McCoy finished cleaning the kitchen and took a moment to rest his hips against the counter. He was aware that he was lingering unnecessarily in the room, but then he was a master at procrastination when it came to interpersonal issues. His apartment— if you could call it that— was small, equipped with only the bare essentials. Fine for just his needs, but with an unexpected guest, the cramped Academy-issue dorm room made it impossible to find private personal space, which he desperately needed. He'd released Jim from the hospital two days earlier with the stipulation that Jim stay with him for a week. Now those two days felt like two years.

"I don't need a damn babysitter, Bones. I'll be fine." Dressed in civvies and leaning heavily on the edge of the bed, Jim stared at him with stubborn blue eyes, his jaw set.

McCoy stared right back, crossing his arms over his chest. "It wasn't a suggestion, Jim. It's my place or you stay here."

The ultimatum hadn't gone over well, but Jim was hardly in a position to argue. The rest of the cadets were still on break, Jim's former dorm was closed and empty, and McCoy insisted on supervision of some kind, after the rollercoaster ride of Jim's hospital stay.

Jim was the worse evaluator of his own health. There was no way on god's green Earth McCoy was going to trust the kid to reach out and ask for help if things went south. Jim was still recovering. He was weak, tired easily, and his leg was still unstable when stressed. In addition, McCoy was continuing to perform percussion therapy twice a day in order to clear Jim's lingering cough. They had just finished the morning session, which had set off Jim's irritable mood.

"Cough it out, Jim." McCoy kept the continuous clapping going on Jim's back.

Face down on the couch with a pillow stuffed under his chest, Jim's hands were locked in a white-knuckled grip on the cushions. His eyes were squeezed tight against the pain the percussions caused, but he was helpless to stop the coughing and expelling that followed in the wake of McCoy's rhythmic pounding. When it was done, he opened a weary eye. "I thought I wouldn't need this anymore, once I got off the oxygen."

McCoy kept a comforting hand on Jim's back. "When you don't spend half the night coughing instead of sleeping, we can stop."

McCoy rubbed his eyes, recalling the sullen mood that had followed on the heels of the percussion therapy session. Jim had been moody and withdrawn for the remainder of the morning, choosing to bury his nose in a book— an honest-to-god paper book— from his personal belongings, instead of talking. McCoy had left him alone, knowing that a poor night's sleep was responsible for a great deal of Jim's irritability.

When lunchtime approached, Jim responded to McCoy's inquiries about what sounded good by declaring he wasn't hungry. Rather than arguing with him, McCoy decided to entertain Jim, and hopefully pique his appetite, by showing off his culinary skills. The ploy had worked, and instead of refusing to eat, Jim had carefully perched on the stool at the miniscule counter and watched McCoy assemble a simple lunch, eventually intrigued enough to engage in civilized conversation for the first time in two days.

With a sigh, McCoy exited the kitchen. Despite the silence, he knew Jim hadn't gone far. As he entered the living area, his gaze fell on the figure on the couch. He was pleased to see Jim curled on his side, fast asleep. At last. Picking up a nearby throw, he carefully covered Jim, then made his way to the small desk flanking the wall. With a quiet keystroke, he clicked the terminal on, and requested his messages. Next year's Academy schedule had been posted yesterday and he hadn't had a chance to review it yet.

An hour later, he sat back. Year two of the curriculum looked far more interesting than his first year. The focus would be on non-human anatomy and physiology, field medicine, and space-related stress factors. Those classes, along with a healthy hospital surgical schedule and the required medical research project, would keep him busy. Busy enough, he hoped, to forget about Atlanta and his former life, a life he'd had no choice but to leave behind.

Occasionally, against his better intentions, he wondered what he'd be doing if Jocelyn hadn't made it impossible for him to stay, if he hadn't joined Starfleet. Sitting in his tiny dorm room on the San Francisco campus was a world away from his past as a respected, top-notch surgeon at Atlanta General. Not only had he had a thriving and satisfying career at one of the best trauma hospitals in the country, but he had enjoyed living in a luxury condo that overlooked the lush, green park, a very visible sign of his professional success. Jocelyn was enjoying that condo now, along with every penny he'd earned to pay for it and the other trappings of their affluence.

