Fic: And This Too Shall, 1/3. Gen.

[katydidmischief]

disclaimer. Not mine. Never have been and I'll only ever be playing in the sandbox.
title. And This Too Shall
rating. PG-13/R for Content
summary. He looked weary, beaten down, like everyone had been after him and no one had given him rest.
warnings. Abuse of a child - physical, verbal, non-graphic sexual. Intersexed Male Pregnancy.
notes. Written for this prompt at st_xi_kink.
thanks. Major thanks to silverraven11 and crystalheaven for all their help!

And This Too Shall
Part One
Chapter One“Kirk, James T.,” the nurse called, the PADD in her hand blinking away against the royal blue of her uniform top. Her gaze was akin to Frank's, lackluster and uninterested, and for a moment, he hesitated. He wasn't there for an abortion – he'd thought over that option and decided that even at fifteen, his life ahead of him, he couldn't do it – but coming here, getting here, had been part of his plan to get his mother home and in that second of reluctance, he wondered if he'd done the right thing.

His name yelled again into the busy waiting room, Jim finally dragged himself to his feet and readjusted the baggy sweatshirt he wore. He figured he was close to four, maybe five, months, his belly round in ways it had never been and he trudged along, following the Starfleet Medical Clinic nurse through the maze of hallways. It wasn't a particularly long walk, but with each step Jim's heart pounded harder in his chest.

The entire way from Iowa he'd fought the same nausea that'd coursed through him from practically the minute of conception; it'd been a fight to keep himself from booting in the shuttle and on the ride over, he'd nearly begged the driver to pull over so he could puke on the side of the highway. He felt like utter shit, rung out and exhausted, and that feeling increased tenfold as the gravity of the situation settled into his mind, the adrenaline surge that had led to him impulsively leaving behind Frank and his home ebbing.

“You all right?” the woman asked once they'd become safely ensconced in the tiny exam room. She still looked like she'd rather be out with friends or licking stamps or something far less annoying than some random kid, but she was at least looking at him; it was better than being ignored.

“Yeah, just tired,” he muttered in response, then yanked the sweatshirt violently over his head and threw it into the corner. He almost laughed as her eyes connected with his abdomen, the smartass in him having told the triaging nurse that he was there for a stomach ache, before hopping up onto the table and leaning back on his elbows. Normally he'd have hunched forward, dangling his feet against the base so as to make as much noise as possible to frustrate whomever was there at the time, but without Frank there, he felt less agitated and even somewhat relaxed despite his worries.

Visibly blinking back her confusion, the nurse set about collecting the usual bits and pieces – temperature, blood pressure, heart rate – before disappearing from the room without another word and leaving Jim to his own devices for a few minutes. It struck him as humorous that back home, his doctor never left him without supervision; the old man was sure as hell that Jim was being abused and always wanted someone around to hear in case he made a declaration stating such, but even on the rare occasions when Frank wasn't in the room – as was his right as legal guardian to be there, something he often took advantage of – Jim'd never made any slips.

Now, for the first time in ten years, Jim was alone in a room with people obligated by law to report harm, or the intent to cause harm, to a minor with a baby inside him that carried half of Frank's DNA and half of his own. It almost felt freeing, if not for the continued fear of how his mother would react: it'd been nearly a year since he'd last seen her, her latest mission having been prolonged by a drought which had killed her carefully cultivated plants. Her arrival home remained cloudy at best and with Frank's abuse escalating with each sight of Jim's ever enlarging belly, Kirk had decided to force the issue – either Winona came back to take care of him or he'd find a new family because while he wasn't ready to be a parent, he also wasn't going to let Frank literally beat the life out of him.

He was so lost in thought that Jim didn't notice the doctor enter, internist in tow, until the man cleared his throat as loudly as he could. Only after his eyes snapped up to acknowledge the elder's entrance did the man
introduce himself as, “Matt Anderson. This is Leonard McCoy – he's interning here for a while and if it's all right with you, he'll be conducting your exam with me today.”

In an instant, Jim's carefully honed guards went up yet he nodded, eyeing the younger guy as he moved around the room. Anderson kept talking, asking his reasons for coming in and remarking on how far Jim had come simply to go to the clinic when the dependents of Starfleet Officers were welcome to use the Academy Hospital at no expense.

Kirk only shrugged at that, muttering, “Didn't want to be stared at.”

It was McCoy who asked, “Why would you be stared at?”

“You tell me,” Jim's answered, his tone dark and bitter. His usual method of repelling people had always laid in his ability to appear arrogant and self-loathing, giving attitude to anyone who dared put their hand out to him. He was trying as best he could to reign it in – he'd gone to them after all, not been offered help by some well-to-do Officer of the fleet – only he was starting to panic.

This had to be done, he knew it. He had to submit to an exam and let the Starfleet computers run his child's DNA so a report could be filed, so his mother could be alerted and emergency leave could be granted, so he could get away from Frank once and for all. Still, his mind raced with fears he normally hid and his instincts were screaming as though something were a threat.

McCoy saw it coming before Anderson did, pulling the older doctor out of Jim's reach though his knuckles still grazed the guy's chin. He didn't apologize, couldn't with his mouth suddenly full of cotton, and only reached down to the hem of his shirt where Anderson had been tugging it up to shove it back over his large belly.

The two men looked between each other, Anderson's eyes flooded with concern and sadness – he'd seen that reaction too many sickening times to count – while McCoy merely looked worried, unsure. Announcing quickly, “We'll be back in a few minutes, okay, Jim? I just need to go get something,” he yanked Leonard out into the hall.

“What was that?” he asked, the tricorder in his hand threatening to fall from his inattentive grip.

“That's a pediatric abuse case,” Matt replied, leaning over the nursing station desk to reach for a PADD. “Look, I know you're only here because Starfleet offered up an internship so they could try and recruit you and I know you just want to be an old country doctor like your father, gonna go home and play house with your girlfriend, but I guarantee you are going to see kids like him. So brace yourself, cut off that little part of your brain that wants to save him, be prepared for more outbursts and remember this.”

