Fic: You Still Got Wheels, Kid (1/2)
May. 24th, 2010 11:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
withthepilotTitle: You Still Got Wheels, Kid (1/2)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: (always a) woman!Pike/Kirk, past unrequited (always a) woman!Pike/Winona Kirk
Word count: ~12.5K
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
het_idcrack, which you can read more about at the community's mission statement post. My prompt was as follows: Genderswap AU—Christina Pike takes in George and Winona Kirk's beautiful, feral son after a john's beating lands him in the hospital. (Though don't underestimate Jim—the john didn't walk away unscathed.) I should mention that Jim is young in this fic but not underage. He's also not all that feral. ;) Title is from the track "M.E.X.I.C.O.C.U." by The Kills. Many thanks go to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sinsense for whipping this story into shape. Posted in two parts with a link to part 2 at the bottom of the page.
Warnings: AU with genderswap, light violence (sexual and otherwise), allusions to prostitution and non-con, and lots of id-fic clichés.
Summary: Jim Kirk likely never intended to cross paths with Christina Pike. But now that he had, she wasn't going to let him go without a fight.
Chris still couldn't quite wrap her head around that late-night phone call. She couldn't quite comprehend it, even as she stepped on the gas to get to the local hospital. The desert wind whipped through her hair when she lowered the driver's side window of her Jeep, and she brushed the stray waves from her line of vision. She couldn't believe that Winona had actually trusted her with something like this—to name Chris as one of the emergency contacts on her kid's medical records. Hell, Chris couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Winnie. There was that awful memorial service for George, and then maybe a lunch here and a drink there back in San Francisco, but then Winona had packed up with her kids and moved to Iowa and that had been it.
So what was James Tiberius Kirk doing all the way out here in California? And landing himself in a hospital, no less?
When she walked into the emergency room, there were two young men sitting in the waiting room's old-fashioned plastic chairs. One slumped back in his seat, twin tufts of gauze shoved up his blood-rimmed nostrils. The other brandished a mean-looking shiner and a bruise all along the left side of his jaw. Neither of them spoke.
Chris squared her shoulders and pushed back her wind-tousled hair. "Which one of you is Kirk?" she asked in her command voice. The one with the black eye looked up, but his face bore no resemblance to either Winona or George at all.
"Who're you, his momma?" he asked with a sneer. Chris smirked.
"Be glad I'm not, or I'd take care of that good eye for you."
"I'm Kirk," the other one said, though he was quiet and sullen about it. And when he lifted his head—there, there was James T. Kirk, with Winnie's sparkling eyes and George's classic good looks, his strong jaw and his full lips. A good dose of mischief in a handsome bottle, no doubt. Chris almost had to take a step back at the sight of such a beautiful boy, this echo of her past come to life.
"Well, then," she said, motioning for him to stand. "I'm your ride."
Kirk—Jim, Winona had called him Jim—nodded. He got to his feet without saying a word, but he snarled when the other man tried to grab his ass. Chris moved forward before she realized what she was doing, grabbing the asshole by his wrist and twisting. He hissed in pain. Chris narrowed her eyes, not letting him go.
"Watch it, sweetheart. I've got no qualms about adding to your hospital bill."
"Fuck, lady, I paid for him."
Jim seemed to shy away, obviously not prepared to divulge that interesting bit of information. Chris blinked as she processed it and gave Jim a disapproving look before she remembered that he had a mother and, indeed, it wasn't her. Not that she judged anyone for doing what they had to do to get by, but...this was Winona's son. Just that knowledge alone told Chris that Jim Kirk was better than that. She reached into her pocket for some credits, not even paying attention to the amount, and threw them at the john, curling her lip in disgust.
"There's your refund," she said. Then she ushered Jim out of there.
There was a bit of a limp in his step. Chris looked him over as discreetly as she could, as she led him to the Jeep. He'd obviously taken a beating from the man back in the waiting room—the john. She decided to leave it alone for now, simply keeping her distance as they walked across the lot outside the building. Once they got close, she reached out to touch Jim's arm and he flinched away; whether he was sore there or just didn't want to be touched, she didn't know.
"This your wreck?" he asked, looking over the Jeep. Chris nodded and unlocked the doors.
"It's a relic, I know. But she gets me where I need to go."
Jim didn't reply, still sullen and stone-faced as he climbed into the cramped rear of the Jeep instead of the passenger seat. Chris didn't know what to make of that, not really, but she didn't say a word about it, just got in the car, cracked the windows, and drove.
"It's a bit of a ways," she said, glancing at him in the rearview. He glanced up to acknowledge her. The shadows of the surrounding desert rendered his face all cheekbones and searing blue eyes. Chris pursed her lips, looking at him a moment too long. "I'm Pike, by the way. Chris. I knew your parents."
"I know."
Jim turned his gaze to the window, effectively ending the conversation. Chris exhaled and turned on the satellite radio. If she was going to spend forty-five minutes driving home, she sure as hell wasn't doing it in silence. She whistled along to Whitesnake, smiling to herself when Jim made a displeased face. Kids these days just didn't know good music. She reached forward to turn it up.
*
Chris stood in the living room and sipped from a glass of water as Jim shoveled scrambled eggs and toast into his mouth, going at the food as any ravenous nineteen-year-old kid would. It was the second glass of orange juice that worried her a bit; clearly, Jim was dehydrated and hadn't had anything healthy in his stomach in a long time. Chris leaned her shoulder against the wall and watched him eat.
"Better go easy on my rations," she commented, smiling. "We have to eat breakfast in the morning, too."
Jim put his fork down with a guilty look. "Sorry," he said, looking tense. Chris just waved a hand.
"It's fine, really. You were hungry. What kind of host would I be if I didn't feed you?"
"I guess so." Jim picked up his fork again, gathering the last of the eggs with some ketchup. "I didn't see a replicator in here."
Chris smiled and sat down at the table. Now that she was looking closely, she could see some bruising on Jim's biceps, peeking out under the hems of his sleeves.
"I'm old-fashioned," she explained. She drank her water slowly. "I like to cook, always have. Those eggs are an old family recipe—good to make if you've got the ingredients. Bell peppers, a little onion..."
"They're good." Jim nodded and looked at her warily, like a stray cat who didn't know how or why he should trust a stranger. "Thanks." He sounded reluctant to show any gratitude, but she took it.
"Don't mention it." Chris ran a hand through her hair and sighed, looking off for a moment. When she turned back to Jim, he seemed to be staring at her, just for a second—then his eyes darted away, back to his plate. Those eyes were disarming, to be sure. Just then, Chris got the urge to ask about Winona, but she shook it off. It wasn't the time, not this soon. "After you're done, I'll show you to your room," she said, pointing upstairs. "Then we can take a look at those bruises."
"Room?" Jim repeated. He looked up at the ceiling, where Chris had pointed. "You're giving me a room?"
"You don't think the hospital called me just so I could make you dinner, did you? Your last known residence is back in Riverside. I was the closest person on your emergency contacts list, all the way out here in the Mojave. I'm not sending you back out there on your own, Jimmy, I don't care how many—"
"Jim," he corrected her, his eyes narrowing. Chris paused to regain her thoughts.
"Jim," she said. She made sure to look him right in the eyes, even as she softened her voice. "Listen, Jim. I know the last thing you probably want is a lecture. But I knew your father and I sure as hell knew your mother, and they wanted better for you than this."
"Right." Jim threw his napkin down and got to his feet. "Thanks for the food."
"Jim." Chris exhaled and stood up as well, nearly eye to eye with him. Jim had a few inches on her, but she knew that when she held herself proud and tall, she was matchless. "Okay, I get it. You don't know me and you could care less about what I do or who I used to know." She pursed her lips, trying to keep a firm tone to her voice without pushing too far. "You need a bed; I have a bed. Stay the night and see how things look in the morning, all right?"
His lips turned downward as he nodded, but Chris still wanted to breathe a sigh of relief. At least Jim was smart enough to know when to concede a point. She'd taken a minute to look up his records on her PADD, though, and she suspected he was smart enough to do anything he wanted to do. Chris motioned for him to follow as she left the kitchen and headed to the staircase. When they got to the spare room, she opened its door and flipped on the lights. It wasn't much—a double bed with plain white sheets, a bookcase filled with old books, and a chest of drawers. Still, Jim looked vaguely impressed.