He was staring at the screen, contemplating the intelligence of his decision-making choices when a new icon on the bottom of his screen caught his attention. Frowning, he leaned forward and touched the icon. It was Jim's personal comm. Someone— Pike most likely— had transferred it to his terminal. Not surprisingly, the comm access screen was locked. McCoy frowned. Pike wasn't taking any chances with Jim's privacy, not that McCoy would have pried. He knew better, even if Pike didn't. Jim guarded his personal life like an armed guard at the Federation treasury.

Transferring Jim's comm was certainly an interesting move, strategy-wise, on Pike's part. Aside from ensuring that Jim would be able to review his evaluations from his instructors and next year's schedule, there were also likely to be personal comms to be read. And not just from his fellow classmates and pining bedmates.

"I wouldn't be waking you up in the middle of the night if my son would take my comms, Doctor."

Shit. Was this another one of Pike's moves to get Jim and his mother to talk?

He stared at the icon, a sinking feeling settling into his gut. As if Jim's mood wasn't bad enough already.

Jim felt sluggish and thick-headed as he awoke. It took him a moment or two to shed enough of the sleep-fog to realize where he was.

The smells were his first clue that he wasn't in the hospital. He'd grown accustomed to waking in the hospital to the sharp, dry tang of disinfected, sterile air. A warm current of air, carrying scents of sunshine and lemon and vanilla, caressed his cheek, causing him to blink. Nothing had smelled this good in the hospital.

And then, a switch flipped, and he remembered: Bones. He had stretched out on the sofa after lunch, intending to just rest his eyes while Bones cleaned up the kitchenette. He must have fallen asleep. Shit. And Bones had put a blanket over him like he was a goddamn baby that needed to be tucked in.

Jim clumsily untangled himself from the blanket and swung his feet to the floor. He yawned, feeling half-awake as he ran a hand through his rumpled hair, then rested his heavy head in both hands as he tried to chase the sleep from his torpid brain. A weak coughed followed on the heels of his yawn and his shoulders shook as a spasm of coughing ensued. It was long minutes before he raised his head. McCoy sat in the chair opposite the couch, head down, studying the PADD in his hand.

"How lo—" The words caught, rough-edged, in his dry throat and he coughed again to clear it, feeling the sharp pull in his chest and ribs. "How long have I been asleep?"

McCoy glanced up at him over the PADD. "About three hours."

Three hours. He looked through the narrow windows, both of which were open to the warm, afternoon air, at the lowering sun. "You should've woken me." He tossed the blanket aside in irritation and stood, swaying slightly before regaining his balance.

"Why? You got somewhere to go?"

He threw McCoy an annoyed look. McCoy knew damn well he didn't. "How am I supposed to get better if I sleep all day?"

McCoy set his PADD on his lap and focused on Jim. "That's how you get better, genius. Your body needs rest and food to heal. Speaking of which, I made a lemon pound cake while you were sleeping. It's my grandmother's recipe. How about a slice and a glass of milk to tide you over until dinner?"

Jim ignored him. Walking, or rather limping, he made his way to the bathroom. Sleeping all day wasn't going to build up his strength or get his leg back into shape. He needed to be ready for the rigors of hand-to-hand and Survival Training, and whatever else was next on his schedule. If something as simple as staying awake for four hours tired him, he'd never pass those courses in his present condition.

After emptying his bladder, he stood over the sink and took the opportunity to clean up a little. Studying his thin face in the mirror, he cringed. Christ, he looked pale. Faint bruises marred the skin under his eyes, and he looked drawn and frail, like he had one foot in the grave.

No wonder Bones is worried.

His leg started to throb, and he shifted his weight to his good leg. He took a deep breath, which made him cough again, and he tried to muffle the sound of the spasm against his forearm. The pulmonary treatments were brutal, even if they did make it easier to breathe, and he wanted to avoid any more of them. If Bones heard him coughing… When he finally regained control, he rubbed his hands over his face in an attempt to banish some of his pallor, and headed to the kitchen, hoping a glass of cool water would help his cough.

He stared at the golden loaf on the cooling rack next to the sink, lost in thought. Why the hell was he so tired all the time? Why wasn't he hungry? He knew he'd lost weight from the way his pants gaped at his waist above sharp hipbones. And the jutting cheekbones he'd just seen in the bathroom mirror were an even more visible sign of his lack of fitness. Fuck. Could he be anymore pathetic?

He finished the glass of water, and turned, still deeply sunk in his dark thoughts, only to be startled by McCoy's looming presence. His friend was standing by the counter at the entrance to the tiny kitchen, watching him with an impassive gaze.