Leonard didn't really know what to make of his supervising physician's speech, but he steeled himself anyway even as his heart decried the reality of possibly sending a scared child back to his abuser. After all, the law was clear that without hard evidence, child protective services would have to be involved and sadly, the department remained as overworked now as it had been centuries earlier – if Jim Kirk didn't give evidence, then he would be surrendered to his parent or guardian and they would either press charges themselves or wait until CPS had a social worker available to investigate.

He had no way of knowing the ace in the hole Jim Kirk carried, his mind already sure that Jim was either suffering from a slow-building internal injury or perhaps malnutrition manifesting as a distended abdomen; only after they returned to the room, careful to keep their hands in his sight and each step of their exam with express permission, and Leonard began to scan the boy with his tricorder, did he realize that Kirk had exactly the type of evidence a court would want.

A five ounce, four-and-a-half inches long, female piece of evidence.

Chapter Two“He's an anomaly,” Matt explained, his voice forcibly calm as he looked at Winona Burkott through the computer screen. “One in every million births, we have an Intersexed Male born – which I know is a bit confusing.”

Pausing for only a moment to try to find the right words, Matt looked over the woman; shock was clearly setting in and he couldn't blame her given how stunned he'd been himself when Leonard had flipped the tricorder toward him, the results showing in blindingly white lettering. While it meant that Starfleet, under the regs, could keep Jim there to protect him from his abuser until his mother could return to Earth, it had left Anderson with a cold feeling in his gut: no one knew much about Intersexed Male pregnancies and absolutely nothing about one in a fifteen year old.

“Jim fits the criteria for a typical intersex since he has both testicular and ovarian tissues,” he went on, “However, he goes beyond the usual medical definition to a pretty recent development in Human evolution by having not just a penis and testicles, but a vaginal opening and a functioning uterus.”

The woman's eyes widened at the declaration, visibly upset as she looked away suddenly and wiped at her face with a hand. She could barely believe what she was hearing and pondered for all of a millisecond whether the call was simply misplaced – they couldn't be talking about her Jim – but there was no way they could be wrong and she felt the strongest urge to vomit. “God, when he was a baby, I didn't even notice. How...?”

“What little data we have on Intersexed Males shows that the opening is small at first – it probably wouldn't peak the interest of any medical professional. It's usually noted as a birth defect in their charts, like a herniation of the skin that'll repair itself in time, and only once they reach puberty and the opening enlarges does anyone realize. By then the individual either discloses the issue themselves or remains silent – as Jim has.” He leaned back in his chair, glancing at Leonard who was clearly and undeniably distracted, mind still reeling from his own sudden education in the topic.

McCoy was brilliant, no one could deny that. At twenty-one, verging on twenty-two, he'd graduated early from high school, gotten through his undergraduate degree in less time than most of his peers, and was now working his way through an internship while offers from various hospitals poured in and he finished up his Medical School training. Starfleet had attempted to snap him up early on and continued to do so, but his dedication to his family surpassed admirable as he'd repeatedly stated his intent to do his residency in Atlanta where he could wed his long-time sweetheart and raise a family near his own parents. He was no pushover though there had been more than a few instances over the last month of his time there where Anderson wondered precisely how much of Leonard's life had been spent outside of his textbooks.

This, however, seemed to have blown his mind, something Anderson was a bit unsurprised by. So little was known about Intersexed Males that it was not taught in common curriculums; Starfleet taught it only due to its ongoing mission of exploration – space had thrown Vulcans at them, for fuck's sake, and who knew what other species and genders were out there, waiting to be found? This was most certainly Leonard's first lesson in them and unfortunately, it had been accompanied by something that all medical staff abhorred – the sexual abuse of a child.

A minute of silence settled over them, Winona clearly struggling with something as one tear slid down a perfectly tanned cheek. It broke only when she asked, her voice meek and hollow, “Did he say who the father was? The other father, I mean.”

Anderson drew in a heavy breath, having known the question was coming; how could he have not? Were he in her shoes, it would have been one of the first things on his mind as well. “No, he did not, but I regret to inform you that because your husband is contracted to work for the Federation in one of the shipyards, his DNA was in the computer banks when we ran the fetus' through it. We have a ninety-nine-point-nine percent match to Frank Burkott which means he will be arrested on multiple charges this afternoon.”

“And Jim? Where is he now?” A hand rubbed at her cheek, taking away the moisture left by her tears, and her back straightened – this, Matt knew, was a mother scorned and while hell may hath no fury like a woman scorned, there was nothing more terrifying than an angry mother. He'd seen it a thousand times over, working in the Clinic, and in cases like these where a child had suffered in the absence of their parent, he always wished to be a fly on the wall when said parent returned. It went against every moral he held dear, but seeing justice delivered to an adult who'd overpowered someone smaller and younger and unable to fight through the mother or father or both sated some primal desire in him.

“He's been taken to the Academy Hospital Pediatrics Unit for as full a work-up as he'll allow and then unless you have an objection, we are going to deviate from the SOP for cases like this. The standard is to admit the child to a group home until the parent arrives at Spacedock, but given the delicate nature of his condition and the unknown effects this will have on his health, Jim'll be assigned to one of the Academy Professors – Commander Pike, in this instance. He was Command Track but did a Sidetrack in Medical. He's teaching a summer course on...”

“I know Commander Pike, Doctor. He'll be fine – Jim's going to have fits over it, but he's better than Archer,” she admitted, nails clicking against her desk. No doubt a nervous habit, Matt wanted to reassure her that her son would be safe with their care until she could take over herself yet he said nothing to that effect: she most likely wouldn't calm down until she had Jim in her sight and her arms. “If you'll excuse me, I need to go find my CO...”

“The emergency leave request is being put through as we speak, Commander, and Admiral Komack has assured me personally that transport will be made available to you as soon as you've met with Captain Desai. If there's anything else you need to discuss with me, I'll be available at any time as I'll be handling his case,” he assured with a nod of his head, before disconnecting the connection and turning to face McCoy.

Leonard looked paler than he had just a few minutes earlier, his body folded in the seat so his elbows were balanced on strong knees and his head hung forward. “How can you be so calm? You just told her that her son is not only pregnant but been abused, and you didn't even sound angry about it,” he remarked, sounding decidedly more jaded than he had upon his arrival at the clinic.

