Title: Goodbye, Holidays (2/4)
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 Part: 1

One of these days I will stop attempting to predict what the characters are up to and accept the fact that they run the story.

The office door bangs shut. “Not again,” growls the county sheriff as he hangs his hat on a peg of a brass wall rack. “What is it this time?”

A person, dark-haired and neatly dressed, stands facing Archer’s desk, his hands clasped behind his back. He turns his head and tracks the sheriff’s path, gaze inscrutable. Only once Archer comes around the desk to stand across from him does he speak.

“I have new information.”

Jonathan holds his breath for a moment or two before he sits down with a sigh. “Mister…” he pauses then, recalling his last attempt to pronounce the intruder’s last name. “Spock,” he settles on, “I applaud your determination. Hell, I envy it—but this is a matter best left to professionals. You,” Jon emphasizes, “are far from a professional.”

Spock continues to stare intently at him. “I would not be here if I did not think I could be of use to you, Mr. Archer.”

Jon presses his mouth flat. “Sheriff Archer.”

Spock doesn’t acknowledge the correction, which ticks Jon off more. He can think of only one reason why Spock has ceased to use his official title and begun politely addressing him as one would a stranger. Jon picks up a pen along with a random manila folder and flips the folder open. Scribbling aimlessly in a margin of a photo-copied report, he comments in his laziest manner, “Just tell me what’s so important.”

“Five weeks, two days, and approximately six hours.”

Jon stops writing but keeps his gaze on the paper in front of him. He says too softly, “I know how long it’s been.”

“And how much longer will it be before the assailants are brought to justice?” At Archer’s silence, Spock adds in a quieter tone, “I see. Now you understand why I have started to doubt whether or not you are capable of catching them.”

That accusation cuts deep, more so because Jon wakes up each morning wondering the same thing; but he’ll be damned if he loses his cool in front of a young upstart.

He lays down his pen and locks gazes with Spock. “Let me be crystal-clear: your judgment doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to me. What matters is that you are wasting the time I could be using to catch those sons of bitches. Go home, Mr. Spock. Or better yet, go fucking visit Kirk. You annoying me doesn’t make the world spin faster.”

Something like regret flashes across the young man’s face at the mention of Kirk.

Interesting, thinks Jon. He leans back in his chair, deciding to turn the tables around a bit. “Why is that, by the way?”

“I do not follow your question.”

“Why won’t you see Jim? In fact,” Archer says more shrewdly, “since he was released from the hospital, no one but McCoy and that Russian kid has stopped by Pike’s to visit.” He doesn’t mention the fact that Kirk’s boyfriend had recently ceased doing that much because it’s likely Kirk does not want everyone to know he and McCoy had a spat.

“I fail to see how such information is relevant to the case.”

“If you don’t want to share, then I don’t want to listen,” Jon retorts.

For a brief moment, Spock appears to have bitten down on something sour. Archer mentally congratulates himself on his victory. When he makes as if to pick up his pen again and return to his paperwork, the man unlocks his hands from behind his back.

Spock says slowly with a tinge of regret, “The decision to stay away from Jim was not mine.”

There’s an underlying story in that statement which raises Jon’s internal gage of interest from this sounds fun to this is vital to your existence, contrary to Spock’s claim of irrelevance. He leans forward. “Whose decision was it?”

Spock’s look implies Jon ought to know that answer. Archer thinks about it and comes to a surprising conclusion, one which ironically seems obvious in hindsight.

“Why, that little…” He can’t even think of a properly demoralizing name for Pike’s offspring. “Kirk ordered you to ignore him, and you’re telling me that you listened? Did it occur to you that the kid might have been out of his mind on a morphine drip at the time?”

Spock stares at Jon like Jon is far less intelligent than he anticipated. “Your assumption is false, Mr. Archer. Jim would never ask the people who care about him to pretend otherwise unless he had a logical reason to do so.”

An uneasy feeling starts in the pit of Archer’s stomach. Spock is correct to think him a fool. He should know that Kirk’s priority is rarely himself. No, Jim wouldn’t ask his friends to treat him like a social pariah unless in doing so they accomplished something much more worthwhile. And what could be more worthwhile to James T. Kirk than protecting those he cared about?

