1. Goodnight, Sweet Prince

_Goodnight sweet prince/_

_And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!_

_Shakespeare (Hamlet)_

Uhura is not sure what she will find as she races to Engineering after Spock, but it's not this. Never this.

She lifts trembling fingers to her lips as she watches the captain and Spock exchange a final, silent goodbye – hands straining to touch through the barrier between them.

Sick to her soul by the rare sight of Spock's visible grief over the loss of a friendship he has only just begun to understand, she reaches out and clutches Scotty's sleeve between her fingers. He draws her into his arms. His body is tight with tension and his eyes are desolate as he locks them on his dying captain.

Through a veil of tears, she stands witness as the captain takes his last breath, his hand slowly sliding from the glass which isolates him from the rest of the ship.

Spock's cry is the enraged sound of a wounded animal and sends a shiver down her spine. Like a child who thinks that something isn't real if she can't see it, she looks away and buries her face in Scotty's shoulder.

/

She watches Spock race from the room and her instinct is to follow and offer comfort. She takes a step toward the door then turns her head to see Scotty, joined now by Chekov, kneeling before the glass barrier. Scotty's face is a rigid mask of pain and tears run unchecked down the young ensign's cheeks. She looks beyond them to the sight of her fallen captain slumped against the door and is unable to abandon him.

The door warning light changes from red to green indicating that the decontamination process has been completed and she sees Scotty's hand tremble as he lifts it to the handle.

She crouches behind the two men and lays bracing hands on their shoulders.

"Let's get the captain out of there," she whispers brokenly. Scotty nods tersely and with barely restrained fury, tugs open the door latch.

She tenderly cradles the captain's head in her hands as the men move together to gently guide the rest of his body free of the warp core chamber. Scotty exhales slowly as he reaches out to draw the lids over the captain's staring, unseeing blue eyes and she hears Chekov's choked sob.

Eyes swimming with tears, she looks at the captain's still face and thinks he looks like a sleeping boy. So young, she sighs to herself. So beautiful. And she's grateful that by some miracle his face does not show the ravages of the radiation poisoning which had destroyed him inside. She's thankful that they have been spared having that ruined image seared on their collective memories.

She blinks, startled when Sulu's voice echoes over the comm, calling her to the bridge. Gently, she eases the captain's head to the floor. Tears splash over his face, baptizing him with her grief as she leans forward to press a tender kiss to his chapped lips.

"Goodnight, sweet prince," she whispers in a tear-clogged voice before pushing to her feet.

She stops. Turns and looks at the lifeless body of her captain and the grief-stricken crewmembers who have steadily gathered around him to mourn and resolve floods through her. At this moment – here and now – she has a complete understanding of what drove the captain to demand permission to go on this godforsaken mission in the first pace.

For just as he had stolen Pike from the captain, Kahn has surely stolen the captain from each of them.

And he must be made to pay.

Steeling her spine, she strides with fresh determination toward her post.


	2. These Honored Dead

_It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us – that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion – that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain. _

_The Gettysburg Address, Abraham Lincoln_

"It is not logical to push yourself so soon." Hands folded neatly behind his back, Spock watches with concerned disapproval from his post in one corner of the room.

'I do not believe the Admiral would wish you to jeopardize your recovery in this manner, Captain."

Jim Kirk closes his eyes, his mouth thinning with irritation at the Vulcan's cool reasoning. He leans against the hospital bed, astonished by the exhaustion he feels from the simple act of threading a belt around the waistband of his pants to keep them from sliding off suddenly thin hips.

Rising from her perch in a visitor's chair, Uhura aims a hushing look in Spock's direction and approaches her captain.

"He's just worried," she reminds Jim. "And he's right."

Jim nods and scrubs his hands over his face.

"I have to be there." It is a simple matter for Jim and he will not be swayed.

"I know." Her dark eyes are warm with sympathetic understanding. "So, if you insist on going, you have our support – both literally and figuratively."

She helps him into the uniform jacket. He grunts in frustration as his shaky fingers fumble with the tight closure at the neck.

