[ It's strange how oddly comfortable she is with being this vulnerable in front of him. Maybe it's the small emotional breakdown earlier, but having him see her without her usual armor of uniform and perfectly tidy hair doesn't feel wrong. It doesn't feel right either, exactly, it just... is. It's easy to let him see her like this. Turning him away and facing this alone would be so much harder, so she doesn't even consider it.
Her eyes follow his to that bowl and the stack of cookies, and something broken inside her knits itself back together. He'd asked someone what she liked. He'd made that effort for her, and though it's small, it feels monumental. There's no hiding the wonder on her face as she turns her attention back to him before looking down at the brush in her hands. That takes a little more thought, but finally, she nods. ]
Thank you. I'd appreciate the help. [ It's more formal than she'd intended, but in some ways, she's mentally switching to autopilot, falling into habits that feel safe and welcome. She opens her mouth to say something else but closes it again with a shake of her head. Crossing the room, she gathers up the bowl and cookies and heads straight for the bed, dropping the brush onto the blanket before taking a seat at the end, folding her legs underneath her. There's no proper table and chairs in her quarters, and if she gets crumbs everywhere, so be it. She wastes no time in selecting a strawberry and biting into it, her eyes closing as the familiar taste washes over her, healing another piece of her. ]
[ If someone had told him a month ago that watching a woman eat strawberries would be one of the most intimate things he’d experienced in his life, he would have laughed them out of his quarters or off the bridge. And he probably would have assumed that Sam sent them with the sole purpose of teasing him. Now though? Now, watching La’an settle into the bed and bite into one? He can’t help but smile. Maybe it’s the vulnerability, maybe it’s the trust; the fact that she’s willing to be this in front of him even though he knows how put together and guarded she usually is.
It’s a gift. And not one he plans on wasting.
Jim settles behind her on the bed, one leg braced on the floor, the other knee tucked up under him. He knows he should start on her hair, that’s why he’s here, but he can’t help but reach out and brush impossibly gentle fingers over her shoulders, down her arms, lingering over bruises he finds, over those surface scrapes. Each one drives home how close he was to—-
Maybe that’s why he admits to her, voice quiet in the air between them: ]
I was terrified. When I got the notification. [ he hopes she knows the one he means ] you were my first call, after I saw Sam was missing, but when you didn’t answer—-
[ he draws a breath and brings his hands back to her hair, working gently through a tangle as he continues, speaking to the strands more than to her ]
[ When he sits behind her, that feels right. The gravitational pull of Jim Kirk demands she remain close in his orbit, and it's hard not to give into the urge to lean back against him. Yet as much as she wants to touch him, her breath catches in her throat when he touches her. His hands explore her bare arms and something in her goes very still.
What is this? Why is he doing this? It's more intimate than anything else they've shared and she doesn't understand why it's happening. Not that she wants it to stop, but... Her head spins as she tries to put together the puzzle pieces of what the last few hours have become.
His admission doesn't help clarify the situation for her. Not in the slightest. She feels like she's standing on the edge of a cliff, half a strawberry held carefully between her fingers, and even the slightest breeze could send her tumbling over the edge. ]
Jim... [ His name feels like a prayer on her lips, and there's no hiding the thread of uncertainty in her voice as she asks a question she isn't ready for the answer to yet. ] You hardly know me. Why are you helping me like this?
[ At the sound of his name, his hands still in her hair, the tangle half-finished. It's an appropriate metaphor, the twisted knot of her hair between his fingers--it feels like him. His emotions, the feelings he can't quite figure out, all jumbled together. It's a fair question, what's she asking. It's the same one he's been asking himself since the knowledge she was lost drove him into action. ]
I don't know [ he admits it quietly, almost guiltily. It's not a romantic declaration by any means, but at least he doesn't stop there. He continues: ] I wasn't lying; when I said I felt the connection between us. When I said I felt connected to you.
[ His fingers start working on the knot in her hair, as if maybe by untangling it he can untangle this thing between them ] You're brilliant. Competent. Capable of such deep emotion and caring. But I look at you and you--you hide that from so many people. I think sometimes you hide it from yourself.
[ One stand falls free and he runs his hand along it, smoothing it down her back ]
I like you. I feel drawn-- to you. My life isn't--uncomplicated [ except the recent terse messages from Carol make him feel like it might be getting less so by the day in some ways ] But I'm starting to realize there are people that it's worth fighting through complications for.
[ the tangle gives up under his attention and he picks up the brush to work over it ] Maybe that sounds stupid.
[ The journey her emotions go through while he speaks is... exhausting. Treacherous hope blooms inside her and she struggles to squash it down before it grows out of hand, allowing the sadness and uncertainty to take center stage in her heart. She tries to find comfort in the feeling of his hands in her hair, a sensation she hasn't felt since she was a child, but the mention of complications is like a vice around her throat. By the time he finishes, she almost wishes she could take back her question and go back to living without a definition of whatever this is between them. ]
It doesn't. [ As much as it makes things even more complex between them, she appreciates how open he is in his answer. He could have been glib and brushed it all off with charm and humor, but he'd done his best to face the matter head-on, and she's grateful for that.