"I'm right across the hall if you need me. Bathroom's down by the end," Chris said. She smiled, looking at Jim's face, wondering when the last time was that he slept in a real bed. "Shower's got real water but if you hog all the hot stuff, I'll have to give you a piece of my mind. Any questions?"
Jim slowly turned his face to her and despite the cuts and bruises, he was absolutely gorgeous, a regular twenty-first century film star, just like his father—brooding and dangerous but also angelic, and it wasn't just the eyes. He tilted his head, seemingly sizing her up, and Chris watched the rise and fall of his strangely long eyelashes.
"Why're you even helping me out?" he asked quietly. It wasn't what Chris expected to hear. "I'm nobody to you."
Chris exhaled, keeping eye contact with Jim once more. "Maybe you're nobody to everyone out there. But you're somebody to me." She looked down at his blood-streaked shirt, motioning to it. "You gonna let me see those bruises? I've got a regenerator—not top of the line, but good enough."
"I don't need it," Jim said quickly, shaking his head. "But thanks." Then he disappeared into the room.
He did need it, really. Chris spied on him covertly from the open doorway of her room as he undressed, and even from afar, she could see discoloration all over his torso, some marks more fresh than others. He winced as he moved—a chink in the armor of that lean and solid teenage body. A body Chris didn't have any right to see, not like this. She moved away from the door, then, and prepared for bed, taking off her jeans and bra and switching into shorts and an old Starfleet-issued tank top, a style they didn't make anymore. After she brushed her teeth, Chris went to check on Jim. He was already passed out in the center of the bed, lying shirtless on top of the sheets with bare feet. Chris noted the footprint-shaped marks on his lower back and allowed herself a shaky breath just before she turned off the light, not wanting to see anymore. She left Jim's door open, as well as her own.
*
Chris looked in the rearview to make sure that Jim was sticking close. He'd spent the entirety of his first day in her house holed up in his makeshift room, emerging only to get fed. Today, he looked somewhat refreshed and on the mend, so she'd been willing to drive him back to the godforsaken bar he'd frequented two nights before, the one where he'd met that charming gentleman and left his motorcycle. The motorcycle was a good one, and Chris wondered if it was a family hand-me-down or if Jim had gotten it on his own somehow. She couldn't remember George ever owning a motorcycle like that.
By the time they got back to her house, the sun was boiling hot and Chris could feel her top sticking to her sweaty skin. She'd forgone the jacket today but Jim was still wearing his—he looked like he was starting to regret his attachment. Chris exited the Jeep and climbed out, pulling her hair into a ponytail, off the slick slope of her neck. She smiled to Jim as he got out, and he gave her a look which wasn't altogether unfriendly, so that was a start. Sweat was threatening to rain down his temples.
"How do you like the Mojave so far?" she asked. He shrugged, climbing off his cycle.
"It's hot."
"Tell me about it." Chris stepped closer and motioned to his hair. "Your hair's likely to get light from the sun."
Jim wiped his brow and raked his eyes over her slowly. Chris knew she looked a mess, her shirt clinging to her clammy skin and tendrils of hair matted to her cheeks, not much left to the imagination. Still, she ignored his roving gaze. He was a teenager and looking was what teenagers did best. She dealt with enough of them at the academy to know as much. Usually, they all had some sort of authority figure fantasy, fueled by porn holovids that somehow made the rounds on campus every year. Chris smirked, about to suggest Jim lift his eyes northward, when he spoke again.
"Your Jeep lets out a lot of exhaust," he said, nodding toward it. "I could take a look at that for you. If you want."
Chris blinked, surprised, and nodded. "Sure. I've been meaning to take it to a mechanic for a while. How much would you charge?"
Jim did smile, then—a fleeting, modest thing that actually made Chris' heart skip a beat. It was the first time she had seen it.
"It'd be thanks for the food and the roof over my head. No charge."
"All right. If you're sure, Jim. You don't have to, though." Chris risked a smile and then ushered him inside the house. "Come on, let's cool off. I made a pitcher of lemonade this morning."
"You made lemonade?" Jim laughed as he followed after her, and that was something Chris wanted to experience again as well. His laugh was as bright as the desert sunshine itself, rivaling a few celestial bodies she'd seen in her day. "I didn't know anyone did that anymore."
Chris led him into the kitchen and got two glasses from the cabinet, opening the fridge. "I told you I'm a special breed," she joked. She filled both glasses with ice-cold lemonade and passed one to Jim.
"Yeah, you did."
She leaned her hip against the counter as Jim quickly guzzled the lemonade his gleaming throat moving slowly as he swallowed. Chris wasn't sure Jim realized how beautiful he was, but his mere presence transported her to another time, making her buzz all over with feelings she associated with a different life. She sipped from her own glass, then held it against her throat, shivering from the wet chill.
This was Winona's son. He was young enough to be Chris' son. But he was undoubtedly Winnie's boy, no doubt about that. Same stubbornness, same fire in the eyes. Chris suspected that Jim could be sweet like Winona was, too.
"What do you think is wrong with the Jeep?" she asked, forcing her thoughts elsewhere. Jim set down his empty glass and blinked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Could be anything. Could be the carburetor, bad fuel pipe... I'll check it out."
Chris took another swallow of lemonade. "You fix up that bike yourself?"
"Yeah, sort of salvaged her and rebuilt her." Jim shrugged, pouring himself a refill. "Took a few years, but then when I was done...it was worth it."
"Because you could leave," she said, looking at him steadily. She thought Jim might lash out at her or make to walk off again, but he just looked back at her and licked his lips.
"Basically," he said.
An unspoken flicker of understanding passed between them, as Chris looked into Jim's temporarily unguarded eyes. Suddenly, she wanted to know everything about what had gone so wrong in the Kirk household. Chris had looked up Winona's record before she'd gone to bed, and as far as anyone knew, Winona still lived in Riverside, where Jim was meant to be. But Chris didn't want to press; it wasn't her place, not anymore.
She drifted off into her own thoughts long enough for Jim to finish his second glass of lemonade, already starting on a third. Chris shook her head free of the past and wagged a finger at him.
"You drink it all, you make the next batch."
Jim looked up and smiled, nearly warm this time. "Think I can handle that," he said.
*
Chris called Jim's name as she stepped into the garage. She was starving for dinner. She didn't have much by the way of supplies after Hurricane Jim tore through her kitchen, and she didn't feel much like cooking for once, anyway. She was distracted by the sight of his bike, the complex machinery calling out to her. Chris had ridden a motorcycle when she was younger, too, just for a few precious years before the siren call of the stars became too much to ignore. Captaining a starship was nothing like steering the sleek curves of a bike, but it came with its own thrill.
"You like it, huh?"
She looked up with a start when she heard Jim's voice and gripped one of the handlebars at the sight of him. He wore only an undershirt and low-slung jeans, and his arms and hands were slick with grease from working on her Jeep all afternoon. There was a smudge of dirt along his collarbone, too, and one of his cheeks.
"For christ's sake, Jim, you'll get your cuts infected," Chris said. She swallowed. She brushed her hair back from her shoulders, collecting herself, and recalled what he'd said. "'Like' what?"
"The bike. You wanna ride it to the diner?"
"How did you know I was going to suggest the diner?" she asked, quirking a brow. Jim shrugged.
"I went for a snack earlier and the fridge was so empty, I could hear crickets."
Chris laughed, happy for some evidence that Jim had a sense of humor. She was unsure about his offer to ride the motorcycle, though. It was obviously his baby and as far as she knew, Jim didn't trust her as far as he could throw her.
"You sure?" she asked. "About the bike?"
Jim shrugged, smirking. "Yeah. You look like you can handle her."
"Go wash up, smart-ass," Chris said, hooking a thumb toward the door. Jim laughed and tossed her the keys before going back inside to do just that.
The bike really was a beauty, proof positive that Jim knew what he was doing. He was a smart kid, to be sure, not to mention good with his hands. Chris rolled her eyes at her own train of thought and climbed on the bike, turning over the engine and exhaling in pleasure as it roared to life and purred beneath her hands and thighs. She revved the engine once, then again, getting used to the feeling. When another warm body joined her on the seat, she nearly jumped in surprise, settling when she remembered it was just Jim.
