A/N: I've been wanting to do this for a week, and finally got my lazy butt started three days ago. Please enjoy the fruits of my labors. I personally enjoyed writing it. What that says about my psycee is probably bad, but it is true.

Warning: Sensetive topics! Possible graphic abuse in later chapters!

(Line malfunction. Pretent this is a line. -_-')

No one knew how the hell it happened exactly, but it happened.

Their Captain, James Tiberius Kirk, was, roughly, eight years old again.

McCoy scowled indignantly as he treated the still form on the biobed. Leave it to their Captain to piss off some species they knew nothing about and be beamed back to the ship as an eight year old. And leave it to their Captain to come back with a broken collar bone, a broken hand, bruised ribs, and covered with bruises and cuts everywhere but his face. Yes, because he was James Kirk, and James Kirk could do things no one would even think possible. Leonard certainly hadn't thought this was possible, after all.

The kid (and he could actually call him that now) mumbled slightly in his sleep, twisting away as McCoy finished up re-setting his hand. He curled into the fetal position on the biobed, the mumble contorting to a whimper.

Bones raised an eyebrow, placing a gentle hand on the slim shoulder. Jim cringed violently. It wasn't even the shoulder than had been broken.

"Jim," the CMO whispered, knowing full well not to wake up a kid having a nightmare loudly. He'd learned that the hard was from Joanna. "Jimmy, wake up. S'just a dream, Jimmy. Wake up." The small blond stirred, turning to face the country doctor with blurred eyes. He blinked once. Twice.

He inhaled sharply, sitting up ram-rod straight. "W-where am I?" Fear layered his young voice, but there was something else too. Was that… relief?

"Relax, kid. Your on the U.S.S. Enterprise, okay? Your safe. I'll explain later. You just need rest." His voice was low and soothing, his southern drawl being put on slightly thicker than usual, all the while gently pushing his de-aged friend back into bed. Oddly enough, there wasn't any struggle put up from the small boy.

"Not tired." Jim immediately winced at his own statement, body ridged.

"Really? Well I'm telling' ya you need rest. And that's the doctor's orders." A quick nod and frightened blue eyes closed.

McCoy paused, sitting down on the bed beside his friend. Slowly, the young body relaxed, and McCoy couldn't help but relax as well. "Actually," he said into silence. "Since your not tired, why don't you tell me the last thing you remember?" It seemed like a good enough strategy. Maybe he could even find something out about his friends elusive past… Not that that was the only reason he was asking.

The body stiffened again, and Jimmy burrowed further into the thin Sickbay sheets. McCoy caught the tension easily.

"You don't have to if you don't want to." A pause. "Maybe I could go down to the mess and grab you a bite to eat." It was funny; people always said he had no real bedside manner, when that was the furthest thing from the truth. He had an incredibly good bedside manner, he just didn't use it on idiots. Or most adults, for that manner.

Blond curls shook from side to side in a negative. "Not hungry." The loud sound of a growling stomach begged to differ.

"I'll go and grab something' then. What do you want?"

A small shrug. "Doesn't matter." McCoy stood up, nodding as he decided some simple chicken soup would be the best bet when a thought struck him. Why hadn't he thought of that before he asked?

"You got any food allergies?" Because McCoy knew that if the kid could be allergic to every medication known to man, he'd have food allergies.

"Nuh-uh." McCoy nodded again, accepting the answer. He'd get to the problem of why their chatty Captain was so withdrawn as a kid later. After he got him something to eat.

So, one trip to the replicator and a shot of bourbon later (usually it was Romulan ale, but he figured he could go for the weaker stuff with a young Jim), McCoy was back in his patients room, watching as he fiddled with the soup but didn't touch a bite, occasionally looking up at the older man with a wary glance.

Finally, McCoy got tired of it. "Are you actually going to eat, or do I need to force feed you?" He rolled his eyes. "And Jesus, would you stop looking at me like that? What, you think I'm gonna go over there and hypo you with a sedative?" Jimmy winced, quickly getting to work on his food, and Bones raised an eyebrow. Odd reaction. Very odd reaction.

McCoy stood up, stretching tired muscles and clicking bones back into place. God almighty he was getting old. He blamed the young, accident prone crew. Well, Scotty wasn't young, but the way he acted he may as well have been younger than Chekov most of the time. And, of course, he blamed Jim, but any CMO would if they knew his entirely reckless and self-sacrificing tendencies.

He grabbed the bowl off the edge of the bed, quietly administering a small sleep aid to the kid. He'd said he'd always had insomnia once, and Bones intended to help with that while he was a kid if he could. He stood there, rubbing Jim's arm lightly and waited for his breathing to even out. It barely took a minute (59 seconds, actually, but it wasn't like McCoy was counting), but he still didn't leave. He checked the door, making sure it would be opening any time soon. He sat down on the bed again, hazel eyes softening in a way anyone who knew him wouldn't have thought possible for the crotchety country doctor. He gently stroked blond curls away from closed blue eyes. A small smile graced normally scowling lips, and it looked twice as natural. McCoy was born to be a parent.