"What?"

McCoy shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm just impressed your hydrating without me having to hold you down and pour it down your throat."

Jim snorted and walked past McCoy. "That hardly sounds like an approved medical treatment. Anyway, you don't have to monitor me every second. I can take care of myself."

"Right," McCoy drawled sarcastically.

Jim huffed out a breath and hesitated when he entered the living room, despite the ache in his leg. Disgruntled with the situation on every level, he walked over to the desk and the terminal, instead of reclaiming his spot on the sofa.

"What do you think you're doing?" McCoy asked, a wary look in his eyes.

"Pike said he'd arrange to have my comm forwarded here," Jim said, pointing to the desk. "I'm going to check my schedule for next semester."

McCoy stepped toward him, lips pursued. "How about some fresh air instead?"

Jim turned and eyed McCoy suspiciously. "Seriously? You're going to let me go outside? Aren't you afraid I'll catch a cold or stub my toe?"

"You already have pneumonia," McCoy said impassively. "And you're not going out alone, so I'll catch you if you stub your toe, and start to fall." He eyed Jim. "C'mon, Jim, a little warm air and sunshine would do you a world of good."

Jim considered the offer. Fresh air and walk outside sounded better than good. It sounded like heaven. His comms could wait.

McCoy woke to the low guttural moans of distress.

Sleeping flat on his back on his side of the bed, he blinked as the sounds penetrated his slowly waking brain. Another soft, stuttering groan brought him fully awake, and he turned toward Jim, who was asleep next to him.

The young man lay curled on his side, covered in sweat and breathing rapidly, his limbs jerking in response to his dream. Raising up on an elbow, McCoy deliberated whether or not to wake Jim. The kid had nearly fallen asleep over his plate, completely exhausted by their walk. After barely eating any of his dinner, McCoy had rousted Jim from the couch and half-carried him to bed. Jim had fallen into a deep sleep almost before he was horizontal, not even twitching when McCoy had undressed him enough to sleep comfortably.

The thought of disturbing that well-earned and needed slumber, no matter how troubled it seemed, caused McCoy to pause with his hand hovering over Jim's shoulder. He didn't have to deliberate for long. Jim suddenly stilled and fell silent. His breathing slowed, and the muscles in his face softened into the serene expression of peaceful sleep. Within moments, Jim was once again deeply and peacefully sleeping. Relieved, McCoy lowered himself carefully onto the mattress, and closed his eyes, falling back to sleep between one breath and the next.

He didn't know how long he'd slept when a blow to his jaw woke him with a jarring force. The numb ache in jaw barely registered when he heard Jim.

"No! Sam!" Jim jerked, flinching, his elbow striking McCoy's shoulder this time.

McCoy jackknifed awake in bed, instantly alert, his heart pounding. He stared down at the man next to him, trying to get a clear look at Jim's face in the dimly lit room, as he thrashed.

"Sam!" The desperate call sounded as if it was torn from the depths of Jim's soul, and it was immediately followed by a short, wracking sob.

Shit.

"Jim." This time McCoy didn't hesitate. "Lights 25%," he ordered and firmly shook Jim's shoulder, alarmed by the feel of the wet, sweat-soaked shirt beneath his palm. "Wake up, Jim."

"Don't," Jim begged, his face contorted into an expression of agony.

McCoy shook his shoulder again, intent on waking the man, when Jim suddenly sat up, arms flailing wildly. McCoy instinctively wrapped his arms around Jim to both comfort and contain. "It's all right, kid. Everything's okay. It's just a dream."

"Stop!" Jim shouted, struggling against McCoy's hold.

"Jim. Wake up! You're having a dream. You're safe, Jim." McCoy lips were close to Jim's ear as he spoke soothingly. He kept his arms locked around the younger man, trying to keep both himself and Jim from getting hurt as Jim struggled to escape whatever terror drove him, Jim's muscles rock-hard with tension. He continued to resist, trying to break McCoy's iron grip, and McCoy could hear him gasping for breath. "Jim! Wake up, kid. Everything's okay. It's just a nightmare." He pressed his chin to the top of Jim's head, offering comfort in any way he could. "You're safe, I promise. I've got you."

Emitting a sharp cry of anguish, Jim suddenly stopped struggling and opened dazed eyes. Gasping and shaking, he began to cough weakly, leaning into McCoy's embrace. He still seemed half asleep, his face contorted, as if the remnants of the dream still had a grip on him.