With a curse, Jon pushes away from his desk and stands up. He rakes a hand through his hand, finds the motion unsatisfying, and curses again.

Watching Archer with more interest now, Spock’s gaze follows the sheriff’s pacing in front of the filing cabinets along the wall.

Eventually Jon returns to his desk, having pinpointed exactly what he had been missing this entire time. “Scott,” he says. “Kirk has you protecting Scott.”

Spock inclines his head ever-so-slightly. “Jim was targeted as the leader of those who thwarted the terrorists but he is not the original betrayer.”

“Shit.” Have Nero’s men been leading him on a merry chase while they scour the city for their second victim? Jon abandons his desk again and jerks open the door to his office. He barks at the nearest deputy, “Get me the whereabouts of every person in the Merry Gang minus Number One!”

Spock moves to stand beside him, one eyebrow raised. “I have not heard of this… Merry Gang.”

Jon gives the man a not-so-amused smile. “Because you’re in it.”

The man’s eyebrow climbs higher towards his hairline.

“What else did you expect us to call a bunch of elves who took over the county jail on Christmas?”

“Who is Number One?”

Jon just snorts and kicks Spock out of his office. “Come back only when I call you and stay out of trouble in the meantime!” He slams his door shut and draws the window blinds.

Dropping into his desk chair, the sheriff puts his head in his hands. What the hell is wrong with him that a half-dead Kirk can anticipate the moves of an enemy before he can? Just when did he become so terrible at his job?

And how many more people are going to suffer because he can’t protect them?

~~~

The ceiling of the master bedroom isn’t entirely smooth, Chris discovers. The white paint disguises the slight bumps, dips, and ridges well enough in the daylight; but at night, as Pike studies it closely while lying awake in bed, he sees its many flaws.

Secretly, he is grateful to be alone, that it is one of Archer’s nights to stay close to work and sleep at his own apartment. As time goes on, it becomes more difficult to fake sleeping, particularly when the man lying next to Chris is so well-versed at exposing deception.

So, while Jon is eighty miles away burning the midnight oil, Chris stares at the ceiling and strains to hear the faint sounds coming from the baby monitor on his nightstand. Jim’s restful breathing—which should ease Pike’s mind—only serves to make him tenser without him knowing why. Jim sleeps more soundly now than he did in the initial weeks of his convalescence. There is only the occasional rustling of the bed comforter. There are no more moans of pain or tiny, agonized whispers of Dad that cause Pike’s heart to nearly beat out of his chest and send him rushing down the hallway to his son’s side. He can’t even tell if the nightmares which viciously plagued his boy this past month are still troubling Jim.

Maybe that is what makes it worse. Jim is not just healing in body; he’s gradually regaining his inner strength. That should be a wonderful thing, something Pike has been praying for all along. Instead he is simply terrified that Jim is going to announce he is ready to return to the apartment he shares with McCoy.

The cadence of Jim’s breathing changes. Sudden noise creates static scraping against the monitor’s speaker—and Pike jerks upright. He swings his legs over the bed and grips its edge tightly, on high alert.

The noise dies out quickly enough, and what he hears becomes recognizable as Jim slowly levering himself out of bed, likely to make his way to the bathroom. Chris closes his eyes and begins a silent count. It’s a deal he made with himself: if the count reaches two hundred and he hasn’t heard Jim’s return, he will check on his son. He mustn’t rush in blindly, for Jim had told him point-blank last week that he no longer wanted his father to check on him at night unless it seemed like a true emergency. That had been a warning from Kirk as much as a reassertion of independence.

His arms start to tremble from the after-effect of his adrenaline rush. The count reaches one-fifty.

Jim returns along with the soft crinkling of the bed sheet being pushed around and of bedsprings creaking.

Pike slumps back, not quite falling to the bed but no longer so rigidly upright. After a time, he resumes his prior position, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling.

How much longer will it be, he wonders, before Jim makes him take back the monitor? How much longer before he has to face letting the boy go?

Tremors continue to run through Pike’s arms. He places his hands over his stomach and wills himself to stop shaking.

How can he tell Jim that he can’t let him leave, that the world is no longer a place Chris is willing to trust with the life of his son?

Eventually the tremors subside. Chris still has no answers.