“Because at times like this, the only thing you can do to keep from running to a cave on some backwater world and swearing off humanity is to be as detached as you can afford to be. You can care – we all do – but you have to keep yourself away from thinking things like 'what if this was my kid' or 'what if I were him' because you'll burn out so quickly, all this work you've put in, the class hours and the tests, will be for nothing.” He sighed, the springy chair bouncing gently at his movement, and Anderson said, “I learned that the hard way. Ended up coming back for more, but there was a good while there where I woke up every morning wanting to call out dead and came home every night to a bottle of booze.

“You don't want to go down that path. Trust me.”

Chapter ThreeLeonard didn't sleep the night after he met Jim Kirk, his mind too restless for slumber and as such he found himself wandering the Academy campus in the dim light of evening. It was never dark anywhere on Starfleet's property, lamps always providing some illumination to the sharp corners and alleyways as well as the common areas like the quad and the pathways, and McCoy longed for the pitch-black nights of home – he may be a boy born and raised in the suburbs, preferring city life, but he was still his daddy's son and he liked seeing stars at night, he liked needing a portable light to see if he ventured into the yard past dusk. And while it was easy to blame the noise and brightness of the city for his insomnia, even he knew it was a lie.

In his meager years, McCoy had met people as angry and openly defiant as Kirk, but none matched his reasons to be that way. He'd never known someone whose life was wrapped up in the terror of knowing they were nothing more than the sexual play thing of someone they couldn't hope to fight; he was ignorant in that respect and it bothered him that while he'd had clinical discussions of how to handle abuse cases, nothing could really have prepared him for it. Seriously, how could anyone be ready to face a pregnant child? A pregnant male child at that?

Dragging his feet along, aimless as he went but vaguely aware that he was headed towards the professorial housing section, Leonard felt as nauseated as he had when he'd read the tricorder's results. Not that long ago he'd been fifteen himself, getting into trouble with his guy friends and skipping school every now and again while talking about which cheerleader he'd like to fuck. His only real tragedy that year was the loss of his mother to a cancer no drug had been able to destroy, but her fight had spurned him toward a career in medicine; though he'd always miss her, Anna's death had given his life direction and McCoy couldn't help the wonder that his mother's death had had a silver lining, what lining was there for Jim? What good could come from such a horrifying situation?

None. That was the only answer – none. That young, churlish boy's life had been destroyed by one person's repulsive actions and while he would inescapably grow up, Jim Kirk's life would be nothing more than a parody of what it could have been. For though the courts would mandate therapy for him and a social worker to aide both his mother and hisself, he would always have the memories hanging over his head even if he paid them no conscious heed.

Stopping under a lamppost, Leonard settled one hand against the column and rubbed his eyes with the other, wanting to ignore the hunched figure on the bench ahead of him yet wholly unable to. He may be off-shift and thus not required to provide whatever medical care he could, but he was a doctor, whether or not he'd yet to finish med school, and he couldn't turn off the urge to help any more easily than he could force his racing mind to stop.

He walked over slowly, approaching as one would an injured animal that might kick out at any time or snap at a helping hand, and somehow managed to keep the pure astonishment out of his eyes. “It's three in the morning, Jim. You should be in bed,” he stated, sliding onto the bench beside the boy who had not thus far looked at him. It was disheartening.

Starfleet's regulations stated outright that, with children, whichever doctor (or Internist, in this case) first met with the victim was to remain with them unless there was a mitigating factor so as to maintain a level of security for the boy or girl – trust was something often given over time and bouncing a child from doctor to doctor without any promise of second meeting had never proven a good idea. Jim's case was his, and Anderson's, and for a moment, Leonard regretted that as Kirk inched away from him; perhaps he simply wasn't cut out for pediatrics, maybe he should stick with general practice without the specialization in kids...

“I can't sleep,” Jim muttered. He tugged on the sweatshirt's hem before sliding one slim hand out from the too-long sleeve to scratch idly at his nose, and McCoy nearly laughed – nervous tics evidently ran in the family. “Haven't been able to sleep for a while.”

“Any specific reason why?” Leonard asked, hoping it was something, anything, he could fix. The kid deserved to know there were people in the world who weren't out to hurt him or take enjoyment from his pain and if he could give him a little bit of relief from exhaustion or discomfort, it might go a long way, particularly toward earning Jim's trust.

Kirk's response was biting and angry, filled with the hatred of years and McCoy ached at it all. “Well, there is that whole thing where I keep waking up expecting my stepfather to be looming over me, but that's just a coincidence, right? Couldn't possibly have anything to do with not being able to sleep.” He slipped back then, into the bench; his face was cast in the yellow-white glow of the nearby lamp, making it quite obvious that despite his embittered words, the boy had been crying.

Leonard couldn't blame him nor wanted to call attention to it. The kid needed an outlet for the pain he was no doubt keeping inside him, and if it was relieved with tears, then so be it – he was human for fuck's sake, and he'd more than earned the right to grieve. Hell, if Jim wanted to beat the crap out of him, Leonard would probably let him just to give him a few minutes of carthesis.

Instead he drew his legs up, crossing them as he watched the sun begin to rise, the rose pink of dawn a mere hint on the horizon, and asked, “You want to talk?”

“About what?” Jim tossed back, his head pounding once again from a headache borne of sleeplessness. He'd gotten used to them over the prior few weeks, too tense at night to do more than catch a few catnaps here and there as the parental instinct kicked in and he began to fear what Frank would do to him as his pregnancy progressed. Still, as used to them as he was, the headaches awoke the urge to vomit which he'd like to avoid at all costs.

McCoy thought the question over carefully, pondering what topics were common to teenagers and had absolutely nothing to do with sex or his stepfather. He could ask about cars or something else inane, something that was frivolous, fun.

Pike's yell, however, stopped any further conversation as the elder man whipped down the path like a bat out of hell and skidded to a halt in front of them. “Jim!” he declared, a little out of breath and his held tilted to one shoulder. He was casting assessing eyes over Kirk, trying to ascertain if he needed more medical care than an Intern could provide; McCoy liked him immediately – even though they'd met when Jim was handed off to him, Pike still failed to assume McCoy's intentions were entirely pure, hence truly having Jim's security as the first priority.

