1. Prologue

A/N: Hello! And welcome to my newest fic. There are several others I really should be working on but well...this idea hit me like a ton of bricks and I haven't been able to leave it alone since.

The name is a bit shaky and it may change, just a heads up.

* * *

_August 10th, 2000_

_4:45 pm_

The impact jars Spock's bones and rattles his teeth.

There's a brief second, between looking through the cracked viewing screen of the escape pod at the planet rising up to greet him, and sitting in the echoing silence afterwards, where he thinks he might have actually blacked out. If so, it doesn't last long and all too soon he's forcing his sore muscles to move against their will.

The pod is in pieces around him; all the lights on the control board are dull, there's a gaping hole almost two meters high to his left and he's been thrown clear of the pilot's chair, despite strapping himself in upon entering this planet's atmosphere.

He sits up on his elbows first, scanning the wreckage quickly and efficiently. Almost all of the systems will be useless now, that much he can see.

When Spock attempts to sit up further, there's a sharp pain that radiates from just above his navel and he takes in a gasp of air. Almost immediately his head is spinning and distantly he realizes that though his initial scan had told him the planet was similar to Vulcan that alone did not guarantee that the air concentration was the same. He's worried for a few seconds that it might be poisonous to him, but it only feels lighter in comparison to the air on Vulcan, and he finds his lungs fill with an ease that they did not before. Perhaps the oxygen content is higher?

It takes several more breaths before his vision clears and he's able to sit up all the way. He can feel a faint trickle of blood trailing along the line of his jaw and he swipes at it absently, already moving to stand.

When he finds his legs can indeed hold him, he pushes at the heavy robe he's wearing until it falls from his shoulders, kept in place only by the tight belt at his hips. With it out of the way, he can see the bruise blossoming across his abdomen and he traces it lightly only to recoil his touch at the wave of nauseating pain it sends through him. It will take time to heal, but time is not what he has available to him now so he pulls the robe on again.

The large, ragged hole in the escape pod serves as an exit when he finds the latch on the door will not give, though he does have to duck his head and step carefully over the mechanical carnage in his path. Outside, the world is bright and Spock stares uncertainly at the sun hanging in the sky. It is smaller than Vulcan's, less intense, and a paler shade of yellow. The sky, additionally, is a pale blue that he has never seen in his life.

Turning his attention down-ward, he finds he's managed to crash land in a valley surrounded by tall, dark mountains on every side. The rocks are a contrast of grey and black, unlike the red stone of Vulcan, and at their peaks they are white. Condensed water, perhaps? It is cold here, much colder than any climate he's ever encountered. Which also explains the limited vegetation…there is coarse grass beneath his sandals, though it does not appear to grow anywhere but within the confines of the valley. It is dotted, occasionally, by a shrub like plant, low to the ground with small, dark leaves.

All in all, he decides, it is very…alien.

_6:45 pm_

Jim is five when it first happens.

Winona is standing in the kitchen, humming quietly to herself as she scrubs absentmindedly at the counters. She's never been one for cleaning, never been one for anything feminine for that matter but if raising two boys has taught her anything it's that cleanliness is important.

Through the window over the sink she can see her boys; George Jr and Jim. They're playing in the front yard and faintly she can hear their shouts of delight as they chase each other with imaginary swords. Jim trips and falls, but takes it all in stride and she watches in amusement as George helps him up, brushes off his knees, and then they're off again.

Still smiling, still humming she moves to pull the wooden cutting board from its cupboard so that she can prepare dinner because it's mid-afternoon and George, the senior one that is, will be home in an hour or so. She works so often that getting to cook for her family is a rare pleasure, even if she burns the peas or over seasons the steak. A strange thing considering how much she had hated the kitchen when she was younger, had hated cleaning and children as well. She had wanted to go on adventures, to see the world and the stars and be somebody.

And then she had met George.

George Kirk with his lopsided smile and his forever messy hair; his polite manners and loud, lovely sense of humor; his calloused hands and his booming laugh. She had fallen in love without a second thought and though she may never see Hong Kong or Singapore, she goes on plenty of adventures here in Riverside, Iowa.

She's looking through the spice cabinet for the chicken rub she knows she bought last week when the front door slams open. Not unusual, George Sr often forgets his own strength and she calls a greeting and a "do be gentle with the house now, dear" without pausing what she's doing.