"Jim, are you okay?" McCoy asked quietly, watching Jim's face for signs of returning awareness. "You awake now?"

It took a long moment, before Jim nodded numbly. He tried to push away from McCoy's embrace, but his effort was weak, and his arms trembled. Cautiously, McCoy loosened his embrace and dropped his arms, freeing Jim. The young man didn't move, his limbs limp and unmoving, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. There was a look of confusion on his pale face.

"You all right?" McCoy asked, eyeing him closely in the dim lighting, trying to determine if Jim was fully awake and aware.

Jim's shirt was wet with sweat and clinging to him like a second skin. He nodded once, shivering. He looked gutted, obviously still trapped in the emotions of the nightmare.

McCoy pressed his hand to Jim's back, feeling the tremors wracking the kid's body. Christ, he was shivering like a newborn pup, and clearly in shock. But more worrying, Jim still hadn't said a word since awakening. "Jim, talk to me."

Jim's breathing had finally slowed to something approaching normal. He fell back onto the bed, turning on his side, his shoulders curled, and his spine curved. McCoy was familiar with that body language. It was Jim's way of saying 'Fuck off and leave me alone.' A short coughing fit followed the change in position, leaving Jim grimacing in distress. With eyes half-closed and unfocused, McCoy wondered at Jim's level of awareness.

"Jim?"

"What?" he asked numbly.

"Do you know where you are?"

Jim didn't look his way. When he spoke, his voice was flat and low. "Not in Iowa."

"No, not in Iowa." McCoy slipped a hand under the soaked tee and rubbed his back, mostly to ground Jim, but also to warm him. Jim's skin felt like ice. "You're gonna catch a chill in those wet things. You need to change."

Jim shrugged off his hand and pushed the covers away. Awkwardly swing his legs out of bed, he pushed up from the mattress with a grunting wheeze, then stood, swaying.

McCoy scrambled off the bed, hurrying to reach him. Before he could grab Jim's arm, Jim staggered forward, evading his touch, heading toward the bathroom. A moment later, the door slid shut.

McCoy remained frozen in place next to the bed, letting his own accelerated heartrate slow. Jesus. He'd never seen such a powerful reaction to a nightmare. Night terror was more likely. Jim's entire body had been vibrating and it'd taken the kid a while to wake up, as if the nightmare still clung to him with foul and sticky fingers. And who in the hell was Sam? Jim had asked for Sam in the hospital when he was delirious with fever. McCoy had reviewed Jim's personnel file and could find no reference to a Sam. Jim had never once mentioned that name to McCoy in the time he'd known Jim. Whoever Sam was, Jim held strong emotions for him.

Releasing a pent-up breath, McCoy considered his next move, not quite sure what to do, but knowing that he couldn't afford to appear unduly disturbed by what had just happened. He was Jim's doctor, for Christ's sake. When he heard the shower turn on in the bathroom, he sighed and rubbed his jaw, the stubble rasping in the silence of the room. The disheveled bed caught his eye. A freshly-made bed was something he could do for Jim, and he quickly took the opportunity to change the sheets.

He'd just finished when Jim emerged from the bathroom looking no better than when he'd entered— pale and shaken and utterly wrecked. He caught McCoy's gaze for a brief moment, his expression closed and remote. His gaze shifted to the bed and his mouth tightened. In an instant, he pivoted, limping out of the bedroom.

With a heavy sigh, McCoy followed. When he entered the living area, he saw Jim sitting on the couch, staring out the window. The living area lights had turned on in response to the movement, the brightness highlighting Jim's pallor, and the lines of pain bracketing his mouth and eyes.

"Lights, twenty percent," McCoy said quietly, ordering them down.

It was 0325 and the campus was still dark. Only the steady glow of the lampposts along the sidewalks of the common and the regular, red blink of the antennae on top of the Daystrom Building were any indication that life might exist outside this room.

McCoy halted a few meters from Jim. He fought the urge to pick up the blanket and cover Jim, who was still shaking slightly, but knew instinctively that the offer would be rejected. The kid really should go back to sleep. He needed it. But what kind of an asshole would tell a man who just woke from a nightmare to go back to sleep?

Feeling his own fatigue pulling at his limbs, McCoy eyed his options. The couch was inviting but sitting next to Jim seemed too close for the moment. Jim needed his space, or he wouldn't have come into the living area to sit in the dark. But he wasn't going to leave either. He turned toward the only other chair in the room and sat down.

