#whispers i want an au where jim loses his memory#and he thinks he’s just a regular guy #and spock has been ordered not to see him#but spock is secretly a little fucking rebel #and so he visits him occasionally#trying his best not to talk about star fleet or his time as captain#but instead falls in love all over again with jim and jim falls for him too #OK I’M FINE
They set him up in a smaller town outside of Boston. McCoy was instructed to hand over all of his notes on Jim Kirk, and when Jim woke up in Mass Gen, the case of amnesia that crippled him on Barcela IV was complete.
It was a matter, the sympathetic-looking doctors explained, of half-triggers. On the ship he had certainly been excitable, waking up and convinced he knew them, knew some of them, but unable to make any connections at all. The unrest had built upon itself until it was a case of full-blown hysteria. At one point he had gotten a phaser and, body remembering what his mind could not, had stunned five security guards and Lt. Sulu before Spock had managed to administer the pinch. McCoy had been forced to sedate him, and Spock had taken them back to Starfleet, where they were told nothing could be done.
Best, the doctors had said, gentle, to take away any triggers whatsoever.
So they had set him up in a well-to-do suburb, with a house, a cat, and his mother’s maiden name. They had given him an entirely new life, and Nyota told him that there was already noise in the neighborhood about that nice younger man who had bought the Seddigh’s place who had a terrible accident on his motorcycle. It was all incredibly tidy.
Spock wanted to break things.
In the first week, after Jim had been released from Mass Gen to go home, he and McCoy had driven out, parking on the street to see—just to see, Spock supposed.
It was as though Jim Kirk had died. The man who stepped out of his house to check his mailbox, who smiled at the next-door-neighbor and ducked neatly out of the way of a dog was not…it was not Jim.
Not as Spock knew him.
“We’re gonna get so fucking fired,” McCoy muttered, crouched low behind the steering wheel. His hand covered half of his face, but he seemed, as Spock was, unable to look away. “They had one rule.”
“It is a stupid rule,” Spock replied, and McCoy sighed, angrily, in agreement.
Jim was laughing with the young woman next door, but his eyes were slipping two doors down where a young man is putting out his garbage for pick-up.
“He’s gonna infect the whole suburb with syphilis, I can feel it in my bones,” McCoy sighed. “Goddamnit, Jim.”
After that, there had been no contact, because there were reports to give and admirals to appease and a fight to keep the Enterprise’s crew together and Spock’s hasty promotion to captain.
And then they had been instructed to “go home, rest, come back in a year.”
And so Spock had bought himself a house in a quiet Boston suburb, because the rules were stupid, and Spock had never known Jim to lose a fight.
And if Jim was losing, then surely it was Spock’s obligation to fight it for him.