"Gotta admit, you look pretty natural like this," he said. He wound his arms around her torso and smiled. "Should I hold on tight or what?"
Chris couldn't help a little grin. "Damn right you should, boy," she drawled.
It felt so good to burst out of the garage on that bike and speed her way across the desert, Jim pressed solid against her back, his hot breath fanning over her nape. The breeze and sand whipped against her face, stinging a bit, but she didn't mind. She could remember clearly the last time she'd found freedom on a motorcycle and not a thing about it had changed. Chris couldn't fault Jim for wanting to run if running felt like this.
"She's awesome, isn't she?" Jim yelled over the roar of the motor.
Chris laughed. "She's a tiger!" She turned her head to smile at him and blinked when she realized how close their mouths were. Jim leaned back a little, though, and simply returned the smile.
"Yeah, she is," he agreed.
Once they were at the diner, Chris got comfortable in her side of the booth and watched in amusement as Jim sucked down half of a vanilla milkshake before his burger and fries even arrived. He still wasn't much for conversation, but Chris supposed talking wasn't as important to a teenage boy as eating everything in sight. Chris sipped at her seltzer water and tucked into her turkey club, getting no further than two bites in when Jim spoke.
"So," he said, chewing on a mouthful of red meat. "You and my dad, huh?"
"Excuse me?" Chris said, lifting her brow. She put her sandwich down and wiped at her mouth with one of the flimsy napkins on the table. "Suddenly, you're full of questions?"
"Professional curiosity," Jim said, shrugging. "I still can't figure out why you'd give two shits about me, even if I am the son of someone who's famous for being dead. So, I'm thinking you and my dad maybe...?"
Chris frowned even as she laughed, mostly mirthless. "Jim, you don't know what you're talking about."
He arched a devious brow. "You and my mom?"
"Me and neither of them," Chris said tightly. She steeled her gaze in a way that made Jim visibly ease off. "They were my friends. Winona was my best friend."
"She's still alive," Jim offered casually. He shrugged and pushed a fry into a mound of ketchup on his plate. "If you were wondering. Goes off-planet a lot. Doubt she knows I'm here, let alone..." He trailed off as Chris watched him, turning his gaze to the window. He might have been looking at his bike parked outside, but Chris wasn't so sure. When he did turn back to her, he slumped back in his seat. "So, Aunt Chrissy, what happened? You never call, you never write..."
"Look, I had a job to do. I had a dream to see through to the end. Even if..." Now Chris was the one to trail off, looking down at her plate, unable to meet Jim's gaze. He had a way of cutting right through to the heart of things, just like his mother. And, like Winona, he was good at running away. "She wasn't the same after the Kelvin—not that anyone could blame her. But I always assumed she'd do right by you."
"Yeah, well." Jim drummed his fingers on the table, flicking his tongue inside his mouth to pry some food from between his teeth. "The road to hell, etcetera. I'll take the unmarked path, myself."
Chris couldn't help but let out a small laugh. She shook her head, pushing back her brown waves of hair, the shock of whitish-gray in the front that she tried to convince herself looked distinguished. She wondered how Winona looked now; the photo in her file was at least five years old, and they were getting to the age when five years often made a hell of a difference.
"Now, do I get to ask you a question or two?" she asked. Jim pretended to consider it, tilting his head and scrunching his nose, but then he just shook his head.
"Nah. The moment's not quite right, sorry."
Chris laughed again. She wanted to say something reassuring to Jim, something that would ease him and make him trust her, just a little. But what came out was, "You're just like your mom." Chris bit her lip after she said it, letting a few seconds pass before she dared to look at Jim again. The expression on his face wasn't exactly cold or resentful, but she didn't know him well enough to properly read it.
"I'll probably finish your Jeep tomorrow," he said. He pulled at the straw in his drink with his full lips, slurping up the rest of the thick beverage. Chris scratched at the back of her head and went back to her sandwich.
"That's great, Jim," she said. She left it at that.
*
Jim's injuries had stayed at the back of Chris' mind, but she found herself forgetting about it after a few days of Jim looking healthy. That changed when she heard a crashing noise in the garage, followed by a loud, pained expletive. Chris pulled her glasses off and set them down with her PADD on the table before running out to the garage. Jim was kneeling on the floor, clutching his lower back and hissing in pain.
"Damn it, Jim! What did you do?" she grouched.
"I just—I just bent wrong, okay? I'm fine, jeez..."
Jim waved Chris off and tried to stand. He cursed and turned pale when he did, the strain evident in his pinched features. Chris huffed, going over and helping him to his feet as carefully as she could.
"I'm the old one around here, remember? I should have the bad back, not you."
Jim laughed, despite the amount of pain he was in. "Didn't mean to steal your thunder, Christina," he muttered.
"Good to see your smart-ass attitude is unharmed," she countered. She slung an arm around him to prop him up. "Lean on me, okay? I can handle your weight."
"And here I thought you were a delicate flower."
"That'd be you, sweetheart. Come on."
Chris painstakingly helped Jim up the stairs to the closest bed, which happened to be her own. Once he was on his stomach, she went to fetch some muscle relaxant gel from her medicine cabinet. When she came back, she warmed some between her hands, kneeling on the mattress. Jim groaned faintly and looked back at her.
"You gonna give me a rubdown?" he asked, quirking a small smile. "Not gonna cost me extra, is it?"
"Pretty mouthy for someone in such a vulnerable position," Chris replied. "What, does pain deteriorate your brain cells or something, Jimmy?"
"Prob'ly," he murmured. Just the fact that he didn't correct her on his name told her just how hurt he was. Chris lifted up his shirt, winced at the lingering black and blue spread over his skin, and got to work.
Chris carefully massaged the gel into Jim's lower back until the painful tension in his muscles dissipated and he dozed off. He looked peaceful, more so than the first night she had glimpsed him sleeping. Chris dared to run her fingers through his thick, golden hair, even as she told herself not to get too attached. Jim was a loose cannon, after all, and there was no telling how long Chris would be able to provide shelter for him, before Starfleet came calling again. The new semester was only a few weeks away. Still, it was shy of a week since she'd brought Jim home, and she was already so used to his presence.
Chris sighed and kept idly stroking Jim's hair, glancing at the clock and realizing, with a yawn, just how late it was. She wasn't going to move Jim any time soon, so she grabbed her sleep clothes and moved for the door. She was halfway out when Jim stirred and lifted his head groggily.
"Where you goin'?" he murmured, peering at her. Chris smiled softly to him.
"I'll take your bed. You stay right where you are, got it?"
"Mmm, no, I'll go," Jim said. He moved to get up and Chris stepped forward, putting her hands out.
"No! Jesus, Jim, you need to be still for a while. Don't move, whatever you do."
He settled again and gave her a strange look before shutting his eyes again, muttering into her pillow. "Then stay."
Chris thought about arguing but if it would make Jim happy to see her stay, well...she couldn't just ignore that. She sighed heavily and turned away from him, pulling off her jeans and trading her usual tank top for a long T-shirt that came down to her knees. She managed to only be undressed for a second, barely enough time for Jim to see—not that he seemed to be looking, anyway. His eyes were still closed when she shut the lights and moved into the bed. Chris tried to keep a safe and respectful distance away from him, even though he was hogging most of the mattress with his lazy sprawl. She curled her arms around the spare pillow and shut her eyes.
When Chris opened her eyes halfway five hours later, it was still dark outside. The moonlight illuminated a sliver of Jim's face, which had somehow found its way into the crook of her neck, his hand on her waist.
She knew she ought to feel guilty for not pushing him away, but she didn't.
*
Chris owned a single holophoto of herself and Winona, which she kept on a shelf in the living room. They were at the academy, on the front lawn, with their arms wrapped around each other. Winona was in her graduation garb and Chris was in her cadet wear, still a couple of years away from graduating. George had taken the photo. Afterward, he and Winnie had gone off together to shake hands with superiors, say the rest of their goodbyes before they shuttled off into the unknown. Chris had watched them go with an ache in her heart, feeling awkward and uncomfortable in her uniform, completely unaware that in a short time, she'd be writing her dissertation about their fates. She only looked at the holophoto occasionally, usually too busy to notice it. Chris knew Jim had spotted it. He'd stopped jerkily as he crossed the length of the room on his way to the kitchen. He hadn't said a word, though, just kept walking to get his can of soda.