"Chin up," she orders and brushes his clumsy fingers aside to take over the job herself. She swallows at this evidence of his lingering frailty and reminds herself that he is improving every day. Reminds herself of the miraculous fact that he is _alive_.

She pastes a smile on her face and meets his grateful gaze.

"There you go."

She stands back and gives him an assessing look. Like Spock and her, he is wearing his dress grays. She brushes away an imaginary bit of lint and straightens one of the rank insignias glimmering on the shoulder boards of his uniform. She grabs the hem of his jacket and gives it a little tug. Stepping back, she gives him a brilliant smile.

"You look perfect," she declares, ignoring the way the uniform hangs on his too thin frame.

A noise at the door has them all turning their heads to see Leonard McCoy standing behind a wheelchair. Permitting Jim to leave the hospital – even if only for a few hours – goes against McCoy's medical instincts. But he believes that forbidding Jim to attend Pike's memorial service would do more harm to his friends' recovery than good.

"Bones." Jim eyes the chair unhappily. "Do I really…"

"Hospital rules." McCoy tells him, though not unkindly.

While McCoy had been fighting to save Jim's life, countless funeral services had been held for the civilians and Starfleet personnel who had been lost in the destruction wreaked by Kahn. A grand memorial – attended by the Federation president, the surviving top brass and dignitaries from all corners of the Federation – had been held by Starfleet to honor all the service personnel who had lost their lives.

Today's service is a smaller, private memorial held for Christopher Pike to be attended by family, close friends and colleagues.

McCoy understands that this will be the first funeral service Jim has attended since the attack and it will be the first time he appears in public since that terrible day a month earlier. He knows that there has been a great deal of speculation regarding Jim's actions to save the _Enterprise_ and her crew and that many interested eyes will be following his every move this day.

"Look," McCoy says as he pushes the chair further into the room, understanding pride and the importance of appearance to Jim. "Do what I say and save your energy until we get there." He braces a hand under Jim's elbow and shares a concerned look with Spock when the captain collapses into the chair with a poorly concealed sigh of relief.

McCoy squats in front of the wheelchair.

"You know this goes against my better judgment," he says as he peers up at his friend. "I'll let you walk when we get there, but if I think you look like you're about to keel over, you're going back in the chair."

Kirk nods wearily, knowing this is the best concession he is likely to get from the doctor.

/

The Pike family has requested and received permission to hold the memorial service at the Academy chapel. Following Spock's instructions, their driver maneuvers as close to the entrance as possible.

"You ready?" Uhura lays a hand on Kirk's and gives it a reassuring squeeze before stepping out of the car to join Spock on the sidewalk.

Kirk takes several deep breaths and calls upon the same stubborn strength which allowed him to keep climbing to the top of the warp core housing even as he was dying. He steps out of the car and squints, unused to the sun's brilliance after weeks of hospitalization.

His three companions fall into place around him and the brim of his cap shields his face from the worst of the prying gazes as he makes his way into the memorial service.

Despite its moniker, the chapel has no formal religious affiliation or service schedule and is, instead, used by cadets as a place of quiet contemplation, meditation or prayer.

Upon entering the chapel, Kirk is uncomfortably aware that many of those gathered have taken note of his arrival. Some nod in friendly encouragement, others watch with open curiosity, wondering how many of the whispered stories are true.

Calling on every shred of pride and dignity he possesses, he draws his spine erect and squares his shoulders as he begins to proceed toward the front of the chapel where the family is receiving condolences.

It does not take long before he questions the wisdom of attending. He can feel the tension radiating off Bones and is aware of Uhura and Spock hovering close by while trying to pretend for the benefit of others that all is normal. Tiny beads of sweat dot his hairline and his legs are weak with exhaustion. He bears down, terrified of making a fool of himself in the midst of this assemblage.

A man approaches from behind and greets Kirk and his party.

"You won't mind allowing an old man to cut into the line with you, will you, Kirk?" Jonathan Archer asks with a half-smile on his face.

"Of course, not Admiral."

