Fic: All of Which Have, 1/1. Kirk/Spock/McCoy.

[katydidmischief]

disclaimer. Not mine. Never have been and I'll only ever be playing in the sandbox.
title. All of Which Have
rating. R for Content
Pairing. Kirk/Spock/McCoy
summary. Too often we underestimate the power of a touch.
warnings. Discussion/mention of non-explicit non-con.
notes. Inspired by this prompt at st_xi_kink.

“What happened?”
“The world went insane, that's what happened.”

When he first came back from the alternate universe, where life was decidedly much different, he didn't want to touch those around him. Odd, but understandable after witnessing what he had – agony boxes, abuse, rules that beleaguered crewmembers like prisoners on their own ship and those horrific punishments passed down by a man with his own face.

And like the dutiful lovers, neither Spock nor Bones dared to speak when Jim fled their bed for the safety of the couch, sleeping there though it was far less comfortable than even the floor. They allowed him his solitude if only because the couldn't imagine themselves how difficult it had to have been to watch Chekov suffer the pain of a human-created device designed to keep Starfleet personnel in line.

They asked if he wanted to talk, brought him lunch, gave him time. Well, Spock asked if he wanted to talk (“It is only logical, Jim, that you would benefit from the unburdening of such an experience.”), Bones had dragged him from the Bridge to his ready room and watched over him as he ate the most ridiculously bland soup McCoy had been able to find in the kitchens, and they both had agreed to let him alone for a few days.

Patience, however, was a rare thing when it came to Jim – he was simply too stubborn, too self-sacrificing, to be left alone for too long. He would inevitably turn whatever mistakes had been made in on himself; internalizing the faults built more layers into his mind and though it would never show in his expression or actions, Kirk would never forget the failures.

“Let's talk about what happened today.”
“This sounds like it'll be fun...”
“Jim, you threw your lunch tray at Spock's head.”

Drawing the story of what had happened became lost in the sea of time and fucked up missions. Bones didn't sleep in their quarters for a solid week, patients coming out his ears – away teams shouldn't be allowed off-ship with anyone in a red shirt nor should Engineering be allowed to fucking work without supervision, damnit.

Spock's time away from the comfort of their quarters dwarfed his as the days continued to accumulate, the accident with Scotty's people having damaged the Warp Core's containment field and thus leaving them somewhat dead in the water, as the saying went; they could not turn on the drive without causing further problems. Patches were holding and keeping them all safe, but they needed to fix it rather than duct tape it.

Basically, neither one of them were there to see the little tics that gave away Jim's slow decline as he fell through the onset of PTSD and beyond.

Until the afternoon two and a half weeks after his return from the other universe when all Spock did was come hunting for food in the mess, scraggly look and tired. A beard had grown in – his facial care among the first things to go as he worked beside an equally overworked Montgomery Scott to fix the containment field before they could resume proper operations – and if asked, he would easily have explained that excusing himself to take care of personal hygiene while Engineering struggled to keep the Warp Core from going nova on them would have been illogical, something Jim might have found funny.

“You!” he'd shouted, eyes wide and terrified, before flinging the tray like a throwing star.

Everyone in the room had stood in frozen silence at the sight, fearful of their own Captain who'd seemed to be having a psychotic break in front of them. No one had even thought to stop him when he leapt at Spock, clawing at the three-day old uniform until the Vulcan finally mobilized into action and pinched down on the nerve in Jim's neck.

“Talk to us, Jim! You've blown off both of the counselors, so talk to us!”
“I can't!”
“Why?”
“Because I... Fuck, Bones, I don't even know how to explain it!”

Spock had never seen him like that before, carnal and instinctive, and hoped never to see it again, saying as much to Bones once his lover had healed the wound on his head. He had reached over to Jim then, brushing two fingers down his arm, admitting, “I believe we have been derelict with our relationship as it pertains to Jim and his well-being.”

“Yeah,” Bones had agreed, scratching his neck – a nervous tic – and said, “We'll corner him tonight. After you've had a shower and a shave.”

Only Jim hadn't returned to quarters that night, despite having been released by Bones and told to go there, ordered. He'd roamed the ship like a ghost, feeling like he wasn't in his own skin and assaulted by the memories; the bond had pulsed and called to him as Spock tried to draw him back to their rooms, tried to touch his mind and hear his thoughts, but Jim just pushed him back.

When he reported to his post the next morning, he'd looked like hell and only Chekov had dared to comment on it, asking him, “Are you feeling all right, Captain?”

“I'm fine,” had been Jim's curt answer before asking, “Our ETA, Sulu?” and it was back to business as usual.

“You are not fine. I do not understand why you insist upon using such a variable word when you fulfill none of the definitions at this time.”
“Spock...”
“Don't negate him, Jim – you're falling apart and we can see it.”

Another three days of sleepless wandering occurred, broken in the middle by Bones and Spock. Catching him on the Starboard Observation Deck, they'd tried to speak with him, until it'd devolved into arguing and then Jim had overridden the lock and left them behind.

The fourth day Bones had chased him down with a hypo, demanding he sleep and he'd sworn he'd do it on his own – just please don't touch him, thank you.