Tonight she's going to bake the chicken and make some pasta to go along with it and her mind is focused. Because of that it takes her moment to realize that it's too early for him to be home but by then there's a small, persistent hand grabbing at the hem of her shirt. She looks down into the tear filled eyes of George Jr, his nose runny and his face bright red as he wails loudly.

Winona crouches down immediately, wiping the tears off her boy's face as she coos to him quietly. "Baby, baby what's wrong? Hush now, no need for that crying, tell Momma what happened. Are you hurt?"

George seems to be having none of it. He's pulling at her with all his eight year old strength, and the more she tries to quiet him the louder he gets. There are words there but his tears obscure them. Once again, raising two boys has taught her well and only seconds later Winona's standing, striding towards the still open door while George runs to keep up with her fast pace.

Quick brown eyes pick up the small form laying in the grass of the front lawn immediately and a sharp jump in adrenaline has her sprinting to his side, falling to her knees when she sees that Jim is frothing at the mouth, eyes open but rolled back in his head as his muscles convulse and a dark stain spreads down the leg of his trousers.

She can barely hear George over the buzz in her own ears but she turns to him anyways, frantic yet controlled. "Go get Momma's phone, George. You have to bring me my phone, do you understand?"

He nods once and she doesn't stop to watch him run back inside, she's busy putting all her attention on Jim as she tries to think of what you're supposed to do in this type of situation. Something about making sure they don't bite their own tongues? God why did she never take those medical courses in highschool? Her baby, her second son, her five year old, is having a seizure (a goddamn seizure!) right in front of her eyes and she has no idea what to do. It doesn't mean she's not going to try, however.

George comes back just as the convulsions die down (Winona had tipped his head back, laid his arms and legs out straight and put her hands in his own so that when his fingers clenched his tiny nails didn't dig into his skin but hers). She takes the phone from his gratefully, dialing 9-1-1 and giving the responder her address as calmly as she can manage.

Adventures indeed.

_9:52 pm_

The doctor is grey-faced and weary looking. He insists on talking to Winona out in the hospital hallway, as if Jim, poked full of tubes and wires and sound asleep, might hear his words.

"Mrs. Kirk I'm afraid your son might have epilepsy." He doesn't look at her when he says it, but down at the chart in his hands instead. She doesn't like him.

"Only might?" she counters, feeling just as tired as he looks but no less worried and certainly no less angry for the sake of her son. Allowing the hospital staff to step all over her with half-truths and vague explanations as they've tried to do thus far is not going to be allowed. Not when it comes to her son. It's taken yelling at two nurses and a different doctor to get her this far. Tomorrow, she'll feel guilty. But for now she's on a mission and nothing's going to keep her from the truth of the matter.

"Well," he mumbles, pushing his glasses up and wetting his lips. "We can't know for sure. The CAT scan didn't pick up anything this time, but we may be missing something. At the moment, epilepsy seems to be the most likely cause. It's going to require no small number of tests to get to the bottom of this though; EEGs, neuroimaging, electroencephalograms, as well as various monitorings."

Old green eyes meet hers over the tops of his glasses which are sliding down his nose once more before his gaze moves on to the window through which her boy lies. She turns to see Jim as well, his form too small and pale in the hospital bed. The doctor's voice draws her from her thoughts, though his eyes never waver.

"I am sorry for his loss, Mrs. Kirk. If he does have epilepsy, or any number of related syndromes, this may very well be a difficult time for him."

* * *

Research topics for this chapter;

Epilepsy

The Sierra Nevada Mountains

Iowa climate and weather

Time Zones

Welp, off to a good start I'll say! Be sure to drop me a review. =3


	2. Chapter One

A/N: Hello again! I'll go ahead and warn you that this chapter, being an introduction an all, is pretty description heavy. Unfortunately I think the next chapter will be fairly similar, but after that things should smooth out.

* * *

_September 2, 2014_

The pizza parlor is small and dusty and fitted with red, leather seats that aren't modeled after the 80's so much as from the 80's. The air conditioner is ridiculously loud, the food is greasy and Don, the guy who owns the place, likes to sit behind the counter and give them the evil eye after they've been there for over an hour. But all in all, it's one of their only hangouts and therefore their favorite. In Riverside you just don't have a lot of options, and even those are decimated further when you can't get into any of the sleazy bars.

