Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek or any of its characters.

Note: I apologize for not being on FanFiction for so long. If you read this, you'll understand why.

Okay. So. This one is rather dark and rather unlike anything else I have written recently. This is based very much on real life events-Jim's point of view is a friend of mine, who is very dear to me, and who has gone through so much in a short amount of time. Some of the details have been changed a little bit to fit the story and the universe, but outside of that... This is very true and very personal.

I am kind of hesitant to post this in Quirks, because it's so dark and I try to keep this story light... But at the same time, I feel like I need to post something here. So. I apologize for the darkness of this piece, but I needed to get all of this out somehow.

If the emotions at the end feel a little rushed or a little pushed, it's because I wanted this fic a) to have a happy ending and b), that's actually how things happened in real life and I wanted to keep this as close to that as possible.

The alternate title to this piece is "How to Save a Life" by the Fray.

This fic comes with a lot of warnings, so if you do not wish to read it, I understand.

I promise, the next one of these I write will be considerably happier. And come out sooner than six months from now.

WARNINGS: Mentions of drug use, alcohol abuse, attempted suicide, and language.

The Quirks of Jim Kirk

Chapter 45: No Matter What

It was nearing 0100 hours by standard Starfleet time and Doctor McCoy had been up since six the morning before. He was tired, but not in the usual bone-weary way. For once, it seemed like everything was going his way. There had been few people in sick bay that day—and even they had been routine checkups only—and no bizarre accidents onboard the Enterprise. Of course, that could have been due to the fact that her captain was currently on admiral ordered shore leave at the moment, for a lot of personal reasons, but whatever the reason, McCoy was thankful for the break.

It had been a rough couple of months for everyone onboard the Enterprise. War was threatening to break out in the furthest reaches of the Federation, and as flagship, it was the Enterprise's job to ensure peace. It meant a lot of back-to-back missions with very little time for rest and relaxation.

Everyone was feeling the strain, but none more than Jim. Halfway through their sixth mission, Kirk had received a transmission from his brother, saying that their mother had died. Despite the fact Winona had been absentee for most of Jim's childhood, her death still hit the Captain very hard. Her funeral brought the Enterprise back to Earth briefly, before they were once more shipped out to the nether regions of the galaxy.

Jim had just been starting to get over his mother's death and had even started exhibiting signs of normalcy—stupid pranks, death-defying stunts that wound up nearly killing everyone while simultaneously saving the day—when Admiral Pike directly commed Jim and told him that he was being court martialed for suspected prostitution.

The charge nearly destroyed Jim, who, despite his womanizing days at the Academy, had barely flirted with anything female since. He had been too busy being Starfleet's prodigy that he had simply forgotten to be interested in anyone else. That, and only McCoy knew this part of the story, Jim was also recovering from a broken heart. He had been in a serious relationship with Gaila before the Narada incident, and when she had died, things simply hadn't been the same for Jim. There was no way for Jim to have done what he was accused of, anyway, for he had been lightyears away at the time.

Jim spiraled, going off the deep end in a way McCoy hadn't seen since their Academy days, before Kirk had had the Enterprise to distract him from being the son of the late George Kirk and overall fuck up. McCoy had been a total loss as to what to do for his friend—this was beyond his powers to fix. It wasn't a medical matter—while he could cure the hangovers and the drug abuse, he couldn't hypo the charge away. And what made the entire situation worse was the fact that if Jim were to be convicted of prostitution, he would lose his captaincy aboard the Enterprise and quite possibly be kicked out of Starfleet.

Two weeks ago, the charge was dropped. McCoy had breathed a sigh of relief, praying that the worst was over. He couldn't think of anything that could possibly have been worse than that.

A week after the charge had been dropped; McCoy had received a comm from Jim, saying that the worst had happened.

Since Gaila had died a year and a half before, Jim had gone out with exactly one person: the beautiful Carol Marcus.

They had been dating for a little over a year and Doctor McCoy had come to one realization: That Carol was perfect for Jim. She was smart, she was funny, and she had been able to get through to him in ways no one else ever had.