He'd taken to sleeping in her bed every night, drifting off as she checked on his healing wounds and bruises. Chris was still cursing herself for not taking care of those injuries before Jim had gone and hurt himself even worse, and the guilt kept her from ushering him to the guest bedroom; that, and the fact that she enjoyed having another person in her bed. No one had slept beside her since Number One, her last significant significant other, and everyone else before that was a faded memory.
It was nice, but she could tell that Jim was getting restless. He'd long since fixed up Chris' Jeep and he was going through her book collection at the speed of lightning, soaking up all that information at a rate that amazed her. Chris knew she should say something, but Jim was generally friendly toward her now, and she could tell that beneath that bitter façade, he was grateful she'd taken him in. He'd even asked for a cooking lesson one night, which both surprised and delighted her. She wanted to keep him around just a little longer.
One night, two and a half weeks into Jim's stay, Chris was checking her saved comms for the last time as Jim brushed his teeth in the bathroom. A flagged message from Starfleet arrived in her inbox just before she was about to set her PADD aside. She adjusted her reading glasses and sat up straight in bed, opening the comm.
It was a direct order to report to the academy campus as early as next week—they were expecting more recruits than usual and her presence was mandatory. Chris scanned the text over and over and felt a sinking feeling in her chest. Usually, she was thrilled to get out of her stuffy little shack and head back to civilization, immerse herself in her work. But this time...
"You don't mind that I've been sleeping in here, do you?"
Chris looked up, startled, lifting her glasses onto the top of her head. She remembered a second too late to smile at Jim, who looked pretty cute in his baggy T-shirt and boxer shorts. "Course not, Jim. The desert air gets chilly at night."
"It's just that the other bed's kind of lumpy." Jim walked over to the bed and sat, giving her a curious look. "You okay? You look spooked."
"I'm fine," Chris said automatically. She turned off her PADD and placed it on the nightstand, along with her glasses, then smiled and patted his hand. "Just tired, I suppose."
Jim nodded and ran his fingers through his hair, as though he were nervous. "I, um. I read your dissertation," he finally said, quietly. Chris blinked, her eyes going wide.
"Jim," she whispered, not knowing what else to say.
"There was a copy in the spare room, wedged between these two books...Freud and some poetry book. Eliot, I think. 'The Wasteland.' It was good."
Chris smiled thinly. "Eliot or the dissertation?"
"Well, Eliot was good. The dissertation was...interesting." Jim's mouth twisted, though it looked more thoughtful than unhappy. "It was kind of inspiring, actually. I mean...if he weren't my dad, I might admire the guy, you know?" He laughed sadly, his shoulders slumped, and Chris thought she could feel the spider cracks inch their way across her heart. "Anyway, you really did him justice, so...thanks, I guess."
Chris swallowed and touched Jim's jaw gently, looking into his brilliant azure eyes. The comm from Starfleet flashed across her mind like a bolt of lightning, the demand for her presence back on campus, and she thought of Jim surrounded by all those open books, his ridiculously high test scores, the smell of grease inked into his skin as he convinced complex machinery to do his bidding, and just like that, she knew the right thing to do.
But then he kissed her. He kissed her and she breathed into his open mouth for a full second before drawing back, the heady taste of him already seared into her lips. She sucked in the stale air of the bedroom with a gasp.
"Jim, I—"
"Sorry," he said quickly, squinting. "I know it's weird...right? I mean, you and my..."
"It's—it's not that, Jim. I mean, it is, in a way, but it's..."
Chris pursed her lips and touched her thumb to Jim's bottom lip, finally healed from his scrape with the john. God, she couldn't believe someone like Jim was living that kind of life—that he'd gotten himself into a situation so dire that he needed rescuing. But as brave as Kirks were, as brilliant and bright, they were stubborn, too, and their stars somehow burned out much too fast, much too soon.
She couldn't save Winona and she sure as hell couldn't save George. Chris leaned in and kissed Jim again, deeply this time, pulling him close with a hand clasped over the back of his neck. His mouth tasted of mint and she licked it from the corners, thrilled with his responsive little sigh and his eagerness to slide his tongue against hers. Chris was sure Jim wasn't a stranger to sex, but his kissing seemed unpracticed, and somehow, that just made her hungrier for him. She ran her fingers through the brush of his hair, tugged at his healed lower lip. She licked inside his mouth, every last centimeter, until she could feel the heat of Jim's erection pressing against her thigh. And god, it felt so good it ought to have been illegal.
Chris guided them both down to lie on the bed, careful not to strain Jim's back. He rested halfway on top of her, sliding a hand under her shirt to touch her breasts, and kissed her. She moaned lowly and delved into his boxers for that hot, hard length, which damn near jumped to life in her grip. She touched him gently at first, and then firmer as she began to stroke the shaft and tease the slippery head. Jim stuttered out a groan and Chris took his wrist with her free hand and pushed it down, until it was hovering over the damp cotton between her thighs. And, yeah, Jim was a smart one—he moved his fingers beneath the elastic band and soon they were between her folds, stroking her where she was already wet and getting wetter. Chris swallowed down a needy sound and dropped her thighs apart, twisting her hand on Jim's cock in a way that made him keen.
"Just this is good?" he whispered, panting lightly against her neck. Chris turned her head to kiss him again.
"Just this, Jim, just this," she affirmed.
Chris began to thrust down against Jim's fingers after a minute or so, taking her pleasure as he moved them in and out of her. He quickly followed her lead, pushing into the fist she made with her hand and attacking her mouth with messy, desperate kisses. Chris loved it, every blistering second—she felt gorgeous and light and young and she wanted the feeling to last forever, wanted to relive every tight twist of his fingers inside her again and again until she dissolved into the air, wrecked with it. The pad of Jim's thumb found her swollen clit and Chris bucked, feeling helpless for a brief, scary yet wonderful moment. She was going to come and she wanted to moan his name but was afraid to at the same time, as if someone who knew better would hear and try to take it all away from her. But no, it was fine; she focused intensely on Jim's fingers until it became too much and then she pulsed through her orgasm, throwing her head back with a loud gasp. Jim trembled against her and kissed at her neck fiercely, as if asking something from her, and of course, he would have it. Her hand never stopped moving on his cock, only sped up and squeezed harder, stroking in a devastating rhythm that had him coming on her thigh with a cry of her name.
Chris took a few moments to regain her breath, lightly massaging the tops of Jim's shoulders. Then she cleaned her thigh with a corner of the rumpled bed sheet. He kissed the corner of her mouth, lazy and sweet, and Chris had a fleeting thought that she didn't deserve this.
"Promise you'll let me...soon?" Jim whispered, already drowsy. Chris couldn't be entirely sure of what he was asking but she had a pretty good idea. She kissed the tender skin of his prickly jaw.
"Maybe," she murmured, smiling. "I'd promise, but the moment's not quite right. Sorry."
Jim snorted before he laughed. When he nudged her side, she joined in.
*
"I thought we were friends, Chris. You expected me to be grateful for this? I'm stuck out here in god's country and you're capitalizing on my husband's death."
"Not capitalizing, Winnie, jesus. Will you just listen to me?"
"I'll bet you got top marks, too. How many commendations are you looking at, anyway? Three, four?"
"Winona, please...let's not get into this again."
"So glad I left that place. It's perfect for a hotshot like you, doing everything you can to lead the pack. But no one really cares, you know? No one sees him as a hero. They'll stick his name on the front door of a library wing, name a medal after him... Who's going to give me back what I lost, goddamn it?"
"I just...I did it for you. To honor you and George...his memory."
"Come off it, Chris. All you've ever cared about is your career. You'd step over my dead body to get ahead in Starfleet and you know it."
Chris swallowed, queasy, tears in her eyes. A toddler started crying in the background and she watched as Winona fetched him with a grimace.
"I told you to play with your brother! Stop crying!"
"Win...you know that's not true, just...hear me out. Let me explain."
"You know what, Christina? I've got a memory right here; all the memory I need, thanks very much. So don't bother trying to help. In fact, don't bother at all. Kirk out."