Jim lounges in one of the red booths, arms laid across the back and legs spread wide in a comfortable slouch. Marina, a cute blonde, is tucked up next to the wall to his left, and Jack, who's a year younger than him but wider around the shoulders, is on his right. Across them April and Brain share a seat to themselves and Jim likes to think it's because everyone wants to sit next to him and not that nobody wants to be near the gross, cutsey couple.

Marina is giggling about one thing or another while Brian paws at another slice. It's their third pizza already but hey, they've got money and nowhere to spend it so why not? Jack is silent and brooding as always and April just looks mildly amused as she recants a story about her summer adventure.

It's not the best group of people Jim's ever hung out with but it's certainly not the worst either. He has a tendency to drift between social cliques, never quite fitting in anywhere, and he's certainly been around some shady people. Not that he minds, sometimes the shadier ones are the most fun, but he also knows that he doesn't like being arrested (because he has experience) and that sometimes pizza parlors are nice too.

Like now, he's not really listening to the conversation but it's warm and he's full and comfortable. Plus, Marina has been eyeing him for a while now and that's usually a pretty good indicator that he might get laid tonight, so there's that too. (It's not like he makes it a point to sleep with someone from every group he hangs out with but if and when the opportunity arises he never turns it down.)

"No, I'm serious!" April chides, catching Jim's attention when she waves her hands through the air for effect. "It was this big!"

Jack scoffs quietly beside him. "Bass don't get that big."

This sparks a small argument and Jim laughs along with Brian when Marina is pulled in quite reluctantly to be a judge only to tell them they're both idiots. She smiles at him, quick and bright, and Jim is thinking he's definitely got a chance with her when he feels it; the first few fingers of pain creeping up the back of his skull.

He tries to stand quickly but the table digs into his thighs and the booth catches the backs of his knees and he stumbles. For a second everyone is silent, Jim bracing himself on the tabletop and then Marina catches his arm, blue eyes bright while she stares up at him imploringly.

"What's wrong?"

Jim forces himself to take a breath. He isn't scared or anything. Just startled. So he smiles and gestures to the clock on the wall on the other side of the room, nonchalant and easy.

"Sorry, I just realized what time it is. I've gotta get home," he tells them. Jack takes the hint and slides out of the booth, Jim sidling past him as Marina and Brian call vaguely confused goodbyes. He doesn't hear if Jack and April throw in ones of their own because he's already out the door.

His motorcycle is parked right out front and his hands shake when he puts the key in the ignition but he ignores it. The engine rumbles to life beneath him and Jim is eternally grateful his baby doesn't choose today of all days to shit out on him. It doesn't take any focus on his part to shift his weight, kick the stand up and ease out of the parking lot. Once he's hit the road, he's gone, and that doesn't require any effort either; riding is second nature to him, easy and comfortable and relaxing.

He's anything but relaxed now.

The headaches, the fuzziness along his skin, they're indicators. It's how he knows a seizure is coming on, and though it's dangerous for him to be driving he usually has a leeway of two, three minutes max before anything sets in and he's determined to use them now. He hasn't had a seizure in front of anyone since he was five when he had them once a week and he basically lived in the hospital. Then they'd started the medication, a small dose of Tegretol at first, then higher, and higher, until eventually they'd added Gabitril to the mix. It had helped, once a week had narrowed to once a month, and then to once every six months. But then all of a sudden whatever he was on would stop working and he'd be back at square one, new drugs, new doses. Felbatol, Gabitril, Zarontin, Lamictal, you name it and he'd probably been on it at one point in his life or another. Until he hit fifteen anyways, and then he'd settled on a healthy amount of Dilantin and Topamax and he's been set ever since if not a bit extra groggy in the mornings, a little forgetful, and a lot difficult to put weight on.

Jim's only able to drive for a full minute before he pulls over to the side of road and pulls the key out of the ignition. He climbs off, sits down in the dirt and puts his head between his knees to wait. The fuzziness is growing stronger, spreading from fingers to palms, wrists, the soft skin inside his elbow and then under his arms. It's not pleasant but it's also not the worst he's ever experienced.

In his nineteen years Jim is grateful for the fact that he's only ever had a grand-mal seizure a total of three times; the first he ever experienced, two days later laying prostate in a hospital bed, and then years down the road at the age of fifteen on a random, meaningless Wednesday night. Body shaking, eyes rolling, pants pissing terrors that they are (at least in his experience), everything else is blissfully minor in comparison. He's always assumed it's the medication that tones them down.

