Whew, I did it. This chapter was a monster. Hopefully it turned out okay? Thank you all so much for your patience. RL got crazy – school, flood, disease, dance, ETC. – but Spring Break is a marvelous thing.

Many thanks to those of you who suggested tribble names, and special shout out to n1h1l4dr3m for the final idea!

The Oregon coast is nothing like some of the California beaches Jim's been to. It's bright out, but not sunny – the sky is grey with perpetual overcast. The sun burns dimly behind the clouds, and there isn't a scrap of blue visible in the sky. The sand stretches out long and flat, a stark contrast to the massive rock formations and cliff faces which dot the coastline, and when it isn't raining, Jim feels like he can see forever in each direction.

The Pacific Ocean is almost too cold to touch, and the waves roll rather than crash to the shore. At this time of the year, the beaches are nearly deserted.

Half the time, it's exactly what Jim needs. The other half the time, it almost drives him nuts.

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Scotty and Carol show up around 1400 the day after Jim arrives. Nyota sees the hovercar through the window and opens the front door before either of them can knock.

"Hi," she whispers, a finger held to her lips as she lets them in. "What took you so long? I thought you were supposed to be here this morning."

"Those idiots who think they're fixin' the Enterprise – "

"Scotty took a little extra convincing," Carol interjects dryly, but also keeps her voice lowered. Scotty huffs unhappily.

"Why the quiet?" he asks in a whisper. "It sounds like a bloody funeral in here."

Involuntarily, Nyota flinches. Scotty abruptly pales, the weight of recent events and memorials suddenly stifling in the quiet entryway.

"Sorry," he rasps out, barely audible. Nyota just shakes her head, privately resolving to speak to Leonard later. None of them are okay, not yet – but Scotty seems to be coping worse, on the whole, than most of them. This is the first time Nyota's seen him since the memorial service at Starfleet that Jim attended.

"Jim and Leonard are still asleep," Nyota explains, covering the uncomfortable moment by ushering Scotty and Carol into the sitting room. "They got in late, and then – well – I think Jim had a bad night." If the muffled screams at three o'clock in the morning were anything to go on, anyway.

"Right." Scotty's still too pale; he looks even more uncomfortable at the news. "Well, I'm gonna unpack – kin I take your bag, Dr. Marcus?"

"No thanks," Carol says, and Nyota doesn't think Scotty sees her flinch at the use of her surname.

"Thank you for coming, Carol," Nyota says gently as Scotty leaves the room. Carol blinks, then offers her a hesitant smile.

"Thank you for inviting me," she says. "It – it really means a lot, that you all thought to include me, even after – " she breaks off, then tries again. "After everything that my father did, I'd understand if none of you want to speak to me again."

"You're not your father," Nyota says sharply. Hell knows that this crew, of all people, can understand that. "If it weren't for you, we would have never been able to disarm the torpedoes. I don't care what the press says. You wouldn't be here if we didn't trust you."

Carol swallows and looks down at her hands.

"I think I might not work with weapons anymore," she says. "For a while, at least. I'd…like to start over."

Nyota nods, and listens to the sound of doors opening and closing upstairs. Jim and Leonard must be awake.

"You're not the only one," she says, half to herself. "I think we'd all like a second chance."

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"Jim."

Jim blinks, startled. Spock is at his right elbow, although how he got there, Jim has no idea. Jim's been sitting on the balcony watching the ocean for the past – well, actually, he's not sure how long he's been up here.

"Hi, Spock," Jim says.

"You have been sitting in this spot for the past eighty-two point seven minutes," Spock informs him. Jim has to crane his neck to get a good look at the Vulcan's face. "I assume you have been reflecting on a matter of great importance."

83 minutes? That's like…Vulcan meditation or something. Jim shifts in the chair, trying to shake his sudden stiffness.

"Yeah," he admits, "You could say that."

They are both quiet for a moment, the crashing of the waves a soothing buffer.

"May I inquire as to the nature of your thoughts?" Spock asks finally. Jim wants to laugh at the stiffly-worded question, but a sigh comes out instead.

"Archer said I might get the Enterprise back," he confesses. There. He's told someone.

Spock's brows furrow – which, as far as Jim's concerned, isn't exactly an encouraging sign.

"'Might'?" Spock asks.

"I'm going on a special training program as soon as Bones gives the all-clear. Archer wants me to shadow command teams on different ships. The captains will submit evaluations, and then a second panel gets to decide if Marcus was right to put me back in command." He says it quickly, but it still sounds shameful. James Kirk, the screw-up captain who got his ship due to pure luck, screwed up so badly that he's finally going to learn from the people who actually know what they're doing.

