’m supposed to,” comes the muffled response. Then, more tentatively, “Sorry I said a bad word.”

There’s something seriously wrong here. Jim, even on his darkest days in the past month, hadn’t sounded this vulnerable.

“Let go a second, Jimmy,” his father coaxes. “Just a second, okay?”

Jim’s hold relaxes enough that Chris can turn to face the boy.

Jim sighs softly through his nose and moves closer to Pike again, this time dropping his forehead to the man’s shoulder. It strikes Chris, then, that Jim isn’t clinging to him—he’s trying to give him a hug.

After all the anger, the rebuffs, the rejection… The hug is like a balm to Chris’s soul.

He wraps up Jim with his arms and turns his face into his child’s hair. The pair stands like that in silence for some time, letting the simple act of being close to each other heal the rift between them as words could not have done.

Eventually the squirming of Porthos between them catches their attention and pushes them apart.

Jim snuffles and says, “Porthos likes hugs too.”

How can Chris deny a request like that? He picks the dog up and holds him to his chest.

Porthos licks his face enthusiastically before accepting Jim’s head-pats with gracious benevolence.

“Okay, enough,” Chris announces when his arms begin to ache. He puts the dog back on his own four feet. Porthos whuffs and trots off to the kitchen.

Jim has re-arranged his blankets so that only the upper-half of his face is visible.

Chris looks at his son with fondness. “Am I forgiven?” he asks.

“For what?” Jim wants to know.

“For being an ass.”

Jim drops his gaze. “You weren’t, Dad. I was.” The muffled words following that sound kind of like I was trying to be.

Chris doesn’t know what Jim blames himself for but it’s not as though he could hold anything against his son. Ruffling the blankets since he can’t reach Jim’s hair, he remarks, “Let’s agree we both played a part. You and I’ve been cooped up together too long, Jim.” His anxiety tries to overwhelm him once again but he forces it down. “Maybe it’s time I let you out of the house?” He makes that a question because he can’t make it a statement.

But Jim is shaking his head. “It’s fine, I don’t mind… I mean…” He stops and starts again by blurting out, “Why can’t you sleep?”

Because I’m deathly afraid of losing you. Since that’s not something he can admit to out loud, Chris explains, “Just a combination of things, son. It isn’t a permanent condition.” God, he hopes not. Eventually the insomnia will prevent him from living a normal life.

“It’s because of me.”

Pike’s tone sharpens. “Don’t say that. You had no fault in this.”

“You don’t know that,” Jim counters stubbornly. “You don’t know a lot of things, Dad.”

“What does that mean?”

Jim doesn’t answer right away. Chris can see him thinking something over, and for some inexplicable reason that is a foreboding sign to Pike.

A pounding on the front door interrupts the moment. Pike has to hustle forward to answer the door before their visitor knocks a hole through it. He has barely cracked the door open before McCoy pushes it wide and stomps past him into the house.

“JIM!” the man roars.

The person in question freezes, looking suddenly like he wants to completely disappear into his cocoon.

Chris has a moment’s debate on whether or not to intervene until McCoy launches himself at Kirk and tackles Jim to the ground. Then Chris is rushing forward, trying in vain to drag the infuriated attacker off his son.

Leonard will not be detached. It’s a small favor indeed that he isn’t actively strangling Jim, though he is slapping at the blankets that Jim is holding up between them like a shield.

“McCoy,” Chris demands, trying to wedge a hand between the pair and haul Leonard back, “let him go!”

Leonard’s yelling only increases. “Jim, face me, goddamn it!”

Jim is making repeated noises which sound suspiciously like apologies. Though he rolls side to side, he is unable to shake off McCoy or successfully crawl away.

Chris finally gains a firm hold around McCoy’s middle and is about to use an old wrestling trick he learned in high school when Jim unexpectedly tucks his legs up towards his chest and does a sideways flip-roll that dislodges both Pike and McCoy and sends them flying. Chris knocks into the foot of his recliner. Leonard knocks into him.

Jim sits up, his upper torso exposed, clothes rumpled, hair sticking out all angles. Eyes wide, he squeaks, “Bones, calm down. I can explain!”

That sets McCoy off again.

Having no choice, Chris puts his son’s boyfriend into a headlock. “Do what he says, Leonard,” he warns, “or I’ll hold this until you pass out.”

