Title: Sticks and Stones (11/?)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Pairing: Kirk/Spock/McCoy
Summary: Sequel to Many Bells Down; Riverside ‘verse AU. Khan is hell-bent on destroying everything and everyone James Kirk cares about until Jim surrenders the most important person of all—himself.
Previous Part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Emotional rollercoaster much? I am exhausted and have come to the conclusion if this story doesn’t resolve itself in the next 25k words, I am giving up on it as hopeless. And planting a big sign herein that says KHAN WINS.

Here are some explanations. Everybody deserves them by now, right?

Also, this is overly long and unadulterated 7k words of drama. Ye be warned.

Part Ten

If Jim thought he was going to die, he is sadly mistaken.

The stranger shooting at their backs with, of all things, a machine gun apparently cannot hit the broad side of a barn. A spray of bullets carves a groove into the wall above their heads, and bits of plaster and chipped concrete go flying. Jim ducks and shields his face with his free arm. Maybe the gun is too heavy to tote around because the two men seem to double their head start as they dive into the next hallway. There is a shout behind them, another smattering of bullets close by, but Jim and Leonard don’t stop running.

He has no idea where they are (not even the location of the dilapidated building they are in), let alone has its schematics memorized, but he hopes Bones does. Then they round a corner and come to a dead-end.

Well then. Bones has no idea either.

Jim tries not to panic more than he already is and sways on his feet, which in his (usually more rational, less panicked) opinion is not a manly thing to do in the middle of a crisis, regardless of severe blood loss and trauma to the head.

Then he is unceremoniously shoved toward a wall of the hallway by Leonard and watches, somewhat oddly detached, as the doctor takes a wide-legged stance and aims Jim’s granddaddy’s pistol at the corner their assailant is about to appear from (and more than likely shoot them full of holes when said assailant does). Seeing the grim, pale face of his boyfriend and his obvious determination to protect Jim until the last possible second, in that instant, Jim forgives him every moment of lying. And, surprisingly, the heartache Jim has been carrying around like a constant companion eases to a bearable level.

Jim decides he doesn’t want to die not standing by Leonard’s side. He pushes himself off the wall and half-stumbles, half-falls toward McCoy.

“Bones…”

They’re fucked anyway, so why should he pass into the afterlife without reminding Bones of the most important thing?

He presses his side against Leonard’s, which is the best comforting contact he can make without hampering the man’s ability to aim and shoot.

“I love you,” he whispers, and there they are, the words, easy and fluid, always lurking beneath the surface of Jim’s emotions whether he is hurting or angry or sad. They aren’t difficult to say.

“Love you too, idiot,” Bones murmurs softly in return, and Jim’s heart twists at the affection and gentle resignation in the reply. Bones knows too they’re probably going to die in the next minute or so, and it seems he doesn’t want hard feelings follow them into the grave either.

Echoes of footsteps; running. They hear a man’s rapid breathing.

The gun in Leonard’s hands steadies and he angles his body slightly to put Jim behind his right elbow. Jim considers throwing himself in front of McCoy to buy time because why not? He’s already dying, if the slick blood coating his side and his clothes is anything to go by. If he could just…

They can make out the sharp, smooth click of a gun cartridge. Too close now.

Jim slides around McCoy to his opposite side, suddenly calmer than he was moments ago.

“Jim, don’t,” Leonard bites out. “Stay behind me!”

Jim smiles softly, not to Leonard but to himself, thinking Let me take every bullet meant for Bones. Please just let me do that.

The owner of the footsteps is unfortunately smart enough to stop at the corner rather than immediately rounding it to attack. His shadow precedes him, stretching across the end of the hallway like an ill omen. Jim’s eyes catch on a ridiculous detail: the shadow is wearing a hat. With a pang, he thinks of that day in the park and Spock looking menacing (and wonderful) in his bowler hat.

Leonard reaches for Jim with a sharp intake of breath at the same time Jim coils in preparation to use himself as a human shield.

The shadow—no, not the shadow but the man it belongs to—surprises them both by speaking. “Mr. Kirk? Dr. McCoy?”

Jim doesn’t recognize the flat tone.

“The assassin has been disabled,” the shadow continues on, then pauses. “I will not harm you.”

Jim had a fleeting moment of hope before that pause. His gut instinctively says liar.

Leonard calls back, “Put your weapon on the ground. And keep your hands where I can see ’em! I swear I’ll shoot you otherwise!”

“This gun does not have bullets,” the shadow man says as he slowly steps around the corner and into their line of sight. But he doesn’t drop his gun like Bones ordered him to, though he keeps his hands raised to placate McCoy.