Jim continued to stare out the window, his face a study of regret. Even in the lowered light, McCoy could see that Jim's body was tightly wound and trembling, as if there was a fine current running through it, his jaw tense and lips clamped. Jim's expression was taut with dread and a weariness that looked too heavy to bear, like a prisoner condemned to a life sentence. Or maybe it was just a bad memory, like the one that had induced the nightmare, recycling yet again, a reminder of something long past and better forgotten. It was eerily similar to the expression Jim had worn when he'd been told his mother had reached out.

Come on, kid, talk to me.

But Jim remained silent and still, staring out the window as if the night world held all his answers. What could McCoy say to comfort him? He didn't even know what the nightmare had been about or even what had caused it, and clearly Jim wasn't offering any clues. There were times when Jim wanted comfort. Even sought it out. And there were other times, grim, harrowing times, when Jim closed himself off from any word or touch of support or caring and withdrew into some dark place that McCoy couldn't enter. Usually, Jim was drunk when that happened, and McCoy knew better than to press at those times. This was the first time he'd seen that look on Jim's face while sober.

Stop trying to fix everything, Len," Jocelyn snapped. "Can't you just fucking leave something alone?"

Sound advice.

He was a doctor. He'd been trained to save lives. Assess, diagnose and treat. It was difficult to turn that part of his brain off, as his ex-wife would attest. But if he'd learned one thing from his divorce, it was that people didn't always want to be helped on his timetable.

With resignation, McCoy settled into the chair to keep Jim company. To offer the thin comfort of his presence. The slow minutes ticked past in silence, and he watched the windowpane gradually lighten as daybreak approached. Gray light filled the room and he watched the Academy lights fade.

It was just after dawn when Jim finally fell asleep, his body lax, his head resting against the worn back of the couch. McCoy gently coaxed him vertical, taking care to support his leg. He covered him with a blanket, observing him closely, as he tucked the blanket around his body. In sleep, Jim looked so damn young. Too young to be carrying whatever burdens haunted and woke him in the middle of the night. McCoy gently rested a hand on the side of Jim's face, wishing he could take away whatever demons that chased him.

It didn't take a trained psychiatrist to see that Winona Kirk, Pike, even this Sam that Jim cried out for in his dreams, had all failed to be there for Jim when he needed them, like so many others in Jim's short life.

McCoy didn't intend to join that list.

But that was a fine line between giving Jim what he wanted and giving Jim what he needed.

With one ankle resting on his knee and one hand holding a tumbler of bourbon, McCoy relaxed back into the cushioned armchair, silently watching Jim as he sipped the smooth whiskey. The kid reminded him of a tiger in a too-small cage.

Jim paced back and forth in the narrow floor space along the wall. Earlier he'd restlessly walked the length of the entire room, navigating around furniture and making laps from one end to the other. After innumerable circuits, he'd limited himself to the uncluttered five-meter aisle connecting the living room to the kitchenette— pacing back and forth, back and forth, like a trapped and desperate animal looking for escape.

McCoy was waiting him out. He knew better than to try and force a conversation with Jim while he was still this agitated. Eventually, Jim would exhaust himself and then they could talk about the comm that had sent Jim into this tailspin after reading it.

McCoy took a sip of the bourbon, letting the liquor rest on his tongue before it slid a harsh, fiery path down his throat. It wasn't the good stuff. He kept that bottle hidden away for special occasions. This was the company bourbon, the kind you didn't mind sharing, and it was good enough to suit his current purposes. He balanced the tumbler in his hand on the arm of the chair as he studied Jim. The kid's limp was getting more pronounced, but he wasn't showing any signs of slowing down.

Stubborn. He'd known Jim was tenacious. He'd seen the kid focus on a single problem to the exclusion of all else, chewing on it and chewing on it, until he was satisfied that he'd solved it correctly. And given Jim's academic aptitudes, that process usually didn't take him very long. This wasn't an academic problem, however, and Jim didn't know how to solve it to his satisfaction. Pike had pitched an emotional hot potato into Jim's lap, not a logistical one with a neat solution conveniently available.