Spock abruptly moves to stand in front of Jim, blocking the view of the ocean. They're not at eye level, because Jim's sitting in the chair; he still has to crane his neck to see Spock's face. Those Vulcan eyebrows are drawn ever so slightly together.

"There is logic in the Admirals' course of action," Spock states, clasping his hands behind his back. Jim swallows and tries to ignore the sudden hollow feeling in his chest.

"Yeah," he croaks. "I think so too."

"It is logical," Spock repeats slowly, "But it is unnecessary. You have already proven yourself worthy of your title, Captain."

Jim blinks in shock, the hollow feeling in his chest suddenly painful. How long has he wanted Spock's loyalty? Jim had given up hope on their friendship after Niribu, and now – when he feels like he least deserves it – Spock calls him "Captain." It doesn't sound like a title. It sounds, unbelievably, like respect.

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It's a well-known fact that James Kirk cares about his crew. The Admirals and the public might tear apart his command decisions, but no one can deny that Kirk's heart is usually in the right place. He proved during the Nero fiasco that he was willing to go to absurd lengths if it gave him a shot at saving lives. The bridge crew of the Enterprise now has proof that Kirk will sacrifice his own life for those under his command.

Some people think he has a hero complex; the tabloids attribute it to his father.

But the more time Carol spends around him, the less certain she is that Jim Kirk has a "hero complex." She doesn't know him nearly as well as the rest of the team, and maybe that's why, as the days pass, she can see how uncomfortable he is in the house. Oh, he gets along with everyone, more or less – he has plenty of smiles (that don't reach his eyes), and he's perfectly willing to head into town or take walks on the beach. But he's distant. He holds himself apart, always slipping away when he thinks he won't be noticed. Doctor McCoy notices, and so does Spock – but so does Carol. She notices, because she's doing the same thing.

Because she is so, so grateful to have been invited to this escape, but she's not entirely sure why she's here.

Despite Nyota's assurances, Carol doesn't think they trust her. How could they? Her father sent them into a trap with a madman, murdered their friends, and got Jim killed. Carol tried to stop him, but she was stupid, and too slow – she should've guessed that the Vengeance could transport her through the Enterprise's shields. A part of her thinks that if she'd been able to stay on board the Enterprise in the first place, Jim would have never teamed up with Khan.

Of course she came when Spock offered her a space here. If it gets her away from San Francisco and lets her breathe through her own grief, that's good – but she's mainly here because she feels like she owes these people something. She saw how they worked together on the Enterprise. They have something special, and she doesn't ever again want to be the person who fails them.

And that's why she thinks Jim Kirk has guilt, not a "hero complex." Sometimes, when he watches Chekov argue with Sulu and Scotty about Russia, or when he looks at Spock and McCoy as they whisper together with Nyota, Carol sees something in his eyes that she understands: debt.

Jim Kirk smiles and loves his crew, but Carol thinks that he's seen more of the dark, unsavory corners of the universe than he lets on. And sometimes, when he looks at the people who care about him, she sees it in his face – the burning need to protect the people who haven't, in his eyes, touched the things that he hates about himself. The knowledge that he can't protect them, that he hasn't – and that, in a foreign and terrifying twist, they have protected him.

Carol isn't entirely sure why she's here.

But she knows that Jim isn't entirely sure why they're here, either.

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The first time Jim tries to get a tan, Bones almost has a heart attack. More than a month lying in a hospital is terrible for one's complexion, and Jim's tired of looking like a sick ghost. There's not a lot of sun on the Oregon coastline – in fact, there's practically none at all, and it's usually too cold to wander out without a sweatshirt – but Jim doesn't care. He slips out one afternoon in shorts and a t-shirt. It's cloudy but bright outside, and warmer than normal. He walks along the shoreline for about fifteen minutes, far enough so he doesn't have to worry about anyone from the house spotting him. Then he lies down in the sand and closes his eyes.

It's oddly soothing.

Somehow, he falls asleep, which is the first thing he notices when he's shaken rudely awake. Sleep is rare for him nowadays – he spends most of the night tossing and turning in a state of half-awareness before succumbing to nightmares. So he's understandably upset to realize he's been woken from the best rest he's had in weeks.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" Bones practically shrieks in his ear, grabbing Jim's shoulders and hauling him forcibly inland. "The tide's coming in, you idiot!"

Jim blinks and realizes yes, the tide has started to come in. His bare feet are wet from the waves. And it's cold, too – much colder than it was when he fell asleep.

And speaking of sleep, he's kind of pissed off by the shrieking.

"Don't yell, Bones," he complains, pulling his arm out of McCoy's grasp.