Jim only needs a second of looking at the man to place his impassive face. His hand automatically seeks his injured side and presses there; pain clears the confused clamoring in his head. “What the fuck,” he says harshly, “Q?”

Beneath the rim of his hat, the Q levels a steady dark gaze at Kirk. “I have disabled the assassin,” he repeats. “You must leave this place immediately. Others will come.”

Something about the Q satisfies Bones; Jim turns to his boyfriend, mystified and questioning and apprehensive, when Bones lowers the pistol. “Jim needs immediate medical attention,” the doctor tells the Q. “We left the van, and Chris—” Leonard stills. In a rush, he says, “Good Lord, Chris. You need to—he may be—”

“That,” the Q interrupts, “has been taken care of.”

Jim takes a wobbling step between McCoy and the Q. “Wait a second,” he snaps, because something isn’t right here, he can feel it. “What happened to Khan’s men?”

The slight quirk of the Q’s mouth is the only warning he gives before he moves, as if Jim had given a cue—moves so fast Jim has no time to react—and takes a solid grip on his gun, aiming it at Jim. But when the Q fires, followed swiftly by a loud damning crack in the surrounding silence, something whistles past Jim’s cheek, and behind Jim Leonard’s sharp “What—!” is instantly bitten off.

The world narrows to the echo of the gunfire, to the cool, calculating look in the Q’s eyes, and Leonard’s cry in Jim’s ears.

His brain finally catches up to the present with a punch of realization: the Q shot at Leonard. Not Jim—Bones.

Bones.

His body, already stiff with horror, turns toward Leonard of its own volition. He sees McCoy stagger back one step then another and, shocked, pluck something from his neck. Pinched between Leonard’s bloodless fingers is a small dart.

Jim throws himself at Leonard in the same instant McCoy’s knees buckle. “BONES!”

This gun does not have bullets.

Leonard’s breath hitches. He grabs Jim’s shirt in one hand, the pistol clattering to the ground beside them, and drops his head against Jim’s chest.

This gun does not have bullets.

“Bones!” Jim cries again. Leonard slumps to the side, slurring Jim’s name and the beginnings of an apology. Jim is simply unable to breathe for the terror choking him. He clutches at Leonard’s limp body.

When the Q crouches near them, Jim, still cradling Bones in his arms, snaps his head up and without thinking steals the pistol near his knee. But the Q only stares fearlessly at him when he cocks and aims it.

As much as Jim wants to shoot the bastard point-blank in the face, he needs answers. “What did you do to Bones?”

“It’s a harmless tranquilizer.” Then a moment later, the Q adds, “I will not sedate you.”

“It’ll be your funeral if you don’t,” Jim snarls back.

“I would rather not kill you in the process of saving you, Mr. Kirk. Her Ladyship would be most displeased. We were instructed only to intervene and secure both parties.”

“S-Secure?” Jim sputters, then roars, “YOU TRANQ-ED MY BOYFRIEND!”

At the nearby sound of a boot scuffing against a concrete floor, the man looks past Jim and remarks mildly, “Ah, Q. Please place Dr. McCoy with the Captain.”

When Jim makes the mistake focusing his attention elsewhere by whipping his head around to glare at the latest Q arrival—how long had this one been standing there? why didn’t he hear him earlier?—the pistol is snatched from his hand. The Q stands up and tucks Jim’s gun along with his tranquilizer gun inside his coat and motions for the other Q to take McCoy.

Weakened by his injury, Jim is at a disadvantage to prevent the Q for prying Leonard away from him; his resistance only serves to tire him out and it certainly does not endear him to either Q. He is summarily hoisted to his feet.

“You may lean on me if necessary,” the first Q offers.

Jim flips his middle finger in the man’s face and doggedly hobbles after the other Q carting Bones through the building in a fireman’s carry. By the time they exit the building (which is the absolute opposite direction he and Bones had been running—fuck, Jim thinks) and their group reaches two parked vehicles circled by more silent Q, he is barely able to stay on his feet. His thoughts buzz dizzily around his head, making little sense except stay with Bones, look after Bones, where’s Bones?

A Q helps Jim into a car seat, asks him a question he cannot focus on, then tucks something around him. Grateful for the warmth (oh, it’s a blanket, when had it gotten so cold?), he struggles to keep his eyes open and focuses.

“McCoy?” he asks the interior of the car.

“The doctor is well,” someone at his shoulder assures him. “The Captain is well also. No, remain still, Mr. Kirk. You will open the wound further.” Softer now, the voice says, “Did we capture them all? Excellent. Signal the other driver. We must depart and make haste for the campus. Her Ladyship’s favorite is ill.”