~~~

After Pike watches Jim pick at his breakfast, they tuck into the living room to watch early morning talk shows on television. Doreen calls from the office to check on them and to update him on new cases. He appreciates the woman’s concern and is grateful that Doreen knows he needs the distraction. She had chastised him into the third week of Jim’s convalescence, saying if his boy had had to call her up, as sick as he was, to complain about his father’s smothering behavior, then an intervention was sorely needed. Chris grudgingly agreed with her and since then has tried to stay aware of how he might be crowding Jim. Also, it doesn’t hurt that Doreen allows Chris the illusion he is still doing his job, even if that comes in the form of giving advice to the other detectives handling his cases while he is out on family medical leave.

When Jim falls asleep halfway through Dr. Phil, Chris carefully moves him from the couch to his bedroom. He tries not to think about how easy it is to carry a full-grown man, who shouldn’t feel fragile enough to float away. After settling Jim under a mound of blankets, Pike returns to the living room and turns off the television. He contemplates making a quick run to the grocery store but anxiety builds when he considers leaving Jim alone, so he calls Jon instead.

Archer doesn’t answer his office phone, and Chris tries the main line. The youngest deputy, whom Chris still thinks of as Chicken McNugget Deputy in his head, is on desk duty. The deputy is too harried for some reason to be polite. He nearly barks at Pike, “Sheriff’s gone to the Town Hall. Can’t you try his cell?”

Normally Pike wouldn’t tolerate that disrespectful tone from a subordinate but he is already guilty of keeping Archer away from his job on a regular basis, and Archer’s deputies probably don’t appreciate it.

“Never mind. It’s not important.” Chris grimaces, hating to add, “Just ask him to call me when he gets a chance.”

“Will do, Detective.” The deputy hangs up.

Chris drops the phone back into its cradle and makes eye contact with Porthos. “Kids these days.”

The dog simply stares back.

“Bathroom break?” Pike asks him.

Porthos’ tail wags once before he heads to the kitchen. Pike lets him out into the backyard and follows at a more leisurely pace. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he watches his breath crystallize in the morning air. Winter isn’t due for another two months but the evenings had turned cold as of late. The fall season seems to be passing by much too quickly. Standing there in the yard littered with dying leaves, Chris tries to remember where the year had gone.

Upon inspecting his favorite flowerbed, which had sadly turned brown, Porthos trots over to the gate in the fence and sticks his nose between the slates.

“No walk,” Pike calls to him. “Come back inside.”

Porthos looks over his shoulder at Pike.

Chris insists firmly, “No. Jon can take you later.”

With a whuff, Porthos sits down in front of the gate and looks expectantly at Pike, clearly planning to wait there until the man changes his mind.

Heading toward Porthos, Chris mutters, “Why is your dog so stubborn, Jon?”

“Inside,” he orders.

Porthos blinks.

Chris puts a bit of parental steel in his voice. “Now.”

The dog falls limp with a sigh. Pike is forced to pick him up and physically carry him back into the house. Their battle of wills over, Porthos nudges his empty food bowl across the kitchen floor until Chris relents and feeds him his mid-morning snack.

“I forgive you,” Chris tells his companion, rubbing the dog’s head.

Porthos pauses in eating to slobber on Chris’s hand, leaving behind bits of chewed kibble.

“Thanks, Porthos,” Pike says grimly, going over to the sink.

“Dad?”

He jerks around and instinctively begins to rush towards his son. “Jim, why are you up?”

Jim, leaning against the archway between the kitchen and living room, says nothing. His pose isn’t as casual as it once would have been, and to Pike it is very obvious that Jim is using the wall for support.

Chris washes his hands uncomfortably quick before striding to his son and insisting, “Go back to sleep.”

Jim stares at the dog instead of his father. “You don’t walk Porthos anymore.”

Chris freezes. It takes a moment before he can reply. “Because Porthos doesn’t need the exercise as badly.” He jokes awkwardly, “Don’t you remember how lazy he used to be?”

Porthos stops crunching his kibble in order to consider Pike.

Chris chuckles. “Sorry, buddy, but you know it’s true.”

“He misses the walks,” Jim interjects, voice quiet. “You should take him.”

