This is a disclaimer.

Part of the Process


Right at the outset, let it be said that Jim Kirk has never, ever been able to easily accept help from others. First there was Dad and his great sacrifice for Jim, and then there were Mom's absences in Starfleet, and between the stories and the long periods of loneliness and relative self-sufficiency in the face of his asshole stepfather...


But Pavel Chekov is seventeen and a half, green as grass, hopelessly young for this shit, and about as far away from Kirk at that age as the Enterprise is from Earth right now, which is a really, really long way.

"I just," he stammers through the end of his speech in Jim's quarters at almost ten o'clock at night, and Jim's just come off a twelve-hour shift and his entire body aches in unprecedented ways, but that is neither here nor there because, well, Chekov, and the way he's twisting his hands together in front of him and trying to look Jim in the eye but not quite managing. "I'm sorry, Captain. But I – I didn't know who else to ask. About. For advice."

"I understand," Jim says. "Take a seat, kid. Looking up at you is giving me a crick in the neck."