“Favorite,” Jim murmurs, exhaustion and injury weighing down his eyelids. He’s Bones’ favorite, Spock’s favorite. Mom’s favorite. Definitely not Nyota’s favorite. Ha.

Chuckling, it turns out, hurts like a wicked bitch. Jim shivers after the pain subsides. He forces his eyes open again, determined to be coherent for their journey, but that same voice—oh, it’s that damned Q in the hat but Jim can’t find his hatred because he’s so achingly tired—advises quietly, “You should rest while you can. Your strength will be required later.”

What good advice, Jim thinks, letting his head drop to his chest and his eyes slide closed. Because if he is going to see Lady Q (isn’t he?) he really ought to sleep first. Wounded though they may be, kidnapped though they surely are, Lady Q demands nothing less than full attention from her guests.

“I know you’re awake, dearest.”

Something taps his cheek. Eyes closed and drowsy, Jim hmmms and turns his head away. It can’t be time to get up, can it?

Again, that annoyance happens. Tap. Tap tap.

“James,” a feminine voice croons gently.

“Nnngghh,” Jim mutters, “‘nother minute, Mommy.”

Silence. Then, “Is he drugged?”

A new voice, definitely male but soft-spoken. He faintly hears talking: “Yes, your Ladyship. We gave him a significant dose of pain medication to make his rest more comfortable.”

“But I can wake him, yes?”

“As you wish.”

The something that tapped his cheek relocates to his shoulder, this time with a slight warning bite to it as it sharply RAP-RAPs instead of tap-taps.

Jim grunts and drags open an eyelid. He stares at the object for a little while before it registers as the wooden frame of a woman’s fan. He opens his other eye then and traces the thin wrinkled hand holding it to a lacy wrist ruffle, up a paisley pink fabric-clad arm to a very familiar face.

The face beams at him. “Lovely! You are awake, my boy! Sit up now,” his arm is tugged on with impatience, “and drink some water for Mummy. You’ll feel much better after some water.”

Jim jerks his arm away at the word ‘Mummy’, gasping, “You aren’t my mother!” Looking around the room, he recognizes the decor and realizes where he is. “Oh fuck.”

Lady Q pops the back of his hand with her fan. “Language!”

“Shit!”

POP! “James, language!”

He wisely muffles his next curse word, putting his mouth against a faint red welt on the back of his hand to soothe its hurting. After a moment, Jim drops his hand and sits up, only to stop halfway through the motion and clutch his side.

“Oh,” Lady Q interrupts his groan, “you must be careful. Do not tear the stitches!”

“Stitches.”

“Yes,” she explains, her voice suddenly dropping to a normal pitch. “Your injury might have been more serious, understand, but it did warrant a blood transfusion.”

He lifts his clean shirt and stares at a white bandage.

“I assure you there will be no scar.”

He snaps his head up to stare at Lady Q. Upon considering her expression, he pales but not because he is light-headed. “You d-didn’t operate on me, did you?” They aren’t even at a hospital! Oh god.

She pats his trembling hand. “It was just a graze, dear, not a wound I had to dig a bullet out of.”

“I?“

She holds up a needle, procured from nowhere he can readily see. “I sew famously well. I think you will approve of the neatness of my handiwork.”

Jim flops back onto the bed, covers his eyes with a hand and tries to stop his thinking altogether.

The tapping starts again. “Now is not the time to dawdle, young man.”

“I’m sick,” he mutters because he really, really is. There are Lady Q’s sewing stitches in his body; he wonders if his life will turn into some grotesque horror show where he’s Frankenstein and Lady Q is his creator. Do the Q store extra body parts? No doubt they do.

His fingers seek out the bandage again as he wishes Bones could have–

His eyes fly open. “Bones!”

A sigh corresponds to his shout. “So. I am to be forsaken for your lover, then. Very well.”

Jim ignores her and thrusts his legs out from under a lovely pale-yellow duvet. He lifts the duvet to flip it off of him, only to stare down at himself and ask, “Where are my pants?”

Lady Q leans forward from her overly large visitor’s chair and pulls back a corner of the duvet to peek. “My, my, what lovely—”

Jim jerks the duvet away from her before she can finish her sentence and wraps it around his waist, dragging it with him as he abandons the bed to stalk towards the door. Screw pants.

“Where’s Bones?” Jim demands of the male Q loitering just inside the entrance to his bedroom.

The Q, a butler according to his immaculate attire, eyes Jim’s duvet-covered legs. “Shall I send the footman, sir, if you are ready to dress?”