Leonard squirms futilely against him for a few seconds before giving up. “Fine,” comes the snarl, “but don’t think I’m not going to kill you the second Chris lets me go, Jim.”

Jim swallows and nods. “Okay, that’s fair.”

That doesn’t sound fair to Pike at all. “What’s going on?” he demands. “Leonard, you’d better have a damn good explanation for attacking my son.” Unfortunately he can tell by the angle of Leonard’s head that Leonard’s attention is only for Jim.

“Did you break up with me?”

Jim pales.

“Did you?” Leonard snaps. “Because for a while there, I sure thought you did, Jim. I thought you dumped my ass because I was too smothering.”

Jim looks nauseated. “Bones… Bones, I never said I wanted to break up.”

“No, you didn’t. You just told me not to fuck up my chance to graduate early because I wanted to take a semester off to take care of you. I believed everything you said, Jim. Everything. Why the hell was I so stupid?”

Chris hears it in McCoy’s voice, how angry he truly is—but not at Jim, not entirely. A large portion of that anger is for himself.

After a moment of fierce internal debate, Pike releases Leonard from the headlock but keeps a firm hand on the man’s arm as a reminder that Pike will stop him from going after Jim again.

“You’re not stupid,” Jim replies, sagging down in his blankets abruptly and looking like he’s about to have a relapse.

The anxiety won’t be shoved away this time. It forms a tight knot in Chris’s chest. “Jim—”

“Bones,” Jim questions, overriding his father’s voice in a weary tone, “who told you?”

McCoy presses his mouth flat. His chin wobbles. “Just tell me why.”

Kirk repeats, “Who?”

“Why,” Jim’s boyfriend wants to know, voice suddenly strained, “am I the only one not good enough to be part of this?”

Jim stares at him for a moment without answering. Then he slowly climbs to his feet, letting every blanket fall to the floor. Chris watches him hold out his hand to McCoy.

Leonard visibly hesitates before he takes Jim’s hand and lets himself be pulled up.

“You’re good enough,” Jim tells his boyfriend softly. “I’m the one who was afraid.”

Leonard studies his boyfriend in silence for some time. “Spock was right, then,” he says at last, sighing. “He said he thought you had reason to believe I’d be next.”

Pike stiffens. So McCoy had found out something from Spock after all. He pushes to his feet. “Leonard, I need to speak to you in private.”

They still aren’t heeding him in the least.

McCoy curls his hands around Kirk’s shoulders and gives him a slight shake. “Jim… whatever it is, you can tell me. We’re in this together. You know that, right?”

Christopher has had enough of being left out. He grabs McCoy by an arm, saying in a tone that brooks no argument, “In the kitchen. Now.“

A startled Leonard reluctantly releases his son.

Chris points toward the kitchen. “Go.” He has to repeat the word before Leonard walks away. Pike turns to his son, then, pushes Jim into a sitting position on the couch. “Don’t move from this spot, son.”

“Where would I go?”

The question is almost bitter and hurts Pike a little bit. But knowing that Jim will obey him, Chris follows in Leonard’s wake.

In the kitchen, he takes the stance that comes most naturally to him after a decade of service as a detective—that of an interrogator. Finally Leonard has begun to look nervous, like he has just realized that barging into Pike’s house and creating a scene without reporting to Chris first had not been his smartest decision of the day.

“Start talking,” Pike orders.