The elderly man takes note of the lines of exhaustion bracketing the young captain's mouth.

"I hear the _Enterprise_ is in a bad way." He holds Kirk in place with small talk designed to give the other man a chance to catch his breath and retain his dignity.

"She took a beating, Sir, but we'll put her to rights again."

The admiral lays a hand on the younger man's arm. Feeling the fine tremors coursing through his frame, Archer can't help but think that the ship _and_ her captain have a long road to recovery ahead.

"Some things cannot be rushed." His voice takes on a meaningful edge. "Take the time you need to be sure everything is shipshape before you head back out there."

"Yes, sir." Kirk acknowledges the other man's pointed look. He glances over his shoulder at his three companions who are watching and listening with unabashed interest.

"I'm fairly sure I won't be given much of a choice to do otherwise," he says with a rueful smirk.

The admiral grins and tucks his hand companionably into the crook of Kirk's elbow.

"Keep an old man company." He begins forward, deliberately slowing his pace to accommodate Kirk's, and acknowledges McCoy's grateful look with a quick nod.

"It's a sad business," Archer sighs as he looks at the gathered mourners. "I've been to too many of these already and there are more yet to come." He shakes his head. "They asked me to sit on the committee to design a memorial for the fallen."

"That we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain," Kirk murmurs softly.

Archer gives him a sharp-eyed look and nods.

"Centuries later and we're still dedicating war memorials." His chest rises and falls on a long sigh. He pats a hand on the younger man's arm and releases it as he steps away to pay his respects to Pike's family.

Jim shakes hands and offers his own condolences to various members of the Pike family. At the far end of the receiving line, he is greeted by a distinguished looking middle-aged man with graying hair at the temples and laugh lines framing the faded blue of his eyes. A lump rises in Kirk's throat at the familiarity of the face.

"Michael Pike." The man introduces himself. "I'm Chris's younger brother. And you're Jim."

Kirk holds out a hand and finds it engulfed in the other man's warm grip.

He clears his throat.

"I'm sorry for your loss, sir." The words are trite, but the tone is heartfelt.

Michael leans forward.

"And yours," he says acknowledging the special bond between his brother and the younger man. "My brother spoke of you often with great fondness."

Surprised, Jim raises tear-washed eyes to meet the older man's.

"The Admiral was a great man," he says formally. "I will miss him more than I can ever say."

Michael takes in the paleness of the young captain's face and the trembling of the fingers still sandwiched between his own.

"We're going to begin the service soon," he says. "Why don't you take a seat?"

He indicates an area at the front of the chapel where other family members are already seated.

"Oh. No sir," Jim protests. "It's not my place."

Michael cocks his head to one side. Though he privately disagrees, he recognizes Kirk's reluctance and acquiesces.

"Okay. But don't run off after. I'd like to speak with you."

Kirk is struck by the similarity of Michael Pike's voice to his brother's and he blinks, nodding in agreement before taking a step back. He waits while Spock, Uhura and McCoy murmur their own condolences to the Admiral's brother.

Jim settles into a seat with Uhura on one side and Bones on the other. He lowers his head between his shoulders as the memorial service gets under way. And he remembers.

/

There is a small reception after the service and Jim sits in a corner under McCoy's watchful eye. Bones wants nothing more than to get his friend back to the hospital and if he wasn't so exhausted, Jim would be amused by the doctor's poor efforts at concealing his agitation.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting."

Jim starts to rise from his chair at the sound of Michael Pike's voice but the older man waves him back into his seat.

"Would you mind?" He looks at the others. "I'd like a word in private with your captain."

The others stand and begin to move away.

"As soon as you're done here, Jim…" McCoy tips his head toward the door and Jim nods in agreement.

Michael Pike watches the others walk away.

"They're worried about you."

"Yes." There's no point in trying to deny it.

"And with good reason."

Michael notes the increased pallor of Kirk's skin and the dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes.

"It's been a long day for all of us," he says with the same directness that had been a hallmark of his brother's speech. "So I won't keep you long."