Partial seizures, though inconvenient, are much more Jim's taste. Like now. He's not losing consciousness, having muscle spasms, or even frothing at the mouth. He's simply allowing the odd sensation (kind of like static, but not quite) to pass over his body, the taste of sulfur on his tongue to settle, and then he'll be okay to stand and ride home. Maybe he'll call Marina and apologize to April and Brian for running out on them, make some excuse about why he needed to be home so suddenly. Not like he had to leave or anything, it's not terribly obvious he's having a seizure right now, but his muscles are pretty tight and he's incapable of speech for the next five minutes at least. He's stepped into the bathroom to let a seizure pass before, so that's not really why he ran. He ran because he's nervous and maybe a little unsettled. For four years he went without this, kept even by 300mg everyday of cocktailed epilepsy medication.

That record had been broken less than twenty four hours ago, which meant this was his second seizure in the same amount of days. He's never had them be so close together and though they usually don't bother him, haven't bothered him since he was five, this is unusual to say the least.

For a brief minute Jim's vision flashes and he forgets. Nothing specific, just in general. He forgets. And then the switch is flipped and it's all back and he's fine, standing and brushing the dirt from his jeans. He knows there'll probably something he can't remember for a few days, a name for example, a phone number or an address. Like his mind is a disc drive and somebody passed a magnet over it, close enough to scramble him up a bit but that's about it.

Honestly having two seizures so close together shouldn't bother him and he feels a bit dumb for the nerves that sit low in his belly. It's not like he can't try a different medication. Or even get surgery, that's always been an option ever since he was little. But it's the worry that these things won't help that has his stomach in knots. Because what if this becomes a daily thing? But…no he can't think like that, it's useless and dumb so he pushes the worry away forcibly and he stands up straighter, shoulders back and chin up. He's James Tiberius Kirk, he once knocked out a seventh grader when he was eight. A few seizures aren't going to fuck with him.

His bike splutters at him when he tries to turn her back on and he supposes he's just grateful she got him this far. It was about time for it to break down again anyways.

The trek him takes a good hour, he's got five miles to cover after all and he can't just leave his bike on the side of the road. Well he could. He's sure his dad would let him borrow the truck to go pick it up but he doesn't trust that it'll be in one piece when he returns. The people in Riverside aren't bad necessarily. Just opportunistic, and he can't blame them for that.

While Jim walks he realizes how glad he is that the land in Iowa is virtually flat. Out by the old ravine, twenty miles outside of town, everything is dull yellow dirt and hard, dusty rocks. There's nothing to break the monotony except for a few power plants, shimmering off in the distance like misshapen, silver mirages. In the summer it can feel like a desert, hot and dry with the dirt swirling around your feet or getting into the vents of your car, just miles upon miles of hard yellow earth. It comes as a bit of a surprise what that barren dust fades into rich, malleable soil. And yet Riverside is made of farmers and ranchers, people who live off the land and guide it to create life time and time again.

The fields off to Jim's left sway lightly in the breeze, corn stalks taller than he is and just beginning to fade into brilliant yellows and greens. It will be harvesting time soon; in October, next month, he'll find a brief job operating tractors or bundling plants together, collecting them in the back of pickup trucks or sorting through the countless stalks. Then November will end and the cold weather will really start and he'll have to pull out the jacket his mother refuses to let him leave the house without (its hideous but oh well) and the dusty, dirty ravine will turn from yellow to grey and the ground will be too hard even for a desert.

He remembers when he was young and his dad used to take him down there and they'd throw rocks over the edge, listening for the echoes of their fall. One time he brought his little red corvette, his favorite car, and he drove its tiny wheels right into the endless drop only to have his dad jump out and catch it, on his belly, reaching down into the ravine, perilously close to falling. Jim had cried and promised never to do it again and his dad had smiled and laughed but took him home nonetheless.

Summer may be weakening but it hasn't lost its grip yet and Jim's shirt is soaked through with sweat by the time he spots his house. It's centered close to the road in the middle of a small neighborhood. There are only seven or eight other houses around it, all white wood and dark shingles, curtains billowing around open windows and doors left unlocked. The neighbors are mostly elderly, but there's a middle aged couple two houses down and single mother next door and Jim knows them all by name. He spent a large portion of his childhood floating from one kitchen to the next begging for sweets.