When McCoy had received the message from Jim, his mind had immediately leapt to Kirk's brother dying or that the charges hadn't been dropped after all, and that Jim was going to be kicked out of Starfleet.

It turned out that Carol had been seeing someone else on the side, someone who she decided was better than Jim, and she no longer wanted anything to do with Jim.

In a way, McCoy couldn't help but feel relieved, until Jim walked into sickbay later that day.

Kirk was absolutely wrecked, in a way not even the prostitution charge could have brought about. He could barely stand, he was shaking so hard, and it was all McCoy could do not to hypo him into a deep sleep.

"What happened?" the doctor had asked.

It took Jim nearly an hour to reply and when he did, he nearly broke McCoy's heart.

"She doesn't want anything to do with me," he whispered to the floor. "I have had surgeries that were so painful that I could barely move… but this hurts so much more. I can't even breathe."

All McCoy could do was try not to break down himself, for he had never seen his friend so lost.

Jim had turned an odd shade of green and ducked into the nearby bathroom. McCoy followed, horrified to find his friend dry heaving in the toilet.

"Jim…" McCoy began.

Jim shook his head violently. "Don't," he gasped. "Just don't."

Helpless, McCoy crouched down beside his friend and gently rested his hand on Jim's arm. Jim jerked away, almost hitting the wall behind him in his haste to escape.

"Please," Jim begged, tears streaming down his face. "I want out, Bones. I can't do this anymore. Please. Just let me go."

"I can't do that," McCoy said stubbornly, surprised at how even his voice sounded when inside he felt like he was being torn in two.

"It hurts, Bones," Jim whispered, curling in on himself. "It really fucking hurts."

"I know," McCoy murmured, inching closer and gently putting an arm around Jim's heaving shoulders. "But it's going to be okay."

Jim shook his head again. "I don't want to feel anymore," he said, his voice breaking. "I don't want to feel any thing. Please. Give me that."

"I can't," McCoy said. "Because that's not going to help in the long run."

Jim didn't respond, other than to bury his head in his knees and shudder violently.

They say there like that for what felt like hours, before Jim finally spoke again.

"What should I do?" he whispered.

McCoy hesitated, not entirely sure what to say. He barely remembered the dark days after Jocelyn had left, having spent most of it buried in the bottom of a liquor bottle. He wasn't entirely certain what he should say—or if there was really anything he could—that would help Jim out.

"Tell me," Jim begged.

McCoy swallowed heavily. "You can't let this destroy you," he said at last. "You have to remember, that no matter how bad things get, they will get better. And I'm going to be here for you, no matter what."

"I shouldn't have come here," Jim muttered to his knees. "I'm sorry."

He went to stand, gently pushing McCoy out of the way, but the doctor caught his arm.

"Jim…" he trailed off.

Jim turned to face him and McCoy had never seen such a shattered expression before in his life. Jim's usually handsome face was marred with red-rimmed, swollen eyes and tear stained cheeks. His usually perfectly kept blonde hair was a mess. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and made his usually pristine, but now rumpled uniform cling to him.

"I'm sorry," Jim repeated again.

"Don't be," McCoy said after a long pause. "Don't apologize for coming to me with this."

"It's not fair to you," Jim argued. "You're always having to clean up my messes. I shouldn't dump this on you."

"Jim, you're my best friend. Who else are you going to dump this on?"

Jim clenched his eyes shut and took a shuddering breath.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

They both stood. McCoy put his hands on either side of Jim's face.

"Listen to me," he demanded. Jim opened his eyes and looked sorrowful. McCoy pressed on. "Don't you dare apologize for this. You need to talk to someone—this is killing you. And I'm going to be selfish and say I'm glad you're coming to me, because goddamn it, Jim, I want to help you."

Jim slumped against him. "It hurts, Bones," he whispered. "It hurts so fucking much."

"I know," McCoy murmured, wrapping his arms tightly around his friend. "I know."

That had been a week and a half ago.