“BONES!” Jim bellows, shouldering the Q aside. His side is beginning to ache now that he is moving around but that doesn’t matter. He is certain if he doesn’t stop yelling somebody will give him what he wants—which, namely, is Leonard McCoy.

Jim stalks into the sitting room adjoining his bedroom. “BONES!”

There is a muffled voice somewhere to his left. Jim turns, pinpointing the direction of the sound, and narrows his eyes at a closed door across the sitting room. He strides toward it, trailing a duvet, a butler, and an old lady in a heavy fabric dress probably twice her weight.

His fingers curl around the doorknob the moment the doorknob twists under another force and the door swings inward to reveal, of all things, a balefully glaring Christopher Pike.

Jim rocks back on his heels, his mouth hanging open as his eyes scrutinze the man from head to very bare feet. “Is that—a nightgown?”

“If you laugh, I’ll kill you,” Pike warns him as his nightgown’s matching nightcap slides forward, threatening to cover his eyes. The man growls and jerks it from his head. From the manic look in his eyes, Jim decides he wants to stomp on it.

An excited voice pipes up from behind Jim, “It’s authentic nightwear, of course! Prince Machiavelli had one in blue.”

Damn it, that tickle in his throat feels like a laugh. Jim swallows it but is unable to hide the slight watering of his eyes. “So,” he says conversationally to the man glowering at him, “you aren’t dead.”

Pike backs into his room, clearly prepared to slam his door in Jim’s face. “McCoy’s not here. Stop shouting.”

Jim shuffles into the doorway and props a hip against the doorjamb, baring his teeth at the man. “McCoy isn’t in your room here or isn’t on the premises here?”

Christopher’s hand flexes around the edge of his door. “You annoy me more than your father ever did, Jim. Congratulations.” The motion of his head indicates someone Jim can’t currently see. “Ask Bella where your doctor is. Now get the hell out of my doorway, and don’t expect me downstairs until dinnertime.”

Thus Jim is subsequently kicked out of Pike’s domain. He gathers the end of the duvet, dignity still intact, knowing he is lucky Pike didn’t strip it from him and toss him underwear first into Lady Q’s cackling clutches.

He sighs and drops onto a chaise lounge. His side really does hurt now, quite fiercely. What kind of cheap pain meds did they put him on?

Lady Q perches on the end of his chaise lounge. “Dearest, you look faint. Shall I send for some candies for you to nibble upon?”

He looks at her and asks, “And if I asked for pants?”

She smiles but says nothing.

Jim cuts his eyes to the butler, who resolutely studies the pattern of the wallpaper. Jim sinks further into the duvet, wondering when fate abandoned him to this crazy woman. “Tell me about Bones.” The request sounds more petulant aloud than it did in his head.

“He was angry,” she says after a moment. “Understandably and with good reason. But we had a nice chat and he calmed down in the end. Do you know your doctor has a tendency toward violent behavior, James?”

I’ll bet.

“One of your guards refused to allow him to see you and he hit the poor man.” She sighs wistfully. “I would have much preferred a duel. Duels are romantic.”

“Why couldn’t he see me?”

But Lady Q doesn’t answer his question. Instead she reaches for his hand. “James, you have a forgiving nature. You need that now, more than anything. Do not think too harshly of your Doctor McCoy for what he has done.”

Jim sits up. “What do you know about that?”

She withdraws her hand slowly. “I fear you will think unkindly of me as well if I explain.”

His back tenses but he tries not to show it. Voice calm, Jim tells her, “I would prefer an explanation. I think I deserve one.”

Her eyes, not kindled with craziness but with too much understanding, and perhaps sadness, search his for a moment. “Christopher is in a better position to explain than I.”

Jim doesn’t quite grit his teeth. “You bring the subject up and then you want to tell me nothing. That’s cold of you, Lady Q.”

She looks away, her fan motionless in her lap. “We used you.” There is a hint of something painful in her voice at the admission.

When the woman says nothing else, Jim tucks his legs under him and leans forward to urge her, “Tell me.”

But her eyes clear of sadness and the old woman smiles lightly, patting his hand again while saying, “I am very grateful you survived, my dear.”

The butler escorts Lady Q to the door of the sitting door with ceremony. She tells her attendant, “See to it that our young Captain has his pants returned to him, Q. Then bathe him and prepare him for dinner.”

The way she says it, Jim wonders if he isn’t the dinner rather than the guest.

“We part here,” she calls to Jim, “but we shall meet again!”

His feelings are mixed over this announcement because she seems to have answers he wants but those answers don’t come without the price of paying her court—which Jim is shit at doing.