Mrs. Smith is sitting on her porch when Jim finally struggles up his driveway and she waves at him, probably wanting to rope him into another odd job. Ever since her husband died she likes to have Jim come over to do all sorts of maintenance around her house from putting in new light bulbs to unclogging the garbage disposal. Usually he's happy to help but today he needs to work on his baby so he gives her a smile and a nod but then disappears into his garage, putting the kickstand up so that he no longer has to support an extra six hundred pounds.

Since his dad is a mechanic the garage is typically full of extra parts, tools and various projects George has decided to take on. He has his own shop of course, just down the road, but there's always an overflow into their home. Today the garage is fairly neat though and Jim thinks Winona must have finally convinced his dad to clean up a bit. The only vehicle there is his dad's pick up, an old ford with faded paint but a good engine and a strong build which means Winona must still be at work down at The Captain, one of the less sleazy bars in town. She'll be home just after night fall and Jim and George will tell her they had a healthy home cooked meal instead of the fast food they always eat and she'll lecture them for a while before laughing and punching them once each in the shoulder.

George always keeps the spare fuses in a box under his work bench and Jim grabs a handful, puts a wrench between his teeth and sets to work on his bike. It doesn't take him long to get the seat off with smooth practiced moves, and once under it he finds two separate fuses that have blown and a cable that needs replacing. Honestly his bike isn't worth a whole lot. He and his dad built it from scratch a few years back and it runs through fuses like they're nothing, not to mention chains and oil. But it's his and he loves her, loves being able to take her apart and put her back together again even if the majority of her parts are outdated and scrounged from countless junk yards.

He checks the chain too, just to be sure and ends up having to adjust it a little as well. By the time he's done he's got grease on his hands and shirt and face and he sweating even worse than he was before but he feels good anyways. There's any number of grease rags sitting around so he tries to clean up a little, even takes his shirt off and slings it over one shoulder, before he goes inside.

"Break down on you again?" His dad is sitting at the dining room table looking over bills when Jim walks in.

"Yeah, had to walk back," he tells him, already moving past George and into the kitchen. "Two fuses blew and there was a cable that was starting to fray."

His father's voice carries from the other room when he calls, "You could have just called and I would have picked you up."

Jim pauses, wonders why he didn't think of that and then remembers. "Must have forgotten," he calls back, pausing to look through the refrigerator before deciding a shower should be dealt with first. "I left early because I was having a partial."

"Didn't you have one yesterday too?" George is closer now, leaning against the kitchen doorway and giving Jim one of those 'worried dad' looks. Jim just shrugs despite the slight clenching in his stomach.

"Yeah, but they were pretty small. No big deal."

His dad doesn't look convinced but Jim cuts him off before he can say anything else.

"I'm gonna go grab a shower, you wanna get dinner afterwards?"

George stares at him for a long second and Jim thinks that maybe his sudden subject change won't work but then his dad sighs and he knows he's won. "Yeah, but I get to pick this time. I don't want Taco Bell again."

Jim laughs and it doesn't sound forced. "Deal, but Taco Bell is amazing just so you know," he declares, already turning so he can run up the stairs to the bathroom.

"You have horrible taste and I have failed as a father," he hears called up after him and he just laughs again.

* * *

Research topics for this chapter;

The growing season of corn

Common Epilepsy medication

Basic motorcycle maintenance

Warning signs for seizures

Partial and Generalized seizures

If I had to research it then obviously I'm not an expert! If there's anything factually incorrect and/or offensive in the story please let me know and I'll endeavor to fix it.


	3. Chapter Two

A/N: Welcome to the newest chapter! It's a bit short I'm afraid, but it's pretty important in that it's kind of setting the plot into motion. I also feel like it's a bit awkward in the way its worded...but, well, an author is always her worst critic!

Enjoy~

* * *

_September 7, 2014_

The seizures continue for the rest of the week and on into the weekend. They're not big**;** nothing awful or terrible. Just short lapses in memory, little tics, and odd sensations. Honestly it's not so bad and yet Jim feels trepidation settle around him like a thick, cloying fog.