Leonard covers his face with his hands. His reply of “Shit, where do I even begin?” is hardly a comfort to either of them.

~~~

Larry, who has outlasted most deputies in a four-hundred mile radius by about a decade, walks into Sheriff Archer’s office looking like he barely survived a world war.

“Good god, man,” Jon says, hanging up on the town mayor without a qualm, “what happened to you?”

The deputy rubs his bloodshot eyes. “Alimony payments. Can’t quit work ’til I’m dead.” Sighing, he holds up a stack of papers. “Brought the results of that GPS trace you wanted.”

Jonathan beckons the older man inside. “Let me have ’em, and sit down before you fall down, Deputy.”

Larry looks grateful to take a seat. “Just a warning, Sheriff. OnStar gave me hell before they released the records. You might get a nasty gram in the near future about my attitude.”

“We both know your attitude is better than mine. Of course they bitched. We don’t have federal badges.” Archer flips through the report, making thoughtful noises every so often. He stops on a particular page. “Well, well, well… Answer me this, Larry. Why would any socialite spend his weekends around an old trainyard?”

“Drug deal,” Larry answers promptly. He peers at the page. “I looked up the VIN. The SUV is registered to a Mr. Sarek. Only Sarek I know of in these parts is the Senator.”

Jon suppresses a grin. “You got it in one.”

Larry’s eyes widen. “No shit?” His expression turns apprehensive. “Boss, we’re gonna lose our jobs if we go after him!”

“If Senator Sarek gives a damn at all why a county sheriff’s department is tracking his whereabouts, he’d be wise to ask his son first.”

“Who’s the son?”

“Oh, you’ve met him recently. A few times.” Jon enjoys watching Larry piece together the information.

A few seconds later, Larry whistles. “That high-brow fellow who keeps pestering me and Jenkins for updates… He’s a senator’s kid? You don’t say! I thought he managed Santa’s Village.”

“It’s incongruous, I know. I scratched my head over that for about five seconds until I realized our Mr. Spock has probably been disinherited by dear old dad for some reason.” Archer stares at the report. “Although not entirely. There’s the expensive car—and an apartment. I guess being disinherited still pays the bills.”

Larry scrubs his hands over his face. “So you’re telling me this Spock guy is up to some shady shit. At a trainyard.”

Archer stands and grabs his jacket off a coat rack. “That’s what I intend to find out.”

Larry gives him a strange look.

“What?” Jonathan asks, donning his hat too.

“You’re not going alone out there, are you? I know we’ve had some royal screw-ups lately on the Kirk case,” Larry winces as he acknowledges that, “but don’t forget why you pay us, Jon. We’re your team.”

Jon experiences a moment of appalling sentiment. He punches it down. “You’re gonna make me cry, Deputy. Fine, come with me.”

But Larry sighs and shakes his head. “I fell asleep in my soup earlier. I doubt I could shoot the broad side of a barn. Take Matthews,” he suggests. “Kid’s about to rip his hair out from all the paperwork on that string of art burglaries.”

“Thank god I’m high up enough to leave paperwork to minions,” Jon declares. He strides out of his office, barking, “Matthews!”

Matthews’s head comes up from his desk, a post-it note stuck to his forehead. “Sir?”

“Get packin’,” Jon tells him. “We hit the road in five.”

The deputy scrabbles out of his chair so fast he nearly tips it over. Jonathan watches, amused, as Matthews goes through the rigors of checking his weapon and other accoutrements. He even very quickly—and very proudly—polishes the deputy star attached to his shirt.

“Get out much?” Jon murmurs, bypassing him, knowing the deputy will fall in line.

Their youngest recruit tracks their progress across the room, his gaze strangely unsettled. “Sheriff?” he calls.

“Just bopping out for a tag run. We’ll radio in,” Archer says. “Forward my calls to voicemail. And thanks for picking up lunch.”

“Sure, Sheriff,” the deputy replies, clicking an ink pen with a sigh and returning his gaze to his computer screen.

“Tag run?” Matthews questions in a disappointed tone.

His boss replies, “Hell no,” as they step outside. “We’re on a covert hunting mission, Deputy.” Jon pulls a photo from the breast pocket of his jacket and hands it to his partner.

Matthews hisses in recognition. “I know this guy.”

They all do. He had been at the center of the debacle with the North Star last Christmas.

Matthews hands the photo back. “He belongs to Kirk.”

“Which is why it’s imperative that we find out where he’s hiding.” Jon points to a squad car. “You drive.”

Matthews jogs over to the driver’s side, blinking in confusion as Jon heads in another direction. “Hey, boss!”

Archer gives him a thumbs-up and hops into his truck.

Shaking his head, the deputy climbs into the squad car and follows the sheriff’s truck out of the parking lot.

~~~

Archer adjusts the angle of his rearview mirror and slows down considerably. The driver behind him is aggravated enough to go around (though not quite increasing his speed such that he would be in violation of the speeding limit), but the sedan behind him slows down too. Jon switches lanes, and the sedan doesn’t.

“Huh,” mutters the man, turning his attention back to the road as Matthew’s squad car catches up to his truck. He could have sworn he was being followed by that weird little Volkswagen.

