Unconditional Love, a star trek: 2009 fanfic

Author's Note: This story deals with mature themes. Many of the scenarios in this story are true, with minor tweaks to make them fit the Star Trek universe. I do not mean for this to be a Winona-bashing fic. Please do not leave me reviews filled with Winona-bashing. That is not the purpose of this story. The purpose of this story is to look at a very painful situation through a lens of compassion. It is intended to inspire.

--Alanis Morissette , "Perfect"

Jim has never fully understood his mother.

Oh, he understands that she's been broken. Irreversibly damaged by the sudden and violent loss of her husband. He knows that she's lived in grief-stricken agony for the past twenty years.

He also knows, with a pang of bitterness, that sometimes she can't even look at her own son without seeing him, and in those moments, her eyes are haunted with such yearning that he can barely stand to meet her gaze.

He is not his father.

And yet, his whole life, she has tried to mold him and shape into a form that resembles a man he never knew.

It was always, "What would your father say?" or, "If your father were here he'd…." or, "Think of your father, Jim."

Jim does think of his father. Often. But how could he know what the man would say, or do, or think—the man is dead.

All his life, Jim has been measured against the standard of a dead man. And he always seems to come up short.

But anyway, why should he care about the opinion of this dead man who caused his mother so much pain?

When he was real young, he would wake up in the middle of the night to her sobs. And his little hands would clench into fists and he would not cry. No, he would be angry. Angry at this ghost of a man who was the reason why mommy was always so sad.

In some rational recess of his mind, he knows that she'd only done what she thought necessary. The best she could. That she'd pushed and pulled him so hard because she felt a deep responsibility to that man to turn him into something respectable. Something befitting the sacrifice made so that he and so many others might live.

There also must have been immense pressure on her to be okay. A suddenly single mother who had to leave her well-paying job in Starfleet (not that they didn't live comfortably off of his dad's death benefits) to raise the boy who'd been born on the same day her husband had been killed. Having to weather the pitying looks of well-meaning friends, co-workers, and awestruck strangers. Her husband had saved 800 lives, for crying out loud. He was a hero. Yet she was alone and scared and broken. And she had to be strong for herself and for him.

She stayed at home. She sacrificed the rest of her career in Starfleet, to raise him. All because she felt she owed something to that man. As if, by making Jim into something his father would have been proud of, she would somehow make up for the fact that he died.

He knows this was why she did it for two reasons. One is Sam. Sam was 2 years older than him, and had been staying on Earth with Winona's brother's family when he was born. It was uncommon for expecting female Starfleet officers to stay in service for the duration of their pregnancy—but Winona had been so committed to her job that she found a loophole in Starfleet protocol and stayed on. She was that stubborn, that dedicated. And she hadn't stayed at home for Sam. She'd only stayed at home for him.

Some might think that Winona gave up her career because she couldn't stand to be in space knowing her husband died there. Jim knows better. He knew it from the nostalgic way she talked about her Starfleet days and from the way she'd spend hours at night on the back porch just staring up at the stars.

He also knew it, because she'd made it very, very clear to him. This is the second reason.

"I gave up everything for you Jim, everything! And this is how you thank me?" She'd spat at him many times over the years when he'd disappointed her.

"You think I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom? You think I like to cook and clean and pick up after you every day? No—I gave up my life for you." And her voice was hard and resentful and Jim wondered why she stayed, if it was such a big damn sacrifice.

But the sudden death of her husband had left Winona a fearful, insecure shell of a woman. And it was her son who paid the price.

Winona was very protective of Jim. Fearful of any and all influences, real or imagined, that might tarnish George Kirk's son.

In fact, Jim was rarely allowed out of Winona's sight.

In the mornings before school she was there, and when he got home from school in the afternoon she was there, chain smoking at the kitchen table and asking him how his day was.

He was rarely (and he could count the number of times using two hands) allowed to go to friends' houses. Not unless he called as soon as he got there.

One time he forgot, and she called him up and angrily demanded he get his butt back home. He'd been mortified at the age of 8 to have to leave his buddy's house only fifteen minutes after arriving.

Today he knows that she did such things because she feared for him, but back then he didn't understand.