He makes an effort to call Marina but she's apparently not as into him as he thought. Even after he apologizes she brushes away his offer to make plans with a quick 'I've got other things to do'. The others in that particular group aren't much better and so Jim finds himself with free time on his hands. He spends part of it down at George's garage helping out his dad where he can but he's eventually chased out and so he goes where he always goes when he's got nothing better to do.

Jim learned from a very young age that corn stalks are hard, brittle things that like to catch on clothing and cut unprotected skin. Running through them is probably pretty similar to trying to pick up a porcupine, and it's not an experience he would recommend to even his worst enemies. Okay… well maybe he would, but nobody ever accused him of being unable to hold a grudge.

Despite the dangers, Jim has spent a lot of time in corn fields. Mainly because once the plants are tall enough you can lay down under them and virtually disappear from the rest of the world. It's almost impossible to find someone in a corn field, and he and Sam used to hide in them when they were young simply because it was fun and sort of dangerous.

He lays there now, down in the dirt and stares blankly up at the sky. Sam's been gone for years now, but Jim still finds comfort in the action, in getting lost between the endless rows and feeling the plants bend away from him as he moves, too stubborn to break but too thin to hold their ground.

It's always difficult to not think about Sam when he's out here though. Like pulling a scab off or poking a still**-**healing wound he simply can't help himself. Of course that particular wound has long since healed so maybe it's more like rubbing at the scar tissue.

Right after Sam disappeared Jim was a mess. He blamed himself, and honestly how could he not? He was only eight at the time and the family was struggling under the debt of his hospital bills and the cost of his medication. The combined stress of financial issues and Jim's health was a lot for their parents to bear, and they seldom had time for Jim himself, much less Sam. But where Jim was attentively cared for, even when things were dark, Sam was forgotten. He'd been eleven when he ran away, and the last Jim ever saw of his brother was his dark silhouette walking away from the only home they'd ever known.

Jim's pain sharpened over time and transformed itself into white, blinding anger. How dare Sam walk out like that? How dare he leave them without a single goodbye, without a single explanation? He harbored that fury, still laced with age old pain, for the majority of his middle school and high school years. It hadn't been something that affected the way he lived necessarily, but it had been a burden nonetheless.

Just as time heightened his emotions though, it had also dulled them. Sam's been gone for eleven years now and Jim's currently as okay with it as he's probably ever going to be. Okay enough that he can find their old hiding spots, their stomping ground, and find comfort in the Earth beneath him without that old wound peeling back and bleeding once more. He misses his brother, but his scar tissue is thick now.

The sound of an Arctic Monkeys song breaks the silence and Jim sits up suddenly, digging in his pocket until he can pull out his old flip phone. It's later than he thought it was and it's his mom's number that flashes on his screen when he opens it up. Today's her day off but his dad should be home by now so dinner's probably ready.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?" is his mother's greeting and he rolls his eyes lightly.

"Farmer Noal's fields."

She tsks at him but he can tell she's not actually angry about his absence, not like when he sneaks out or isn't home when she thinks he should be. Her voice is soft when she asks, "Did you have another one today?"

His throat feels tight so he gives a brusque nod before remembering she can't see him over the phone. "Uh, yeah, this morning." It had been the worst one yet and he'd actually blacked out for a few minutes. Thankfully he'd already been lying down so there was no damage done, but he would have to reread the chapters of the book he'd been reading when it had happened.

Winona sighs and he can picture the soft crease that appears between her eyebrows when she's upset about something. "Come on home then, Jim. Your father and I have something we want to talk to you about." She hangs up and it's abrupt in a way she never is, not even when she's angry.

Jim feels that trepidation creeping back up on him so he stands and jogs all the way back to where he'd parked his bike just out of sight of the road. It puts him in motion and softens the edges to his thoughts as he focuses on his breathing and the rhythm of his body. It's not the remedy that riding is but it's a close second and by the time he's slinging a leg over his bike he's relatively calm again.

He's nineteen. They're probably just getting ready to give him an ultimatum to get a job and finally move out. Not that he doesn't want to, he prefers having something productive to do with his time, it's that every job he looks into is increasingly dull and uninteresting. He'd be a mechanic if he could, but his dad can't afford to hire on anyone else and none of the other garages are interested. In Riverside it's all so limited and he'd feel stifled here if he actually had plans to stay. But he doesn't, and he not sure how or when or why he'll leave he just knows he will. Maybe go west, finding something on the coast to give him purpose. He's getting older but he has a whole lifetime ahead of him and though he's typically impatient he's willing to wait when he knows it's worth it.