Taking a deep breath, she lets it out slowly, using the moment to figure out what to say next. She has no idea how to approach those complications and their implications on his life, so she chooses to address his observations of her, which aren't inaccurate. ]
I hide my emotions because people are... difficult for me. Challenging. I've lived so much of my life feeling like I couldn't trust anyone enough to let them see me — the real me. Eventually, it became easier to hide it from everyone, including myself.
[ Head on is the only way that Jim knows how to do anything. As a kid, as a cadet, as an officer, as a friend. As a lover. He jumps in, full throttle, all engines ready. This is no different, when it comes down to it--and it comes with the adrenaline to match, the low feeling in his gut, the way his brain is trying to analyze everything that happens between them, looking for nuance--
He works the brush through her hair gently as she breathes, trying to pretend that he isn't holding his own breath as he waits for her answer. ]
You shouldn't have to hide yourself [ that's easy enough to argue, because it's true. She shouldn't. What he's seen of her--the vulnerabilities, the raw emotion under the carefully constructed shell and often weaponized competence--is enough that he can't look away ] You're--you're amazing, La'an. And I'm not just saying that.
[ And then, maybe because he's worried she might need the tension broken: ] Even though Sam would argue I was using a line.
[ When he'd asked if he was anything like the other him, she hadn't been lying when she'd said yes and no. James wasn't as free with his laughter and smiles, not the real ones, and he'd been burdened with so much of the tragedy of war that it shaped every part of him. This version has his burdens as well, but there's a freedom to the way he lives, diving ahead in all things without much or any thought to consequence.
She wishes she could be that way sometimes.
His comment about his brother works as intended, drawing out a brief laugh that's more breath than sound but still feels like a revelation after the pain of recent days. Both James T Kirks were good at that — they could read her like a book at times, seeing right past her walls and knowing just what she needed to get through this moment and to the next. ]
That does sound like him. [ She finally pops the other half of the strawberry into her mouth, chewing slowly and drawing as much comfort as she can from the familiar sweetness that covers her tongue. By the time she swallows, she knows what she needs to say next. ]
When people look at me, when they learn who I am and what I've endured... They often see someone to be feared or someone to be pitied. [ And because she can't not poke a little fun at the elder Kirk, even if he's not there to appreciate it: ] Sam would certainly agree with one of those.
[ But then her tone turns more serious again, and she turns her head just enough to see a glimpse of him over her shoulder. ] Thank you for not seeing me that way.
[ Hearing her laugh, even if it's more of a suggestion than the actual thing, earns his own smile. That's the part he can't explain--how can it feel like such a victory when he earns those moments of vulnerability. How can he feel like he's being given a gift? One that's surprisingly delicate for all the fierce wrapping. One he needs to be careful with, despite everything.
Sam would say that careful and Jim Kirk are an antithesis. That they can't exist together.
But she's worth trying for. Worth protecting. She finishes her strawberry and speaks, and as she does he starts the work on another tangle, fingers and brush used interchangeably and he tries to fight the knot. At the mention of his brother he has to snort ] Sam better think you're terrifying and not someone to be pitied.
[ But then he catches her gaze and holds it, fights the unexpected urge to lean forward and press a kiss on her shoulder and instead just lets a hand slip down to squeeze her good shoulder, still impossibly gentle ] We all have things in our history that define us. But we get to decide who we want to be as a result of them.
[ Lieutenant George Samuel Kirk is 'conflict averse' when it comes to La'an, and she can't say she doesn't enjoy intimidating him just a little. Of course, it may not be so easy now that they've spent countless hours together surviving actual monsters — next to that, she's probably not so scary, after all.
Jim squeezes her shoulder and she lets her eyes close again to savor both his touch and his words. All her life, she has tried not to be ruled by the trauma and tragedy that defines her, to be more than her pain. For him to see that... She can't begin to explain what it means to her. But there's so much he doesn't know. So much she's finding she wants him to know. ]
Sometimes our history has a way of coming back to haunt us. [ Lowering her head, some of her long hair slips over her bad shoulder. The words taste like ash on her tongue when she tells him what few people beyond the Enterprise's bridge crew know about her. ] This wasn't my first time on a Gorn breeding planet.
[ he can feel her relax, just a little, under the touch of his hand and it takes just about every bit of self control he has to not wrap both arms around her, tucking her back against his chest. She lowers her head and he leans forward, making sure he's catching the words she says.
It--fits. The confession. The words he'd caught between Pike and Una slotting into place with the new information. But having the knowledge also paints a picture with it that hurts, knowing what she must have gone through. His own experience with the Gorn is limited, but he's seen the aftermath (of course he has, it's surrounding them right now, in every area of the ship as Enterprise tries to cobble herself and her crew back together) and the idea that she's had to survive that twice-- ]
La'an-- [ her name is breathed, slipping off his lips because he doesn't know what else to say--how do you offer someone comfort for that? How do you use words to absolve it? The most he knows how to do is this: being present, being here, letting her know that if nothing else, at least she's not alone ]
[ Is she looking for comfort? After all this time, is she finally reaching out to someone on a personal level rather than just shoving all her emotions under a rug to be ignored? She's avoided it for so long because she hasn't wanted people to view her as broken or weak, and even when she's gotten close to someone, she hasn't wanted to burden them with a tragedy they can do nothing about. But with Jim... ]
Twelve. [ They had all been so young. ] Our colony ship was captured. My older brother, our parents... Manu sacrificed himself to give me a chance.
