AN: Just a silly idea that came to me. I thought it would be fun to write. I've been meaning to try my hand at an AU. Constructive critism is welcome and reviews are appreciated!

Full summary: Jim is admitted to a mental hospital. He's pretty low on motivation until he meets Spock, the secluded artist that lives right across the hall from him. Spock's always insisting that he can be released and is absolutely fine. Jim is always causing trouble. McCoy is about to sedate both of them and move them to another floor so another doctor can deal with them.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: there will be future mentioning of suicide and suicide attempt. There's also a lot of discussion about mental illness such as schizophrenia, suicide, and bipolar disorder.

Thank you and I am planning on updating once a week.

San Francisco, California

St. Agatha's Private Psychiatric Institution

A bed occupied the area below the window in the corner of the room. Next to it was a small nightstand, its sole purpose for holding a lamp and clock. There was a wood desk, looking lonely with nothing but an out-of-place lamp as a companion, sitting in the opposite side of the room. A dresser was in the corner across from the bed. It was small, obviously not meant for not holding many clothes. The last touch was a couple of chairs that belonged more in the waiting room of a dentist office. The room held no sense of comfort or familiarity. No indication that it belonged to a person. It was as though it was just an empty crevice in the cave that was the hospital, barely being noticed by anyone who walked by. And in the crevice, stood a man, feeling smaller than ever before.

The man was no one in particular. He would blend in the background now that he had changed into standard resident scrubs and had been numbered by a plastic band around his wrist. The man was cataloged Kirk, T. James. 34, Male. It was now destined that his name would be forgotten by the people at the front desk and he would be referred to as his number: 24601.*

The man, normally called Jim, looked around his new place. The walls were white, the sheets were white, the curtains were white (and terrible at keeping light out for they were so thin), and the floors were plain hardwood. He had just recently been admitted and hadn't even had much time to unpack (even though he only had one bag since they allowed only so much at the hospital). He glanced at his bag that rested on his bed, thinking about what he should do next when he heard a knock and the door open.

"Mr. Kirk," a southern accent came from the threshold.

Jim turned around to see a man in a white (surprise!) lab coat over a blue dress shirt and slacks. He seemed comforting at the moment but overall, the man looked like he could put the fear of God in anyone if he wanted to.

"I'm Dr. McCoy. I'll be your physician while you're here." The man slowly walked into the room and now stood at the foot of Jim's bed. "I'm only here to make sure you're taking your meds correctly and you're physically healthy. I'm not gonna make you talk about your feelings or paint a picture - I'm a doctor, not a psychiatrist. You'll meet him later."

Jim only nodded and - strangely - Dr. McCoy seemed fine with that. Lately, he received a lot of grief for not talking. Mostly because there once was a time when no one could get Jim to shut up but now talking just seemed like too much of a waste of energy. Energy that was too precious for keeping him on his feet.

"Do you wanna see the place?"

Jim nodded once more and followed the country doctor out into the hallways. They walked past a few rooms and a nurses station with commentary from McCoy before they met two large wooden doors.

"This is the sittin' room for this floor," McCoy opened the doors to reveal many people in matching white scrubs. Jim picked at the hem of his own. The room had several small tables towards the back, with a coffee table and couch near the middle. A few overstuffed chairs sat by the corner. The nurses station expanded into the room, it's entrance being next to the main doors. "Most of our patients on this level stay here for most of the day. Your group meetings will be here, too, twice a week."

"When are group meetings?" Jim asked quietly, so not to be heard by anyone but the doctor.

"Your counselors will talk to you about it. Do you want to see dining hall?"

"Not yet," Jim walked into the room. McCoy followed behind him. "What do I do here?"

"Anything. We have books, cards, a tv."

Everything seemed too boring for Jim. There was a lot of people talking, some were reading, some were doing other things that Jim didn't bother figuring out, and there was a group of about 15 people gathered around the small tv (which was nailed to floor for safety reasons). He guessed there were only a little over 20 people in the entire room that day. And there was only one man who caught his attention.

"Who's that?" Jim pointed subtly to the secluded man by the window. He sat at a table, bending over a sketch pad, devoting all of his attention to the precise details of his work. There were a few other pencils at his side, along with what Jim assumed - by the way the man used it - to be an eraser but really looked like a hunk of gross, gray, dried out clay. He seemed to have a level of calmness on his features that Jim had never seen before. The man was in a whole other world completely - and not one that all people in psych wards had. It was like he was blissfully away from reality, captured by his art, but not incapable of returning.

"That's Spock."

"Spock? What kind of name is that?" Jim would have normally laughed at the name but for now, the tone of his words would have to suffice. "It's like the sound a suction cup makes."

"His father's Japanese*."

"Oh..." Jim looked down. "Well, now I feel like a dick."

"Don't. I give him crap all the time."

Jim looked back to McCoy, confusion etched into his expression. "Why?"

"I give everybody crap. Even you, starting soon."

"Why?" he asked again.

"'Cause everyone gets on my nerves. Some do it on purpose, like Spock over there or most of the nurses."

Jim should have felt anxious about McCoy after that but he noticed the humor shining in the man's eyes. It was a relief. Finally, someone who knew all of Jim's shitty problems actually joking with him and not treating him like the fragile, cracked, porclein doll that had belonged to great-grandma when she was a child, about to completely fall apart at the slightest disturbance. For the first time in months, Jim actually felt like the huge weight that had been crushing his chest had decreased slightly, making it a bit easier to breathe.

Jim nodded slowly. "Ok. Can I see the dining hall now?"

Jim followed McCoy out of the room, looking over his shoulder one more time at Spock. He missed the returning glance as the doors swung shut.

*24601 - Les Mis, anyone?

*"His father's Japanese" - So... this wasn't really 100% my own idea. Credit where credit is due: It's borrowed from A Temporary Madness by Mattmetzger on livejournal where Spock is a human in the 21st century. When I started writing this, I felt the need to explain Spock's name to try to be a bit more realistic. So, I thought back to the story and in it, Sarek was Japanese and Amanda was American and BAM! biracial baby! Mattmetzger also wrote that English was Spock's third language and that was why he still talked in the same way - no contractions, no idioms, really proper, etc. (however, I will not be using that in my story, I just thought I would share the perfection that is Mattmetzger). It was a really good fic and if you ship Spones... oh god. It's perfect. Words cannot describe how much I adore it. I highly recommend it.