“No,” Chris nearly barks. Immediately regretful, he gentles his tone. “Jon will look after him. It’s his dog after all.”

Jim nods and shuffles backwards. Chris has the sense that he has disappointed his son in some way. Hesitating briefly, he follows Kirk.

“I don’t need your help,” Jim says when Pike reaches out to support him.

Chris lets his hand drop to his side. “Okay, Jim. Okay.”

Jim sits gingerly on the edge of the couch. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I want to watch tv.”

Pike hands his son the remote and, after a minute of watching Jim flip through channels and ignore him, he returns to the kitchen. Porthos waddles past him and goes to the couch, settling down next to Jim. Jim runs a hand across the dog’s side, whereupon Porthos immediately rolls over for a belly rub that Kirk obligingly provides.

At least someone is allowed to stay close to his child, Chris thinks dismally. In the kitchen he contemplates what he can put together for lunch that won’t require turning on the stove and yet will be of enough sustenance for Jim. That thought reminds him to contact Archer.

He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and texts his boyfriend. Not a few seconds later and unsurprisingly, his phone rings. He answers with “You didn’t have to call.”

“You know I don’t text, Princess. What’s up?”

Despite having fought with Archer earlier, a tension uncoils in Pike at hearing the man’s voice. “We’re running low on food. How do you feel about a pit stop on the way home?”

Jon groans, but his response is affectionate. “Only for you would I brave that terrible place known as the grocery store. Just don’t tell me I have to do more than pick up the bags.”

“Yes, Jon, just the bags. I’ll order online, okay?”

“Thank god.”

“If only I’d known your domesticity skills were somewhat lacking,” Chris deadpans.

“Hey, I think I’m docile enough.”

Pike almost laughs. “That’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?” challenges his boyfriend. “Listen, sugar plum, as lovely as it is talking to you, I should go. I’ve got a couple of councilmen about to blow their gaskets because I’m not paying attention to their horse shit about raising taxes to fund our highways. We all know most of that money won’t see the inside of the city coffers.”

“Jon, please tell me those men aren’t sitting in front of you right now.”

“Of course they are, and turning a hilarious shade of purple too!”

Chris rubs a hand against his chest. “You realize they can sabotage you during the re-election in a couple of years.”

“Yeah, yeah, heard that threat before. Bye now, Princess. I’ll get your groceries. Kisses.“

Receiving a dial tone, Chris takes the cell phone from his ear and looks at the device, bemused. Despite knowing Jonathan for years and years, he still can’t figure out how the man has managed to stay a county sheriff for more than a decade. Maybe the councilors realize it is men like Archer who keep them honest. Maybe.

It could also have something to do with blackmail, which sounds more like a tactic Jonathan would employ when dealing with politicians.

