Enterprise Bridge

He nodded, not really seeing her. "I do."

"Then I accept temporary command of the U.S.S. Enterprise and relinquish you of your duties. I will note the date and time in the Captain's Log," she said coolly. "Please report to your quarters, Mr. Kirk, until further notice, unless you require medical or psychological care in the wake of your compromise."

Jim all but fled back to his quarters.

He couldn't feel anything. He sat on the couch, staring blankly at the wall. By relinquishing command, he'd all but revealed the one bit of his childhood he'd kept from Pock.

What would she think?

Jim got up and started to pace. Maybe, by the time that Pock came to visit him, he'd be able to explain.

Jim practically ran from the Bridge, with Pock's eyes following the whole way.

When he was gone and she tore herself away from where he'd been, she noticed all the eyes of her crew trained on her, some in awe, some sympathetic, some curious, and none of those were something she approved of.

"Unless you have something you'd wish to add," she said coldly, her eyes terrifying, "I suggest you all take to your work immediately."

She took a seat in the chair, and she did what she had to.

As soon as her shift was over, however, she made her way calmly - but briskly - back to Jim's quarters.

Jim was in his room, pacing in front of his bookshelf.

He didn't want to explain why he was emotionally compromised by the mission, but he knew Pock deserved answers. A truthful one at that.

She stepped through the doors.

"Jim?" she called out to him, arms folded neatly behind her back, posture impeccable.

"Bedroom!" he called back.

Time to face the music.

Pock made her way in to where he was, stopping in the doorway hesitantly.

"I was unsure whether or not you would wish to see me," she said, voice unusually cool.

Jim shook his head.

He knew they should have just stayed in bed and played hooky all day. He gave her a small smile. It was a far cry from his normal blinding grin. "You're always welcome here."

Pock softened slightly.

"Thank you," she said. "I extend the same towards you." A few steps toward him, her eyes locked on his, her face soft. "I wish to inquire as to your standing, Jim. Are you well?"

Jim's shoulders crumpled in slightly. She always went right for the kill, didn't she?

"I'm fine," he lied, not knowing how to break the ice around this topic.

Pock's hand extended, her hand tentatively brushing the side of his face.

"You are being dishonest," she said quietly. "Fine is a variable term, of course, and has no concrete definition, but even in its varying explanations I do not feel as though any of them adequately describe your current state."

Jim leaned into her hand, catching it with his own. "You're right. I'm not fine."

A pause and a deep breath. "Did the mission get done?" he asked.

Pock nodded.

"Yes," she said. "The perpetrator is safely locked away in the brig under armed guard. He well be escorted to a fair trial, where he will be either exonerated or condemned for the crimes of which he is accused of."

Jim's shoulders lost some of their tension. "Good," he murmured.

Pock was silent for awhile.

Then, she spoke.

"We do not have to discuss the events of earlier," she said, her voice warmer than normal. "I will not ask that of you. Merely say the word, and we will come to bed, and no more shall be mentioned of it."

"No..." Jim said, not meeting her eyes. "You deserve to know."

He took a deep breath. "Ask away. I don't know where to start."

"Jim..." she said softly, tilting his head up. "I do not need to know anything more than what you wish to share with me."

Jim sighed, before backing away from her. "When Mom was off planet... Frank liked to drink. A lot. And he got angry. A lot. And whenever Sam or I did something he didn't like... Well, putting it bluntly... He liked to use us as punching bags. Sam was 8. I was 6."

"He hit you." Pock's voice was detached again, like a growl. "You are saying that your stepfather was physically abusive."

Jim nodded. "Yeah." His own voice was small and quiet. "He was."

She approached him again, her eyes distant.

"Did he leave scars on you?" she asked quietly, with resolution in her voice.

Silently, Jim pealed off his uniform and his undershirt. There was one on his left shoulder and one on the right side of his ribcage.

They weren't as puffy as when he was younger, but they were still scar tissue.

The scar on his shoulder was from some bladed object, Jim didn't remember. He normally passed it off as something he'd gotten in a bar fight. The one on his ribcage was from a broken bottle when he was 8.

Pock's fingers traced silently, tremblingly, over the scar on his left shoulder. It was faded, but still there, and just tracing it with her fingertip left an idea of the wound on her mind. A wound inflicted on an innocent child. A child like Jim, with those bright blue eyes and that mischievous, playful smile.

Without a word, she pressed her lips slowly against the scar.

"Jim..." she said, her voice barely more than a breath against his skin. "There are no words to express the sorrow I feel for the injustices that have been done to you."

Jim bowed his head to keep from seeing the look in her eyes. The pity everyone felt he deserved when they found out about his childhood. He didn't want their pity, their sorrow. He wanted them to see someone who had survived a terrible thing and come out of it alive and kicking.

"Don't, Pock," he said quietly but firmly. "I don't need anyone's pity."