The purpose is to experience fear. Fear in the face of certain death.

[hischair]

When: 17th onward!
Rating: Gross sickly stuff.
Characters: Jim & you!
Summary: Catch-all log for Jim's friends! After the 16th when he felt ill, Jim's Augmented blood has started to fight back like it did during the two weeks he was out cold after dying in a decontamination chamber. His organs will be starting to slowly fail, blood (both his own and Khan's) will be coming up, and he's generally confined to his bedroom in his and Bones' apartment. As time goes on, his condition will be deteriorating until his essence rite is performed. Please put the date of your visit in the subject header! Forward/Back-dating and Prose/Action are all fine, as are video/audio/text which can be directed here for all personal calls while Jim is sick.
Log: 

[ He finds himself thinking of Christopher, more than anything. Of the last time he saw him, specifically, in the Hall of the Missing. Of not being able to let go of him for so long and crying like a son lost in the thickest of woods, longing to find his way home only to briefly find it and have to turn back into the darkness once more. Chris had held him, kissed his hair like a father, soothed Jim in a way he had never had to before, but then again neither of them had died and been torn apart in such violent ways until the Augment came into their lives. Even in death, he's still been there when Jim needed him.

He stares out of the window in his room, propped up against pillows as coughs rumble in the pit of his chest, looking at the City below where the horizon meets a fake, beautiful sky. If he lets the migraines take over for long enough his senses go haywire and a drowsy kind of tactile memory swims under his fingers and into his nose, of an admiral's uniform scented with aftershave that soothes his anxieties almost as effectively as the real thing.

"It's going to be okay, son."

He wishes he could find a bar to drown his sorrows in. Chris always, always found him when he was at his lowest point in backwater dives.

And then on occasion, during his more painful moments where there's no one around to hear his muffled crying into a pillow or witness the sheets crumpling in his fists, his thoughts drift to the decontamination chamber. Jim wakes himself up several times after passing out with Spock's name on bloodied lips and hopes to God he hasn't started doing anything as embarrassing as crying out in his sleep to betray his fright; he has the use of his lungs still, unlike his final moments where he hadn't been able to tell his friend a wealth of things that suddenly seemed so important. Look after the crew, you're the captain now. I'll miss you. I don't want to go, stay with me. It's shameful, but a couple of times he calls for Bones just to have his company, terrified under a firmly schooled expression that he'll die in the here and now, well and truly alone.

If he had been given diagrammatics on his condition in the form of a vessel's specifics, he would have written it off by now. It's as if the effects of his descent into the warp core are being clawed out of his body in slow motion by the deepening fever-tide, leaving Jim to hate every minute of having survived. Which is counter-productive, he knows, because he very much wants to live. ]

Comments

[candothat]

[With a distinct air of like I was really going to fall off of a desk, seriously, do you think you're my mother, Pavel climbs down and surveys his work from a less neck-breaking angle. Nope, he's not going to quit his jobs to become an artist.]

Thank you. [That falls just shy of sincere, but it's nice of Jim to care.] You were going to catch me? Perhaps you shouldn't try that until you have recovered.

[hischair]

If I had to.

[ Grumbling, he lies back down once Chekov isn't up there. ]

Why don't you focus on the walls instead? Less chance of captain-related injuries by giving me a double dose of guilt.

[candothat]

[The wall it is! He pushes the desk back into its original position and begins working on the Pleiades, careful not to drip paint on any of Kirk's things.]

Why would you feel guilty? You didn't order me to paint on your ceiling.

[hischair]

Because I don't want you to get a twisted ankle or a broken neck drawing stars to make me feel better on some magical quest.

[ In a nutshell. ]

[candothat]

If that happens, know that I take full responsibility for my irresponsibility and that, if you were to feel guilty, I would feel guiltier. [Like a silly thing like falling over can hurt him. Pssh.]

Speaking of magical quests, are you any better?

[hischair]

I ... don't think I have a migraine. Maybe. [ Adding that in just because he might soon, there's no such thing as magic or miracles. Jim rubs his head and finds sitting up isn't as difficult as it was an hour ago. ] That's a little strange.

[candothat]

No, it's good! That means that this may have worked! [Not that he can leave before he finishes painting Taurus.] I was worried that I was misinterpreting the dream.

[hischair]

Please, go ahead and paint everything on record. [ Pausing, he glances up. ] Do you know any Vulcan constellations?

[candothat]

Not many. [And there won't be much of an opportunity to learn about them now that there isn't a planet where Vulcan belongs.] A'T'Pel, Sarakin. Are you familiar with them?

[hischair]

No, not especially. It might be nice to get a chance to learn about them while I'm here, though.

[ Largely because the planet's gone and how often does anyone get stars painted overhead? It's a nice idea. ]

[candothat]

There isn't much I can teach you, but I can paint them. Maybe they won't be perfectly accurate.

[hischair]

From where I'm sitting, Mr. Chekov, those stars will look perfect however you choose to depict them.