"Don't – " McCoy's eyes come close to bugging out of his head. "Are you serious? You nearly got yourself drowned, you idiotic, ungrateful, goddamned – "

"Please." Jim rolls his eyes, and chooses not to notice that Bones is practically white. "Drowned? The water would've woken me in another few minutes."

"Oh it would've, would it?" Bones says acidly, and Jim almost wishes he'd start yelling again. "Well, if you're not worried about the tide, maybe you should be worried about the fact that you've been out here for hours in the cold when you had your entire immune system rebooted a month ago! It took me three goddamn tries to wake you. You're exhausted, Jim, can't you see that? You can't keep wandering off to pretend like nothing's wrong when – "

"Maybe I want to wander off!" Jim snarls, voice dangerously loud. He takes a step back and tries to catch his breath. He feels trapped. "This vacation's great and all, but ever since I woke up I haven't had a minute to myself."

"Because we're worried about you, kid – "

"I'm not a kid!" Jim yells. And then he repeats it, just because he can. "I'm not a kid. And I don't need seven baby sitters to hold my hand and tell me what I can or can't do! You didn't have to bring them all here to watch me 'rehabilitate.'"

"I didn't force them here," Bones says angrily, jerking his thumb at Spock's house in the distance. "And believe it or not, this isn't about you. They chose to use their vacation days and spend time here. Do you know how much we're still needed at headquarters? Whatever they're here for is important to them, really important to them, so don't you dare turn this around and blame whatever problems you've got on their choices – "

"It's not them I'm talking about!" Jim snarls, which – not true, but Bones is here, and he just needs someone to yell at. "It's you. Every five seconds it's 'you're still recovering, Jim' and 'take it easy, kid' and 'let me do that for you' and I am so sick of it! I didn't ask for a mother hen!"

"I'm your doctor, dammit!"

"I KNOW!" Jim has no idea why he's so angry. "You raised me from the fucking dead and now you own my life. I fucking get it. Now leave me the hell alone, Doctor McCoy."

He storms off without waiting for a reply, his pulse hammering in his head. He doesn't know why he's so furious or why he can't stand the sight of his CMO and best friend. He just knows that if he tries to talk to anyone right now, he'll end up sending his fist through their nose.

He makes it back to the house in record time. There's no sign that Bones followed him. Irrationally, that makes Jim even angrier. He stalks up to his temporary bedroom without saying a word to anyone and locks his door. He doesn't come down for dinner that night, and uncharacteristically, Bones doesn't come to his room and force him to eat.

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As it turns out, Sulu and Chekov are serious art enthusiasts.

"Da, I vas raised in Russia!" Chekov says in the car. He, Sulu, Jim, Nyota, and Spock are headed into town to visit the local art galleries. "I practically grew up in ze theater. My mama often took us to the ballet, and in school there vere often trips to galleries."

"San Francisco native," Sulu says with a grin, taking his eyes off the road to glance at Jim through the rearview mirror. "Can't live there without visiting a few museums or seeing some shows."

Jim's not big on art – at least, he doesn't think so. He had zero exposure to it in Riverside, and after Tarsus, the last thing he wanted to do was visit an art museum. But Spock and Uhura seem interested, and it's nice to get out of the house.

The nearest town is about twenty minutes away. It's small but quaint. The compact wooden buildings have windchimes and feathers in the windows, and faded paintings of beach scenes are splashed across the sides. Across the street, there's a man tapping on a weird string instrument that Jim's never seen before. The music isn't the sort of thing he goes for – he's more about strong beats and passionate lyrics, music found in clubs – but he's struck by the skill of the performer all the same.

"What is that?" he asks aloud as Uhura leads them into one of the glass art galleries. Spock glances across the street before replying.

"It is called a hammered dulcimer," Spock informs him, because of course he knows everything. "It is a Celtic instrument that I read about when I first moved to Starfleet Academy as part of my preparation for residence on Earth. This is, however, the first time I have ever heard one played live."

Jim shakes his head in disbelief – only Spock would know random shit like that off the top of his head – and follows him into the art gallery.

They visit four art galleries over the course of the afternoon. Jim doesn't particularly care for the blown glass exhibits, although Uhura and Chekov are entranced by the delicate seashells and fish that hang from the ceiling. Jim's more impressed by the metal sculpture gallery, but he and Sulu get themselves kicked out when they spin one of the interactive sculptures around too many times. All of them have to practically drag Spock away from the paintings in the third gallery, and at the last one, Uhura falls in love with a bracelet on display in the gift shop. It's not overly expensive, but Spock seems oblivious.

"Aren't you going to buy that for her?" Jim whispers, tugging Spock aside once Uhura wanders off. Spock raises an eyebrow quizzically.