Being the CMO on a flagship that had been worked almost past the point of ridiculousness had its perks—which McCoy was completely unafraid to abuse in respect to his friend and captain's mental health. So with a little creative paperwork, McCoy was able to finagle a weeklong shore leave for Jim on a peaceful, tropical planet nearby.

Before Jim had left, McCoy had written his friend a letter—a real, old-fashioned letter on some ancient notebook paper that McCoy had stored in his bunk. Being friends with someone such as Kirk led to strange habits such as these.

The letter went on for three pages, front and back, detailing that if Jim did anything stupid, McCoy would find a way to bring him back and kill the idiot himself.

McCoy gave Kirk the letter as the captain was getting on the transporter and told him that he wasn't to read it until later that night.

The doctor received a comm around midnight from Jim, being thanked for the letter.

The two friends talked some over Jim's weeklong shore leave. Jim was depressed, yes, but he was handling it with alcohol and beach time, which was what he needed more than anything.

Now, it was two days before Jim was due to return. McCoy had just gotten off his shift, and was looking forward to a nice, big glass of bourbon, and maybe rereading Joanna's most recent letter. He had spoken to Jim earlier that day, and things seemed to be going all right.

McCoy had just changed out of his uniform and into a pair of sweatpants when his communicator buzzed.

It was Jim.

Glancing at the time and seeing that it was closing in on one in the morning, McCoy knew immediately with a sinking heart that this wasn't going to be good.

He pressed accept on his communicator.

"Hey, Jim," he said, forcing his voice to be cheerful, on the very, very off chance that this might be a good phone call.

"Please, tell me your communicator isn't about to die." Jim's voice barely had any inflection at all, outside of overwhelming pain.

"It's not," McCoy said at once. It had had over ninety percent last time he checked it.

"I can't do this anymore," Jim whispered. "The pain… All of it. It hurts, too goddamn much."

"Jim," McCoy began.

"Please, just be quiet," Jim interrupted. "I can't breathe, I can't think, I can hardly move. It hurts."

"What do you want me to do?" McCoy asked quietly.

"Tell me that it's okay," Jim said after a heart stopping silence. "Tell me that it's okay to go."

Every other thing in McCoy's world ceased to exist. He forgot that he had a daughter, he forgot that he was a CMO, he forgot everything, outside of the fact that his best friend just asked him to let him die.

"I can't," he said after a moment's pause. "I can't do that, Jim."

"Why not?" Jim demanded.

"Because you still have so much to offer," McCoy whispered. He immediately knew how lame that sounded, but it was true.

"I don't fucking care," Jim spat. "I want to go. I've made up my mind."

"You do care," McCoy returned.

"No I don't," Jim retorted vehemently.

"Then why are you calling me?" McCoy demanded.

"Because I need you to tell me that it's okay," Jim all but begged. "I need you to tell me that it's okay to die."

"I can't do that," McCoy repeated. "I can't let you die."

"Tell me why not." Jim was angry now, or at least, there was an angry tint to his flat, hard voice.

McCoy swallowed hard. "Because you have so many people here that would be devastated if you weren't here," he said. "Because I know that things are terrible right now, but you have to keep fighting. Please."

"I can't," Jim sobbed. "I can't. It hurts, Bones."

"I know," McCoy said, feeling dumb. "But it's going to get better.

There was a moment of silence that seemed to stretch an eternity. Every second, McCoy felt like he was losing Jim more and more.

"I think I'm going to go take a shower," Jim said at last, his voice broken. "I'll call you back."

He was gone before McCoy had the chance to say anything.

"Damn it, Jim," the doctor whispered to his communicator.

Less than twenty minutes later, McCoy's communicator buzzed again.

"Jim," he began.

"I've made my choice, Bones," Jim said, his voice urgent and harsh. "I can't do this anymore."

"Jim," McCoy said with more urgency, terrified.

"Please, shut up," Jim begged. "I can't breathe and I just made myself throw up four times in the shower. It's over for me."

"Please, no," McCoy whispered. "That's not true, Jim. Damn it, tell me that's not true."