The abandoned trainyard lies ten minutes north of the county line. How convenient, if one wishes to be just out of Archer’s jurisdiction yet still close to the college town that also serves as the county seat. Not that a little thing like county lines has stopped Archer before when handling business. It may aggravate other departments when he rides blithely into their territory, but unless they’re dead-set on chasing him out, he can usually get away with a few hours of investigation before someone reports his whereabouts to the proper local authorities.

He thinks turning this trainyard in and out will be a cinch, and his hope is that they don’t have to do much hunting at all. Scott will just show up, hands raised, and say, “I’m all yours, Sheriff.”

On the other hand, if Kirk and his crew aren’t hiding Scott out here in the boonies, then it has to be used for something else, like an obscure meeting place. He just cannot fathom why someone like Spock would come out this way otherwise. There is nothing around but rusted rail cars and overgrown weeds.

It’s a shame that none of Kirk’s other friends beside Spock drive vehicles that can be easily traced. This is his only lead so far, working the Kirk angle. The Merry Gang don’t seem to be amateurs at covering their tracks. Jon finds that frightening, if he’s honest with himself. A team with that much intelligence combined rarely understands the depth of the power they wield. It’s a recipe for serious trouble, if not disaster.

He turns right onto the highway that leads to the trainyard.

Matthews radios him with “Where’re we going again?”

Jon replies, “Troops take orders, not ask questions.”

“Haha.” But the deputy doesn’t question him again.

You’re learning, Cupcake, Jon thinks. Then he laughs out loud, remembering that Cupcake is Jim’s nickname for Matthews. Pike’s son certainly has a knack for them.

Jon presses a button on his dashboard and tells his supposedly intelligent computerized vehicle to “Call Princess.”

The call goes straight to voicemail. Jon tries again, and this time leaves a message: “Princess, it’s Pooh Bear. Ooh, I like that! How about you call me Pooh Bear from now on? It’s much better than Asshat. Not sure what I did to be called that this morning and, ‘sides, couple names are supposed to be romantic. Anyway… I know it’s not my night to come home but… I miss you.” Jon winces. That sounded so sappy. “I mean that in a manly way, Chris, like when a man misses his beer or a football game. So, I miss you. Yeah… okay. That was it. Bye now.” He almost hangs up but tacks on belatedly, “Give Kirk a hug for me.”

Damn your stupid mouth, Archer! he chastises himself afterwards.

Surely Pike won’t make anything of his comment; and most assuredly Christopher would never suspect that Jon is behind the hugs, not unless Jim tattles, “Archer made me do it!” No, Kirk wouldn’t be that dumb, especially since Jon has a mile-long laundry list of the kid’s antics since college, most of which Jonathan feels rather certain Pike knows nothing about. He wasn’t lying when he said he had been chasing after Kirk for years. Sometimes he likens their relationship to Yosemite Sam and Bugs Bunny. Archer is the one with the pistols, obviously.