When Lady Q is gone, he glares at the Q until the Q asks, “How may I assist thee?”

He crosses his arms, ignoring the fact he looks like an oversized baby swaddled in a blanket, and asks, “Is Bones allowed to see me now that I’m coherent?”

“That,” the Q answers, “is her Ladyship’s decision. She wished to be the first to greet you upon awakening and explained this to the doctor. …I believe he agreed after examining you to his satisfaction, citing himself as your primary physician.”

So Bones did get to see him. That sneaky Lady Q…

The Q clears his throat, no doubt unnerved by the intensity in Jim’s blue eyes. “Sir, if you require a visit by your… doctor, I will make the request of her Ladyship.” The offer surprises Jim but the butler prudently adds before Jim can agree, “However, he will be dining with you this evening.”

Jim thinks about this. “When’s dinner?”

“It is to be served once you are properly attired, sir.”

Jim stands up and flings the yellow duvet aside. The butler looks scandalized to see his bare legs and Fruit of the Looms and quickly about-faces.

“Let’s get me dressed then,” Kirk declares, heading back to his bedroom.

He is expecting Bones at dinner but not the person who shoves ahead of McCoy to greet him when he enters the room with Christopher Pike (who, with an exquisite sense of timing, met him in the sitting room fully dressed for dinner). Pike takes one look at the person barreling in their direction and excuses himself.

“Gaila!” Jim says, almost too shocked for words.

She stops within arm’s reach of him and looks him over. Her eyes fix on his side. Jim self-consciously shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He is grateful she can’t see the white bandage beneath his loose shirt (a pirate’s shirt, he’d been duly informed by the footman sent with Lady Q’s choice of clothing for him).

Gaila closes the distance between them and skims her fingers in the precise spot where his bandage would be if visible. “So it’s true,” she says quietly, so much so that Jim almost has to lean in to hear her.

He takes her hand and presses a kiss to the back of it and declares roguishly, “It’s good to see you again, my red-headed beauty!”

Her mouth curves at his blatant ploy to distract her. “Flattery gets you everywhere, good sir,” she rejoins impishly, playing along with him for the moment.

He squeezes her hand, genuinely glad to see her. Nonetheless, his joy fades, and Jim feels he has to ask, “Why did you come, Gaila?”

How did you know?

The smile stiffens on her face before fading. “Nyota called me about Sulu. I overheard where you were.”

The air freezes in Jim’s lungs. Oh, oh fuck. He’d forgotten. Sulu!

His distress must be evident on his face, because Gaila breaks his grip to cup his face. “Jim,” she says soothingly, “Jim, it’s okay. Sulu isn’t—well, he’s hurt—but he’s going to be okay.”

There is a warm hand rubbing his back and Bones’ voice in his ear murmuring, “Jim, breathe. In, out. That’s good, darlin’.”

When his panic attack subsides enough that he can think again, Jim pulls away from Leonard and Gaila and takes one giant, unsteady step backwards to regain his personal space. “I’m okay.” He doesn’t feel okay but whatever.

Sulu isn’t dead?

“No,” Bones tells him.

Oh, he must have said that out loud. Taking firm control of his crazy thoughts, he presses, “How hurt is ‘hurt’?”

“From what Spock said, the first bullet lodged in his shoulder but he dodged the second by rolling out of the way. Apparently the man has the reflexes of a spooked cat. Then, from what I can gather, you tackled the guy who was shooting at him.”

Jim nods, finally feeling steadier than before. “I did. I thought…” He closes his eyes briefly. “That’s good, that Sulu’s not—“ Shit, he can’t even process the enormity of his relief. So Jim focuses on something else. “You spoke to Spock?”

Leonard looks solemn. “He’ll be here soon enough, Jim, so why don’t we save that for later?” His eyes cut pointedly to Gaila.

Jim understands his meaning immediately; that is, the shit’s going to hit the fan when Spock arrives. Though Jim is fairly certain he can’t be blamed for a majority of the events that took place in the last several hours, Spock was left out of them—and Jim almost died.

Correction, Jim thinks, eyeing the dark circles under Leonard’s eyes, he and Bones both almost died.

Spock is going to carve out somebody’s liver and serve it up on a platter with a polite rage that’ll send Q’s running in every direction. With the exception, Jim decides as he spies their seated hostess, of Lady Q. She will probably provide the parsley garnish alongside entertaining Peanut Gallery commentary.

Leonard clears his throat, and Jim realizes his thoughts have wandered. Then he realizes Gaila is waiting for him to do something, not that he has any idea what that something may be. He returns her frank stare.

“Is your shoulder injured?” she asks him in a very serious tone.