[ She knows Sam would do the same for Jim in a heartbeat. That's what older siblings do; it's part of who they are. The rest of her words slip out without her permission, as if now that the floodgates have opened, there's no holding back. ] The Gorn have a ritual. The last survivor is tossed out into the galaxy on a raft. They aren't meant to survive, but the King, Jr found me. Una found me.
[ There is nothing in what she's said that makes Jim think of her as weak. As broken. If anything, it's only proven to him what he already suspected: her strength, the iron core she's got in the center of her, was forged in fire and loss. There is no one who would judge her for retreating after the things she experienced, no one who would blame her for just turning tail, finding a nice planet somewhere and never looking for danger again. But instead. Instead. Instead she's flung herself into the stars to keep other people safe, protecting more than just his brother--protecting all of them.
It doesn't escape him that she's the security officer. She could have gone into sciences or engineering or hell, even piloting, but she lost everyone close to her and so she fights to keep that pain from anyone else.
At least--that's what he assumes. What he pieces together with the information she's sharing with him that he knows must cost her. Sharing something like that, her brother's name, what happened to him. What happened to her.]
I hate the idea that things happen for a reason [ he says, after a pause to digest her words, fingers still working gently through her hair to keep him from just gathering her completely in his arms. ] The idea that some entity causes pain and hardship to teach us a lesson. I'm not--I don't think that's it.
But I know the people you brought home today? The fifty three people with families and kids and parents who aren't getting letters from Captain Pike tonight? None of them would be here without you. Maybe that's what your past made you: the kind of person that brings people home from a situation no one was supposed to survive.
[ His words are like a balm to her soul, soothing the ragged broken edges and putting some of the pieces back together. Because she knows he's right. None of those people could have survived if they'd been on their own. But despite that, there's still a voice inside her saying she should have done more, she hadn't saved enough. It's possible that voice will always be there, but people like Jim can help her put it aside and continue on with her life the way she knows she deserves.
Dr. Sanchez would be so proud.
Still, there's nothing she can think of to say to any of that. It's too hard to focus on the good she did down on that planet when she can still hear the screams of the dying. So she focuses on something else, picking up a cookie and taking a bite... and a second, bigger bite. (It's a damn good cookie.) And then she holds it over her shoulder for him to try too, turning her head to watch him expectantly while she chews. ]
[ It should be an exceptional cookie, if Jim Kirk's charm has anything to say about it. He doesn't owe three different Enterprise chefs a favor for a mediocre cookie--but he's still pleased when she bites into it and immediately takes a second bite, bigger than the first.
He's not expecting the offer over the shoulder (it's intimate, personal, sweet), but he obliges, leaning forward to take his own bite; which is promptly followed by a noise of pure pleasure from somewhere in the back of his throat. ]
Okay [ He states, once he's swallowed his bite ] We're starting an exchange program for the Farragut's mess staff. That's one hell of a cookie.
[ It shouldn't be this easy. It should feel awkward, bouncing back and forth between topics like her being trapped on a Gorn planet as a child and thereby having the tools to save his brother's life and the qualities of a cookie that must be someone's family recipe--but it isn't. It flows. Like they've known each other far longer than they actually have ]
Here, turn just a little. Let me get this side. [ a motion to the other half of her hair that he hasn't even approached ] I can braid it after, but it might look like a child did it.
[ That sound he makes in response to tasting the cookie repairs another small piece of her; she even smiles a little at his declaration of a program for the Farragut's staff. She has no doubt that the Enterprise will soon be playing host to visiting mess staff with strict orders to learn all the baked goods recipes possible — for the sake of the crew, of course.
Her smile grows as she turns as directed, her movements slightly stiff from sore muscles that she doesn't complain about or even acknowledge. Instead, she focuses on something far more important. ]
Well, now I have to see that. [ There's a hint of teasing but mostly she's serious; she really would like to see what he can manage for a braid. ]
[ Obviously it would be for the sake of the crew, La'an - who else would benefit from a steady supply of fresh baked cookies readily available for the taking? Certainly not one soon-to-be-first-officer with a sweet tooth.
He notices the stiff shift in her movements and makes a mental note, files it right alongside the one about how even though it must hurt (all of those bruises catching up to her now that the adrenaline must be fully faded) she doesn't comment. Once she's in position properly, he starts on the second half of her hair; taking the time to work at bigger tangles with deft fingers before running the brush through. At her comment he smiles, shakes his head even though it's not a 'no' - it's just that he wasn't lying about the 'it will look like a child did it' promise ]
When we were chasing my father from station to station [ He assumes she remembers the conversation (confession?) they had on the subject - he certainly does ] My mom and Sam and I got close. We were the only familiar people in a lot of different places.
So we'd help with her hair sometimes. Mostly simple things - stuff a kid can handle. A braid down the back, maybe a bun. A ponytail. Pigtails, once, though we couldn't stop laughing and she swore never again--
[ a smile gifted to the back of her head as he recalls the memory ] Can't promise it'll look good, but it won't be my first, at least.
[ Of course she remembers that conversation. It was the first real one they'd shared after that first strange call, and they'd so quickly gotten to such a meaningful subject... Well, she'd understood him because of James, but his experiences had been solely his own. James and Jim, the same and yet not. It's so strange how one person can both break her heart and heal it with his very existence.