"Is there an occasion approaching on which it would be appropriate to present Nyota with a gift?" he asks. Jim shakes his head.

"There doesn't have to be an occasion, Spock," he explains. "But women are usually flattered when their boyfriend buys them gifts, especially if it's for no reason at all. Sometimes you can do it just to show that you care."

"Nyota already knows that I care for her," Spock says, and Jim gives it up as a lost cause. He approaches the counter himself and purchases the bracelet. Once it's wrapped, he heads back to Spock, whose eyebrows are in his hairline.

"Give it to her," Jim says firmly, handing Spock the box. Spock hesitates, then pockets the bracelet.

"I now owe you a sum of – "

"Forget it," Jim says with a half smile. "You're letting me stay in your house, remember?"

Spock tilts his head, conceding the point.

They're all hungry when they leave the last gallery, and since Bones isn't with them, they end up having ice cream for dinner. Jim finds himself sitting on a bench between Chekov and Spock, watching the sun set as he licks chocolate ice cream off his fingers. His digestive system still has trouble handling rich foods, so he has to give the last of his cone to Chekov, who practically inhales it. Jim leans back against the bench, watching the sun slowly paint the sky orange.

"Why'd we visit all those galleries?" Sulu jokes with a yawn. "This is the best thing we've seen."

"Da, it is wery pretty," Chekov agrees. There's a brief pause. Then: "Did you know that ze Russians inwented ice cream?"

Jim snorts. Sulu quietly facepalms as Spock immediately protests, and the ensuing argument is the only thing they hear the entire ride back to the house.

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When Jim wanders into the sitting room at four o'clock in the morning, the last thing he expects is to literally stumble over Scotty in the dark.

"Jesus Christ," Jim squeaks, his heart thundering in his chest. He squints and barely discerns a dark form huddled on the floor. "Scotty? What the hell?"

"Sorry Jim," Scotty's voice slurs from the dark, and Jim realizes that he's drunk. "Didn' exspect you ta be here."

"Yeah, well…" Jim fumbles for the lamp and finally flicks it on, "Sleep's overrated."

Scotty squints up at him, wincing against the light. He's still wearing his clothes from the previous day, and there are empty bottles scattered around him.

"Are you okay?" Jim asks, because yeah, Scotty drinks just as much as Bones (which is a lot), but he doesn't usually look so despondent when he does.

"I'm shorry, Jim," Scotty says.

"What?"

"I'm shorry," Scotty repeats. "I shouldn'a forced ya to fire me."

Jim stares at him for a long moment.

"What…why are you apologizing? You were right about the torpedoes, and you were the one who saved our asses out there." It hurts to admit it, but Jim's done ignoring his own mistakes. "If anything, I owe you an apology."

"Ya were a cakey asshole," Scotty agrees. "Not gonna lie 'bout that. But ye were the Captain, an' I shouldn'a overstepped my place."

Jim huffs a sigh, a familiar ache opening up behind his chest. He carefully sinks down to sit beside Scotty on the floor.

"Well," he says, "I was a shitty captain who wouldn't listen to his crew. So I really don't blame you for quitting."

"An' I'm a shitty friend," Scotty counters. "We're 'bout even."

Jim looks at him in disbelief.

"You infiltrated a giant warship for me when you had every right to tell me to fuck off. What part of that makes you a shitty friend?"

"The part when I let you knock me out and get yerself killed in the warp core," Scotty fires back. Jim flinches, involuntarily remembering the sensation of his fist against Scotty's skull. He knew Scotty would suffer the consequences of that action – but at the time, survivor's guilt had seemed like a better option than death. Jim sighs and runs a hand wearily through his hair.

"Someone had to do it," he mutters. "And it sure as hell wasn't going to be you."

"It shoulda been me," Scotty says sharply, and Jim starts a little at the anger in his tone. "I'm the Chief Bloody Engineer. I know the warp core inside n' out, but I couldn' – ah, hell." Scotty scrubs his face with the palm of one hand. "I messed up. I froze and left you ta do it, and I'm shorry, Jim. I'm so sorry."

Jim just shakes his head.

"No. No, when it comes down to it, you're not the captain, Scotty. You don't know how to make the life or death decisions that I have to make, because that's not what you're trained for. Your job was to fix the Enterprise. Mine was to keep her safe."

"Ya know," Scotty says after a moment, "Yer a lot of things, Jim Kirk. But a shitty captain's not one of 'em."

"Right." Jim sighs, and before he can stop himself: "Tell that to the people who died because I was in that chair."

"Listen here, laddie," Scotty says sharply, and he turns slightly unfocused eyes on Jim. "You're responsible fer your crew – jus' like how the Admirals're responshible for the ships they send out there an' how a mother's responsible for her kids. Doesn't mean that their deaths are your fault."