He sets his truck on cruise control and taps his fingers against the steering wheel, surprised to find that he is in a better mood than he has been in ages. He decides to enjoy it while it lasts.

~~~

Matthews eyes the weed-covered grounds with caution. “Aren’t there snakes out here?”

“Probably,” Jon replies. He nods to an overturned freight car, its side decorated with layers of local gang graffiti. “You start on that end, I’ll take the other. Meet in the middle.”

Matthews begins to walk away.

“And, Deputy?” Jon calls out. He lifts his gun slightly. “Safety on. Don’t shoot the snakes.”

Matthews mutters something under his breath and heads in the opposite direction.

They search the rail cars methodically for an hour, working their way to the side of the yard less visible to the dirt road connected to the highway. With the large clearing and thick woods to one side, this yard is a perfect shelter for wayfarers looking to stay off the road for the night. Jon wonders idly if Scott would go so far as to disguise himself as homeless to remain off the radar. Would he risk spending the night here in the company of drifters who could vagrants or worse?

After the search turns up no people but plenty of discarded trash, Archer and Matthews head for the small sagging warehouse set to the side of the tracks. Jon stops abruptly when he hears a loud noise from inside, the sound of something being knocked over or scattered, and motions in silence for Matthews to fan out and come in from a less visible angle.

He approaches the gaping entrance where a large roll-up door might have once been missing and calls out, “This is the County Sheriff’s Department! Come out with your hands up.”

No one answers; no other noises or movement occur except for the shadow of a pigeon taking flight from its roost.

Jon steps inside, his weapon drawn and at the ready. He isn’t more than midway inside when a shadow far too large to be a bird flits along a wall to his right. He starts in that direction, walking softly but not trying to disguise his approach as a warning to whoever may be within.

Part of the wall is hidden behind a large pile of aging scrap metal. Jon moves to the edge to look behind it—and discovers a hole peeled back in the awning that leads to the sunny field outside. Someone smaller than Archer could have crawled through it to escape if necessary.

But it wasn’t Scott. Jonathan has already come to the conclusion that the man hasn’t been here recently, nor likely was ever here. There are no fresh signs of footsteps through the dust at the front entrance; no hallmarks of recent gatherings like remnants of a fire pit or ragged bedding. The person that was just here came in broad daylight, quiet as a mouse and watched them.

Archer stares at the wedged-open hole and thinks, Trap.

The possibility of finding Scott may have been the bait, but Archer and his team were the prize. Why?

“Shit,” curses Matthews from the middle of the warehouse, making a lot of noise as he accidently knocks over an old, burnt-out oil drum. “Back entrance is secure, Sheriff.” The deputy sticks his gun into his holster. “This place is a ghost town. Why would Scott ever come out here?”

Jon quietly retreats from behind the pile and turns partly towards his companion.

Kirk had sent Spock to ‘inform’ him about the danger to Montgomery Scott, that Scott is at the top of the terrorists’ hit list. It would be natural for Archer to want to find him first. And yet Kirk’s objective would be to protect Scott, so why didn’t he just tell Jonathan where the man has been hiding? Why go to this extreme where he’s making Jon work for the answer while spying on what his team does, possibly sending someone to follow them out here—

The answer is so obvious to Jon in that moment, it’s appalling.

Jon glances up, startled, to find his deputy on a cell phone. “Matthews,” he snaps, “what are you doing?”

The deputy gives him a strange look and pulls the small phone away from his ear. “Reporting in.”

“Use the radio,” he reminds him and, swallowing, strides out of the warehouse. Standing on the dirt drive, he surveys their empty surroundings, the ample cover of the trees not too far away. Faintly, there comes the distant sound of an engine gunning and dying out.

Matthews appears on his right. “Sheriff?”

Jonathan needs a moment to compose himself. Once he feels steadier, he claps Matthews on the shoulder and offers the same remark he always does after an operation has a disappointing end: “There’s always next time, Deputy.” Striding for his truck, he orders, “Report back to the station.”

Archer climbs into his vehicle, waiting until Matthews has pulled the squad car onto the highway before he turns his truck in a different direction. He heads further into the next county.

Kirk owes him answers now—answers in person. If he thinks that—if it’s true—

Jonathan grits his teeth when he realizes his hands are white-knuckled around the steering wheel, angry that he is this badly shaken. Nothing messes with a man’s head, his predecessor had once said, quite like betrayal.

Someone in his department is untrustworthy. Someone is a rat. Could it be that he has failed this entire time to catch the gang because he has been duped by a member of his own team?

Archer draws a hand back and slams his palm down hard twice against the wheel. “Son of a bitch!”

For the first time in a long time, since he started dating Pike, he burns to wallop some sense into James T. Kirk. There are some lines that should never be crossed; some confidences that must be shared. Kirk has to learn.

Archer’s foot presses on the gas pedal, and the truck leaps forward, roaring down the highway.

He can almost anticipate what kind of paltry excuse Jim will give him—but it won’t matter in the end. Nothing the kid says will be good enough to excuse not telling Jon that one of his deputies is working for Nero.

There’s going to be one more part, i.e. the confrontation we just can’t go without. Thanks to everyone for hanging in there so far! I hope the buildup has been suspenseful enough!

Next Part

Related Posts:

• Goodbye, Holidays (5/5) – from February 26, 2016
• Goodbye, Holidays (3/4) – from February 8, 2016
• Goodbye, Holidays (2/4) – from January 27, 2016
• Goodbye, Holidays (1/3) – from December 30, 2015

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