Leonard heartily approved and watched as Pike whisked the boy off with a stiff farewell, one hand carefully not touching Jim's back. He still would get no sleep that night, but at least his overwhelmed and overrun mind could take solace in the fact that Jim Kirk had someone looking out for him.

Chapter FourIt took Winona six standard days to get home to Earth, having needed to hop three different ships and a couple of shuttles as she made her way across space toward her son and his unborn child. Her throat had caught each time she thought of it, thought of all the things Jim had never told her, yet had not cried or grieved for him as she wanted. There simply hadn't been time, even when she reached the final vessel home and had two days to herself – Jim needed her to be strong now; there would be plenty of time later for her to fall into a friend's arms and scream at the injustice of the situation.

“I'll be there in a few hours, okay, baby?” she told him, less question than statement though posed as one, from Spacedock on the sixth day, her fingers aching to hold the child she hadn't touched in a year. She valiantly ignored all thoughts of Sam for though she loved her elder son, she couldn't let herself devolve into worries over him right then. Her attention needed to be on Jimmy, not lost in the stars with another little boy she'd unconsciously swept to the wayside.

“Promise?” Jim asked as he pulled at the neck of the sweatshirt he wore. He looked weary, beaten down, like everyone had been after him and no one had given him rest; she knew from Chris that Jim had been going in daily for medical scans, the team assigned to manage his case trying to locate, treat, and prepare for any complications that could arise, and while it was summer, the professors had taken it upon themselves to homeschool her boy once it was discovered how much school he had missed in the prior months.

Once again, she found her throat filled with a hard lump as regret flooded her. She should never have left Jim alone with Frank, should never have left at all... She forced herself to stop that train of thoughts, aware that her past was done and over with and all she could do now was protect him, love him, and fight like hell to see Frank punished for his crimes. “Promise,” she told him, as much conviction as she could muster in her tone, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he responded with a small smile and her heart ached even as they said goodbye, the screen going black; as if on cue, the love and concern she felt for Jim slipped away, replaced by a righteous anger at the man who'd sworn, before God in a house of His name, that he would treat Jim like his own son and protect the boy from harm. Frank had promised to see to it that both Sam and Jim were loved, that they were kept safe, and, in her absence, could be trusted to raise her sons properly – look where his lies had led them with Sam God-knew-where and Jim pregnant, having hitchhiked to Frisco in the hope that for once she might put him ahead of her work instead of leaving him to his Stepfather's concern.

Fuming as she stepped onto the shuttle to the Riverside Shipyard, she knew she was being unreasonable with herself: she'd had no way of knowing what Frank would turn out to be and she had only had her children's best interests at heart when she'd eventually returned to Starfleet. A servant of the Federation, she'd assured the boys would have access to the best of everything, though it'd always pained her that bringing them to her postings was nigh impossible given the locations she was sent to. Now she cursed it, the cost of insuring they'd have a good education and top notch health care too high.

“Commander,” someone called, tearing her forcefully from her ruminations.

Winona looked up, recognizing the man before her as one of the surviving Kelvin crewmembers. Simon, she recalled, Simon Delacruz. He'd worked in biomedical research, specifically in the analytic department specializing in flora; his team had shared an office beside her lab and they'd often crossed paths, as was prone to happen with intersecting disciplines.

“Commander,” she responded, smiling gently, “Been a long time.”

Delacruz nodded as he grinned in return – it'd been nearly a decade since he'd last seen the widow of George Kirk. She'd been a little less jaded looking back then, a little sadder, with two laughing boys circling her feet like orbiting moons in direct contrast to the dark, somber mood of the Starfleet organized memorial service. “Ten years almost,” he said, closing his eyes for a few seconds as they hit a patch of turbulence. “How are you?”

“Truthfully? Exhausted,” she answered somewhat sheepishly. Reclining into the seat a bit as the pilot nulled them out of the sudden jerking movement of the craft, she punctuated her statement with a yawn, then added, “I've been with Captain Desai working on alternative forms of temperate agriculture. We had a setback with a drought, but we think we may have made a breakthrough on possible cultivation methods when typical ones are inadvisable.”

“The Federation's still trying to make amends for Tarsus IV?” He didn't really need to hear her reply, fully aware that in the aftermath, the leadership had felt a collective guilt and ordered intensive study of the incident so as to determine what kind of preventative measures could be undertaken. Simon had no way of knowing that both Sam and Jim Kirk had been on Tarsus during the crop failure and subsequent murders.

Something else Winona felt sick for, though she managed to keep herself perfectly calm. “Most of the research's been completed and they've started to divert funds to other projects, but yes, it was one of the Tarsus-related studies,” Winona told him before asking what he'd been up to; Starfleet had given each member of the crew a few weeks' worth of leave, mandated therapy prior to returning to service then handed out new posting assignments, thus scattering the horror-bonded crew across the universe. They'd all tried to at least maintain contact with the others from their departments, but in time it became a rarity to hear from one another.

Lost in conversation, reconnecting with someone else who could remember Jimmy when he laughed and joked and the only trouble he got into was when Sam led him to it, she didn't hear the pilot's declaration that they would be landing in less than a minute. It was only after the crew of the vessel began to disembark, yanking their duffels from the storage nets and heading for the door, that Winona bid him farewell with a one-armed hug and an empty promise to keep in touch, heading toward the offices she'd been in a handful of times before – Sam was the son of a Commissioned Officer, so when he was arrested, he had never been held in the county jail but Starfleet's own.

She had an appointment with the fleet's Overseeing Security Officer at the Shipyard and she did not want to be late. Not when she'd called him from the USS Honor with a request to speak with Frank two days earlier and he'd interrupted her to personally guarantee several minutes alone with her soon-to-be ex-husband. Winona already had plans to send the Commander a bottle of brandy as soon as it would be appropriate to for making the offer in the first place.

The holding cells were different than she was sure she'd find at the Riverside Jail – there, antique bars would have met her; while the Shipyard had brought new life to the sleepy town along side dozens of new jobs for civilian contractors, the money needed to upgrade much of the outdated technology had never come through. People could afford a few more luxuries working for Starfleet than privately, but it hadn't been a source of expansive change unless one counted the opening of the very first exotic dance club two streets over from the grocery.