Jim swallows hard, not trusting his voice.

"If ye take the blame, you'll just be fighting a losin' battle with yourself," Scotty says fiercely. "The dead can't forgive the living, Jim. You've got to do it for them."

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It comes out of nowhere. One minute, Jim's sitting on the balcony in the early morning, watching the ocean – the next, he has Pike's words running through his head, words he heard a long time ago in a coffee shop back at the Academy.

You mean to tell me you've been in San Francisco for three months and you haven't once taken a trip to the beach? Are you living in a hole? Are you – god forbid – studying?

Jim had smirked dangerously across the table at Pike.

I've been making friends with the ladies, he'd said offhandedly, and Pike had rolled his eyes.

You shouldn't tell your adviser that, Kirk.

Blank surprise, quickly masked.

You want to be my adviser? The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

Of course I do. If you'll deign to let me, that is.

Jim swallows against a sudden lump in his throat. He'd been sleeping around, yes, but not as much as his fledgling reputation had begun to imply. The truth was that at first, he'd been too overwhelmed, too excited by San Francisco to even think about taking a beach trip. Those first months at the Academy weren't his best. He'd both hated it and loved it. Hated it because aside from Bones, people just didn't seem to get it, that life was bigger and darker than preppy Academy classes and drinks in clubs – loved it because he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt challenged, had never been able to walk outside and immerse himself in the throbbing diversity of a city.

He couldn't remember a time when an adult believed in him – when an adult was genuinely interested in what he chose to do with his life, took him to coffee shops, and offered to be his mentor.

Jim sinks down into his chair, breath catching against the sudden, deep ache in his chest. He doesn't know what's wrong with him. Pike's been dead for almost two months. Why does it feel like only now he understands that his adviser – his friend – won't take him to a coffee shop again? The Admiral won't find him drunk at a bar. He won't call Jim on his bullshit and tell him it'll still be okay.

Pike's just – gone.

And just like that, something changes. Jim presses a hand to his mouth, catching a hitched breath as tears well up behind his eyes. Pike will never again listen to Jim's rants about life on the Enterprise – he'll never be there to defend him against Starfleet politics – he can't even offer Jim a smile. Not anymore.

Jim remembers Pike shackled to a slab on the Narada, the intense fear that he was too injured to survive in a medical bay fast running out of supplies. The man made it through all of that, and it only took one explosion to erase an entire year of struggle and recovery.

Jim will never get to say he's sorry. He'll never get to say thank you, to tell Pike that he'd been right: Jim wasn't ready for the captaincy. Jim needed someone to guide him through the past year, but he'd been too proud to realize it.

He knows better now. He understands that he needs – even wants – someone to learn from. But that person is forever out of his reach.

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For the first time, it's not Jim's screams that wake up most of the house at three in the morning.

Jim's out of bed and into the hallway before he's fully awake, looking around wildly for the source of the noise. Half of his mind is teetering on an edge – the ship's in danger, Khan's gotten loose, or maybe –

"Jim," Nyota's voice snaps him to full awareness. She's running towards him in her dressing gown.

"I – it's – Bones?" Jim stutters, and Nyota immediately pushes past him into Leonard's room. The screaming stops. Down the hall, Carol pokes her head out just as Spock appears at the top of the stairs.

"Do you need help?" Carol asks, and Jim doesn't see judgment in her eyes, only concern.

"I…" Jim falters. "It's not me. It's Bones." At their identical motions forward, Jim raises his hand. "No, don't. I'll talk to him, I – I owe him an apology." Swallowing, he turns his back on them and pushes open the door to Leonard's room.

Nyota's standing at the side of the bed, a half-empty glass of water in her hand. Bones is sitting up with both hands tangled in his hair, his elbows resting on his knees.

"I'm going to refill this for you," Nyota says gently to Leonard, glancing at Jim in the doorway. She presses close to Jim on her way out. "Whatever's going on between you two, fix it," she whispers in his ear. "This has gone on long enough."

Jim barely manages to nod. When she leaves, there's a moment of awkward silence in which Bones doesn't look at him. Jim takes a steadying breath and walks over, sitting carefully at the end of the bed. This close, he can see that Leonard's hands are trembling slightly, and the sight causes something funny to twist in Jim's stomach.

"You know," Jim says after a moment – Bones still doesn't look at him, but he's listening: "I don't hate you. You were the first real friend I ever had, and that means – that means I can't hate you. But you're a doctor and your whole life is about saving people, and I guess – I guess that makes me jealous. Because I'm a hell of a lot worse at saving people than you are. But that doesn't mean I hate you. It – it's more like I hate myself, because you saved my crew and you saved me when I couldn't, when I had to die just to keep the Enterprise in the air, and I shouldn't deserve – " Jim's voice cracks, because Bones still hasn't looked at him, " – I shouldn't deserve you."