Jim shakes his head, not spying the way Bones slips farther away from the female. He immediately regrets his answer when she punches his uninjured shoulder.

Suddenly the woman is yelling, “You stupid man! You stupid, stupid man! HOW could you DO that?”

“What, ow! What?”

“You—” punch “—purposefully—” punch “—wanted those—” punch punch “—criminals to find you and hurt you!”

“No!” he denies, surprised at her words and more than ready to convince her stop beating up on him. “I wasn’t supposed to get hurt!”

“YOU ALWAYS GET HURT!” Gaila rages.

Jim dances out of range of her fists and shoots a pleading glance at McCoy. The man looks smug. Jim hates smug boyfriends. He makes a rude gesture in Bones’ direction.

Since Gaila is still stalking him, he returns his attention to her. “It’s fine, Gaila. I’m fine, everything’s fine!” This doesn’t seem to appease her. He switches tactics. “Okay, maybe it was a little—dumb. But I had a good reason!”

That gives her pause. “I’ve never heard a man come up with a good reason for anything. What is it?”

“Uh…” How is he supposed to feel confident about his answer when she’s looking at him like that? Jim hedges, “I did it to catch them. So they wouldn’t terrorize the town.”

Gaila rolls her eyes, but she uncurls her fists and crosses her arms, which Jim interprets as a good sign. “You did it to get dirt on Khan,” she announces.

Jim blinks at her. “You know about that?”

She makes a fizzling noise like a steam kettle boiling over and, oh crap, Jim has no clue how he managed to re-incite her rage.

“Just because I’m marrying the man doesn’t mean I have to be ignorant about everything! And if it wasn’t for Nyota’s weekly updates, I WOULD BE!” Gaila accuses. “At least she gives me some credit, Jim! I may not like hearing what you think about my fiancée or what he’s doing but I can handle it!”

“Oh,” he says, feeling awkward. “I’m sorry?”

“You should be sorry!” At the sound of a deep chuckle, Gaila rounds on Leonard and stabs a finger in his direction. “You too, mister! I trusted you to keep an eye on Jim and you didn’t even have the balls to tell me what he was up to!”

Bones’ smug face quickly dissolves into alarm. “Gaila, I didn’t think you—”

Gaila throws her hands up in the air. “MEN! You all suck! I’ve had enough of you!”

Lady Q appears to be quite pleased when Gaila stomps to the dining table and chooses a seat next to her. “Welcome to the sane side of the room, my dear,” she tells Gaila airily.

Jim feels Gaila’s glare tracking him all the way to his seat. He doesn’t dare look in her direction. It should be a small consolation that she has stopped punching him but he thinks he would rather be hit than whatever else it is she is currently planning (probably his demise by nail clippers and bobby pins) to do to him at a later date.

“A little drama before dinner is always lovely!” Lady Q cries, clapping her hands together with delight. She calls the rest of the men to the table. “Now I am ever-so hungry. Q—” A servant appears to detach himself from the wall fixtures (Jim certainly hadn’t noticed him before now) and bows. “—bring the first course, please.”

Somehow, in Jim’s mind, getting shot at and almost killed never translated into a long evening dining in the company of Bones, Gaila, Pike, and Lady Q. However, as he waits on the dessert course, he finds himself unable to care that he is once again trapped in the Q compound listening to Lady Q’s outrageous comments.

Being alive counts for something, doesn’t it?

Jim catches Leonard’s eyes across the table. Then he quickly fixes his gaze on his plate because he realizes he almost smiled at the man.

Smiled at Bones. When was the last time he did that genuinely without feeling bitter?

Something’s changed between them, almost like the lancing of a wound which had festered too long. He should be angry but when he tries to rally that angry, he thinks about the moment in the hallway when they hit the dead-end.

I love you.

Jim picks up his wine glass (sadly filled with water because of the medical treatment for his injury) and studies it.

Three simple words. He has said them in the past and meant them, but when he and Leonard were facing death like that—each other’s deaths—he is certain he has never meant them in quite that way before. It wasn’t the conviction behind them which strikes him but their forgiveness, their power of healing, to say I want to fix this with you.

Why shouldn’t that be what lies in his heart, beneath the pain of betrayal?

He replaces his wine glass in its proper spot and glances up. Leonard is watching him, silent, eyes full of emotion. He sees everything Leonard has been trying to tell him all along and can’t tell him, even now, separated only by a negligible distance as they are.

This time Jim smiles at him.

I am going to forgive you, Bones, he doesn’t say.

Leonard draws in a slow, steadying breath like he can hear Jim’s thoughts. His face reads, quite clearly, thank you, Jim.