Starfleet, though, could build anything they wanted without the hindrance or concern of budgets. Their money came from so many places they needn't worry about the price of their materials, how much they had to pay for the parts of their ships that came from places clear across the quadrant. Hence why the simple holding cells of the Shipyard – where Frank remained while Starfleet decided where his trial should be held – were not made with iron bars and concrete, but steel and computer-generated forcefields.

Like the brig of one of the newest starships, the Constitution Class named for the first ship to be launched, the holding cells were sterile, neat, and contained only one occupant on an unforgiving thinly-padded bench.

He looked exactly as he had a year ago when Winona had left: completely at ease, reclining on the bench like he was laying on a bed of a million soft flowers with one leg hanging over the side. He didn't appear remorseful and when he saw her, his eyes lit up like the had so many times before: he was happy, the bastard, to see her as though she had no clue why he was locked up, why she'd rushed home to Earth to get to her son.

“I don't want to know why and I don't want to hear any excuse or apology,” she started, “All I want to hear are two things – one...”

“Winona,” he cut her off, rising from the bench and shuffling toward the humming, invisible field that kept them separate.

“One, you assure me that Jim will not be made to testify at some ridiculous trial – you've done my boy enough harm. And two, you don't fight me on the divorce, you'll just sign the goddamn papers and never come near us again,” she declared. Her fingers had clenched into fists and she could feel her pristine, regulation length nails digging into soft flesh until the slick of blood drops wet the tips.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but she knew it was only to argue; she wanted to tell the guard and the Officer to turn off the field and let her have those five minutes alone as she'd been promised, yet she knew she couldn't afford to be rash, to possibly bring charges against herself when Jim needed her with him. Getting jailed herself would leave her son with Starfleet SOP rather than a family member, so she closed her eyes in the face of his diatribe and stopped him when he declared, “I didn't do anything he didn't want.”

“He's fifteen and you were his stepfather. I don't care if he walked into our bedroom naked and sat on your goddamn dick,” she shouted in response, “You raped my son and now you're trying to justify it and I will not let you get away with this. Even if all you get is a few years, Frank, you're the bottom of the food chain in a penal colony, you know that?”

Winona's voice went dark, the pure, undeniable hatred palpable to everyone there, and she went on, “Murderers, rapists... They have a hierarchy and you know which ones are everybody's bitch? The child abusers. You, Frank, you raped Jimmy and once they find out your crime, you'll know exactly what it feels like.”

It was only after Frank's face went white that she turned, and, feeling more vindication than was morally appropriate, left the cell block. She had several more stops to make before she could return to the shuttle docks and to Jim, but her steps were lighter, a little more springy, and the corners of her mouth tilted up as she gained distance from the facility.

Chapter FiveThere were few things in the world that Jim Kirk had ever cried over: his tenth birthday when he realized what it meant to have no father, waking up one morning and rushing to Sam's room only to find the bed empty of his only steady protector, and the first time he realized that Frank truly did not have rights to his body, no matter what the man swore.

Now, however, he had another for the list and that was the sight of his mother as she disembarked the shuttle, her feet pounding the hard metal stairs when she ran down them and then to him in a way that no one in the area could misconstrue as anything other than an overdue reunion. They'd all lived them and none looked down on them nor remarked; it was the way of Starfleet to be torn from loved ones until either the mission or their enlistment was up, though no one had the slightest clue how wrong their assumptions were.

Work went on around them, ignored by Jim and Winona while Pike stood quietly to the side. He didn't dare interrupt, not when Jim buried his face in the folds of her dress uniform top and wrapped his thin arms around her like she'd leave if he didn't have her in a firm grip, but when the engineers approached with their equipment, grease-coated and fiddling with their tools in impatience, he spoke.

“Winona, Jim, why don't we go back now? You, young man, need to eat something and I'm sure your mother would like a change of clothes,” Chris told them, his hand held out to her in a silent invitation. “Unless,” he went on, “You'd like some time alone and then I can get lost for a few hours.”

Still hugging Jim to her but shifting him so his head rested against her shoulder and he was wrapped around her side like an overgrown infant, Burkott nodded in agreement as she said, “You don't need to get lost but I would love to get out of this uniform and into a pair of jeans. Okay, Jimmy?”

Jim waved a hand through the air by way of an answer, unable to let Winona go even as they began walking toward the exit, toward Professorial Housing. He simply couldn't do it; he'd hoped like hell that she'd return from her posting when the report was sent to her, but in truth, Jim hadn't expected his mother to. Frank had stolen that from him, too – his belief that she would protect him, that she would drop anything and everything for him if he asked. But she was here in her dress uniform with her blonde hair pulled back in a loose updo, one hand in his hair, while the other crossed her body to clasp one of his shoulders.

She was here and yet another of Frank's lies was realized by Jim, his youthful mind trying to process and make sense of all the things he was discovering were false truths. He swallowed thickly, his throat tight and painful like someone was slicking his neck open with a dull blade and his belly cramped a little causing him to gasp, stop, and look at Winona as he clutched at himself in fear.

“Mommy,” he cried out, knees going weak and collapsing out from under him. Something was wrong, he could sense it – right down to his bones, he was overwhelmed with terror and instinctively, Jim reached for Winona though the pain kept his head and body balled up on the ground. He was unable to move, unable to comprehend what was going on around him, never hearing the request for help; he didn't hear McCoy until the man was on him, yelling while he ran the tricorder over him.

A medical team arrived a few seconds later, dragging Jim up and onto a portable biobed before a hypo was pressed to his neck, the searing pain dissipating quickly thereafter. His head, having been filled with the hazy cloud of agony, cleared and Jim came back to himself in time to feel the hands pulling his shirt up and his pants down and he kicked out. He was in the hospital: he knew from the smell of the antiseptic and the urgent rushrushrush feeling that permeated everything, but that gave him no solace as they tried to stop his flailing.

Fight or flight had, like a switch, flipped on again and hands, feet, knees all went flying while he screamed at them to not touch him, not get near him, let him be. It took several minutes to notice that everyone in the room – doctors, nurses, his mother, and Pike – had all stepped back and let him run himself out. They'd let him have his apoplectic fit as they watched, Winona looking decidedly sick as it well and truly sunk in how terrible things were: this was not something she could make better with her presence or with promises to keep him safe nor was it something she could fix with a baseball bat and Frank's skull.