She can hear the smile in his voice as he recalls those memories from childhood, and she finds that she envies him that. When she shares her own story, she isn't quite sad, but the emotion is certainly mixed in with the love and fondness she still feels deeply for her family. ]
The style I usually wear... It was my mother's. I wanted to be just like her when I was little. Maybe that would have changed when I got older and teenage contrariness took over, but... [ That sadness becomes more obvious now, her voice tightening for just a moment. ] It's the only thing I have left of her. Of any of them.
Even my memories are... [ She struggles with how to describe the state of that part of her mind. ] They're fuzzy. That's the sort of thing trauma does to a person. But I remember watching my father undo her braids at the end of the day and brush out her hair, and they looked so happy despite how hard our life was.
[ She speaks and he continues his gentle work, fingers and brush working out the tangles from her hair. When her voice tightens, one of his hands slips down, wrapping around her waist, tugging her closer to him, just a hair, her back against his broad chest.
It's the closest he can give her to a hug right now in the position they're in. He hopes she'll take it ]
She would be so proud of the woman you've become [ he never met her, but he says it with confidence because there is no one who would would look at La'an now and not be proud of who she is. Of the healing she's done. Of the hard work she's put into growing from the place that did its best to break her. She is the strongest person he knows, and he's met most of the Starfleet Brass. ]
[ There isn't anyone else in the galaxy who she would let hold her like this. Not even Una has this level of physical closeness with her, but with Jim, it... It feels right. Instead of keeping herself at arm's length, she wants to wrap around him and stay there until it doesn't hurt as much anymore.
Leaning a little more solidly against him, she feels her throat tighten further, her eyes burning with a fresh round of tears that she does her best to hold back. ] Thank you.
[ Pulling in a shaking breath, she tries not to think about how she's spent every day of the last twenty years trying to be worthy of her brother's sacrifice, setting her own measure so high some might deem it impossible. But even with as briefly as Jim has known her, she trusts him... and she might be able to believe him when it comes to this.
A few tears slip out and she firmly brushes them away, sniffling once before continuing this strange dance of a conversation where they've moved from one corresponding topic to another. ]
Cherish your memories, Jim. Do everything you can to keep hold of them. And if you have a little girl— [ because that is a very real possibility for him now ] braid her hair. Even if you're terrible at it. She'll need those memories one day.
[ La'an breathes against him, shaky though it is, and Jim's arms don't move. He holds her because he wants to, because it feels right in a way he can't pin down--the same way he can't pin down the connection he has to this woman but he also can't fight it either--and because he thinks she might need it. Of the people he's met in his life, and there have been many, Jim thinks she might be the one that's earned a chance to cry in someone's arms the most. To let go of the pain she's been carrying. To be vulnerable. To finally show someone how wounded she is, under all that armor she keeps up.
He's also quickly realizing he wouldn't mind being the person she trusts with that part of herself.
Carol. Right. Jim's eyes drop closed and he drags in a breath; heavy and deep. His head falls forward to press against the side of hers for a second before he admits, quietly: ] Remember how I said it was complicated?
Nothing's--changed, exactly.
But.
Carol isn't thrilled with the knowledge that I wasn't planning on giving up my Commission when I heard she was--
[ He's got the angry PADD messages to prove it; saved videos and lines of text, all of it making him realize that maybe he's more his father than he ever meant to be, in the best ways and the worst, too. He lets the sentence trail off, a wave of the hand not wrapped around her to encompass everything. He doesn't know how to explain it. How to reconcile the two people they are. He doesn't know how to walk away from being James T. Kirk, youngest first officer in Starfleet History, and he doesn't know how to make Carol understand the importance of it. His bone-deep, desperate need to be in the stars. Doing something.
Jim's need for it all to matter.
But he also doesn't know how to be--he wants to be a better father than his Dad was, except his Dad is the reason he's done everything with meaning in his life, so what does that say about him? ]
Will you tell me about them? Your family? The things you do remember?
[ So things are even more complicated now, for better or worse. La'an's heart breaks for him, for the distress she can feel in his voice and touch. It isn't hard to tell he's torn over what to do, whether he should make one decision over the other, and she can't even begin to understand what he must be feeling as he faces this future. She knows how complicated his emotions are over his relationship with his father, and the part of her that's actually listened during therapy sessions makes an educated guess that those emotions are influencing his own hopes and fears for fatherhood.
She's grateful that he shifts the subject because she doesn't know what to say to help him through this dilemma, so even though it still aches inside to talk about them, she can offer this distraction for him while he suffers in his own way. ]
Our parents when they had my brother and me. They met in school, and my mother used to tell me how she didn't care about my father's ancestry because he was so much more than that. She agreed to take his name, knowing how hard it would be, because she never wanted him to doubt that she loved all of him.
[ Her parents were the ones who gave her hope that one day she might find someone who could love her despite her lineage. Someone who could see past her name. She sniffles again and folds her arms over his that's wrapped around her, holding him in place like the lifeline he's swiftly becoming. ]
Manu was sixteen when we were taken. He wanted to be a scientist, and he was so... He always took care of me. When I was bullied by other children, when I was lonely after our latest move, he was my rock, showing me I could make it through. And when we were on that planet, he— [ She closes her eyes tight, breathing through the wave of emotion. ] He's the one who figured out how the Gorn communicated. He wrote it all down and gave it to me, and then told me to run. I don't know that I'll ever feel fully worthy of what he did for me.