And the one thing he'd observed about Jim Kirk in the past year was that he didn't do emotion well. He was a pro at deflection, though. Probably had a lifetime of experience with it. But this was something he couldn't deflect, and that was why he was pacing, trying to escape the inescapable. But who was McCoy to throw stones? He'd escaped to Starfleet for the same damn reason: to get away from his life. Only Jim couldn't get away from this situation. Winona had made sure of that.

Finally, Jim stopped and leaned a hand against the wall for support, looking exhausted. He shifted his weight to his good leg and stood unmoving, tight-lipped and breathing heavily, his shoulders bowed. His head hung down, as if the weight of it was too heavy to support. Jim seemed frozen in place, a perfect depiction of dejected defeat. McCoy grew concerned as the minutes crawled by, but he forced himself to remain silent. He watched Jim's breathing slow, observed the fleeting expressions of pain that crossed Jim's face when he shifted, forcing himself to give Jim time to regroup, and gather the strength to straighten.

Jim seemed to be contemplating his next move. He ignored McCoy as he rested, chewing on his lip, a determined look slowly growing on his face. At long last, he raised his free hand to his face and rubbed his eyes, as if he were scrubbing away the sting of unpleasant images. Then, slowly shifting his weight, he pushed away from the wall and hobbled his way to the couch. He flinched as he sat down. Cradling the trembling limb in his hands, Jim carefully lifted his leg up and onto the cushions, grimacing as he stretched it out. He leaned back against the arm of the sofa with a long-suffering sigh, tipping his head back and staring up at the ceiling.

More long moments passed. McCoy sipped his bourbon and waited. At least Jim was sitting now, and he didn't have to worry about the man collapsing and re-injuring his healing leg. He watched Jim carefully. Slowly color returned to his face, and his breathing eased, but Jim's expression remained closed. Finally, Jim spoke.

"She wants to see me," he said quietly.

McCoy's stomach tightened. So, his gut instincts had been right, he thought bitterly. Winona Kirk had used Pike to do an end run and leave a message for her son. Nothing like grand gestures to grab your attention. Jim wouldn't take her comms, but the woman thought that maybe he'd like a visit? Jesus. He wondered how many messages of hers Jim had read through, and deleted, before Winona had become frustrated enough to make that request?

His limited exposure to the Commander had created a picture of a determined, but not emotionally wounded woman. Was this her final attempt to reach out and begin to repair the damage that she had done over Jim's lifetime or, ignoring everything that had come before, was it just the simple and predictable desire of a mother to see her injured son?

McCoy chose his words carefully. "Not an unusual request. From a mother."

Jim snorted. "I wouldn't exactly call her that."

Wrong words. Jim's bitter condemnation made McCoy wince. He had to wonder what the hell the woman had done— or not done— to deserve such criticism. Jim was not, by nature, a vindictive man. Stubborn, absolutely. Conceited, arrogant, self-assured, but not revengeful. If anything, he seemed to understand, and forgive, people's foibles. He had a genuinely generous heart. This breach with his mother had been caused by more than a single incident or a few forgotten birthdays. McCoy's gut was telling him that something deeper and darker had driven a wedge between them.

"What do you want to do, Jim?"

The muscles of Jim's jaw bunched, and his hands curled into tight fists. Suddenly, he sat up, one leg on the floor, clenching his fists and staring down defensively at the dull gray carpet. "I don't want to see her."

The emotional confession sounded like it had been ripped from the depths of Jim's misery.

"Then don't," McCoy said calmly, watching Jim closely.

Jim closed his eyes, his expression pinched. Shoulders bunched with tension, he looked ready to tear something apart. "It's not that easy. She's contacted every goddamn Admiral in the Fleet."

Politics, McCoy thought bitterly. "Jim, nobody's going to hold it against you if take a pass on this request. Write your mother a nice note to reassure her you're not dying and move on."

Jim's head snapped up and he pinned McCoy with an angry stare. "I can't just write her a note, Bones! Pike says if I don't fix this, I might fail my next psych eval. If I did, that would wash me out of the Command track and I can't let that happen."

McCoy wanted to curse. The captain should have known better than to put that kind of pressure on Jim while he was ill. "I can't believe less than perfect family dynamics is the issue. Not everyone in Starfleet has a great family situation."

"Not everyone has the last name of Kirk," Jim said bitterly.

Fair enough.

"I can see where that complicates things," he said evenly. "But it's not a deal-breaker. There's a compromise here, Jim. She wants you to throw her a bone."