Mood improved, Pike makes a fresh pot of coffee and opens the morning’s newspaper, deciding that he needs to stay aware of what is currently happening in his area too.

~~~

Lunch is a monosyllabic affair. It isn’t until Pike tries to force an afternoon snack on Jim that his son shows signs of revolt.

Arms crossed, Jim glares at his father. “I’m not hungry.”

“It doesn’t matter. This is probiotic. You need to take it.” Chris shoves the yogurt cup back into the boy’s hands.

“No, I don’t,” comes the argument. Jim drops the cup—thankfully sealed—to his bed. “I don’t like yogurt.”

Pike nearly pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jim…”

“Jesus, Dad, don’t you have anything else to do, anywhere else to be?”

Chris stares in silence at his son for a long time then answers, “I’m going to pretend you never said that, Jim.”

Jim flushes.

Chris picks up the yogurt cup and sets it on the nightstand along with a spoon. His voice is flatter than usual as he stands up. “I laundered your blankets. Do you want them back, or are you planning to suffer without them to make a point?”

Jim’s gaze drops away, and he picks at the bed sheet covering his legs. Pike doesn’t have to touch the young man’s skin to know how cold he must be. It is easy to tell Jim’s condition by the shivers the boy had been trying to suppress during his mutiny.

Despite the protective urge to take charge, Chris waits because he wants to hear the answer.

“You win,” Jim whispers, still refusing to look at him.

Pike closes his eyes. “Jim…”

“I said you win.”

“Jim,” Chris says again, sounding as weary as his son does, “why are you acting like this? I’m only trying to help you.”

“I keep telling you I don’t need help but you won’t leave me alone.”

…leave me alone.

Pike nearly has to sit back down when the room takes a slow turn. He locks his kneecaps out of habit, suddenly glad that Jim isn’t watching him. “Son,” he begins, has to stop to swallow hard. The dizzy spell slowly fades.

Wordlessly Jim picks up the yogurt cup and peels back its seal. The act is a clear dismissal, not a concession.

Chris backs out of the room and turns blindly for the other end of the house. He stops halfway down the hall and leans a shoulder against the wall, needing the moment to gather his strength and continue on. When he returns from the laundry room, he places the blankets on Kirk’s bed and takes away the empty yogurt cup.

“Shut the door,” Jim reminds him.

Pike closes it, wishing he knew when things had gone so very wrong. At some point in the past few days, the frustration in Jim’s voice had turned to quiet loathing.

With trembling hands, Chris picks up the house phone and starts to dial Jon’s cell. He stops before he punches in the second-to-last digit.

“Stupid, Pike, stupid,” the man chastises himself harshly. “Don’t panic. It’s okay for Jimmy to be angry with you. He doesn’t mean it.”

Chris repeats this mantra until he calms down and logic wins out. His job has often brought him into contact with victims of assault, and it’s not uncommon for those victims to become emotionally unstable for a while. Chris’s mistake has been putting off the call to his station’s on-site psychologist to ask for therapy recommendations.

And just like that, his anxiety is gone, burned away by anger. The anger makes him replace the phone in the cradle; the anger straightens his spine and curls his fingers into fists. The best solution, he thinks, is to take every hurt Jim needs to inflict in order to heal. Chris should bear that pain because he is the boy’s father. And then, afterwards, he can prove to Jim that not only can he stick with him through thick and thin, but that he can fix their other problems too.

Especially when such problems are lowly street trash terrorizing innocents. It will be a matter of time before one of the thugs reappears, and when he does, Pike plans to wring out of him the name of every person who laid a hand on his son. Then he will send the fool back to his boss with the message that Detective Pike is coming for their heads.

Chris rouses from his vengeful thoughts when a cold nose nudges his hand. He looks down to find Jon’s dog trying to get his attention. “Down, boy,” he says.

Porthos drops back to his haunches and tags his wail.

“What do you want?” he questions the dog. “Bathroom?”

Porthos stops wagging his tail.

“Food?”

This time Porthos cocks his head.

There is really only one other thing that is important to Porthos. “Naptime?” Chris guesses.

A string of drool falls from the side of the beagle’s mouth to the carpet. Porthos blinks owlishly before looking away and staring intently across the living room.

Sometimes Chris wished Jon’s dog could talk. He doesn’t know the meaning behind all of Porthos’s little cues.

As he reaches down to hoist the dog up into his arms, Chris finally catches sight of what has the dog’s attention—and it momentarily freezes him. The shadow outside the living room window is distinctly human-shaped.

On auto-pilot, Pike retrieves one of the baseball bats placed strategically throughout the house (the only weapons he can use since Archer locked up his deadlier ones) and skirts around the furniture to the side of the window. The shadow stands still for a few minutes more before it begins to edge out of sight. Pike uses the end of his bat to gently lift the curtain’s edge and spies a stooped figure in a dark jacket and jeans skirt around the corner of the house.

He’ll try the back door, Pike decides. Too obvious to enter by the front.

Years of training warn Chris to pick up the phone and dial the station for backup. His lingering rage insists that he can take this daring intruder on his own. He won’t even need the baseball bat, just his bare hands around the bastard’s throat.

During Pike’s moment of indecision, Porthos had moved to the kitchen. He barks twice in rapid succession.

Porthos is not a dog who enjoys the sound of his own voice. Chris has heard him grumble like an old man, whine pitifully for treats, and make satisfied groans as he settles in Pike’s recliner for his daily nap; only once since Porthos became a fixture of Chris’s life has Porthos made a show of himself. (Of course, that particular session of howling is hopefully never be repeated.) Therefore the barking is unexpected, unsettling, and from Pike’s perspective, all the urging he needs to make his decision.

Suffice to say, Pike’s haste to the kitchen—bat at the ready as he flings open the back door—is for naught. The man on the stoop reels back in surprise. Porthos pokes his nose around Chris’s legs and barks happily one final time.

“McCoy?”

Jim’s boyfriend doesn’t reply right away.

Chris realizes why and lowers his bat.