[ The thing about Jim Kirk is that most people (Sam, first and foremost) will tell you that he talks too damn much. His mouth gets him into all kinds of situations, into all kinds of trouble. But there's the other truth about him too: when it's worth his while, James T. Kirk is very good at listening. And she's definitely worth his while.
So she talks, and he listens, arm wrapped around her and tucked under hers, nose pressed against the side of her hair, breathing her in. ]
Your mother was a strong woman. Like you.
[ it's easy to see they're of the same blood - the woman who would wear a murderer's name to prove her love grew beyond it, and the woman sitting here now, who kept fifty three people alive against all odds, all while reliving the trauma of her youth.
She speaks about her brother, and it twists something in his gut. He thinks about Sam, the scientist, who wanted nothing more as he grew up to know how the world was put together. How different cultures and aliens and races communicated, grew, worked together. A man who cares so deeply--
The idea of him sacrificing himself for Jim-- he can't even imagine it. The pain that would come with it. The pain she must feel every day. ]
It doesn't help, I know it doesn't. But you are worthy of it, La'an. He did it because he loved you and you deserve people who care like that for you.
[ The way he listens is something he and James had in common. Both versions of this mad had the same uncanny ability to make a person feel like they're all that matters in the world when he listens to them, and even without seeing his face, she feels that with him now too. It's something she wishes she could hold onto — that feeling of mattering to someone so profoundly.
She listens just as closely to what he has to say, and it means so very much to hear. Somehow, it's easier to believe when someone else is saying it than when she says it to herself. But at the same time, there's an elephant in the room threatening to crush her with the things that aren't being said, and suddenly she's too tired to let it all continue this way. ]
You can't be one of those people for me, Jim. [ Said quietly, sadly, but with no anger or accusation. ] No matter how much I wish you could be.
[ Part reminder and part confession, she doesn't feel the same fear and anxiety as she did not all that long ago when she'd laid bare a secret no one was supposed to ever know. His life is complicated and she can't allow herself to continue to be one of those complications. Yet even as she loosens her hold on his arm around her, she doesn't move to put any further distance between them. Saying one thing and doing another isn't who she wants to be, but here she is, becoming that person. ]
[ The words wash over him like a bucket of ice water dumped on his head. A chill that twists sharp in his gut and and spreads down his arms, wraps tight around his heart and squeezes. She's right. He knows she's right. His life is complicated and his desire to be here with her doesn't change that--it only makes it more so.
She's worth it, though. Worth the ache.
La'an loosens her hold and he lets his arm pull away from her, just a little, just enough. But he doesn't pull it away, not when she doesn't move to escape him completely. They're not body to body anymore, but they're not far apart, still sharing the same space, the same breath. ]
Love doesn't always have to be romantic [ he reminds, gently. And he doesn't acknowledge the fact that the feelings he has for her are certainly a far cry from platonic--he's still figuring them out, but he can at least say that--but he's not lying when he says he's also here to be here for her, in whatever way she wants to have him ] And maybe love is too big a word.
But--
I could be a friend. I'd like to be a friend. Your friend. If you'll have me.
[ Love. She'd grown up with a prime example of it right in front of her, and some small part of her had dreamed of finding someone who could see her the way her mother saw her father. And maybe she had found that someone — only she'd lost him, and the echo of him is a man she can't have in her life that way. It makes her want to cry again, but she's so very tired, and she's already cried so much for that lost James Kirk...
Tilting her head back to look at the ceiling of her quarters, she lets the unwept tears slip back within her, intermingling with the other signs of pain and trauma she keeps hidden from the world. A deep breath in, and out again, and then she speaks, exhaustion dripping off every syllable. ]
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Her eyes follow his to that bowl and the stack of cookies, and something broken inside her knits itself back together. He'd asked someone what she liked. He'd made that effort for her, and though it's small, it feels monumental. There's no hiding the wonder on her face as she turns her attention back to him before looking down at the brush in her hands. That takes a little more thought, but finally, she nods. ]
Thank you. I'd appreciate the help. [ It's more formal than she'd intended, but in some ways, she's mentally switching to autopilot, falling into habits that feel safe and welcome. She opens her mouth to say something else but closes it again with a shake of her head. Crossing the room, she gathers up the bowl and cookies and heads straight for the bed, dropping the brush onto the blanket before taking a seat at the end, folding her legs underneath her. There's no proper table and chairs in her quarters, and if she gets crumbs everywhere, so be it. She wastes no time in selecting a strawberry and biting into it, her eyes closing as the familiar taste washes over her, healing another piece of her. ]
no subject
It’s a gift. And not one he plans on wasting.
Jim settles behind her on the bed, one leg braced on the floor, the other knee tucked up under him. He knows he should start on her hair, that’s why he’s here, but he can’t help but reach out and brush impossibly gentle fingers over her shoulders, down her arms, lingering over bruises he finds, over those surface scrapes. Each one drives home how close he was to—-
Maybe that’s why he admits to her, voice quiet in the air between them: ]
I was terrified. When I got the notification. [ he hopes she knows the one he means ] you were my first call, after I saw Sam was missing, but when you didn’t answer—-
[ he draws a breath and brings his hands back to her hair, working gently through a tangle as he continues, speaking to the strands more than to her ]
—-I hated the idea I might have lost you.