Jim shook his head, breathing hard, repudiating McCoy's attempt to defuse his frustration and anger. "I'm not going to meet with her! I'm not going to talk to her! She doesn't get to just walk back into my life!"

The tirade produced a coughing fit that brought tears to Jim's eyes. McCoy jumped to his feet, and when Jim waved him away, went to the kitchen and retrieved a glass of water. Returning, McCoy waited until the fit of coughing faded, then offered Jim the glass.

"Drink that," he said quietly, and sat down next to Jim on the couch. He waited until Jim had drained the glass, and a measure of calm had been restored before he spoke again. "I don't know what happened between you and your mother, Jim, what she did or failed to do— and you don't have to tell me anything— but it's clear you can't keep your relationship with her the way it was."

"Why not?" Jim asked faintly, not looking at him.

"Because the genie's out of the bottle, kid. She's got the Admirals in a tizzy, Pike's tit is in the wringer, as a result, and you're caught between a rock and hard place. It's not fair to you, because she's the one who's caused all this ruckus, but you're gonna have to figure something out. And I'll help you, in any way I can."

"You can't help me," Jim said miserably.

Which was such a youthful thing to say, he thought with amusement, as if this were a unique situation with no possible solutions. He tipped his head slightly. "I have a mother, too, you know."

Jim spared a glance at him and he could see that Jim was considering his words. Biting his lip and looking like the whole damn weight of the world rested on him, Jim scowled and turned away.

Come on, kid, ask for some help.

Tense silence filled the room. When Jim showed no signs of shifting from his emotionally entrenched position, McCoy decided to switch tactics. "Who's Sam?"

The blood drained from Jim's face.

For an anxious moment, McCoy thought Jim was going to faint. He put a hand on Jim's arm as the man swayed and he quickly got to his feet. "Lie back, Jim," he commanded calmly, and used the hand on Jim's arm to lower him to lie flat on the couch. But Jim resisted, pushing McCoy away as he tried to steady his breathing.

"Jim-"

"I don't want to talk about Sam." Jim's mouth tightened, and a deep frown had settled above his eyes.

McCoy nodded, studying him carefully. "Okay," he said quietly.

With that settled, Jim released a weary sigh and leaned forward. "How do I compromise with my mother?"

Nice deflection, McCoy thought, returning to his armchair. Just like a pro. Sam was a forbidden subject, but at least he'd gotten Jim to talk about his mother without shouting or turning a cold, deaf shoulder. That was progress.

"How do you want to compromise?"

Jim pinned him with an irritated glare.

"I don't know anything about the situation between you and your mother, Jim. It's difficult for me to advise you when I'm in the dark."

Jim looked away, frowning. His shoulders drooped. After another long minute, Jim said, "She was never around. Never."

"Isn't that the usual outcome when Starfleet personnel serve on starships?"

"She didn't have to serve on a starship, Bones. She could've been assigned planet-side. She was the wife of a hero. She could've written her own pass."

True. That meant she chose assignments that took her far from Earth. And Jim. He could hear Winona's words, "I wasn't always there for him … Things… happened… that shouldn't have."

"That must have been difficult," he said. He understood now why Jim was so fiercely independent and reluctant to accept help. By all accounts, he'd raised himself. Or had he? "Who took care of you?"

Jim let out a short breath. "An asshole."

Jesus. Now he was beginning to see, and his heart ached. "I take it your mother wasn't aware," he asked cautiously.

"How could she be? She was never around. Never. And the few times when she was—" Jim's fingers curled into fists and he swallowed hard, his throat visibly working. "When she was, she never wanted to hear."

McCoy's gut clenched. So, his suspicions were right, damnit. There was something to tell.

"Maybe she's ready to listen now."

"Maybe I'm not," he said shortly, then immediately caught himself. "Anyway, I don't like talking about it."

"I gathered."

Jim shrugged. "Talking about it doesn't change anything. It happened. It's over and done. The past can't be changed."

"That's the problem, Jim. Everything in your head, the way you're feeling, is exactly the way it was when you were a child, and your mother wasn't listening. All your memories and emotions are stuck there. You haven't updated them, examined them through an adult's perspective."

Jim looked at him and something flickered in his gaze. Encouraged that he had Jim's attention, McCoy felt his way forward.