The sound of footsteps quickly retrieved him from his revere, and he snapped up, looking as though her were just walking to the door to take the bowl out. Spock stood in the doorway just as it slid open, and McCoy thanked the heaven's for having heard the Vulcan's light footsteps through the door. If Spock has seen him… He's have never lived it down. McCoy quickly stepped out, the door shutting behind him.

"Doctor," Spock said, half in greeting and half in… something. McCoy could never tell with the green blooded hobgoblin. "I was wondering on the status of our Captain." McCoy desperately wanted to smack him. Always formal, always emotionless. He'd seen the kid when he was beamed up!

But, somehow, he remained calm. "He's fine, as far as I can tell. A few things broken, a lot of cuts and scrapes, but otherwise fine. Have you talked with the officer who was down there with him?" He wanted to know what exactly had happened down there, and the only person who would know that was the security officer who had gone down with their idiotic captain. What was his name again? Franklin? Finnegan? Something like that.

"Cadet Finnegan is unaware of what has conspired after he was rendered unconscious, but the Captain was not injured when the… ritual began. We can only assume it was during the ritual that he was injured and de-aged, as Finnegan awoke as soon as the event was finished."

Primp and proper and to the point, with no unnecessary details. Now that McCoy could deal with.

And suddenly, and idea struck him, and he dearly hoped it didn't sound as insane out loud as it did in his head.

"Mr. Spock,"

"Yes, doctor?"

"Would it be possible, and this is just a theory, that if Kirk were de-aged he'd have whatever injuries he's had at that age?" He questioned, and it did in fact sound a lot better aloud than rattling in his mind.

Spock nodded. "It would be the logical assumption."

Logical. McCoy nearly scoffed. At least there was one logical thing about this whole situation.

"Then I don't think it was the natives that caused these injured. The only question is, how did an eight year old sustain them?" The answer seemed obvious, but there was no way in hell McCoy would ever admit that. Ever. It would explain a lot though.

Spock's head cocked to one side, and McCoy wanted to slap his hand over the Vulcan's mouth before he said it. "Are you suggesting the Captain was abused as a child?" He sounded almost… disgusted, which would make sense if it were anyone else. But this was Spock. The emotionless, green blooded, space elf. Then again, McCoy could have just been inserting his own emotions to hear. Or he could just be getting good at reading the Vulcan's tone. Now there was a scary thought.

"That might just be, Mr. Spock." He said quietly. "That might just be."

Spock's shoulders tensed. "Would it be alright if I spoke to him?"

McCoy shook his head, leaning against the wall beside the door. "Not yet. He still needs rest. I'll call you when he wakes up though." He paused. "Go easy on him when you do. I don't think he can take a lot of stress at the moment. Try and give him the barest details you can on what happened, okay?" Spock nodded absently, turning on his heel when he stopped. If anyone had asked, McCoy would have sword those pointed ears perked. Like a cats.

"Doctor?"

"Yes Spock?" McCoy was honestly curious as to why Spock would have froze in such a manner.

"Does the Captain often have… night terrors in this state?"

"Possibly. That's why he was woken up in the first place."

A pause, and a flicker of emotion McCoy couldn't quite identify flashed in dark eyes. "Then I suggest you check on him." And he was gone.

McCoy stared, dumbfounded, as the Vulcan walked off. White-knuckled hands were clasped behind his back as he went with the usual stride, though his shoulders were tense. He was clearly holding back on his emotions, but to Bones the signs were clear. He was angry about something. What was Jim saying that would make him that upset? Or maybe it was that combined with the "fact" (they weren't sure, but he probably was) that their Captain was abused as a child?

McCoy turned swiftly, walking back into the room, the bowl still in his hand.

Jimmy was twisting and turning on the bed, wrapped up in the sickbay sheets, fighting off invisible demons. His blond hair was stuck to his head and a thin sheen of sweat was visible on his brow even from the distance Leonard was at. Muttered words, muted slightly by quiet sobs, escaped quickly from terrified lips. McCoy couldn't believe what he was hearing. All suspicious were confirmed in an instant.

"I'm sorry!"

"It wasn't my fault!"

"No, no. Please…"

"I didn't mean to,"

"I'm sorry…"

McCoy walked over quickly, kneeling down by the bed. "Jimmy, wake up. It's just a nightmare, Jimmy. You're on the Enterprise, remember? No one's gonna hurt you kid. Come on, wake up!" He gently shook the kid's shoulders, trying desperately to wake him up. Thank God for Vulcan hearing, or he wouldn't have known. He'd thank the green-blooded hobgoblin later…

Finally, Jimmy's blue eyes cracked open, shinning with unshed tears. McCoy pulled him into a tight embrace. "You're okay, Jimmy. You're okay." Who was he trying to convince though, the kid, or himself?

A/N: Don't worry, there's more to come! I hope... this was written to cure writer's block on another fic, so hopefully they'll go back and forth between chapters on curing the writer's block.

Like I said, I really hope everyone liked. I like insights into characters pasts, can you tell?

Also, and this is completly unrelated, does anyone know if Scotty had any siblings? There's another idea that's been bugging me even longer than this one but I wanna make sure I don't stray from cannon too badly. Of course, even if he doesn't I'll still write the darn thing, but there's a slightly lesser chance it'll be posted if he doesn't.

~Piki :B