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What is this? Why is he doing this? It's more intimate than anything else they've shared and she doesn't understand why it's happening. Not that she wants it to stop, but... Her head spins as she tries to put together the puzzle pieces of what the last few hours have become.
His admission doesn't help clarify the situation for her. Not in the slightest. She feels like she's standing on the edge of a cliff, half a strawberry held carefully between her fingers, and even the slightest breeze could send her tumbling over the edge. ]
Jim... [ His name feels like a prayer on her lips, and there's no hiding the thread of uncertainty in her voice as she asks a question she isn't ready for the answer to yet. ] You hardly know me. Why are you helping me like this?
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I don't know [ he admits it quietly, almost guiltily. It's not a romantic declaration by any means, but at least he doesn't stop there. He continues: ] I wasn't lying; when I said I felt the connection between us. When I said I felt connected to you.
[ His fingers start working on the knot in her hair, as if maybe by untangling it he can untangle this thing between them ] You're brilliant. Competent. Capable of such deep emotion and caring. But I look at you and you--you hide that from so many people. I think sometimes you hide it from yourself.
[ One stand falls free and he runs his hand along it, smoothing it down her back ]
I like you. I feel drawn-- to you. My life isn't--uncomplicated [ except the recent terse messages from Carol make him feel like it might be getting less so by the day in some ways ] But I'm starting to realize there are people that it's worth fighting through complications for.
[ the tangle gives up under his attention and he picks up the brush to work over it ] Maybe that sounds stupid.
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It doesn't. [ As much as it makes things even more complex between them, she appreciates how open he is in his answer. He could have been glib and brushed it all off with charm and humor, but he'd done his best to face the matter head-on, and she's grateful for that.
Taking a deep breath, she lets it out slowly, using the moment to figure out what to say next. She has no idea how to approach those complications and their implications on his life, so she chooses to address his observations of her, which aren't inaccurate. ]
I hide my emotions because people are... difficult for me. Challenging. I've lived so much of my life feeling like I couldn't trust anyone enough to let them see me — the real me. Eventually, it became easier to hide it from everyone, including myself.
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He works the brush through her hair gently as she breathes, trying to pretend that he isn't holding his own breath as he waits for her answer. ]
You shouldn't have to hide yourself [ that's easy enough to argue, because it's true. She shouldn't. What he's seen of her--the vulnerabilities, the raw emotion under the carefully constructed shell and often weaponized competence--is enough that he can't look away ] You're--you're amazing, La'an. And I'm not just saying that.
[ And then, maybe because he's worried she might need the tension broken: ] Even though Sam would argue I was using a line.
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She wishes she could be that way sometimes.
His comment about his brother works as intended, drawing out a brief laugh that's more breath than sound but still feels like a revelation after the pain of recent days. Both James T Kirks were good at that — they could read her like a book at times, seeing right past her walls and knowing just what she needed to get through this moment and to the next. ]
That does sound like him. [ She finally pops the other half of the strawberry into her mouth, chewing slowly and drawing as much comfort as she can from the familiar sweetness that covers her tongue. By the time she swallows, she knows what she needs to say next. ]
When people look at me, when they learn who I am and what I've endured... They often see someone to be feared or someone to be pitied. [ And because she can't not poke a little fun at the elder Kirk, even if he's not there to appreciate it: ] Sam would certainly agree with one of those.
[ But then her tone turns more serious again, and she turns her head just enough to see a glimpse of him over her shoulder. ] Thank you for not seeing me that way.
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Sam would say that careful and Jim Kirk are an antithesis. That they can't exist together.
But she's worth trying for. Worth protecting. She finishes her strawberry and speaks, and as she does he starts the work on another tangle, fingers and brush used interchangeably and he tries to fight the knot. At the mention of his brother he has to snort ] Sam better think you're terrifying and not someone to be pitied.
[ But then he catches her gaze and holds it, fights the unexpected urge to lean forward and press a kiss on her shoulder and instead just lets a hand slip down to squeeze her good shoulder, still impossibly gentle ] We all have things in our history that define us. But we get to decide who we want to be as a result of them.
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Jim squeezes her shoulder and she lets her eyes close again to savor both his touch and his words. All her life, she has tried not to be ruled by the trauma and tragedy that defines her, to be more than her pain. For him to see that... She can't begin to explain what it means to her. But there's so much he doesn't know. So much she's finding she wants him to know. ]
Sometimes our history has a way of coming back to haunt us. [ Lowering her head, some of her long hair slips over her bad shoulder. The words taste like ash on her tongue when she tells him what few people beyond the Enterprise's bridge crew know about her. ] This wasn't my first time on a Gorn breeding planet.
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It--fits. The confession. The words he'd caught between Pike and Una slotting into place with the new information. But having the knowledge also paints a picture with it that hurts, knowing what she must have gone through. His own experience with the Gorn is limited, but he's seen the aftermath (of course he has, it's surrounding them right now, in every area of the ship as Enterprise tries to cobble herself and her crew back together) and the idea that she's had to survive that twice-- ]
La'an-- [ her name is breathed, slipping off his lips because he doesn't know what else to say--how do you offer someone comfort for that? How do you use words to absolve it? The most he knows how to do is this: being present, being here, letting her know that if nothing else, at least she's not alone ]
How old were you?