"I'm glad to stay as long as you need me, sir."

Michael reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulls something out. "I found this while I was going through Chris's things."

"What is it?" Jim leans forward to study a silver medallion dangling from a chain held between the older man's fingers. He can make out the image of a bearded man holding a small child in the worn metal.

"It's a St. Christopher's medal." Michael gathers the necklace into the palm of his hand and studies the object closely. He raises his gaze to meet Kirk's and smiles at the confusion on the younger man's face.

"For centuries, my mother's family identified as being Roman Catholic," Michael explains. "Though the family no longer practices the faith, some of the traditions have continued on." He shrugs. "St. Christopher is the patron saint of travelers," he tells Kirk. "I think she liked the idea of appealing to a higher power to keep Chris safe on his journeys. This medallion has been in the family for generations and she gave it to him the day he left for the Academy."

He sees a spasm of pain cross Kirk's face.

"And, of course, given the name, I'm sure it seemed fitting to her." He smiles to lighten the moment and Kirk forces a smile in return.

"I'd like you to have it now." Michael extends the hand holding the medal to Jim and the younger man rears back in dismay.

"I couldn't," he protests vehemently. "It was a gift from your _mother_!" He shakes his head. "It's an heirloom. Don't you think the Admiral would want it to stay in the family?"

Michael leans forward and captures one of Jim's hands in his own. He pries open the tightly clenched fist and pours the medallion and chain into his palm. Jim's fingers curl instinctively, protectively over the glinting silver.

Michael lays a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"Yes," he says softly. "I do. So take it, son. It's yours."


	3. Let the Life Breath Return

_O LORD, my God, let the life breath return to the body of this child._

_1 Kings 17:17-24_

So engrossed was he in his work, Leonard McCoy was unaware that another person had entered the small office he had commandeered at Starfleet Medical. When a shadow fell across his work, his head snapped up and his hand flew to cover the spot where his heart thundered behind the wall of his chest.

"I do beg your pardon, Doctor." Carol Marcus's posh British boarding school tone was filled with apology and concern. "I did not mean to startle you. I called your name several times but you were quite intent on your work."

McCoy blinked, struggling to drag his focus from the formulas scrolled on the computer screen to the woman standing before him.

"I uh…" He cleared his throat, regaining his composure. "I haven't seen you in a while."

It had been a little over a week since the crippled _Enterprise_ had been swarmed by Starfleet security forces as well as the admiralty and remaining brass who had survived the attack on Starfleet headquarters.

"Yes, well." A frown wrinkled the smooth plane of her forehead. "It seems that Starfleet Intelligence had a great many questions to ask of me."

McCoy gazed up at her, thoughtfully studying the strain dimming the brilliant blue of her eyes.

"Thought ya were in cahoots with your father, huh?" Though his words were gruff, his tone was kind.

Carol's lips quirked at the quaint turn of phrase then quivered as the ever present tears of the last few days lodged in her throat. She lifted one hand to hide the wobbling of her chin as she fought for control.

"There, now." McCoy took her free hand between his and gave it an awkward pat. "Why don't you sit down for a minute?"

He kicked an empty chair back from the desk and she sank into it gratefully.

"I'm sorry about your father."

The hand covering her chin rose to conceal her mouth. A near hysterical laugh threatened to tremble past her lips as she wondered just what the doctor was sorry for. Her father's death? Or the fact that the man she had revered and loved had turned out to be a monster responsible for the deaths of thousands. She closed her eyes as images of the destruction to the _Enterprise_ flashed into her memory along with the decimation of the city outside this very building as well as the smaller scale damage done to her beloved London. Kahn may well have plotted the course that sent the Vengeance plunging into the heart of San Francisco, but it had been her father's actions which had set the entire sequence of events into motion.

Head bowed, tears swam into her eyes but she resolutely refused to allow them to fall. Her chest rose and fell unsteadily for a long moment and then she nodded her head once and blew out a long, calming breath.

"Thank you."

He nodded and gave her hand a final, reassuring pat.