Eventually his friends stopped asking him to do things, because they quickly learned he wouldn't be allowed. And his resentment seeded and grew.

Things were exacerbated when Frank came into the picture. Frank quickly made himself at home. He had his own routine—get up, go to work, come home, watch holovids until dinner, then watch more holovids until bedtime. And God help anyone who interrupted Frank's holovid time.

Jim never knew what his mom saw in Frank. All she would tell him was, "he's a good, stable, man". He never understood. Especially when they would fight.

Especially when they would fight over him.

It would start out with something simple, like Jim asking if he could go somewhere, and his mother would tell him no. Then Jim, like any other child, would ask for a reason, which she would not give. She had no reason, only a fierce desire to protect him from bad influences, so that he would grow into a good man, like his father.

She didn't know that inside Jim was suffocating.

Frank would say, "Aw, let him go, Winona."

And she would flip, lips curling, teeth bared. "You know what, Frank? You're an asshole. You always do this. You always take his side and try to override me." Her words would come out and crackle the air like static electricity.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, all's I said was…." Frank would reply in a raised voice. And it would be on.

Jim would slink away, feeling guilty. And the fight would end with Frank slamming things and screaming at the top of his lungs that his mother was "psychotic bitch", and his mother would end up in tears, chain smoking at the kitchen table in the dark.

Jim would go into the kitchen and find her later, and in the darkness (for she preferred sitting in the dark) she would wound him with, "You just had to start something, didn't you? You're always trying to come between us because you don't respect us."

"I do—" Jim would protest.

"Shut up!" She'd snap, snuffing out a cigarette in her ashtray. "I don't want to hear anymore of your excuses. I try to raise you right and all you do is fight me all the way. You never listen. You don't care. All you want is your own way. Well I'm sick of it. You can leave, for all I care."

And her faced would be scrunched up, her mouth turned down in an ugly frown. And Jim would wonder what he could have done to be deserving of such hate. And yet he knew. He was George Kirk's son.

"Mom," Jim would try again.

"I don't want to hear it. You know if we get a divorce it will be because of you? Your father would be so ashamed."

And he would burn inside—burn and burn and burn, until he lay his head on his pillow, and the tears would squeeze past his clenched eyelids.

Oh there were good times in his childhood. There were barbeques and board games and vacations. But it was like walking on eggshells, or a tightrope. Jim learned to expect that at any minute, any good time could be ruined with one wrong word, one misunderstanding.

One time Jim got into an argument with Winona and it interrupted Frank's holovid.

Frank went into a rage and beat on him with his fists as Jim curled next to the couch in the living room, protecting his face and head with his arms. It didn't do any permanent damage, but Jim never forgot the helpless rage he'd felt in that moment. For the only reason Frank had lost it was because they'd interrupted his holovid, and Frank just wanted Jim to shut up and quit talking back to his mother so he could have peace and quiet. It was stupid. So stupid.

One too many fights like that (and it was a regular occurrence) and Jim just stopped trying. He hated school. He hated home. Sam never got the same treatment. Sam did whatever he pleased and everyone was happy with him. And even if they weren't, Sam still did what he pleased with no consequences.

One afternoon, when Jim was 12, his mother was on a shopping excursion off-planet. Frank had ordered Jim out to wash and wax his 20th century antique of a car.

And as Jim stood there in the sun scrubbing away, he thought back over the fights and the hurtful words, and everything built up inside of him until he exploded.

"Shut up."

"Stop whining."

"Get your fat ass up off that couch and start doing some chores around here."

"[Slap] Don't you talk back to me! This is my house. I'm the parent; you're the child."

"You never listen."

"I can't stand you."

"Get away from me."

"All you like to do is start arguments."

"You make me sick to my stomach."

"Just go and do what you want because I don't care anymore."

"Your father would be so ashamed."

That was the day he drove the car off the cliff. It was crazy and exhilirating and the start of something new. Jim learned he could push himself to the brink and still make it back okay.

That night was the first time (not the last) his mother told him she hated him.

"Never mind. I hate you. Get away from me."

Sam ran away a few weeks later. Jim felt abandoned and helpless as he watched his mom sit in that same damn spot at the table, smoking one cigarette after another and staring blankly off into the distance.