For a single second, Chris locked eyes with the little boy on the screen. Then it went blank.
*
Click here for Part 2.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: (always a) woman!Pike/Kirk, past unrequited (always a) woman!Pike/Winona Kirk
Word count: ~12.5K
Notes: Written for
het_idcrack, which you can read more about at the community's mission statement post. My prompt was as follows: Genderswap AU—Christina Pike takes in George and Winona Kirk's beautiful, feral son after a john's beating lands him in the hospital. (Though don't underestimate Jim—the john didn't walk away unscathed.) I should mention that Jim is young in this fic but not underage. He's also not all that feral. ;) Title is from the track "M.E.X.I.C.O.C.U." by The Kills. Many thanks go to sinsense for whipping this story into shape. Posted in two parts with a link to part 2 at the bottom of the page.Warnings: AU with genderswap, light violence (sexual and otherwise), allusions to prostitution and non-con, and lots of id-fic clichés.
Summary: Jim Kirk likely never intended to cross paths with Christina Pike. But now that he had, she wasn't going to let him go without a fight.
Chris still couldn't quite wrap her head around that late-night phone call. She couldn't quite comprehend it, even as she stepped on the gas to get to the local hospital. The desert wind whipped through her hair when she lowered the driver's side window of her Jeep, and she brushed the stray waves from her line of vision. She couldn't believe that Winona had actually trusted her with something like this—to name Chris as one of the emergency contacts on her kid's medical records. Hell, Chris couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Winnie. There was that awful memorial service for George, and then maybe a lunch here and a drink there back in San Francisco, but then Winona had packed up with her kids and moved to Iowa and that had been it.
So what was James Tiberius Kirk doing all the way out here in California? And landing himself in a hospital, no less?
When she walked into the emergency room, there were two young men sitting in the waiting room's old-fashioned plastic chairs. One slumped back in his seat, twin tufts of gauze shoved up his blood-rimmed nostrils. The other brandished a mean-looking shiner and a bruise all along the left side of his jaw. Neither of them spoke.
Chris squared her shoulders and pushed back her wind-tousled hair. "Which one of you is Kirk?" she asked in her command voice. The one with the black eye looked up, but his face bore no resemblance to either Winona or George at all.
"Who're you, his momma?" he asked with a sneer. Chris smirked.
"Be glad I'm not, or I'd take care of that good eye for you."
"I'm Kirk," the other one said, though he was quiet and sullen about it. And when he lifted his head—there, there was James T. Kirk, with Winnie's sparkling eyes and George's classic good looks, his strong jaw and his full lips. A good dose of mischief in a handsome bottle, no doubt. Chris almost had to take a step back at the sight of such a beautiful boy, this echo of her past come to life.
"Well, then," she said, motioning for him to stand. "I'm your ride."
Kirk—Jim, Winona had called him Jim—nodded. He got to his feet without saying a word, but he snarled when the other man tried to grab his ass. Chris moved forward before she realized what she was doing, grabbing the asshole by his wrist and twisting. He hissed in pain. Chris narrowed her eyes, not letting him go.
"Watch it, sweetheart. I've got no qualms about adding to your hospital bill."
"Fuck, lady, I paid for him."
Jim seemed to shy away, obviously not prepared to divulge that interesting bit of information. Chris blinked as she processed it and gave Jim a disapproving look before she remembered that he had a mother and, indeed, it wasn't her. Not that she judged anyone for doing what they had to do to get by, but...this was Winona's son. Just that knowledge alone told Chris that Jim Kirk was better than that. She reached into her pocket for some credits, not even paying attention to the amount, and threw them at the john, curling her lip in disgust.
"There's your refund," she said. Then she ushered Jim out of there.
There was a bit of a limp in his step. Chris looked him over as discreetly as she could, as she led him to the Jeep. He'd obviously taken a beating from the man back in the waiting room—the john. She decided to leave it alone for now, simply keeping her distance as they walked across the lot outside the building. Once they got close, she reached out to touch Jim's arm and he flinched away; whether he was sore there or just didn't want to be touched, she didn't know.
"This your wreck?" he asked, looking over the Jeep. Chris nodded and unlocked the doors.
"It's a relic, I know. But she gets me where I need to go."
Jim didn't reply, still sullen and stone-faced as he climbed into the cramped rear of the Jeep instead of the passenger seat. Chris didn't know what to make of that, not really, but she didn't say a word about it, just got in the car, cracked the windows, and drove.
"It's a bit of a ways," she said, glancing at him in the rearview. He glanced up to acknowledge her. The shadows of the surrounding desert rendered his face all cheekbones and searing blue eyes. Chris pursed her lips, looking at him a moment too long. "I'm Pike, by the way. Chris. I knew your parents."
"I know."
Jim turned his gaze to the window, effectively ending the conversation. Chris exhaled and turned on the satellite radio. If she was going to spend forty-five minutes driving home, she sure as hell wasn't doing it in silence. She whistled along to Whitesnake, smiling to herself when Jim made a displeased face. Kids these days just didn't know good music. She reached forward to turn it up.
*
Chris stood in the living room and sipped from a glass of water as Jim shoveled scrambled eggs and toast into his mouth, going at the food as any ravenous nineteen-year-old kid would. It was the second glass of orange juice that worried her a bit; clearly, Jim was dehydrated and hadn't had anything healthy in his stomach in a long time. Chris leaned her shoulder against the wall and watched him eat.
"Better go easy on my rations," she commented, smiling. "We have to eat breakfast in the morning, too."
Jim put his fork down with a guilty look. "Sorry," he said, looking tense. Chris just waved a hand.
"It's fine, really. You were hungry. What kind of host would I be if I didn't feed you?"
"I guess so." Jim picked up his fork again, gathering the last of the eggs with some ketchup. "I didn't see a replicator in here."
Chris smiled and sat down at the table. Now that she was looking closely, she could see some bruising on Jim's biceps, peeking out under the hems of his sleeves.
"I'm old-fashioned," she explained. She drank her water slowly. "I like to cook, always have. Those eggs are an old family recipe—good to make if you've got the ingredients. Bell peppers, a little onion..."
"They're good." Jim nodded and looked at her warily, like a stray cat who didn't know how or why he should trust a stranger. "Thanks." He sounded reluctant to show any gratitude, but she took it.
"Don't mention it." Chris ran a hand through her hair and sighed, looking off for a moment. When she turned back to Jim, he seemed to be staring at her, just for a second—then his eyes darted away, back to his plate. Those eyes were disarming, to be sure. Just then, Chris got the urge to ask about Winona, but she shook it off. It wasn't the time, not this soon. "After you're done, I'll show you to your room," she said, pointing upstairs. "Then we can take a look at those bruises."
"Room?" Jim repeated. He looked up at the ceiling, where Chris had pointed. "You're giving me a room?"
"You don't think the hospital called me just so I could make you dinner, did you? Your last known residence is back in Riverside. I was the closest person on your emergency contacts list, all the way out here in the Mojave. I'm not sending you back out there on your own, Jimmy, I don't care how many—"
"Jim," he corrected her, his eyes narrowing. Chris paused to regain her thoughts.
"Jim," she said. She made sure to look him right in the eyes, even as she softened her voice. "Listen, Jim. I know the last thing you probably want is a lecture. But I knew your father and I sure as hell knew your mother, and they wanted better for you than this."
"Right." Jim threw his napkin down and got to his feet. "Thanks for the food."
"Jim." Chris exhaled and stood up as well, nearly eye to eye with him. Jim had a few inches on her, but she knew that when she held herself proud and tall, she was matchless. "Okay, I get it. You don't know me and you could care less about what I do or who I used to know." She pursed her lips, trying to keep a firm tone to her voice without pushing too far. "You need a bed; I have a bed. Stay the night and see how things look in the morning, all right?"
His lips turned downward as he nodded, but Chris still wanted to breathe a sigh of relief. At least Jim was smart enough to know when to concede a point. She'd taken a minute to look up his records on her PADD, though, and she suspected he was smart enough to do anything he wanted to do. Chris motioned for him to follow as she left the kitchen and headed to the staircase. When they got to the spare room, she opened its door and flipped on the lights. It wasn't much—a double bed with plain white sheets, a bookcase filled with old books, and a chest of drawers. Still, Jim looked vaguely impressed.