Christopher Pike is, apparently, tired of the charade by the end of the eighth course. He lays down his spoon and fixes a hard stare across the table at Lady Q that sends an invisible critter skittering up Jim’s spine.

“Has the playacting concluded to your satisfaction yet, Bella?” the Captain asks.

Lady Q—who had been regaling McCoy with a tale of Civil War between a Lord Q who believed in old-style push-pull-plowing for farms and his far-removed cousin Q who wanted to invest in the Industrial Age (Jim isn’t certain who won that war, though Lady Q at one point insinuated the world might still be traveling to-and-fro in horse-drawn carriages rather than automobiles if it hadn’t ended as it did)—pauses in her conversation to observe Pike through a glass eye-piece.

“My dearest Captain, could you so kindly repeat your question? I was distracted.”

Pike folds his napkin neatly and places to the side, then turns his hard stare to Jim. “It’s time we told you the truth, son.”

Jim has been resisting his urge to fight with Pike since their walk to the dining room. He doesn’t think Bones would try to stop him and certainly Lady Q might be amused by the gentlemanly tussle between her guests, but Gaila wouldn’t know why Jim was trying to smash in Chris’s face.

Yeah, Pike apparently wanted to save his life. Does that negate trying to sweet-talk Winona into joining forces with the dark side, i.e. Khan Noonien Singh?

Bones might remind him he is exaggerating the situation slightly but Jim doesn’t feel like being picky about details. So he returns Pike’s attention with a sharp grin and a lure of his own: “Oh, I get it, Pike. You’re the good guy. Congratulations. Doesn’t mean you didn’t try to fuck over my mom.”

Somebody mutters, “Oh God, here we go…”

Lady Q dings her glass with her fork. “There are ladies present! Your language must remain civil!”

Jim ignores her, entirely too pleased at the way Pike is stiff with the effort to control his reaction.

“Your mother—” Pike bites out, “—is not a part of this conversation.” Before Jim can refute that, he says in a low voice, “Leave her out of it, Jim.”

Jim narrows his eyes but considers the suggestion. Out of respect for his mother—maybe he should defend her honor when he can actually punch Pike and not rip the stitches in his skin doing so?—he lets it go. “Then say what you have to say.”

A moment passes, then another, and finally Chris’ shoulders release his pent-up tension. “…You didn’t botch anything up, Kirk.”

…and that is totally not what Jim expected to hear. He frowns but waits for the rest.

Pike sighs and idly strokes the stem of his wine glass with his thumb. “We set you up and you did exactly what you were supposed to.”

Across from Jim, Leonard hisses, “Chris, that’s the worst way to explain it.”

Pike shoots a look at McCoy and says almost too casually, “Your doctor here I handpicked myself to help out.”

Jim swallows the lump in his throat. “And why did you pick Bones?”

“Because I knew Khan would target him, and he had to know why.”

That… makes sense but doesn’t.

“Jim, listen for a minute before you judge. When I told you that Khan was someone the government didn’t trust, I meant it. We’ve had our eyes on him for decades; spies, intel, inside sources—you name it. And every time we thought we were close to catching him, the bastard slipped through another legal loophole.”

Jim can sense how uncomfortable Gaila is with this conversation but she remains silently attentive to what they are saying, whether she agrees or not.

Pike is still talking: “He has an MO, Jim. He likes to target a certain category of small towns with the potential for takeover by a major industry; but more than that, he has a need to fight for what he wants. Some of the country’s top psychologists think it’s partly paranoia, partly overwhelming egotism… I can’t explain it any better than that, I’m afraid. What I’m saying, though, is that what Khan wants, above all else, is an enemy.”

Pike hesitates briefly before continuing. Jim finds himself inexplicably riveted to the man now.

“He likes to choose his enemy, so to speak, before he even begins to campaign with Eugenics.”

That has Jim saying, “Wait, choose? How can somebody just—?”

Chris shakes his head. “It’s not an entirely random choice, I promise you. He develops a feel for the town and for the people with power there. But what he’s looking for is a challenge, Jim, and that has nothing to do with titles or money. It’s about—”

“Leadership,” Jim supplies, thinking back to his conversation with Khan. “Men who were born to be superior.” Hadn’t he thought that was the talk of a crazy man?

Pike dips his head in affirmation. “Yes, something like that. My point is: he found you.”

Silence settles over the table. Jim is loathe to break it but he has to know, “Why me?”

For some strange reason, Christopher Pike smiles at him. “If you don’t already know, son, then I doubt I can convince you of Khan’s reasons.”