"Listen to me," Jim said, completely ignoring what McCoy had said. "I've done some terrible things, Bones."

"No-."

"Shut up. Just… please. I have. Don't stand up for me. I know they're true. I've lied, I've cheated, and I've hurt so many people, Bones. And you're one of them," Jim said. "I don't know what to do to fix it and I'm not sure if I actually want to fix it. I'm sorry for what I've done to you. I'm going through all of the people on my communicator and apologizing to them for stuff they probably don't even remember. I've gotten voicemails for most of them."

Jim was babbling now, but the sound of his voice did little to quell the growing horror in Doctor McCoy's voice.

"Jim," he begged one last time. "Listen to me. I don't care, okay? You have done nothing-."

"Don't," Jim hissed. "Don't say I've done nothing to hurt you. Don't lie to me."

"Yeah, you've done stuff that's hurt," McCoy said. "But it's over with, already. I have moved on. You can't keep torturing yourself for this, because it's not your fault."

"I shouldn't have called you," Jim muttered. "I made you worry. I'm sorry. I'll just go."

"Damn it, Jim, I always worry about you," McCoy said gruffly.

"No. Please, don't. Don't worry about me," Jim begged.

"It's late," McCoy interrupted. "You should try to go to sleep."

"Tell me you won't worry about me," Jim demanded.

"I can't do that," McCoy said.

"Bones," he protested.

"Jim," McCoy interrupted. "It's late. I've got a long day ahead of me tomorrow."

"I'm sorry. You should get some sleep," Jim muttered. "I'm sorry for calling. But please, don't worry about me."

"Don't be sorry, goddamn it," McCoy growled. "Just… what time are you going to come back on Sunday?"

"I don't know," Jim said. "Probably early. But Bones, please, please, please don't worry about me. I shouldn't have called you."

He would have gone on, had Doctor McCoy not interrupted him again.

"Listen. You were right to call me, okay. I would have been mad if you hadn't."

Jim gave no indication that he had heard.

"I'm going to go find a medical outpost," he said. "I'll call you tomorrow."

He hung up before McCoy had the chance to say anything else and proceeded to ignore the rest of McCoy's comms.

"God fucking damn it," McCoy whispered.

Jim called the next day. It was a very brief, very one-sided conversation that was basically "I'm fine, I'll see you tomorrow."

It made Doctor McCoy both relieved and very anxious at the same time.

The next day, the transporter seemed to take forever to beam Jim back. During the ten seconds it took for Jim to materialize on the pad, McCoy's mind ran rampant with ideas as to what state his friend was going to be in. Everything, from covered in blood (which, admittedly, was actually normal for Jim and probably would have actually been a relief to see) to mostly dead and all that lay in between shot through his brain.

What McCoy hadn't been expecting was for Jim to have a smile plastered on his face, his uniform to be clean and pressed, and his hair perfectly kept.

"Hello, everyone!" Jim announced upon stepping off the pad.

McCoy had to remember that it was highly unprofessional to punch his captain in the face in public.

Scotty gave his captain a salute and left the transporter room without waiting for orders, leaving the doctor and Jim alone.

Jim looked at Doctor McCoy and sobered slightly.

"I'm sorry," he said, breaking the silence. "I'm sorry for scaring you like that, I'm sorry for being such a dick… I'm sorry."

"I don't want your apologies," McCoy said stiffly. More gently, he added, "I'm just happy you're here."

Alive was what he didn't add.

Jim studied the doctor's face for a moment, before sighing.

"Thank you," he said softly. "For everything. I know that couldn't have been easy for you."

"It's what I'm here for," McCoy said, teasing slightly. More seriously, he added, "I'm always here for you."

Jim smiled slightly, and it was the first genuine one McCoy had seen in a long while.

"Good," he said. "Because I'm going to need your help through this."

"You're stuck with me," McCoy declared. "Whatever you need."

And it was then that they both knew that everything was going to be okay. It might take a while—maybe even years, but they knew that somehow, things would work out in the end.