His bike purrs under him, he'd had to tune her up again yesterday after the chain started sticking and he wheels her back out to the street. The ride takes less than a minute, though he remembers it taking ten when he and Sam had to walk, and he parks his bike in the garage again.

Though he's expecting it**,** the scent of cooking food does not greet him when he opens the kitchen door. The room is empty and clean, despite the setting sun outside, and he knows his mother loves cooking when she gets the chance. His stomach plummets again.

"In here, Jim," he hears her call and he closes the door softly behind himself before turning into the dining room. They're both seated at the kitchen table, his parents, a manila folder between them. Two glasses that look like they held some of the cheap scotch they keep in the cabinet above the stove sit off to the side. The air doesn't reek of alcohol though so he knows they're not drunk or even buzzed, probably just had something to soothe their nerves. And that. That is terrifying.

He sits across from them and immediately Winona slides the folder over, smiling, gentle but sad. "We're just worried about you, baby. That's all."

The first thing in the folder is an envelope that Jim's pretty sure has cash in it, but he sets that aside without bothering to open it. There are two packets of papers and he picks up the first one, destination and arrival times listed under an Amtrak logo. He flips through the various change overs and time delays to find the last page, several tickets paper-clipped there and the ultimate destination circled in red. Caltrain Station in San Francisco, California.

The next packet is more of a brochure. It features a pale concrete and glass structure, Banner Neurological Institute stretched above it in hospital blue lettering. The following pages are filled with information about their epilepsy research and care programs.

Jim's not an idiot. He understands perfectly what's going on, and he slumps back in his chair with his eyes wide.

"You're sending me to California." It's not what he was expecting.

Winona smiles shakily, and it makes her look older. "We were considering it years ago, Jim, back when your medication only worked for so long. And now, well," she draws in a shuddering breath and lets the words hang before she continues. "Now it's relevant again."

"Your mother has family out that way, which is why we chose Banner's. You can stay with your uncle for a few weeks while the doctors check to make sure that the surgery won't make things worse." George has his hands folded on the table but he drops them into his lap and leans back with a sigh. "It'll take a few months at most, and then you can come home again."

Jim's not quite sure how to react. On the one hand, invasive medical procedures are not something he'd ever really be excited about. On the other, there's a possibility that he can get rid of this…of the seizures and the medication and the worry. And damn if he won't jump at the opportunity, not to mention the fact that this may be it. The big moment. His long awaited break for freedom.

He's scared and excited all at once.

Winona continues, her nails tapping lightly at the wood of the table, "We really didn't want to send you by yourself, and even less so via train and bus," her nose wrinkles, the way it always does when she finds something disdainful. "But you should be fine. Frank is already expecting you and the departure date is next week. The doctors at Banner's are really good, and they're expecting you too. Your father and I are just…well it's difficult watching your baby boy leave, no matter where he's going or why."

"I've never heard you mention Frank before," Jim replies, trying to break the tension that has been building in the air.

Winona's expression shutters for a brief second, and his father doesn't look pleased either but his mother stands quickly without bothering to answer Jim's question. She comes around the side of the table, smoothes one hand through his hair and presses a kiss to his forehead.

"I wish I could go with you, Jimmy," she murmurs against his skin before pulling back, and he grabs her hand before she can pull away entirely. It's been years since the last time she called him by that nickname.

"I know mom, but I've gotta leave sometime."

"California is so far away," sighs George from across the table. But then he stands and stretches, offering them both an easy grin. "You're going to wish you'd left tonight though. You've got a whole week of your mother nagging over what to pack ahead of you."

Jim groans and Winona lets out a gasp, a smile tugging at her lips, and he knows that if she were closer to his dad she would have just hit him, a teasing sign of her affection. "I do not nag!" she declares.

His dad laughs and shakes his head.

Jim smiles at them both and moves out of his mother's reach.

* * *

I actually had only one research topic for this chapter, and that was epilepsy centers! The one I mentioned doesn't actually exist, but I took two or three names of ones that do and kind of mashed them together. I couldn't really help myself with the 'Banner' part though, being a huge Avengers fan. Sorry, not sorry!

Be sure to let me know what you thought of the chapter.


End file.