"You're a moron."

Bones finally looks up, and Jim realizes with some shock that they both have tears in their eyes.

"I'm sorry," Jim chokes. With a huff, Bones crawls across the bed and folds Jim into a hug.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for, kid. Not really," Bones says into his ear. "But I forgive you anyway."

And that's really the crux of it, Jim thinks, burying his face into Bones's shoulder even as his breath hitches. When things fall to pieces and people are left to deal with the twisted aftermath of their own crucibles, there's still forgiveness. And maybe that's enough.

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"Bones?" Jim knocks once on the bedroom door before letting himself in, "Have you seen my –"

He stops short. Bones freezes, one hand suspended over the cage.

"Uh," Jim says blankly. "Since when have you had a pet tribble?"

Bone sighs and finishes dumping a handful of grain into the cage perched on his dresser. Inside, the tribble makes an unidentifiable noise and starts to chew on the food.

"It's not my tribble," Bones mutters grumpily. "It's Spock's, but he guilted me into taking care of it. I swear it's his version of payment for letting us use his house."

"Hang on." Jim needs a second to process this. "Spock has a pet tribble?"

"Not exactly." Bones lets out a long breath. "There's something I've been meaning to tell ya…"

Jim listens while Leonard explains about tribbles that come back to life as pseudo-zombies. The doctor clearly tries to keep his tone light and the story straightforward, but Jim gets the subtext. He tries hard not to think about the fact that if it weren't for a random injection into a dead ball of fluff, he'd be in a coffin right now.

"Okay," Jim says with a swallow once Bones stops talking. He feels a little queasy. Not good. He's still thinking too much. "Okay, so a tribble saved my life. Awesome. We have, like, an Enterprise mascot now. What's its name?"

"What?" Bones looks at him incredulously.

"Its name," Jim insists. "It saved my life, it needs a name."

"I saved your life, you crazy moron!"

"Fluffy?" Jim says, considering the tribble with his head tilted to the side. "Eh, not cool enough. Floppy? Chewbacca?"

"You're insane."

Jim sticks his tongue out at Bones, then goes off in search of someone who will take him seriously.

"Uhura, Carol! I need a name for the tribble!"

"What?"

"A name! Come on, you guys have got to have better ideas than Bones."

A big mistake, asking bored girls to come up with a pet name. Before Jim knows it, they've amassed a list of baby names from the internet.

"What about Gregory?"

"No, no, it needs something distinguished. Like Lancelot or Zachary or…oh, what about Benedict?"

"Too many syllables."

"Are you kidding me?" Jim says incredulously. "Syllables? Really? And what if it's a girl?"

"Silas is a good name."

"But Jim's right, what if it is a girl? What about…Elizabeth? Mallory?"

"No, that's all wrong…"

"I want something cute," Jim pouts. "Like Bobble or Bubbles. Or – oh, wait, name it after me! It can be Kirk the tribble! Kirkleton!"

"NO," both girls yell. Jim cowers.

At that moment, Spock walks into the sitting room.

"Spock!" Jim says in relief. "Help me out here. We need a name for the tribble."

Spock's eyebrows shoot into his hairline.

"Let's call it Spero!" Nyota and Carol squeal. Jim hits his head on the coffee table; Spock slowly edges towards the kitchen.

"Oh no!" Jim points a finger at him accusingly. "Get back here! I need a name that isn't terrible, quick! Ha ha, Terrible Tribble – that's a good one."

"Jim," Spock says carefully, "It is illogical to name the tribble when it already has a perfectly functional scientific name, polygeminus grex. You may refer to it as such in the future if you so desire." And with that, the coward escapes into the kitchen.

"Polygeminus grex," Jim mutters in disbelief. "Oh wait, hey! Grex. We can call it Grexy! Thanks, Spock!"

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"We're going to die."

"Oh relax, Leonard," Carol says, rolling her eyes behind his back. Nyota sees it and suppresses a giggle.

"No, I'm serious. We're all doomed."

"Is ze Keptin weally so terrible in ze kitchen?" Chekov asks, blue eyes wide with apprehension.

"I heard he once set fire to the Academy dorm while trying to make tea?" Sulu asks, a giant grin on his face. Leonard lets out a groan.

"Tea!" he says, waving a hand hopelessly in the air. "He can't even make tea!"

"Well…Scotty's not a terrible cook," Nyota tries, but Chekov scoffs.

"Nyet, he is Scottish, he cannot make anything except haggis. Now ze Russians, zey know how to cook."