Leonard was the first to move once Jim was calm, approaching the bed with both hands settled within the wild-eyed view of the boy. “No one's going to hurt you, okay? We need to check you out and check the baby out and visual exam's part of that,” he tried, eyes set on Jim's. “Do you want some of these people to leave?”

“I want to keep my fucking pants on,” Kirk shot back. One hand dashed out to hitch the jeans back up over his hips where they'd slung during his fit, but didn't zip them, not because he knew they were right – his hands were shaking too much to do it.

“Jim, listen to me,” Anderson pressed on, coming up beside McCoy, “I know it's hard, but I wouldn't ask this of you if it wasn't necessary – we thought we noticed something in your tests but we weren't sure what we were reading. Now, we have an idea, but we need to work fast and I promise you, it'll be quick, we'll use sheets and no one will see. We have to do this.”

“Or?” he prodded.

“Or you could have a miscarriage or a cerebral hemorrhage. Just a few minutes, buddy. That's all it'll be,” Matt answered, hoping that the dread he was feeling hadn't crossed into his voice; Jim had the right to know the danger he was in and had the right to make his own choices about his body, but if he ignored their need to simply look him over for other signs of what they feared, he could be dead in hours.

It was something more than relief that he felt when Jim told him, “You, him, Pike, and mom,” and with a glance at the slightly dazed nurses, he added, “And Christine. That's it.”

Anderson had almost let out a whoop of joy at the acquiescence, holding it in through sheer force of will, and ordered the rest of the medical team out of the room. Despite all of them having met and spent time with Jim over the prior week, having run tests on him and talked to him, there really didn't need to be a team of twenty specialists and nurses invading his space.

“Okay, Jim, I don't want you to move or to try and help – stay as still as you can,” Anderson told him, reaching for the ubiquitous sweatshirt and added, “I'm going to pull this over your head. No one's going to touch you anywhere else while I do, okay?”

Jim's shirt and pants were removed in the same manner, leaving him clothed in threadbare boxers and thick white socks with a sheet tossed over his lower body. It made him feel vulnerable, exposed, and he shifted awkwardly under the scrutiny of his doctors; they'd been decent from the start and he flushed with frustration as he tried to remain calm in the face of his mind's ruminations.

They aren't getting off on this, they're trying to help, he told his traitorous thoughts.

Pulled into a soothing reverie of reassurances that the two men weren't out to bed him, Jim didn't acknowledge the tricorder unit that was wrapped around his arm until it began reeling off vitals in a loud, automated tone and he flinched.

Brought back to reality, he took in his mother's somewhat disturbed expression and waited for her to speak. He was not disappointed when she called, “Jimmy,” softly and gestured to his multi-colored chest, her jaw tight. “How long have you had those bruises?”

“Bruises?” He retorted, looking down at his body; his eyes widened – his torso was marbled in purples, greens, and yellows. Some were old, the product of Frank's last attempt to push him into a miscarriage, but the rest were clearly new, too new to blame on Frank and he winced as he tried to remember where they came from. He hadn't been in any fights and he hadn't been slapped around, so where the hell had he gotten them? “I... I don't know.”

“Okay, this confirms the tricorder results – Jim, we're going to admit you for the night,” Matt told him while Leonard searched a cabinet for a new, unopened package of medical scrubs. “You've developed a condition called Preeclampsia and we need to treat you before it becomes Eclamp...”

“Fuck,” Leonard cut him off, dropping the package he held and lunging at the tray of sterile hyposprays – the first sign of an Eclamptic seizure was twitching, typically around the mother's mouth, and Jim's had started as McCoy had turned to face the boy. They had little time to waste before it became a full blown tonic-clonic episode, but as McCoy jammed the hypo of phenobarbital to Jim's neck, Kirk went tense and Anderson told him, “Stay on that side of him! Christine, get some blankets. Commander Burkott, Commander Pike, out!”

Winona fought for a minute until Pike overpowered and dragged her from the room.

Chapter SixThe cup of coffee Chris had pushed into her hand two hours ago had gone cold, not even a sip taken as she'd held vigil on the hard waiting room chairs.

Jim's seizure had stopped within minutes and he had woken disoriented and screaming, clutching his belly in fear, and once he'd collected himself, McCoy and Anderson had whisked him off for further testing. They'd said that she and Pike would be alerted as soon as Jim was settled in a room, but it'd been so long she was beginning to irrationally think they had been forgotten or perhaps the unthinkable had happened and Jim had...

She shook her head free of the thought – if Jim had been in the process of dying, someone would have come looking for permission to resuscitate. Clearly they were either running more tests or working on getting Jim set up in a bed for the night; he'd need an IV, that much was guaranteed, and medications, blood and urine tests repeated over the ensuing hours as the medical staff monitored the level of protein being put out by Jim's kidneys and his blood pressure.

God, Winona groaned, it's like my pregnancy with him all over again.

The Kelvin had been on their way back to Earth and Starfleet Medical's facilities, their science and exploration mission cut short for the sake of not only the young Lieutenant Commander but several other ill shipmates who'd failed to respond to the available treatments. The Admiralty had been less than pleased at the idea of their return, but even less thrilled at the prospect of them returning with needlessly dead crew, so they'd turned around to head for home when they'd come across that godforsaken lightening storm.

She'd ended up delivering in that shuttle simply because there was no other option at that point – the stress of the evacuation, coupled with the complications she'd suffered through, meant Jim's entrance to the world could not be delayed. Her body was no longer able to continue with the strain of gestational diabetes, preeclampsia, and, in the final few days, a placental abruption that had caused more than a few discussions about inducing over bedrest. Of course, her insistence to continue working as long as she could hadn't helped matters, but she'd been young and stubborn and George had been at her side.

“I nearly lost him twice,” she admitted out of the blue, looking down at the brown sludge in the cup. “Most people get preeclampsia in their third trimester, but I guess we're a family of overachievers because I was only at 18 weeks when I collapsed in my lab.”

Chris nodded, wondering how best to reply and explain what he'd known from the minute he'd met Jim – the kid was fighter, just like his mother, just like his father. He'd survived a veritable hell with his mind intact, something Chris didn't think he could claim if the situation was reversed; at fifteen, Jim was an absolutely extraordinary child, destined for a hell of a lot more than he was sure the boy expected.