"You're in Starfleet now, Jim. Not roaming around Iowa on the back of your bike looking for the next bar fight because you're angry and resentful, and you just want someone to pay attention to you, even if it's just to punch you in the mouth. You're at the top of your class, breaking records at the Academy. What I'm trying to say is, you're not a little kid anymore with no options. You're your own man." He offered Jim a gentle smile. "And you're my friend. My best friend. I'm always going to listen to you, Jim, and I'm always going to have your back."

Jim's blue eyes grew overly-bright and he looked away, blinking. McCoy held his breath. Jim didn't know what to do with this piece of information. Hope? Trust? But something told McCoy it was a little more like 'too good to be true.'

"You don't have to get all gushy about it, Bones," Jim said.

McCoy grinned. "I wouldn't have to if you'd listen, dumbass."

Jim smiled softly but didn't look at McCoy. After a moment, his smile faded. "My mother… I don't know how to just pretend nothing happened, Bones, talk to her like she's been this great mother, and everything is fine. I just can't do it."

"I'm not suggesting you pretend nothing happened, Jim. That's not fair to you. I'm saying talk to her, find out why she's calling."

Jim bit his lip, deep in thought. "Wh— what would I say? How would I begin?"

McCoy looked at him with compassion and understanding. "You could start by assuming she's been telling the truth about the reason behind her calls. Tell her that you're all right and that with time, you'll make a full recovery."

Jim slowly looked away. "I don't know why she cares now. She never cared before."

And that, McCoy decided, was the crux of the problem. Jim had decided long ago that his mother didn't love him. "Maybe she didn't know how to show you, kid. Or couldn't, given what happened. Maybe she'll never be able to do that the way you want her to. Take it from me, there's some things you can't change. You just find ways to accept them and move on."

McCoy didn't know if his words comforted Jim or not. The young man said nothing more, but he didn't argue or leave, which was a hopeful sign. McCoy remained with him, silently offering his support, until an hour later, Jim finally stood and walked back to the bedroom.

Jim stared at the terminal. A polite message blinked on the small screen: Please stand by. The call had been put through to the Lexington using the special link Pike had sent him. The comm was making its slow way through the complexities of the galactic network, traveling from one solar system to the next until Lexington's communications tech picked it up. From there, it would be sent to his mother's private comm.

He rubbed his sweaty palms on his thighs. What would she think when she received it?

He looked past the terminal to the window next to Bones' desk. The sun was setting in San Francisco, coloring the sky behind the campus buildings in a brilliant palette of shades of crimson. Which, Jim thought, was ironic and fitting. A bloodred sunset to mark all the open wounds and spilled blood between them. He hadn't spoken to her in years. He'd left when he was sixteen and he hadn't looked back. Not much anyway. He certainly hadn't notified her when he'd joined Starfleet, not that it mattered. Pike obviously had her on a direct link and, it seemed clear, willingly gave her timely reports.

Why wasn't that enough?

The terminal blinked: Communication Accepted

The Lexington had accepted the comm. He ran his tongue over his lips. His mouth was dry, and he realized he was nervous. He didn't know what he was going to say to her, and he realized now, when it was too late, that he should have planned this better.

He looked around the dorm. Bones had conveniently left on an errand, giving him privacy. But he felt the oppressive solitude of the room and the absence of his friend and wished that Bones had stayed. Bones had a way of making everything right. His breathing calmed. Whatever happened, Bones would understand.

He didn't know how he was going to react when he saw her. Would the anger he'd harbored for years come spilling out? Did she have any idea of the damage she'd caused, the hurt and pain and loss she'd set into motion with her absence, physically and mentally?

The screen suddenly changed, and the image of his mother slowly filled the screen, faded at first, then growing crisper and more colorful, until she was just… there. Still in uniform, her hair was swept up off her collar, neat and tidy, as required by Starfleet regs. She looked… different. Older and more worn. Thinner. Her eyes were still the blue he remembered, though, although lines fanned out from the corners of them. People used to say they looked alike. But he couldn't see it. Time had worn away the surface similarities.

"Jim," she said quietly. "You look— You look well."

"Mom."

THE END

Authors notes: This is my first Academy fic. I wanted to explore Bones' first time handling Jim's allergic reaction early in their relationship. Our position with Winona is that she is damaged. She doesn't hate Jim. She did the best she could at the time, and now wants to repair the relationship with an adult Jim. But Jim's not quite ready to forgive and forget ... but he'll get there. DiamondBlue4 and I had tons of fun with this and we hope you enjoyed your exploration of Jim and Bones. As always, thank you for taking this journey with us.