"I'm right across the hall if you need me. Bathroom's down by the end," Chris said. She smiled, looking at Jim's face, wondering when the last time was that he slept in a real bed. "Shower's got real water but if you hog all the hot stuff, I'll have to give you a piece of my mind. Any questions?"
Jim slowly turned his face to her and despite the cuts and bruises, he was absolutely gorgeous, a regular twenty-first century film star, just like his father—brooding and dangerous but also angelic, and it wasn't just the eyes. He tilted his head, seemingly sizing her up, and Chris watched the rise and fall of his strangely long eyelashes.
"Why're you even helping me out?" he asked quietly. It wasn't what Chris expected to hear. "I'm nobody to you."
Chris exhaled, keeping eye contact with Jim once more. "Maybe you're nobody to everyone out there. But you're somebody to me." She looked down at his blood-streaked shirt, motioning to it. "You gonna let me see those bruises? I've got a regenerator—not top of the line, but good enough."
"I don't need it," Jim said quickly, shaking his head. "But thanks." Then he disappeared into the room.
He did need it, really. Chris spied on him covertly from the open doorway of her room as he undressed, and even from afar, she could see discoloration all over his torso, some marks more fresh than others. He winced as he moved—a chink in the armor of that lean and solid teenage body. A body Chris didn't have any right to see, not like this. She moved away from the door, then, and prepared for bed, taking off her jeans and bra and switching into shorts and an old Starfleet-issued tank top, a style they didn't make anymore. After she brushed her teeth, Chris went to check on Jim. He was already passed out in the center of the bed, lying shirtless on top of the sheets with bare feet. Chris noted the footprint-shaped marks on his lower back and allowed herself a shaky breath just before she turned off the light, not wanting to see anymore. She left Jim's door open, as well as her own.
*
Chris looked in the rearview to make sure that Jim was sticking close. He'd spent the entirety of his first day in her house holed up in his makeshift room, emerging only to get fed. Today, he looked somewhat refreshed and on the mend, so she'd been willing to drive him back to the godforsaken bar he'd frequented two nights before, the one where he'd met that charming gentleman and left his motorcycle. The motorcycle was a good one, and Chris wondered if it was a family hand-me-down or if Jim had gotten it on his own somehow. She couldn't remember George ever owning a motorcycle like that.
By the time they got back to her house, the sun was boiling hot and Chris could feel her top sticking to her sweaty skin. She'd forgone the jacket today but Jim was still wearing his—he looked like he was starting to regret his attachment. Chris exited the Jeep and climbed out, pulling her hair into a ponytail, off the slick slope of her neck. She smiled to Jim as he got out, and he gave her a look which wasn't altogether unfriendly, so that was a start. Sweat was threatening to rain down his temples.
"How do you like the Mojave so far?" she asked. He shrugged, climbing off his cycle.
"It's hot."
"Tell me about it." Chris stepped closer and motioned to his hair. "Your hair's likely to get light from the sun."
Jim wiped his brow and raked his eyes over her slowly. Chris knew she looked a mess, her shirt clinging to her clammy skin and tendrils of hair matted to her cheeks, not much left to the imagination. Still, she ignored his roving gaze. He was a teenager and looking was what teenagers did best. She dealt with enough of them at the academy to know as much. Usually, they all had some sort of authority figure fantasy, fueled by porn holovids that somehow made the rounds on campus every year. Chris smirked, about to suggest Jim lift his eyes northward, when he spoke again.
"Your Jeep lets out a lot of exhaust," he said, nodding toward it. "I could take a look at that for you. If you want."
Chris blinked, surprised, and nodded. "Sure. I've been meaning to take it to a mechanic for a while. How much would you charge?"
Jim did smile, then—a fleeting, modest thing that actually made Chris' heart skip a beat. It was the first time she had seen it.
"It'd be thanks for the food and the roof over my head. No charge."
"All right. If you're sure, Jim. You don't have to, though." Chris risked a smile and then ushered him inside the house. "Come on, let's cool off. I made a pitcher of lemonade this morning."
"You made lemonade?" Jim laughed as he followed after her, and that was something Chris wanted to experience again as well. His laugh was as bright as the desert sunshine itself, rivaling a few celestial bodies she'd seen in her day. "I didn't know anyone did that anymore."
Chris led him into the kitchen and got two glasses from the cabinet, opening the fridge. "I told you I'm a special breed," she joked. She filled both glasses with ice-cold lemonade and passed one to Jim.
"Yeah, you did."
She leaned her hip against the counter as Jim quickly guzzled the lemonade his gleaming throat moving slowly as he swallowed. Chris wasn't sure Jim realized how beautiful he was, but his mere presence transported her to another time, making her buzz all over with feelings she associated with a different life. She sipped from her own glass, then held it against her throat, shivering from the wet chill.
This was Winona's son. He was young enough to be Chris' son. But he was undoubtedly Winnie's boy, no doubt about that. Same stubbornness, same fire in the eyes. Chris suspected that Jim could be sweet like Winona was, too.
"What do you think is wrong with the Jeep?" she asked, forcing her thoughts elsewhere. Jim set down his empty glass and blinked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Could be anything. Could be the carburetor, bad fuel pipe... I'll check it out."
Chris took another swallow of lemonade. "You fix up that bike yourself?"
"Yeah, sort of salvaged her and rebuilt her." Jim shrugged, pouring himself a refill. "Took a few years, but then when I was done...it was worth it."
"Because you could leave," she said, looking at him steadily. She thought Jim might lash out at her or make to walk off again, but he just looked back at her and licked his lips.
"Basically," he said.
An unspoken flicker of understanding passed between them, as Chris looked into Jim's temporarily unguarded eyes. Suddenly, she wanted to know everything about what had gone so wrong in the Kirk household. Chris had looked up Winona's record before she'd gone to bed, and as far as anyone knew, Winona still lived in Riverside, where Jim was meant to be. But Chris didn't want to press; it wasn't her place, not anymore.
She drifted off into her own thoughts long enough for Jim to finish his second glass of lemonade, already starting on a third. Chris shook her head free of the past and wagged a finger at him.
"You drink it all, you make the next batch."
Jim looked up and smiled, nearly warm this time. "Think I can handle that," he said.
*
Chris called Jim's name as she stepped into the garage. She was starving for dinner. She didn't have much by the way of supplies after Hurricane Jim tore through her kitchen, and she didn't feel much like cooking for once, anyway. She was distracted by the sight of his bike, the complex machinery calling out to her. Chris had ridden a motorcycle when she was younger, too, just for a few precious years before the siren call of the stars became too much to ignore. Captaining a starship was nothing like steering the sleek curves of a bike, but it came with its own thrill.
"You like it, huh?"
She looked up with a start when she heard Jim's voice and gripped one of the handlebars at the sight of him. He wore only an undershirt and low-slung jeans, and his arms and hands were slick with grease from working on her Jeep all afternoon. There was a smudge of dirt along his collarbone, too, and one of his cheeks.
"For christ's sake, Jim, you'll get your cuts infected," Chris said. She swallowed. She brushed her hair back from her shoulders, collecting herself, and recalled what he'd said. "'Like' what?"
"The bike. You wanna ride it to the diner?"
"How did you know I was going to suggest the diner?" she asked, quirking a brow. Jim shrugged.
"I went for a snack earlier and the fridge was so empty, I could hear crickets."
Chris laughed, happy for some evidence that Jim had a sense of humor. She was unsure about his offer to ride the motorcycle, though. It was obviously his baby and as far as she knew, Jim didn't trust her as far as he could throw her.
"You sure?" she asked. "About the bike?"
Jim shrugged, smirking. "Yeah. You look like you can handle her."
"Go wash up, smart-ass," Chris said, hooking a thumb toward the door. Jim laughed and tossed her the keys before going back inside to do just that.
The bike really was a beauty, proof positive that Jim knew what he was doing. He was a smart kid, to be sure, not to mention good with his hands. Chris rolled her eyes at her own train of thought and climbed on the bike, turning over the engine and exhaling in pleasure as it roared to life and purred beneath her hands and thighs. She revved the engine once, then again, getting used to the feeling. When another warm body joined her on the seat, she nearly jumped in surprise, settling when she remembered it was just Jim.