Jim snorts. “So you aren’t going to claim it’s my amazing charm?”

“Shut up, Jim,” Bones says mildly, looking at him affectionately.

Jim is sorely tempted to stick his tongue out at McCoy. He reins in the desire when Pike resumes his explanation.

“We’ve tried before to catch Khan in the act.”

Act of what? But Pike doesn’t specify and Jim has a feeling he doesn’t want to know.

“We’ve never succeeded. In the last attempt, we told Khan’s ‘target’ what was going to happen to him—that Khan would find ways to undermine his family, his friends, anything he could in order to push the ‘target’ to a breaking point.”

Jim realizes, sick, the ‘target’ is a person. Someone like him, an innocent. “What happens at the breaking point?”

Pike is silent for some seconds. “The end result always varies slightly but the common thread is that Khan likes to see his enemy become the exact opposite of what that person is at his core—which is usually a respected and revered citizen of the community. …Someone people trust more than they would trust themselves. In a way, it’s a brilliant strategy. He destroys one man’s reputation completely while building credence for himself, making Khan the person to be trusted above all else. He’s brought down more cities than you can imagine this way.”

Jim’s head hurts. He tries not to think too hard about how much Khan would love to see him confess his ‘sins’ to Riverside. What was it Khan said? ”…when that respect I always hear coupled with the name James T. Kirk is gone…”

It fits too well with Pike’s theory.

He breathes in deeply to collect himself and asks, “If I’m guessing correctly, you said you told the last guy what to expect. So the idea, this time, was to let me fight him blind?”

“It’s not like that,” Pike says sharply. “Well, okay, it is like that on some level. We needed you to be genuine in your dealings with him.” At Jim’s offended expression, Pike sighs. “Perhaps genuine is the wrong word… raw, Jim. We needed you raw, vulnerable. Something about the time before, when we tried it differently, threw Khan off. Maybe he sensed he wasn’t entirely in control of the game. Whatever happened, however, he cut ties to the town. Just packed up and walked away.”

“Isn’t that what we want him to do?” mutters McCoy, frowning.

“And left the place in shambles like a kid kicking over his sandcastle,” Pike adds pointedly to Leonard. “Khan is testing Jim at every turn now. If he thought Jim wasn’t acting out on his own, or that Jim’s desperation wasn’t real because of what he was doing to Jim—”

“Hey, I’m not desperate!”

“—he’d crush Riverside under his boot heel. I told you that. And I also told you Khan would pick you as the weakest link and exploit you, didn’t I? Was I wrong, McCoy?”

At Leonard’s pale face, Jim snaps “Back off!” to Pike.

Chris makes a half-hearted gesture of apology. “I’m sorry but the truth is unpleasant for all of us. Khan wants you ruined, Jim, and he’s picking off your family and friends to do it. Hell, he secured your ex-girlfriend as his lover before you even knew his name!”

Silverware clatters as it hits a plate. Gaila gasps and pushes back from the table, her hands clearly shaking as she shields her face; her sob isn’t quite stifled enough not to be heard by the occupants of the dining room. She hurries away from them.

Jim leaps after her, not caring about what else Pike might have to say or that he’s abandoning Lady Q’s dinner; he isn’t even listening to McCoy’s “Damn it, Chris, what’s the matter with you? The woman was right here!“

“Gaila!” Jim calls.

She ignores him as she rushes out of the room, head bowed. Jim jogs to catch up to her in a hallway. At the touch of his hand upon her arm, she comes to a standstill.

“Gaila…”

He can feel the tremble of her shoulders as he turns her around to face him. Except for the shaking and small noises she is trying so hard to contain, she is silent and won’t look at him.

He offers gently, “You can hit me if you want.”

The sorrow breaks free from her then. “J-Jim.” Gaila turns her face up to his, and he feels his own face crack under her pain.

She starts to cry in earnest. “Jim,” she repeats like she’s lost, “oh, Jim.”

He wraps his arms around her and lets her hide her face and her shame at crying against his chest, feeling every sob that rattles through her and soaks wetly into his shirt. His eyes burn at the effort not to cry too, to share her sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against her hair. “I’m so sorry, Gaila.”

Words aren’t enough. They can never be enough. The only thing he is able to do, what he is doing, is hold her tightly so she knows she isn’t alone as her heart breaks.

Next Part

Related Posts:

• Sticks and Stones (18/18) – from April 19, 2012
• Sticks and Stones (17/18) – from April 17, 2012
• Emotional Much? – from April 17, 2012
• Sticks and Stones (16/17) – from April 13, 2012
• Sticks and Stones (15/17) – from April 11, 2012

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