“Then I had the abruption and they were trying to figure out if it was complete or partial – partial, thank God – and I'll never forget Mraz's words as long as I live: Be prepared to deliver a stillborn, Winona.” She snorted at the memory, and went on, “I swear, George was ready to commit murder when he said that. Six and a half months of carrying him, fussing over details for his nursery and getting Sam excited, and he just expected me to be ready to give birth to a dead child with that as my warning.”

“Mraz always was an ass,” Pike said, recalling the man who'd been called before the Medical Board more times than the collective number of cords on the Admirals. His bedside manner left something to be desired, multiple complaints lodged against him through the years for his attitude, and Chris could, for some unknown reason, easily picture George Kirk beating Mraz to within an inch of his life.

“Yeah. I think he was a bit surprised when the shuttles were picked up and I came waltzing off with my living, breathing son.” The smile on her lips was a little sardonic and self-assured, thinking over how shocked the older man had been when she'd stepped into the crowded bay of the Intrepid with Jimmy slumbering in her arms. She sighed as the memory continued, filling her with the same sadness she'd felt back then when the moment had inevitably come that she realized that George was gone and she would have to raise their boys alone.

“More than a bit, I would imagine. He liked to be right, even when he wasn't,” Pike told her, draining away the dregs of his second cup of coffee, “I know the answer is probably no, but are you hungry? It's been hours since you ate last...”

She shook her head, thoughts filling her mind and weighing her down in guilt, worry – she was too emotionally wrung out to eat. Thankfully she didn't have to say that to Chris, who plucked the cold drink from her hands and moved toward the recycling unit before waffling on whether or not to go find himself something. After all, it'd been a while since he'd eaten himself and at least one of them had to take care of themselves enough to keep a handle on Jim.

Deciding, he made for the door in short steps, wanting to give Burkott time to ask for something though he already had plans to bring her back a sandwich anyway, but as he moved within a few inches of the sensor, Winona stopped him dead in his tracks.

“George is looking down on me right now and regretting ever wanting to have children with me,” she announced, the words echoing through the empty room like a wayward ping pong ball. “I know everyone's going to tell me that he wouldn't blame me for this, if he were here, but I... I just can't stop thinking about how happy he was for Sam, for Jimmy. There were nights I know he didn't sleep, just put his head on my belly and felt them kick or move and he'd talk to them. Promise them that no one would ever hurt them while he was around.”

“Winona,” he began, sliding back into his chair, “if there is one person in this universe I have the utmost respect for, it's George. I joined Starfleet after the Kelvin because I was inspired by what he did – making the sacrifice so you and Jim and the others wouldn't have to. There is no doubt in my mind that, of all people, George would be the last to pass judgment on you for this.”

“You can't say that, Chris, you can't.” She rubbed her eyes free of the mutinous tears, saying, “You don't know what he went through.”

“George Kirk was the son of Anne and Tiberius Kirk, born 2199.46 in Riverside, Iowa,” he recited. “In 2210, he was temporarily removed from their custody after a report was filed by a neighbor, James Duffy, stating he'd seen the boy sleeping outside several nights in a row without a tent, sleeping bag, or even a blanket. An investigation was pursued and it was brought to light that Anne had been abusing both Tiberius and George.”

“That record was sealed,” she murmured.

Pike looked at her then offered a small, tight smile. “It was unsealed after his death certificate was filed – I was looking up the record of your marriage when I found the report.”

“Ah, so anyone curious enough to look up George can see it,” she stated acridly, sad for her long-gone husband. He'd been so ashamed of his past, the story of what he'd suffered having been told to her in bits and pieces during the dark of ship's night; the fact that it had been her own father to set Child Protective Services on the family hadn't made a difference, never quite able to get past the ten years of conditioning to be silent about his home life.

She tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. “It doesn't change how disappointed he'd be in me that I let this happen to our son. It was the one thing that he didn't want either of them to ever experience and he made me swear... God, Chris, he made me swear that if I ever saw any sign that he would abuse our kids, that I'd stop him. Or that if I even thought of raising my hand to them, that I'd tell him so he could stop me.”

Any reply Pike had was cut off by the arrival of Anderson and McCoy, who were rapidly becoming some sort of medical wonder team in her mind though that was more than likely the exhaustion taking over. They looked just as tired, thick purpled bags formed under the younger man's eyes while he struggled to keep himself upright.

“I apologize for the delay.” Anderson scratched behind one ear as he told them, “We had trouble finding him a room in Maternity and then he put up a fight when we tried to start the IVs. Christine will take you up and you're invited to spend however long you'd like with him.”

Winona nodded. “Has he had any sedatives?”

“No. We've got him on drips of magnesium sulfate to prevent any more seizures and hydralazine to deal with his blood pressure and given that we're flying blind, if you will, with him, I didn't want to toss more drugs at his system until we've gotten him over this hurdle. If he truly cannot sleep, Christine is on duty tonight and has been authorized to give him something mild,” Matt explained before yawning and immediately apologizing. “McCoy and I will be leaving for a few hours but if you need anything, ask the nurses to contact us.”

“Thank you for taking such good care of my boy. Now go home, gentlemen, and get some sleep,” she responded, standing up and patting Leonard's shoulder before following the young nurse out of the room.

Chapter SevenJim looked and felt, at least physically, better in the morning, the white scrubs standing out against his skin instead of blending in, but the staff were reluctant to release him – even to his mother's care – until they'd had word from Matt Anderson that it was okay. So, having sent his mother and Pike away to shower and change, Jim laid in his bed, eyes trained on the ceiling while the holocomics lay abandoned at his fingertips.

The baby had made it through the night, medications administered at seemingly random intervals that'd help accelerate her growth and lung development – the only cure for Eclampsia was delivery, McCoy had explained, and until they hit 29 weeks, even their technology wouldn't be able to save his daughter without intervention prior to birth.

It'd been a statement of fact, not a cruelly related possibility, yet it'd felt like a slap in the face to Kirk: so many things he could do without breaking a sweat and this, this supposedly natural human... thing, he couldn't. Granted he was male, but he was a fucked up male – penis, check; testicles, check; vagina, check – his genetics had made it possible for him to become pregnant, and thus he should be able to carry a fetus to term. That these were complications seen since the dawn of human life meant nothing to Jim, he only felt more like a failure.