“Hi,” says Leonard cautiously.

Chris stands back and opens the door wide in invitation. McCoy comes up the steps but stops at the threshold to the kitchen. Wagging his tail, Porthos sniffs at McCoy’s sneakers.

“Some guard dog you are,” complains Leonard to Porthos.

“He did bark,” Chris points out.

“It wasn’t a scary bark.” Leonard studies Pike, then, in silence.

Pike makes his own assessment of the man in front of him. “You look terrible,” he decides.

“You look worse,” McCoy replies dryly. Pulling one hand from of a jacket pocket, he holds out a white bag. “These should help.”

Chris doesn’t take the bag, for it’s a prescription of some kind, and instead turns away to lean the baseball bat against a chair at the kitchen table. “You should have told me you were coming. I could have hurt you, McCoy.”

The young man shrugs one shoulder carelessly. “I wasn’t planning on coming over. It just sort of happened.”

Driving close to one hundred miles out of one’s way does not just happen, and they both know it. Pike accepts the answer that isn’t actually an answer. “Do you want to come in?”

McCoy lowers his gaze and shakes his head, once again falling silent.

Damn, thinks Chris. Jim and Leonard’s argument must have been a serious one. Chris had tactfully not eavesdropped at the time because Jim had shut his bedroom door as a clear message that whatever he had to say to McCoy didn’t need an audience. Ten minutes later, an angry Leonard had stormed from Kirk’s bedroom and left the house without a farewell to anyone.

That had happened one week ago. Pike is rather surprised McCoy had managed to stay away so long.

He makes a snap decision, then, and shoos Porthos away from the door. Then he takes McCoy’s arm and hauls him backwards from the threshold and down the stairs to the backyard. Stumbling, Leonard tries to keep up with him.

When Chris lets the young man go, Leonard jerks away and turns to face him, paler than before. He says unsteadily, “Well, I guess that puts me in my place.” For a moment, something that might be called heartbreak passes across McCoy’s face. “I wasn’t trying to intrude. I won’t come back.”

Leonard starts to move around him. Pike blocks his path.

“Don’t be an idiot. I’m not throwing you out. I’m giving you a chance to explain yourself.”

Following yet another minute of dogged silence, as Leonard seems barely able to raise his head, Chris sighs and closes the distance between them to place his hands on McCoy’s shoulders. “Leonard, look at me.”

“Can’t,” whispers McCoy, his voice unusually strained.

Chris says with understanding, “Okay then, just listen. I know whatever happened between you and Jim is your business, but—”

“I’m not supposed to be here.” Leonard shudders under Chris’s hands.

“What do you mean?” Chris asks in a sharper tone.

“Mr. Pike…” McCoy’s throat works. “Jim broke up with me.”

Chris is too shocked at first to reply. Leonard sags against him like a deflated balloon.

“That can’t be right,” Chris argues. “I know how crazy my son is about you. He wouldn’t be able to just… end it.” And never tell me, he almost amends. “Leonard, what did he actually say?”

“He told me not to come back.” Leonard lifts his head a little, looking miserable. “What else could that mean?”

Chris answers grimly, “Not what you think it means.”

“He won’t talk to me.”

“Then I’ll talk to him,” Jim’s father promises.

Leonard nods hesitantly. After an awkward moment, he steps away from Pike and says, “Sir?”

“Chris,” Pike sighs. “Just call me Chris.”

But McCoy shakes his head. “I haven’t earned that right yet, Mr. Pike.”

Chris thinks Leonard has, a hundred times over, but knows better than to argue. “What is it?”

“Is Jim… okay?”

That’s a loaded question, and Pike isn’t certain how to answer. He goes with, “Same as before.”

McCoy looks tired. “I know he doesn’t want to see me, but I need… I mean, could you… keep me updated on his recovery?” He sounds so young when he asks, “Can I call you?”

Chris’s heart goes out to Leonard, along with a large portion of guilt. He was a fool to think the boys’ fight had been a minor squabble, should have known that when Leonard didn’t turn up for a week it was due to something serious. “Please keep in touch, Leonard, and I’m sorry I haven’t contacted you before now.” Yes, he needs to be more vigilant than ever.

“Thanks, Mr. Pike.” McCoy shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, frowning deeply but looking slightly less worn around the edges. “I suppose I have to get back.”

Chris studies the circles under the young man’s eyes in a different light and suspects he isn’t the only one unable to sleep.

Leonard ducks his head as if guessing Pike’s suspicion and heads toward the gate.

Chris calls to him.

McCoy glances back.

Sighing through his nose, Pike holds out his hand. “I’ll take that bag.”

The young man blinks for a second. Then understanding—and relief—lightens his expression. Removing the white sack from his pocket, Leonard hands it over. “Prescription’s strong,” he warns Pike. “Take one before bed. That should do the trick.” The gaze he runs over Pike is a little sharper, a little more clinical. “And don’t count on Jim not noticing.”

Chris thanks him for the medicine and the advice. His faint smile drops away the moment McCoy is out of sight.

Inside the house again, there is a moment in which Pike debates throwing the prescription bottle in the trash but in the end he hides it in the back of his bathroom’s medicine cabinet, unable to easily discard evidence that Leonard is looking out for him, even though it is likely McCoy’s roundabout way of looking out for Jim instead. Glancing at his bedside clock, he calculates the hours until the next problem of the day shows up.

“Jon’s coming home tonight,” he tells Porthos when he returns to the living room. “Move over, buddy.”

Porthos’s only effort at moving is stretching his toes. Pike scoops the dog up and resettles him in his lap. He begins a slow rocking motion of the recliner, which has the effect of making Porthos snore, while he thinks long and hard over the approach to take with Jim about McCoy. By the time Chris has an inkling of how to do it, he hears the roar of Archer’s truck and realizes belatedly that the rest of the afternoon had disappeared.

At the door, Jon greets Porthos with a smacking kiss before drawing Pike into a brief hug. Then the man booms unnecessarily, “Groceries await in yonder wagon!” and hastens back down the front steps of the house to retrieve said items from his truck.

Feeling strangely bereft, Chris lingers in the open doorway, watching Archer stride away. He shakes off the feeling and goes to help Jon with the bags of groceries.