"I'm not sure most people go to Russia for the food, kid," Bones points out dryly.

"Well, okay, so maybe one of us could go in and just – you know – help them," Sulu suggests, effectively preventing another argument about the contributions of Russia to the world. Leonard nods vigorously.

"Oh hell, yes. But I'm not doing it."

"Jim specifically instructed me to ensure that no such help was rendered," Spock speaks up from his position in front of the kitchen door, which is securely locked. "It is my understanding that this would ruin the concept of a 'surprise dinner.'"

"Of course Jim got you involved," McCoy growls, throwing up his hands. "Alright, Spock, but that means you get to be the first one to taste whatever vile – "

A sudden yelp from the kitchen interrupts him, and the door abruptly crashes open as Jim skids out, clutching his right hand. At the same moment, the smoke detector goes off.

"Sorry 'bout that!" Scotty shouts over the chaos, fanning at the ceiling with an oven mitt. "There's no fire, it's all fine!"

"The copious plumes of smoke would suggest otherwise," Spock observes, even as he rushes into the kitchen to put out the fire on the stove. "I am beginning to understand your concern, Doctor."

But for once, Leonard isn't paying attention.

"Jim, let me see," he says quietly, stepping slowly towards Jim, who is standing frozen in the middle of the room. Jim's staring at his right hand, which is clasped tightly in his left, and his breathing isn't steady. Nyota takes one glance at the scene and discreetly yanks Chekov and Sulu into the kitchen.

"Jim?" Leonard repeats worriedly.

"Uh," Jim's voice comes out hoarse. He blinks and shakes his head, as though trying to get his bearings. "Bones. I'm fine, it's not – it's not bad. I just burned it."

"Let me see it," Bones repeats, holding out his hand. Jim stares at him.

"What?"

"Your hand," Bones says gently. "I just want to make sure you don't need a dermal regenerator."

Wordlessly, Jim unclenches his left hand and holds out his right one to Bones. He was right – it isn't a bad burn, barely enough to blister. But it has to hurt. All burns hurt, no matter how minor – and Leonard bets that Jim hasn't felt this particular kind of pain since he lay dying inside the Enterprise's warp core.

"I've got a burn patch in my first aid kit upstairs," Leonard says, releasing Jim's hand. In a few minutes, the hand is clean and bandaged, but Jim still hasn't said a word. Leonard takes a deep breath. "Do you need a minute alone?" he asks quietly.

For a second, Jim doesn't say anything. Then, slowly, he shakes his head.

"No," he says. "No, I'm okay." He offers Bones a small smile. "But I think we might have to order pizza for dinner."

000000000000000

In hindsight, letting Uhura, Carol, and Scotty get drunk while everyone else goes out for dessert isn't the best idea. It's kind of Jim's fault, he supposes. He has the tolerance of a twelve-year-old right now, so Bones volunteers to buy him dessert instead, and Spock joins them. Since the girls were already slightly tipsy from drinking at dinner, Scotty opted to stay behind with them and get drunk. By the time Jim comes back, the three are completely sloshed.

"Oi, Captain!" Scotty says cheerfully when Jim walks into the sitting room. "Hope ye don't mind, but we borrowed one o'your shirts."

Jim blinks.

Uhura and Carol are cuddling the tribble, which is wrapped up in one of Jim's t-shirts.

"Shee?" Uhura giggles with a slur, holding the tribble up. "It looks better now."

"Less zombie," Carol agrees earnestly.

"It's Shexy Grexy!"

Jim retreats as fast as he can, only to nearly get run over by Bones.

"Put Grexy – I mean the tribble, goddammit – down right now! How many goddamn times do I have to tell you that tribbles are not pets? It's a scientific specimen, and – "

Spock walks through the front door the moment Bones starts shouting. He casts a perplexed look at Jim.

"Ever thought about looking more like a tribble, Spock?" Jim asks with an evil grin. "Apparently Nyota thinks it's sexy."

000000000000000

There's no way to make a long-distance call from Spock's house. At least, that's what Bones told Jim when they first arrived, and that's apparently what the Admirals at headquarters believe as well. But Jim talks to Nyota, and after using his best puppy dog eyes (and after buying her a chocolate muffin), he manages to get a call to New Vulcan.

"Hi, Old Man," Jim says with a grin when the Ambassador's face appears on his screen. Other Spock actually smiles in response, which kind of freaks Jim out.

"Jim," the Ambassador says. "I am exceptionally gratified to hear from you."

"I'm sorry I didn't call sooner," Jim says, and yeah, he does feel guilty about that. "It's been kind of – I needed some time. To think." He looks at other Spock. "I think you of all people understand what I mean."