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Twelve. [ They had all been so young. ] Our colony ship was captured. My older brother, our parents... Manu sacrificed himself to give me a chance.
[ She knows Sam would do the same for Jim in a heartbeat. That's what older siblings do; it's part of who they are. The rest of her words slip out without her permission, as if now that the floodgates have opened, there's no holding back. ] The Gorn have a ritual. The last survivor is tossed out into the galaxy on a raft. They aren't meant to survive, but the King, Jr found me. Una found me.
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It doesn't escape him that she's the security officer. She could have gone into sciences or engineering or hell, even piloting, but she lost everyone close to her and so she fights to keep that pain from anyone else.
At least--that's what he assumes. What he pieces together with the information she's sharing with him that he knows must cost her. Sharing something like that, her brother's name, what happened to him. What happened to her.]
I hate the idea that things happen for a reason [ he says, after a pause to digest her words, fingers still working gently through her hair to keep him from just gathering her completely in his arms. ] The idea that some entity causes pain and hardship to teach us a lesson. I'm not--I don't think that's it.
But I know the people you brought home today? The fifty three people with families and kids and parents who aren't getting letters from Captain Pike tonight? None of them would be here without you. Maybe that's what your past made you: the kind of person that brings people home from a situation no one was supposed to survive.
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Dr. Sanchez would be so proud.
Still, there's nothing she can think of to say to any of that. It's too hard to focus on the good she did down on that planet when she can still hear the screams of the dying. So she focuses on something else, picking up a cookie and taking a bite... and a second, bigger bite. (It's a damn good cookie.) And then she holds it over her shoulder for him to try too, turning her head to watch him expectantly while she chews. ]
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He's not expecting the offer over the shoulder (it's intimate, personal, sweet), but he obliges, leaning forward to take his own bite; which is promptly followed by a noise of pure pleasure from somewhere in the back of his throat. ]
Okay [ He states, once he's swallowed his bite ] We're starting an exchange program for the Farragut's mess staff. That's one hell of a cookie.
[ It shouldn't be this easy. It should feel awkward, bouncing back and forth between topics like her being trapped on a Gorn planet as a child and thereby having the tools to save his brother's life and the qualities of a cookie that must be someone's family recipe--but it isn't. It flows. Like they've known each other far longer than they actually have ]
Here, turn just a little. Let me get this side. [ a motion to the other half of her hair that he hasn't even approached ] I can braid it after, but it might look like a child did it.
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Her smile grows as she turns as directed, her movements slightly stiff from sore muscles that she doesn't complain about or even acknowledge. Instead, she focuses on something far more important. ]
Well, now I have to see that. [ There's a hint of teasing but mostly she's serious; she really would like to see what he can manage for a braid. ]
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He notices the stiff shift in her movements and makes a mental note, files it right alongside the one about how even though it must hurt (all of those bruises catching up to her now that the adrenaline must be fully faded) she doesn't comment. Once she's in position properly, he starts on the second half of her hair; taking the time to work at bigger tangles with deft fingers before running the brush through. At her comment he smiles, shakes his head even though it's not a 'no' - it's just that he wasn't lying about the 'it will look like a child did it' promise ]
When we were chasing my father from station to station [ He assumes she remembers the conversation (confession?) they had on the subject - he certainly does ] My mom and Sam and I got close. We were the only familiar people in a lot of different places.
So we'd help with her hair sometimes. Mostly simple things - stuff a kid can handle. A braid down the back, maybe a bun. A ponytail. Pigtails, once, though we couldn't stop laughing and she swore never again--
[ a smile gifted to the back of her head as he recalls the memory ] Can't promise it'll look good, but it won't be my first, at least.
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She can hear the smile in his voice as he recalls those memories from childhood, and she finds that she envies him that. When she shares her own story, she isn't quite sad, but the emotion is certainly mixed in with the love and fondness she still feels deeply for her family. ]
The style I usually wear... It was my mother's. I wanted to be just like her when I was little. Maybe that would have changed when I got older and teenage contrariness took over, but... [ That sadness becomes more obvious now, her voice tightening for just a moment. ] It's the only thing I have left of her. Of any of them.
Even my memories are... [ She struggles with how to describe the state of that part of her mind. ] They're fuzzy. That's the sort of thing trauma does to a person. But I remember watching my father undo her braids at the end of the day and brush out her hair, and they looked so happy despite how hard our life was.
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It's the closest he can give her to a hug right now in the position they're in. He hopes she'll take it ]
She would be so proud of the woman you've become [ he never met her, but he says it with confidence because there is no one who would would look at La'an now and not be proud of who she is. Of the healing she's done. Of the hard work she's put into growing from the place that did its best to break her. She is the strongest person he knows, and he's met most of the Starfleet Brass. ]
They all would.
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Leaning a little more solidly against him, she feels her throat tighten further, her eyes burning with a fresh round of tears that she does her best to hold back. ] Thank you.