“Don't touch you,” Bones had muttered. “Jim, where's your head?”

The phrase had been their code at the Academy – depending on the answer, McCoy would know if Jim needed medical attention, detoxing, or a safe place to sleep. If he needed abatement nightly torment in the form of Frank's abuse, his mother's emotional indifference (though Winona had never allowed the man within an inch of Jim once she'd discovered how he disciplined her son).

“On, Bones. It's on,” he promised, trying to push as much sincerity into the gesture as possible.

McCoy grit his teeth at the response and resisted the urge to throttle his best friend and estranged lover: no way was Jim okay, no way was he functioning as needed. He was fucking dead on his goddamned feet and he needed to eat more than five bites of something; he needed to come home and let them love him.

“Jim...” He'd warned.

“Tomorrow, Bones,” Jim had finally given in. “Tomorrow I'll...try to explain, but please – go away right now. I don't trust myself enough to not break.”

Against his better judgment and confused to boot, Bones had gone.

“We have to go slow with him tomorrow, Spock.”
“I fail to see how we could go quickly.”

Though he'd said he would appear, Bones hadn't actually expected him to come anywhere near their quarters or them. Something had broken Jim down to the point he was no longer acting like himself and his actions could not be anticipated; it'd been driving Spock nuts, the inability to find the logic in Jim's behavior and Bones knew it, so while he hadn't assumed their lover would show, he had hoped.

It seemed, however, that there was some deity in the cosmos looking out for Jim: he showed up around midnight, rubbing his eyes as he leaned against the doorway between the living area and the bedroom. He looked sad, drained, and Bones started to rise from the bed, having crawled in beside Spock to rest for a few minutes (a few minutes apparently having become two hours), but Jim held up a hand and told him, “Please... just stay there, okay?”

McCoy stopped, feet set on the floor as he sat on the edge of the mattress.

“I don't know how to explain this,” he announced with eyes closed; his fingers were milk white as he gripped the jamb, clinging to it as he let go of his control on his everyday mask, stripped himself bare. Let go of his usual ability to internalize and press on.

“Just talk, Jim. Don't have to worry about explaining anything – talk until you have nothing left to say.”

He tilted his head and until the bridge of his nose was pressed up against the cool metal bulkhead, feeling once again like he weren't living in his own body. He pulled back a moment later, jerkily, and moved closer to the bed, drifting fingers across Bones' neck. Still touching McCoy, his eyes turned to Spock who was looking at him with a level of curiosity that made him look entirely human.

“Did you know that I was like that inside? You've been in my head, you've heard my thoughts – did you know?” he asked, a little angrily and a little scared. “Is it there now?”

“I do not understand the query, Jim,” Spock answered.

“He told me that we're one and the same, that we're alike in more ways than we're different so if he could... God, Spock, you'd stop me right? If I ever tried?”

“Jim,” Bones finally cut in, voice low and mild, “Spock would stop you, you know that.”

“Do you? I promise I wouldn't... God, I wouldn't do that,” he pleaded. “I love you – that's why I stayed away. Wouldn't do it ever.”

He crawled up the bed, tugging Bones with him until they were together for the first time in so long. Jim's back to Bones' chest, Spock's eyes level with Jim's and a hand thrown over his waist to touch McCoy's arm. Comforting, warm – a position Jim rarely wanted to be in unless he was in too much discomfort to argue.

“You'd never hurt me, darlin', I know,” Bones told him, knees coming up to press into the curve of Jim's own, and for a moment all three were silent.

One of Spock's hands came up to Jim's scalp, rubbing at the crown of his head the way he knew Jim liked best, the way that helped him sleep through the occasional nightmare. It felt too good, too perfect, and Jim's anxiety began to ease away and his mouth opened, never stumbling over the words, “He fucked me.”

The bile rose in Bones' throat and he tamped it down quickly, trying not to grip too tightly on Jim. “Who's he, Jim?”

“Me. The other me.” He rolled on to his back, the memory and flutter of sensations assaulting him anew and then he was sitting up, standing up, pulling away.

Under his breath, Bones murmured, “Oh, no, you don't,” and called out the Medical Lock code, the one that Jim couldn't undo as he pursued Kirk into the living room. There, Jim, mind still trying to keep itself one step ahead of the vicious memory, stood in a panic before the door like it was all that stood between himself and escape.

“Jim, where are you?” he asked.

“Here, there, I don't know,” Kirk answered, pressing his back fully into the metal and sliding down. He pulled his knees up to his chest and thumped his head back; across from him Bones settled down onto the floor with Spock at his side. “I feel it and I hear it, get flashes in my vision, but I'm here. Why can't I make sense?”

“Because your mind is dissociating from reality in an attempt to reconcile what happened.” McCoy moved an inch forward. “You're trying to make sense of something that's senseless, darlin', and you're trying to figure out if you're really like him, but you aren't. You are James Kirk and this is the USS Enterprise of the Federation, not the Terran Empire.”

Slowly he continued to make incremental shifts toward Jim, lifting his hand when they were withing touching distance and said, “You're here, with me and with Spock, and we'll help you, Jim. Take my hand and we'll help you.”

A minute passed, then fingers slowly wound with his and Bones let himself breath again.