"Have you come to see our boy?" McCoy asked.

She saw the fear and sadness in his eyes and followed his gaze as it tracked toward a windowed door behind which she could see the cryotube containing the body of his friend. She shuddered at the resemblance the unit bore to a coffin and reminded herself that it was preserving Jim Kirk's life and not serving as the vessel of his final repose.

"Actually, I've come to offer my help."

McCoy's brows rose in surprise.

"It's not that I don't appreciate the offer, and you'll pardon me for saying so, but I'm not quite sure how a weapons specialist can help with this." He waved a hand over the PADDs, printouts and other detritus of the research scattered over his desk.

Her lips quirked again and this time the smile reached her eyes.

"Well, you see, as it turns out, I hold a double degree."

McCoy leaned back and hooked an arm over the back of his chair.

"Is that right?"

Her smile growing wider, Carol nodded.

"You really gonna make me ask?" he drawled.

She took pity on him.

"I also have a degree in molecular biology."

The smile fell away from her face and she folded her hands beneath her chin as if in prayer.

"I've had enough of weaponry and the carnage they create." She stared toward the only window in the small office as if seeing the destruction that lay beyond the tempered glass. "I want to be a part of creating life – not an expert in the tools by which life is destroyed."

Tears swam into her eyes again, this time spilling over her lashes.

"And I want, very much, to do something to make up for what my father has done."

McCoy recognized in her a kindred spirit. He recognized her need to keep busy and to find something to put her back against as a way of coping with grief and stress. He gave her a moment to regain her composure then pushed a pile of PADDs in her direction.

"In that case, we should probably get started."

/

McCoy shoved away from his desk and paced his small office in tight, frustrated circles.

"I don't know," he growled. "I just don't know if it's right."

Carol Marcus raked a hand through her hair and jammed pins haphazardly into the tangled mass to hold the limp, blonde locks away from her face. Lines of fatigue marred the cool beauty of her features as she wearily watched him prowl about the confined space.

"It's okay. We'll try again."

He collapsed back into his seat and dropped his face into the folded curve of his arms.

"I don't know how much more time we have."

"The cryotube should keep him –"

"That damn tube is hundreds of years old." His voice was muffled against the debris scattered across his desk. "God knows it could give out any minute now."

"And it could last another hundred years," she countered wearily.

"It's not just that." He turned his head, resting his cheek against his folded arms and stared at her. "Why do I feel like Dr. Frankenstein?"

"Oh, Leonard."

"How will we even know if we have it right?" he fretted. "I mean… this has never been done before. Maybe it shouldn't _be_ done." He buried his face again.

"Bringing a dead tribble back to life is one thing," he murmured from behind the protective shield of his arms. "Doing that to a human being..."

He clasped his hands over the back of his head and rocked in his seat. "If that's not playing God, I don't know what is! How can we know what this will do to him?" he whispered fearfully. "Who will he be? Will he thank us? Or will he hate us?"

Carol laid a supportive hand on his shoulder.

"Listen to me," she demanded. "You're absolutely correct. It isn't the same as with the tribble." She gave his shoulder a bolstering squeeze.

"That tribble was dead. Jim is not."

"Oh, Carol." Knowledge of what exposure to those levels of radiation could and did do to the human body swam through his brain. "For all intents and purposes…"

"But he's _not_," she insisted. "There is life there. Perhaps only a tiny flicker, but where there is life, there is hope."

She leaned close.

"I told Jim once that his reputation preceded him." Her lips curved into a quiet smile of remembrance at the lighthearted exchange she had shared with the young captain. "I meant something entirely different at the time, but part of that reputation is his refusal to ever give up."

McCoy turned his head to face her and in his eyes she could see a silent plea for encouragement and reassurance that he was leading them down the right path.

"Don't give up on him now, Leonard."

/

Two days later they entered an equipment-filled trauma room. In the corridor just outside, Spock, Uhura and other concerned crew members congregated anxiously.