“Hey, kid,” Leonard's voice rang out. He'd gotten a solid five hours of sleep, deeper than usual, and somehow managed to sleep through his alarm; he had then promptly raced around his assigned apartment in a mad dash to make it to the Hospital before Matt contacted him to ream his tardy ass out. Of course, only after he'd come running, red-faced, into the Maternity Unit did he find out that Anderson was running behind as well and wouldn't be in for another twenty minutes.

He didn't take his eyes away from the ceiling, but Jim did give a careless wave in greeting, then asked, “Aren't you supposed to be at the clinic? I know I heard you say you had clinic duty today.”

“I wanted to come check on you before I went over there,” he admitted, nonchalantly swinging a bag from his wrist. His voice took on a teasing quality as he added, “And I brought you something but if you don't want some VR games...”

“VR?” Jim whipped his head toward the guy, fingers itching to see what editions Leonard had and what console – Nintendo was the leader given its age and expertise making a wide range of games, but Linux and Evo had all come up with some pretty awesome things themselves. Jim, a closet fan of the older Zelda and Mario collections, had used them as a distraction on the days when Frank's discipline threatened to leave him with broken bones, and having them dangled before him once more was like a drop of water to a dying man – something to take his mind away from the all consuming upset of being in the position he was.

Dropping the bag into Jim's lap, Leonard grinned and tipped the contents out to reveal not only a Nintendo hand-held but an antique one at that, the kind that used cartridges instead of chips and eventually had to be put down to rest one's thumbs from the repetitious clicking. “Holy crap,” he muttered, “This is older than Pike.”

“Yup. My mom's family had it kicking around in a storage facility. I found it, cleaned it up, and hunted out every existing game I could – so don't break it,” McCoy retorted, leaning one hip onto the bed and crossing his arms. He waited only a moment for Jim to paw through the various titles before asking, “How are you feeling?”

Jim shrugged. “Okay, I guess,” he answered, fingering one of the cartridges as he turned blue eyes onto the man. Maybe it was the concern on the face looking back or the oppressive weight of his thoughts, or the heady sense of being something different yet not scorned by the man standing beside him, but Jim only heard the words tumble from his mouth a moment before his brain processed what he was saying.

Gender identity crisis, McCoy realized with a sigh. They'd been so wrapped up in his physical health, his mental had been thrown to the wayside and ignored; he needed to meet with one of Medical's staff child psychologists, quickly, though finding the most appropriate of them was going to be a hell of a task. It wasn't like they had experts in Intersexuality and Gender Identification wandering the corridors left and right: someone was going to have to sit down and screen out a therapist for him and Leonard had a sneaking suspicion that it would wind up being him.

“I'm sorry,” Jim muttered when McCoy's thoughts went too long, when the silence washed over him like an accusing blanket and he recoiled in fear that he'd once again done something wrong. Frank had always done that – been deadly silent – when Jim had done something he would soon pay for in blood and pain; he hunched into the bed a little more and quietly began collecting the cartridges to put back in the bag.

Leonard snapped out of his contemplative haze with an apology on his own tongue and he spit it out hastily, declaring, “No, Jim, you didn't do anything wrong, okay? And I brought that for you – I'm not asking for it back.”

Kirk eyed him wearily, trying to gauge the level of truth in the man's words.

“I was just thinking, that's all, buddy,” McCoy explained, adding, “Jim, have you ever spoken to a counselor? Maybe at school?”

“Once,” he admitted after a few seconds. “She didn't believe me.”

The woman, Theresa Heinz, had been the brunt of a lot Jim's jokes through the years; Riverside had been a small town before and after the Shipyard was built and thus the population was so low that only one meager, roughly constructed building was needed for kindergarten through grade twelve. All ages, all levels of education and dozens of teachers, housed under one roof from seven in the morning until two-thirty in the afternoon. Barely a thousand kids attended and as such, only one social worker had been employed to keep watch over them all.

Abused verbally by some of the students for her interference into their lives and ignored altogether by others, her job had not been easy – in rural Iowa, everyone lived by something of a bastardization of the Southern Code wherein the boys were supposed to be tough but good to their mothers and treated women right. They said nothing about their problems, particularly about home life, to anyone, dealing with them as best they could on their own.

But there'd been one especially horrendous day not long before Jim's long string of absences started and that was the day after he'd gotten the results back for his aptitude tests. He'd come home, tired and hungry and later than he was supposed to be, to find Frank already drunk and pissed as all hell; Kirk hadn't even had time to hold in the vomit before he'd been forced down, beaten, kicked, and then thrown onto the couch. It'd hurt, it'd been more than he could handle, and after a night of hiccupping sobs every time he wiped himself off, the paper coming away bloody, he'd walked into school with a panty liner in his underwear to tell his story.

She'd told him to stop lying, that he was making a mockery of students who actually were suffering such abuse, then she'd promptly called Frank. No investigation, no freedom from his stepfather, not even so much as a memo sent to his mother.

That'd been eight months ago and now, at the thought of her, Jim felt the undertow of hatred at the woman, the white-hot desire to walk up to her and say, “Do you believe me now, you fucking bitch?” or something along those lines to ensure she understood precisely what she'd cost him with her bitter refusal to listen so many months ago.

“When, Jim?” he asked, tone as soft as he could manage though his mind was reeling. It took immense effort from abuse victims to finally seek help, so many sure that the violence directed toward them was deserved. Some, as in Jim's case, believed they would suffer further harm or their loved ones would be harmed and remained silent; typically something had to give for them to request any sort of intervention.

For him to have purposely retold his story to a person he thought duty bound to report the abuse and then be rebuked for it must have been agonizing.

His temples ached from the clench of his teeth, anger growing as he tried to keep it internal, and he asked again, “Jim, when?” The answer he hoped would be more recent, within the last three or four months because if that woman had known before the baby, before Jim was forced to carry a child he'd wanted and didn't at the same time...

“December. Sometime in December,” Jim's cheeks flamed red as he spoke and he looked away.

It was July.

Part Two