He remembers his 16th birthday. He'd never really celebrated his birthday before, but this year his mom insisted on throwing him a party.

Only he'd made the mistake of walking downstairs for a glass of water the night before, when his mom was at the kitchen table wrapping his present.

She'd flipped. "You just had to ruin it, didn't you? You came down here deliberately. Well, screw birthdays! I didn't have to go to all this trouble just to have you ruin it. You can just not have any presents for all I care!"

And he'd responded in anger and hurt. "You don't make any sense, mom! Why would I come downstairs just to ruin my own birthday? That's ridiculous! I didn't know you were down here! I didn't even see what it was!"

"Yeah. You did," she retorted with a snarl.

"No I didn't!" And his voice rose with desperation of trying to tell her that he had merely come down for a glass of water.

And she yelled, "Don't you raise your voice to me, mister! I'll call the cops!"

And Jim lowered his voice and tried to reason with her again.

"Shut up," she cut him off. "I don't want to talk to you. I can't stand you anymore."

And Jim, open mouthed, had grabbed up his jacket from the back of the kitchen chair and left, slamming the door behind him.

He knew in his heart that she'd only been on edge because of the date. The date he had died.

But the problem with his mom, was that she never apologized. Never suggested she could have been wrong. Never admitted to hurting him. After every incident, she went on like nothing ever happened.

One time she could not find her wallet and accused him of stealing it. He'd firmly denied taking it.

"You're such a liar," she'd spat her usual venom. "I can't believe anything you say."

She and Frank had gotten into an argument after he came home (of course). And Frank had punished him to make her happy. And Jim had ended up in tears on his bed in his room.

Later that night, she'd called him downstairs. He'd leaned up against the wall, arms crossed, face expressionless.

She wouldn't look him in the eye as she pulled the wallet up from beside her on the couch.

"I found it," she'd said simply. "It had fallen behind the couch. Guess you didn't take it after all."

That was it. No apology. No nothing. And his heart had hardened like a rock.

Yet she was always crushing him. Crushing him down, making him fit into a box too small for him. It would not do.

Jim finally left when he was eighteen. Just up and walked out after coming to blows with Frank again.

He'd had enough. He would not live in that dysfunctional house anymore.

He bunked up with a friend he knew in town, ended up having several run-ins with the police due to his alcoholic escapades.

He was lost, in every sense of the word.

He began taking odd jobs to support his rowdy lifestyle. An electrician. A ranch hand. An equipment operator on a thousand-acre farm. He was good at anything he put his mind to. Then there were those ten months spent on an Alaskan crab fishing boat on the Bering Sea, after hitchhiking all the way to Point Lions, Alaska one cool August afternoon. That had gotten him enough money to buy his own apartment, and that beautiful ride of a motorcycle.

Things were looking…more stable, for Jim.

Then came that fateful night at the bar.

Captain Pike had looked at him with something akin to awe, and dared him to do better. He didn't asking Jim to be someone he was not. He merely asked him to be all that he could be. To use the potential inside of him. To live, rather than merely exist.

And so, one rainy night outside of a bar on the edge of Riverside, Iowa, Jim called his mother.

"Mom?"

"Jimmy?"

"I'm gonna join Starfleet."

Silence.

"Mom?"

"I heard you."

"I'm not doing it because it's what dad would've done or wanted. I'm doing it because it's what I want to do."

"Well, I hope you know what you're doing, Jimmy."

"I do. Love you mom," For he always, always said that, because he knew if he said it she'd be obligated to say it back. It gave him some measure of control. Some measure of normalcy.

"Love you too, Jim." And that was that.

His years at the academy were good ones. He met McCoy, his best friend. And Gaila, his on-again, off-again, girlfriend.

And his relationship with his mom seemed to improve, because she was pleased with what he was doing. For once in his life, what he wanted measured up with what she wanted. And things were good. Although deep inside he wondered what it would be like to have a mother who loved you no matter what you did. Did they even exist?

The summer after his first year at Starfleet Academy, he came home to visit. She asked him what he was learning and he told her about all of his classes, in detail.