[ Pulling in a shaking breath, she tries not to think about how she's spent every day of the last twenty years trying to be worthy of her brother's sacrifice, setting her own measure so high some might deem it impossible. But even with as briefly as Jim has known her, she trusts him... and she might be able to believe him when it comes to this.
A few tears slip out and she firmly brushes them away, sniffling once before continuing this strange dance of a conversation where they've moved from one corresponding topic to another. ]
Cherish your memories, Jim. Do everything you can to keep hold of them. And if you have a little girl— [ because that is a very real possibility for him now ] braid her hair. Even if you're terrible at it. She'll need those memories one day.
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He's also quickly realizing he wouldn't mind being the person she trusts with that part of herself.
Carol. Right. Jim's eyes drop closed and he drags in a breath; heavy and deep. His head falls forward to press against the side of hers for a second before he admits, quietly: ] Remember how I said it was complicated?
Nothing's--changed, exactly.
But.
Carol isn't thrilled with the knowledge that I wasn't planning on giving up my Commission when I heard she was--
[ He's got the angry PADD messages to prove it; saved videos and lines of text, all of it making him realize that maybe he's more his father than he ever meant to be, in the best ways and the worst, too. He lets the sentence trail off, a wave of the hand not wrapped around her to encompass everything. He doesn't know how to explain it. How to reconcile the two people they are. He doesn't know how to walk away from being James T. Kirk, youngest first officer in Starfleet History, and he doesn't know how to make Carol understand the importance of it. His bone-deep, desperate need to be in the stars. Doing something.
Jim's need for it all to matter.
But he also doesn't know how to be--he wants to be a better father than his Dad was, except his Dad is the reason he's done everything with meaning in his life, so what does that say about him? ]
Will you tell me about them? Your family? The things you do remember?
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She's grateful that he shifts the subject because she doesn't know what to say to help him through this dilemma, so even though it still aches inside to talk about them, she can offer this distraction for him while he suffers in his own way. ]
Our parents when they had my brother and me. They met in school, and my mother used to tell me how she didn't care about my father's ancestry because he was so much more than that. She agreed to take his name, knowing how hard it would be, because she never wanted him to doubt that she loved all of him.
[ Her parents were the ones who gave her hope that one day she might find someone who could love her despite her lineage. Someone who could see past her name. She sniffles again and folds her arms over his that's wrapped around her, holding him in place like the lifeline he's swiftly becoming. ]
Manu was sixteen when we were taken. He wanted to be a scientist, and he was so... He always took care of me. When I was bullied by other children, when I was lonely after our latest move, he was my rock, showing me I could make it through. And when we were on that planet, he— [ She closes her eyes tight, breathing through the wave of emotion. ] He's the one who figured out how the Gorn communicated. He wrote it all down and gave it to me, and then told me to run. I don't know that I'll ever feel fully worthy of what he did for me.
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So she talks, and he listens, arm wrapped around her and tucked under hers, nose pressed against the side of her hair, breathing her in. ]
Your mother was a strong woman. Like you.
[ it's easy to see they're of the same blood - the woman who would wear a murderer's name to prove her love grew beyond it, and the woman sitting here now, who kept fifty three people alive against all odds, all while reliving the trauma of her youth.
She speaks about her brother, and it twists something in his gut. He thinks about Sam, the scientist, who wanted nothing more as he grew up to know how the world was put together. How different cultures and aliens and races communicated, grew, worked together. A man who cares so deeply--
The idea of him sacrificing himself for Jim-- he can't even imagine it. The pain that would come with it. The pain she must feel every day. ]
It doesn't help, I know it doesn't. But you are worthy of it, La'an. He did it because he loved you and you deserve people who care like that for you.
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She listens just as closely to what he has to say, and it means so very much to hear. Somehow, it's easier to believe when someone else is saying it than when she says it to herself. But at the same time, there's an elephant in the room threatening to crush her with the things that aren't being said, and suddenly she's too tired to let it all continue this way. ]
You can't be one of those people for me, Jim. [ Said quietly, sadly, but with no anger or accusation. ] No matter how much I wish you could be.
[ Part reminder and part confession, she doesn't feel the same fear and anxiety as she did not all that long ago when she'd laid bare a secret no one was supposed to ever know. His life is complicated and she can't allow herself to continue to be one of those complications. Yet even as she loosens her hold on his arm around her, she doesn't move to put any further distance between them. Saying one thing and doing another isn't who she wants to be, but here she is, becoming that person. ]
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She's worth it, though. Worth the ache.
La'an loosens her hold and he lets his arm pull away from her, just a little, just enough. But he doesn't pull it away, not when she doesn't move to escape him completely. They're not body to body anymore, but they're not far apart, still sharing the same space, the same breath. ]
Love doesn't always have to be romantic [ he reminds, gently. And he doesn't acknowledge the fact that the feelings he has for her are certainly a far cry from platonic--he's still figuring them out, but he can at least say that--but he's not lying when he says he's also here to be here for her, in whatever way she wants to have him ] And maybe love is too big a word.
But--
I could be a friend. I'd like to be a friend. Your friend. If you'll have me.
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Tilting her head back to look at the ceiling of her quarters, she lets the unwept tears slip back within her, intermingling with the other signs of pain and trauma she keeps hidden from the world. A deep breath in, and out again, and then she speaks, exhaustion dripping off every syllable. ]
I think I could really use a friend right now.
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