~~~

Mealtime used to be awkward. Now Jon finds it soothing, particularly during times like these when he gets to watch Kirk pick the peas out of a pot pie. This amuses Jon, the knowledge of their shared disgust for anything green, until he notices that Pike looks a lot less happy about what his son is doing.

“Uh,” he remarks to Kirk, “maybe you should eat those.”

Jim ignores him, which is hardly an unusual response coming from him.

Pike, on the other hand, does not. “Jon has a point. Eat your peas, Jim.”

“How can you feed me something that you know I hate?” counters Pike’s son, still diligently divesting his tiny pot pie of all its nasty vegetables.

Chris’s mouth turns down slightly, and a sense of foreboding settles over Jon.

“Archer isn’t eating his peas,” Kirk points out.

Uh-oh. Jon had thought he had surreptitiously hidden them all in his napkin.

Jim flashes a look in his direction. “Check his napkin.”

The sheriff’s mouth drops open. “Kirk, are you reading my mind?“

A faint smirk touches the young man’s mouth.

Pike sets down his fork.

Bells of doom are suddenly ringing very loudly in Archer’s ears. He lifts his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Chris, you should know I can’t eat—”

“Jim,” Pike interrupts, “I couldn’t care less about what Archer does or doesn’t put in his mouth. I care about you.“

Jon lowers his hands and tries not to let the sting of Chris’s words show. He knows Pike doesn’t mean what he said the way it sounds.

“Then give me something I can stomach,” Jim bites back with belligerence, dropping his utensil to the table and pushing somewhat unsteadily to his feet.

Jon half-rises from his chair. “Wait a minute, Jim, don’t—”

The look Kirk gives him could flay skin from bone. “I don’t need either of you telling me what to do.”

Archer’s mouth snaps shut.

Jim hobbles from the table to the nearest wall, catches himself there before launching forward through the rest of the kitchen and into the living room.