The Ambassador tilts his head, his expression suddenly weary.

"Khan's blood did not revive me from the dead," he states. Jim opens his mouth, but other Spock cuts him off. "I do not wish to elaborate on how or why I survived my experience. It was a trying time for me, certainly. But it placed a far greater burden on those who I called my friends."

"Right." Jim swallows. "Yeah, I – I suspected that it was you, in your timeline." He points vaguely at his head. "Every once in a while I get a sort of – intuition – about things. I think it's left over from the meld on Delta Vega."

Other Spock looks at him gravely.

"It was not my intention to leave you with memories from outside your own timeline," he says. "If you so desire, such memories may be erased with the help of a Vulcan healer."

"No, it's fine, they're not memories," Jim says hastily. "More like…feelings. I can't explain it. Like when the warp core crashed, I thought – I just thought that Spock, my Spock, might try to fix it. And I knew I couldn't let that happen."

"A fascinating reversal of roles," the Ambassador says, tilting his head.

"Yeah, and that's…kind of what I wanted to talk to you about," Jim says nervously. Other Spock raises an eyebrow, silently asking him to continue. "You know what's like, to – to die. And then to come back and understand what your death means to people. I'm not sure I – " he falters. "I'm not sure I like it."

"It is humbling," the Ambassador says slowly, "To realize your own significance to another sentient being. I believe that I, like you, did not truly comprehend my own relationships until they were taken from me."

"I know what people mean to me," Jim says. "I just – I didn't know what I meant to other people."

The Ambassador nods, his eyes far away.

"It is a tremendous gift," he says quietly. "And it is an awareness you will carry with you for the rest of your life."

000000000000000

Jim knows that Vulcans don't need to sleep as much as humans, but it's still a little bit of a surprise when he comes downstairs at six in the morning and finds Spock standing on the back porch, watching the ocean. It's cold out, but Spock's left the door to the sitting room open, and he's not even wearing a sweater.

"Hey," Jim says, stepping onto the porch. He nearly curses as his feet touch the cold wooden planks. "Uh, it's freezing. What are you doing out here?"

Spock turns to face him, one eyebrow raised in his default you-humans-are-perplexing expression. "It is not freezing, Jim. As for what I am doing…" he hesitates for a fraction of a second. "I believe humans would say that I am 'thinking.'"

"Not meditating?" Jim asks, moving to lean against the railing.

Spock remains silent. He's silent for so long that Jim loses all feeling in his toes, which is going to hurt later. Jim's now keenly aware that he's intruded on the Vulcan's solitude, and he's just about to make his excuses and retreat inside when Spock finally speaks.

"I have been unable to achieve a proper state of meditation since the encounter with Khan."

Jim blinks.

"…Oh," he says. Then he blinks again, because Spock never admits to anything other than pure logic, but this sounds…like he might be asking for help. "Well, that really sucks."

Stupid. Jim immediately regrets that his mouth isn't connected to his brain. He's not cut out for this. Why would an intelligent half-Vulcan think it a good idea to ask him for emotional advice?

"It does not 'suck,'" Spock says severely, but the way he tilts his head towards Jim doesn't seem hostile. "It is, however, most inconvenient."

Jim stares at him for a second. Then he lets out a snort of laughter.

"Oh my god, Spock, I know you know that was just an expression. But seriously – " he sobers, "I'm – I don't know much about meditation, but…can I do anything to help?"

"You have helped," Spock says quietly.

"I have?"

"Affirmative. By admitting to your own difficulties in your recovery, I – you have given me evidence which suggests that it is not a weakness to acknowledge grief in the wake of recent loss."

Jim stares at Spock's profile, utterly taken aback.

"Uh…" he trips over his words with a nervous laugh. "Believe me, I never thought I'd hear that from anyone. Least of all you. I am really, really not the best role model for dealing with mental trauma."

"I no longer think there is a 'role model' for the healing of one's mental wounds," Spock says. To anyone else he might sound clinical, but he turns his head to meet Jim's eyes, and Jim sees a vulnerability there that Spock has never shown him before. "I formerly thought there was only one way for a Vulcan to process emotion. Taking recent events into account, I am no longer certain that this is the case."

Jim immediately understands that Spock isn't just referring to Khan. He means his mother and the destruction of his people, too.

"Yeah?" Jim swallows, and absently notes that the sky has started to lighten. "What's your new theory?"

"That grief and its accompanying emotions are deeply personal," Spock says, "But that they are endurable when shared with friends."

A/N: If any of you are wondering what a hammered dulcimer sounds like, I first heard it played by this man in Central Park: watch?v=MJDuholrvok (plug that in after the standard youtube URL)