"Gotta admit, you look pretty natural like this," he said. He wound his arms around her torso and smiled. "Should I hold on tight or what?"
Chris couldn't help a little grin. "Damn right you should, boy," she drawled.
It felt so good to burst out of the garage on that bike and speed her way across the desert, Jim pressed solid against her back, his hot breath fanning over her nape. The breeze and sand whipped against her face, stinging a bit, but she didn't mind. She could remember clearly the last time she'd found freedom on a motorcycle and not a thing about it had changed. Chris couldn't fault Jim for wanting to run if running felt like this.
"She's awesome, isn't she?" Jim yelled over the roar of the motor.
Chris laughed. "She's a tiger!" She turned her head to smile at him and blinked when she realized how close their mouths were. Jim leaned back a little, though, and simply returned the smile.
"Yeah, she is," he agreed.
Once they were at the diner, Chris got comfortable in her side of the booth and watched in amusement as Jim sucked down half of a vanilla milkshake before his burger and fries even arrived. He still wasn't much for conversation, but Chris supposed talking wasn't as important to a teenage boy as eating everything in sight. Chris sipped at her seltzer water and tucked into her turkey club, getting no further than two bites in when Jim spoke.
"So," he said, chewing on a mouthful of red meat. "You and my dad, huh?"
"Excuse me?" Chris said, lifting her brow. She put her sandwich down and wiped at her mouth with one of the flimsy napkins on the table. "Suddenly, you're full of questions?"
"Professional curiosity," Jim said, shrugging. "I still can't figure out why you'd give two shits about me, even if I am the son of someone who's famous for being dead. So, I'm thinking you and my dad maybe...?"
Chris frowned even as she laughed, mostly mirthless. "Jim, you don't know what you're talking about."
He arched a devious brow. "You and my mom?"
"Me and neither of them," Chris said tightly. She steeled her gaze in a way that made Jim visibly ease off. "They were my friends. Winona was my best friend."
"She's still alive," Jim offered casually. He shrugged and pushed a fry into a mound of ketchup on his plate. "If you were wondering. Goes off-planet a lot. Doubt she knows I'm here, let alone..." He trailed off as Chris watched him, turning his gaze to the window. He might have been looking at his bike parked outside, but Chris wasn't so sure. When he did turn back to her, he slumped back in his seat. "So, Aunt Chrissy, what happened? You never call, you never write..."
"Look, I had a job to do. I had a dream to see through to the end. Even if..." Now Chris was the one to trail off, looking down at her plate, unable to meet Jim's gaze. He had a way of cutting right through to the heart of things, just like his mother. And, like Winona, he was good at running away. "She wasn't the same after the Kelvin—not that anyone could blame her. But I always assumed she'd do right by you."
"Yeah, well." Jim drummed his fingers on the table, flicking his tongue inside his mouth to pry some food from between his teeth. "The road to hell, etcetera. I'll take the unmarked path, myself."
Chris couldn't help but let out a small laugh. She shook her head, pushing back her brown waves of hair, the shock of whitish-gray in the front that she tried to convince herself looked distinguished. She wondered how Winona looked now; the photo in her file was at least five years old, and they were getting to the age when five years often made a hell of a difference.
"Now, do I get to ask you a question or two?" she asked. Jim pretended to consider it, tilting his head and scrunching his nose, but then he just shook his head.
"Nah. The moment's not quite right, sorry."
Chris laughed again. She wanted to say something reassuring to Jim, something that would ease him and make him trust her, just a little. But what came out was, "You're just like your mom." Chris bit her lip after she said it, letting a few seconds pass before she dared to look at Jim again. The expression on his face wasn't exactly cold or resentful, but she didn't know him well enough to properly read it.
"I'll probably finish your Jeep tomorrow," he said. He pulled at the straw in his drink with his full lips, slurping up the rest of the thick beverage. Chris scratched at the back of her head and went back to her sandwich.
"That's great, Jim," she said. She left it at that.
*
Jim's injuries had stayed at the back of Chris' mind, but she found herself forgetting about it after a few days of Jim looking healthy. That changed when she heard a crashing noise in the garage, followed by a loud, pained expletive. Chris pulled her glasses off and set them down with her PADD on the table before running out to the garage. Jim was kneeling on the floor, clutching his lower back and hissing in pain.
"Damn it, Jim! What did you do?" she grouched.
"I just—I just bent wrong, okay? I'm fine, jeez..."
Jim waved Chris off and tried to stand. He cursed and turned pale when he did, the strain evident in his pinched features. Chris huffed, going over and helping him to his feet as carefully as she could.
"I'm the old one around here, remember? I should have the bad back, not you."
Jim laughed, despite the amount of pain he was in. "Didn't mean to steal your thunder, Christina," he muttered.
"Good to see your smart-ass attitude is unharmed," she countered. She slung an arm around him to prop him up. "Lean on me, okay? I can handle your weight."
"And here I thought you were a delicate flower."
"That'd be you, sweetheart. Come on."
Chris painstakingly helped Jim up the stairs to the closest bed, which happened to be her own. Once he was on his stomach, she went to fetch some muscle relaxant gel from her medicine cabinet. When she came back, she warmed some between her hands, kneeling on the mattress. Jim groaned faintly and looked back at her.
"You gonna give me a rubdown?" he asked, quirking a small smile. "Not gonna cost me extra, is it?"
"Pretty mouthy for someone in such a vulnerable position," Chris replied. "What, does pain deteriorate your brain cells or something, Jimmy?"
"Prob'ly," he murmured. Just the fact that he didn't correct her on his name told her just how hurt he was. Chris lifted up his shirt, winced at the lingering black and blue spread over his skin, and got to work.
Chris carefully massaged the gel into Jim's lower back until the painful tension in his muscles dissipated and he dozed off. He looked peaceful, more so than the first night she had glimpsed him sleeping. Chris dared to run her fingers through his thick, golden hair, even as she told herself not to get too attached. Jim was a loose cannon, after all, and there was no telling how long Chris would be able to provide shelter for him, before Starfleet came calling again. The new semester was only a few weeks away. Still, it was shy of a week since she'd brought Jim home, and she was already so used to his presence.
Chris sighed and kept idly stroking Jim's hair, glancing at the clock and realizing, with a yawn, just how late it was. She wasn't going to move Jim any time soon, so she grabbed her sleep clothes and moved for the door. She was halfway out when Jim stirred and lifted his head groggily.
"Where you goin'?" he murmured, peering at her. Chris smiled softly to him.
"I'll take your bed. You stay right where you are, got it?"
"Mmm, no, I'll go," Jim said. He moved to get up and Chris stepped forward, putting her hands out.
"No! Jesus, Jim, you need to be still for a while. Don't move, whatever you do."
He settled again and gave her a strange look before shutting his eyes again, muttering into her pillow. "Then stay."
Chris thought about arguing but if it would make Jim happy to see her stay, well...she couldn't just ignore that. She sighed heavily and turned away from him, pulling off her jeans and trading her usual tank top for a long T-shirt that came down to her knees. She managed to only be undressed for a second, barely enough time for Jim to see—not that he seemed to be looking, anyway. His eyes were still closed when she shut the lights and moved into the bed. Chris tried to keep a safe and respectful distance away from him, even though he was hogging most of the mattress with his lazy sprawl. She curled her arms around the spare pillow and shut her eyes.
When Chris opened her eyes halfway five hours later, it was still dark outside. The moonlight illuminated a sliver of Jim's face, which had somehow found its way into the crook of her neck, his hand on her waist.
She knew she ought to feel guilty for not pushing him away, but she didn't.
*
Chris owned a single holophoto of herself and Winona, which she kept on a shelf in the living room. They were at the academy, on the front lawn, with their arms wrapped around each other. Winona was in her graduation garb and Chris was in her cadet wear, still a couple of years away from graduating. George had taken the photo. Afterward, he and Winnie had gone off together to shake hands with superiors, say the rest of their goodbyes before they shuttled off into the unknown. Chris had watched them go with an ache in her heart, feeling awkward and uncomfortable in her uniform, completely unaware that in a short time, she'd be writing her dissertation about their fates. She only looked at the holophoto occasionally, usually too busy to notice it. Chris knew Jim had spotted it. He'd stopped jerkily as he crossed the length of the room on his way to the kitchen. He hadn't said a word, though, just kept walking to get his can of soda.