As he rakes a hand through his hair, Pike suddenly looks very old and weary. “Damn.”

Jon sits down again. “I’m sorry, Chris. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Jon feels like it is. “I’m really sorry,” he reiterates.

“Jonathan, just… stop.” Chris leaves the table, then, carrying both his and Kirk’s unfinished meals to the sink.

Jon watches him scrape the food into the garbage disposal and flip it on.

This situation isn’t getting better for any of them. There should be healing after what happened but instead Pike’s family seems to be falling apart at the seams. Jon is unable to do anything except watch it happen—and even then he can barely tolerate being the bystander.

Why is he this damned useless?

He crumples up his napkin, forgetting about the peas inside and mashing them into goo. Cursing, Jon pitches the whole thing towards the nearby trash can—and misses his target completely.

Thunk.

Jon picks his head up off the table and lets it drop again.

Thunk.

A hand lands on the back of his neck.

“Hey,” Chris says to him, concerned, “what’s wrong?”

Everything, he doesn’t reply. “Not a thing, Princess,” he grunts. “Just a dumb old man being dumb and old.”

Chris moves his hand from Archer’s neck to his back and strokes it along the man’s spine. “You’re not so old.”

Jon can’t help but smile a little at hearing that. “What about the dumb part?”

“I’ll have to think on it.”

Jon turns to capture the soothing hand and cradles it for a moment. “Thanks.”

Pike has a strange expression. “For what?”

“For putting up with me, to start with.” He kisses the warm knuckles. “For letting me stay. For being a good man.”

Chris huffs. “Now you’re just trying to seduce me.”

He asks in his best seductive voice, “Is it working?”

Pike gives him a wry smile. “Wash the dishes and I’ll think on that too.”

Offering up a sloppy salute, Jon hurries to the sink and rolls up his sleeves. Pike disappears through the archway.

Dropping his hands to either side of the sink, Archer leans forward, closes his eyes, and breathes a long sigh of relief. He had come too close to getting caught. That’s his truly stupid move.

If Christopher has even an inkling that his boyfriend is unhappy, he will place the blame on himself. Jon can’t have that, won’t have it, for Pike is already weighed down by too much guilt (despite Archer trying to assure him that Jim’s suffering is not his fault).

And, damn, but Kirk isn’t helping, is he?

Jonathan has do something about that. He is not the boy’s father; he is hardly even a friend. But that can’t matter. Jim needs to stop pushing both family and friends away.

Jon’s eyes snap open. He recalls yesterday’s conversation with Spock.

Pushing his friends away… to protect them.

Pushing his father away.

To protect him.

Oh shit, Archer thinks, the incongruencies suddenly too clear. Kirk worries about Pike when Pike isn’t with him, yet he acts like he can’t wait to get away when the man is around.

As someone who has been chasing after this particular truant for years, Archer knows all too well that Kirk always has a plan. Therefore the only conclusion to draw is quite a simple one: Jim must be acting on some grander scheme. He has precisely defined each little action he needs to take in order to accomplish his objective, not least of which Archer already knows is putting a protective detail around Montgomery Scott. Does it also include alienating the one person determined to shield him from the big, bad world?

Two people, actually.

But McCoy hasn’t returned here since that fight.

Jon turns on the faucet to high, hoping to give the appearance he is actually washing dishes while buying himself time to consider all that he knows in a methodical fashion.

Porthos nudges his boot.

“I’m thinking,” he informs the dog.

The dog lays his head over Archer’s foot with a huff that Jon knows to mean about time you figured it out.

Time passes. One thing stays with him as he muses, something that truly sets him on edge: the knowledge that Jim Kirk, no matter how crazy his plans can be, can’t be stopped once he has started down the path, and only rarely diverted. Jonathan’s best hope is to insinuate himself into the action for damage control.

And, somehow, he will have to accomplish the task as slyly as Kirk himself.

Next Part

Related Posts:

• Goodbye, Holidays (5/5) – from February 26, 2016
• Goodbye, Holidays (4/5) – from February 17, 2016
• Goodbye, Holidays (3/4) – from February 8, 2016
• Goodbye, Holidays (1/3) – from December 30, 2015

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