He got to talking about his favorite class, 'Command Philosophies and Protocol'.

And then was berated for half an hour as she accused him of "talking down to her".

He'd left that night and grabbed a shuttle to Georgia, welcomed with open arms on the steps of his best friend's front porch the very next day.

One night early into their second year, Jim got plastered on some new brand of Romulan ale, and ended up telling McCoy all about his childhood.

"So whatta you think, man?" He'd asked with a drowsy chuckle, eyes distant. "That sound normal to you?"

"I think," McCoy replied, his voice slow and thick and sincere. "That you must be one helluva strong guy to have turned out as normal as you have after living with that kind of verbal and emotional abuse."

And Jim had stared at his friend, suddenly feeling quite sober. 'Verbal and emotional abuse' put a name to the dysfunction. A name he instinctively knew but didn't ever want to actually use, because that made it more real. It added a level of legitimacy to it. But to have someone else agree with him, to surmise the situation from a third-party standpoint and say, 'Yeah, that's not normal', was such a relief for Jim that he was rendered speechless for a moment.

Looking down, he said, "You know I always thought I was crazy. You know, that it was all in my head. That I was just too…sensitive or something."

He shrugged. "Maybe I was the problem."

"That's your mother talking," McCoy said sharply.

And that night Jim sobbed himself to sleep on his best friend's shoulder.

The thing about Jim, is that he is stubborn. He will never give up on his mom.

There are giant walls between them, and every time he breaks one down, another rises in its place. Something good tainted by another fight. A phone conversation ending with her hanging up on him as soon as he says something she disagrees with.

But Jim will never give up.

"Why?" McCoy asks him one day after a particular nasty phone call in which Jim's mom had blown up at him for typing on the computer at the same time as talking to her. That was a no-no. (It wasn't the real reason she'd been angry, of course. The real reason, he knew, was that she was pissed he wasn't coming home to visit over Spring break).

"Why, what?"

"Why give her the time of day? I don't get it."

Jim pauses, a thoughtful look coming over his features, and he tips back in his chair.

"Hurting people hurt people, Bones," he says, "You should know that."

"Yeah, but she's your mother!" Bones exclaims.

Jim nods pensively. "Yeah…she is." As if that was all there was to it.

There is silence for a long moment. And then Jim speaks again. "You don't give up on people, Bones."

And McCoy is left dumbstruck at the depth of loyalty of this man who'd been through so much. The thought occurs to him that maybe he has something to learn from this enigma that is James T. Kirk. It is at this moment Bones decides that, should Jim ever get a starship of his own, he will follow him to the ends of the universe and back.

Because that kind of loyalty is hard to find.

Jim still has a lot to learn.

He'd never blamed his mother. Not really. For he could trace all of her actions, her lashing out in pain, back to one incident in history that had scarred her for life.

His mother was broken. And he knows sometimes broken people don't mend.

And Frank? Frank was just an idiot who'd gotten pulled into the mess. A narcissistic loser with a short temper.

Jim doesn't blame Frank either.

No, Jim blames his father. This dead man who was the cause of so much heartache.

And Jim knows someday he'll have to face it; work through it. But for now, it is just easier to hate a dead man.

But Jim will never give up on his mother.

He sees her pain, her loneliness, her loss. And he refuses to let her push him away.

He'll always come back for more. Because he can take it. For her.

That will be his sacrifice.

End.

"Sometimes is never quite enough,
If you're flawless, then you'll win my love,
Don't forget to win first place,
Don't forget to keep that smile on your face,
Be a good boy,
Try a little harder,
You've got to measure up,
And make me prouder,
How long before you screw it up,
How many times do I have to tell you to hurry up,
With everything I do for you,
The least you can do is keep quiet,
Be a good girl,
You've gotta try a little harder,
That simply wasn't good enough,
To make us proud,
I'll live through you,
I'll make you what I never was,
If you're the best, then maybe so am I,
Compared to him, compared to her,
I'm doing this for your own damn good,
You'll make up for what I blew,
What's the problem...why are you crying?
Be a good boy,
Push a little harder now,
That wasn't fast enough,
To make us happy,
We'll love you just the way you are if you're perfect"

--Alanis Morissette