He'd taken to sleeping in her bed every night, drifting off as she checked on his healing wounds and bruises. Chris was still cursing herself for not taking care of those injuries before Jim had gone and hurt himself even worse, and the guilt kept her from ushering him to the guest bedroom; that, and the fact that she enjoyed having another person in her bed. No one had slept beside her since Number One, her last significant significant other, and everyone else before that was a faded memory.
It was nice, but she could tell that Jim was getting restless. He'd long since fixed up Chris' Jeep and he was going through her book collection at the speed of lightning, soaking up all that information at a rate that amazed her. Chris knew she should say something, but Jim was generally friendly toward her now, and she could tell that beneath that bitter façade, he was grateful she'd taken him in. He'd even asked for a cooking lesson one night, which both surprised and delighted her. She wanted to keep him around just a little longer.
One night, two and a half weeks into Jim's stay, Chris was checking her saved comms for the last time as Jim brushed his teeth in the bathroom. A flagged message from Starfleet arrived in her inbox just before she was about to set her PADD aside. She adjusted her reading glasses and sat up straight in bed, opening the comm.
It was a direct order to report to the academy campus as early as next week—they were expecting more recruits than usual and her presence was mandatory. Chris scanned the text over and over and felt a sinking feeling in her chest. Usually, she was thrilled to get out of her stuffy little shack and head back to civilization, immerse herself in her work. But this time...
"You don't mind that I've been sleeping in here, do you?"
Chris looked up, startled, lifting her glasses onto the top of her head. She remembered a second too late to smile at Jim, who looked pretty cute in his baggy T-shirt and boxer shorts. "Course not, Jim. The desert air gets chilly at night."
"It's just that the other bed's kind of lumpy." Jim walked over to the bed and sat, giving her a curious look. "You okay? You look spooked."
"I'm fine," Chris said automatically. She turned off her PADD and placed it on the nightstand, along with her glasses, then smiled and patted his hand. "Just tired, I suppose."
Jim nodded and ran his fingers through his hair, as though he were nervous. "I, um. I read your dissertation," he finally said, quietly. Chris blinked, her eyes going wide.
"Jim," she whispered, not knowing what else to say.
"There was a copy in the spare room, wedged between these two books...Freud and some poetry book. Eliot, I think. 'The Wasteland.' It was good."
Chris smiled thinly. "Eliot or the dissertation?"
"Well, Eliot was good. The dissertation was...interesting." Jim's mouth twisted, though it looked more thoughtful than unhappy. "It was kind of inspiring, actually. I mean...if he weren't my dad, I might admire the guy, you know?" He laughed sadly, his shoulders slumped, and Chris thought she could feel the spider cracks inch their way across her heart. "Anyway, you really did him justice, so...thanks, I guess."
Chris swallowed and touched Jim's jaw gently, looking into his brilliant azure eyes. The comm from Starfleet flashed across her mind like a bolt of lightning, the demand for her presence back on campus, and she thought of Jim surrounded by all those open books, his ridiculously high test scores, the smell of grease inked into his skin as he convinced complex machinery to do his bidding, and just like that, she knew the right thing to do.
But then he kissed her. He kissed her and she breathed into his open mouth for a full second before drawing back, the heady taste of him already seared into her lips. She sucked in the stale air of the bedroom with a gasp.
"Jim, I—"
"Sorry," he said quickly, squinting. "I know it's weird...right? I mean, you and my..."
"It's—it's not that, Jim. I mean, it is, in a way, but it's..."
Chris pursed her lips and touched her thumb to Jim's bottom lip, finally healed from his scrape with the john. God, she couldn't believe someone like Jim was living that kind of life—that he'd gotten himself into a situation so dire that he needed rescuing. But as brave as Kirks were, as brilliant and bright, they were stubborn, too, and their stars somehow burned out much too fast, much too soon.
She couldn't save Winona and she sure as hell couldn't save George. Chris leaned in and kissed Jim again, deeply this time, pulling him close with a hand clasped over the back of his neck. His mouth tasted of mint and she licked it from the corners, thrilled with his responsive little sigh and his eagerness to slide his tongue against hers. Chris was sure Jim wasn't a stranger to sex, but his kissing seemed unpracticed, and somehow, that just made her hungrier for him. She ran her fingers through the brush of his hair, tugged at his healed lower lip. She licked inside his mouth, every last centimeter, until she could feel the heat of Jim's erection pressing against her thigh. And god, it felt so good it ought to have been illegal.
Chris guided them both down to lie on the bed, careful not to strain Jim's back. He rested halfway on top of her, sliding a hand under her shirt to touch her breasts, and kissed her. She moaned lowly and delved into his boxers for that hot, hard length, which damn near jumped to life in her grip. She touched him gently at first, and then firmer as she began to stroke the shaft and tease the slippery head. Jim stuttered out a groan and Chris took his wrist with her free hand and pushed it down, until it was hovering over the damp cotton between her thighs. And, yeah, Jim was a smart one—he moved his fingers beneath the elastic band and soon they were between her folds, stroking her where she was already wet and getting wetter. Chris swallowed down a needy sound and dropped her thighs apart, twisting her hand on Jim's cock in a way that made him keen.
"Just this is good?" he whispered, panting lightly against her neck. Chris turned her head to kiss him again.
"Just this, Jim, just this," she affirmed.
Chris began to thrust down against Jim's fingers after a minute or so, taking her pleasure as he moved them in and out of her. He quickly followed her lead, pushing into the fist she made with her hand and attacking her mouth with messy, desperate kisses. Chris loved it, every blistering second—she felt gorgeous and light and young and she wanted the feeling to last forever, wanted to relive every tight twist of his fingers inside her again and again until she dissolved into the air, wrecked with it. The pad of Jim's thumb found her swollen clit and Chris bucked, feeling helpless for a brief, scary yet wonderful moment. She was going to come and she wanted to moan his name but was afraid to at the same time, as if someone who knew better would hear and try to take it all away from her. But no, it was fine; she focused intensely on Jim's fingers until it became too much and then she pulsed through her orgasm, throwing her head back with a loud gasp. Jim trembled against her and kissed at her neck fiercely, as if asking something from her, and of course, he would have it. Her hand never stopped moving on his cock, only sped up and squeezed harder, stroking in a devastating rhythm that had him coming on her thigh with a cry of her name.
Chris took a few moments to regain her breath, lightly massaging the tops of Jim's shoulders. Then she cleaned her thigh with a corner of the rumpled bed sheet. He kissed the corner of her mouth, lazy and sweet, and Chris had a fleeting thought that she didn't deserve this.
"Promise you'll let me...soon?" Jim whispered, already drowsy. Chris couldn't be entirely sure of what he was asking but she had a pretty good idea. She kissed the tender skin of his prickly jaw.
"Maybe," she murmured, smiling. "I'd promise, but the moment's not quite right. Sorry."
Jim snorted before he laughed. When he nudged her side, she joined in.
*
"I thought we were friends, Chris. You expected me to be grateful for this? I'm stuck out here in god's country and you're capitalizing on my husband's death."
"Not capitalizing, Winnie, jesus. Will you just listen to me?"
"I'll bet you got top marks, too. How many commendations are you looking at, anyway? Three, four?"
"Winona, please...let's not get into this again."
"So glad I left that place. It's perfect for a hotshot like you, doing everything you can to lead the pack. But no one really cares, you know? No one sees him as a hero. They'll stick his name on the front door of a library wing, name a medal after him... Who's going to give me back what I lost, goddamn it?"
"I just...I did it for you. To honor you and George...his memory."
"Come off it, Chris. All you've ever cared about is your career. You'd step over my dead body to get ahead in Starfleet and you know it."
Chris swallowed, queasy, tears in her eyes. A toddler started crying in the background and she watched as Winona fetched him with a grimace.
"I told you to play with your brother! Stop crying!"
"Win...you know that's not true, just...hear me out. Let me explain."
"You know what, Christina? I've got a memory right here; all the memory I need, thanks very much. So don't bother trying to help. In fact, don't bother at all. Kirk out."
For a single second, Chris locked eyes with the little boy on the screen. Then it went blank.
*
Click here for Part 2.