McCoy and Carol paused as the pneumatic doors hissed closed, warily eyeing the cryotube awaiting them. Leonard moved first. Approaching the tube, he laid a hand on the cool glass and studied the still figure of his friend. Jim's shock of blonde hair was tousled and though his face had been leeched of color, tiny broken capillaries beneath the skin gave his cheeks a rosy glow.

"Our own Jack Frost," he mused. His affection and fear for his friend were palpable companions in the small room.

"I don't know." Carol tilted her head and gazed at the man lying so still and quiet behind the frosted glass, noting the full lips and the dark luxurious crescents of his lashes against his pallid cheeks.

"I always think of Sleeping Beauty," she confessed.

McCoy obligingly huffed out an appreciative laugh. "He'd like that," he chuckled.

He drew in a deep breath and released it on a long, shuddering sigh.

"Are you ready?"

Wide-eyed, she nodded.

"Open it."

Her fingers danced over the controls of the tube and some distant part of her mind took note of the ragged state of her nails. Unable to stand up to her anxious nibbling, they had been gnawed practically down to the quick over the last week; the polish chipped and peeling beneath the onslaught of her nerves.

Stale, cold air wafted toward them as the glass lid slid back with a hiss of vapor.

They worked quickly, inserting an IV line into the back of Jim's hand and affixing electrodes to his torso and temples and all the while determinedly ignored the ominous silence of the monitors to which they were attached.

"If he's Sleeping Beauty, I guess that makes this true love's kiss, huh?" McCoy held up the first of two test tubes filled with the serum they had labored over.

Carol smiled and rising onto the tips of her toes, brushed her lips across the doctor's bristled cheek.

"For luck."

Sinking back onto her heels, she bent low over the still form lying in the cryotube and pressed her mouth to his in a lingering kiss, willing the cold lips to warm with life. Lifting her head, she curled her fingers around the edges of the tube and nodded toward the other man.

"Don't think about it anymore," she instructed. "Just do it."

Still he hesitated and offered up an entreaty.

"O Lord, let the life return to the body of his child."

"What is that from?" Carol asked curiously.

"Just something I learned as a child." Fatigue had thickened his accent into a heavy drawl.

Sucking in another deep breath, McCoy inverted the first tube, snapping it into place. His eyes tracked the progress of the serum as it drained into the IV solution and began flowing through the plastic tubing into Jim's veins. His gaze glued to the monitors hanging on the wall, he wrapped his hand around his friend's wrist, his fingers desperately searching for some sign of life.

Her gaze intent on Jim's face, Carol was bent so far over the cryotube; she was in danger of falling on top of the still form encased within. Seconds bled into a minute, which felt like an hour and then…

"There!"

At the sound of her excited cry, McCoy tore his gaze away the numbers which had begun to scroll with increasing rapidity across the monitor.

"He moved," she said excitedly, pointing a trembling finger toward Jim's face. "Oh my God, Leonard…"

And then it happened again. Just the faintest twitch of a thick brow, but almost as welcome to them as if he had sat up and said hello.

Beneath McCoy's searching fingers, a thready pulse flickered and though far from stable or normal, the numbers on the equipment monitoring blood pressure, brain activity, temperature and pulse continued to rise.

Tears brimming over her lashes and streaming down her cheeks, Carol curved a hand over Jim's cheek. Though the skin was still unnaturally cool to the touch, she knew that it was warming with every beat of the blood beginning to flow again through his veins.

"You did it."

She reached out with her free hand and Leonard clasped it in his own, linking the three of them in this struggle of life over death.

"_We_ did it," he corrected, squeezing her hand. "I could not have done this without you." His chest rose and fell on a trembling sigh and he felt as though he could breathe for the first time in days. He stared down at his friend, wondering if it was just wishful thinking on his part to believe that Jim looked like he was merely sleeping now, then he raised his gaze to the woman standing on the other side of the cryotube.

He wracked his brain, searching for the right words but in the end could think of only one thing to say to her.

"Thank you."


