James T. Kirk

He woke by inches. Dragging, slow, aching inches. Kirk's eyes felt like they had sand bags on them as he tried to force them open. He started to move and -- okay, okay, something was bitching at him for doing it. So, he started out a little slower and just shifted his head. It lolled on his neck and he opened his eyes to stare upwards. Ceiling. Blurry ceiling. Lights. ...Bad, bad lights.

He closed his eyes again and let his head drop.

He woke (woke? drifted out out of darkness? whichever...) again. This time, he decided to do things differently. "Lights, 20%." I sound like a frog... Kirk thought to himself, and with the lights dropped, risked opening his eyes again. Much better. He could keep them open this time. He glanced around, just taking in where he was, and grunted as memory started to offer up some information on what he was doing in the officer's (ambassador's?) lounge. He focused across the room, and decided that it was the officer's lounge - there was a dart board on the wall which someone had put up a while ago.

Kirk let a hand flop to his face, then rubbed down it. He groaned as he started to pull himself together. All of his muscles complained - sleeping sitting in this incredibly awkward position? Not a real good idea, evidently, because it made every part of you complain later. He worked himself so he was laying out on the couch instead of hunkered over half-sitting up, and let himself get used to something new before he tried to do something as daring as actually getting up.

He tilted his head to the side, spotting the fourth-full bottle of pine-liquor on the table. That's right... he had met James, went and had a drink with him and... "Aw, fuck," Kirk breathed out. Then he'd let the man use him like a whore. While the whore part didn't usually bother him... he couldn't believe he had done it on his own ship. Check out the Fed's golden boy, Kirk said sarcastically inside his own head, laying out on a couch in his officer's lounge, disgusting, fucked open, and naked. Sure are proud of him.

Every little movement told him he had gone a bit too far, that he'd been an idiot. That was no surprise, it wasn't completely unfamiliar. He sighed through his teeth and forced himself to stand up. Kirk looked down his body, then squeezed his eyes shut. Even in the low light, he could see the mottling bruises. When he twisted to look back at the couch... shit. It'd have to be cleaned. He eyed a dark spot on the material and rubbed his face. In the past, he would have staggered/limped back to his dorm room with Bones and puppy-eyed some healing out of the doctor, at least to where every blink didn't hurt. Now... now... he couldn't. Bones told him, face on, that he didn't want to know about what he did... outside of their bedroom. He couldn't ask Bones to help.

Kirk limped a little across the room, grabbing his clothing. At least it had survived that encounter in tact. It took way, way too long to get into his shirt and pants, gasping as he discovered his shoulder had been hurt at some point when he tried to get his arm through a sleeve. Who the hell can I ask... The list was small, so it didn't take long. This is going to be fucking hard to explain. Kirk grumbled to himself.

When he was dressed, he sat. His body was complaining loudly for a rest, threatening to give out in the knees or head. His head was pounding... had it gotten hit, or was it just the alcohol? Could be either, for all he knew. Kirk rubbed his hands into his knees, trying to get himself prepared to deal with sickbay. ...gonna need to call her up here. Limping down to sickbay like this? Great for ship rumors... at least with her at my side, if she'll even help, if looks more official. Yea, great. Now he was trying to cover this up...

This. He went through the memories of the previous night, and just... frowned. He and James had fucked. James had given him exactly what he'd wanted.

...Why the hell didn't he feel good, then? Well, besides the normal 'ow this hurts'... normally there was a relaxed feeling in him, like he'd gotten something out of his system. Where his frustrations and annoyances were in control and he could deal with them again. He just felt... sort of grumpy, sore, and... and...

Kirk scowled at the wall. What was this feeling? He forced himself back to his feet and pressed the comm at the wall. "Kirk to Nurse Christine Chapel, report to the officer's lounge on Deck B."

He sat back down to wait, closing his eyes. I felt better that night with Bones and Spock.

The room he had been put into was dimly lit and stifling. The dim lighting was highly preferred to the brilliant white of sickbay proper, but it felt like it was closing in on him. Thanks to Spock, or so he was fairly sure he had told his request to, the drugs keeping his brain from functioning had been taken away or at least decreased severely.

He could think, but he could also hurt.

When Bones had come into the room last, he could very vaguely remember something about his hand. The heat Spock put out had feel so good on his left hand, but despite the fact that the hand looked... somewhat normal... (considering it was still slightly swollen and the tattoos showed vividly), it hurt. It felt stiff and awkward and clumsy in a way that made him nervous or scared the shit out of him.

Okay, so maybe they were still drugging him at least a little.

The constant unmatched beeps of the heart monitors was starting to drive him insane, at least when he was awake. His own was normal (he was pretty sure?) but... his father's... that one was slow, so slow, and scared the hell out of him. Bones hadn't told him anything about George (had he even asked?) and so he knew nothing at all, only that his father looked like he was in a coma.

What had Nero done?