	4. Little Boy Blue

_And, as he was dreaming, an angel song_

_Awakened our Little Boy Blue – Eugene Field_

_Winona Kirk sank into the overstuffed cushions of the chair tucked into the corner of her bedroom with a weary sigh. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, listening to the gentle breeze rippling through the leaves of the trees outside the window, the chirping crickets and other night sounds as the world around her prepared for sleep._

_The peaceful moment was shattered as the baby in her arms arched his back and let out a frantic wail for attention._

"_Shh." She shifted the heavy weight of her six-month old son into one arm and unfastened the front of her pajamas with an expert flick of her fingers. "Hold on," she admonished as the baby's desperately rooting mouth hampered her efforts. Brushing the fabric of her top out of the way, she jumped as his lips fastened hungrily onto the exposed nipple. His whimpering sobs faded into a satisfied grunt as his mouth moved greedily against her flesh. Contented now, one tiny hand drifted up to play with his ear while the other flexed and curled rhythmically against the plump fullness of her engorged breast._

_She traced a thumb over the silken skin of his cheek, wiping away the dampness of tears as well as the trickle of milk that had escaped his greedily working mouth. _

_This was the best part of her day. She had recently returned to work, taking a position at the shipyard. Though the survivor's benefits afforded her by Starfleet were enough to keep hearth and home, there was not much left after taking care of the necessities and Winona had two young boys and their futures to consider. And she would be lying if she said that she did not enjoy the challenges presented by her work. _

_But, oh, she missed the lazy days of the last months with her boys. _

_She stroked a hand over the baby's head, twirling her fingers through the curling wisps of blonde hair and smiled at the intently serious expression on his face as he stared at her with eyes the color of tropical waters._

"_I missed you. I did. Yes, I did." She sing-songed the words as she nuzzled her face into his neck, inhaling the milky, powdery scent of her baby. He gurgled against her breast, one small hand reaching out to tangle into her hair as it tumbled around him._

_Winona lifted her head at the sound of scuffing feet in the hallway. Wincing, she carefully pried the baby's grasping fingers from her hair and smiled at the sight of her elder son hovering near the door._

"_We've been waiting for you, Sammy."_

_She shifted in her chair and patted the cushion invitingly._

_The little boy darted across the room and climbed into the space beside her. She tucked a pillow beneath her arm to help support the baby's weight and curled the other arm around Sam as he snuggled against her._

"_Do you remember where we left off?" _

_She watched him determinedly fumble with the controls of the PADD, his tongue poking out from between his teeth as he called up the book they had been reading over the last few evenings. She had seen that expression of concentration on George's face countless times when he had picked his way through a problem at hand and swore she could feel her heart roll over in her chest to see its echo on their young son's face. _

"_I think Jimmy can't wait to hear what happens next," Sammy told her and she stifled a smile at the serious look on his face. _

"_I think you're right," she agreed and cuddling him closer, she began to read aloud the tales of "Squimmo the Space Pirate."_

_She read two short chapters of the adventures of the silly band of pirates._

"_We'll read a couple more chapters tomorrow night, okay?"_

_Sammy nodded and curled closer. He reached out with one hand and jiggled his little brother's foot back and forth. The baby shot him a baleful look and drew his knee toward his chest, freeing his foot in the process._

"_You said that having a little brother or sister would be fun," Sammy complained accusingly. "But Jimmy's boring. All he does is eat and sleep and make stinky diapers." _

_He gave her a hopeful look. "Maybe it's not too late for us to send him back and get a better baby?"_

_Winona laughed and pressed a kiss against the top of his head._

"_When you were Jimmy's age, the only thing you did was eat and sleep and make stinky diapers too." She laughed again at the expression of horrified disbelief on the little boy's face. The baby – as if understanding his older brother's disdain and seeking to prove his worth – pulled away from her breast and blew out a series of milky bubbles. _

"_Hey!" Wide-eyed with delight, Sammy scrambled onto his knees. "Cool," he breathed. "Do that again, Jimmy!" He reached out and poked a finger into the bubble resting on the rosebud lips, then ran tickling fingers under the baby's chin eliciting a gurgling laugh in response._

_Winona shifted the baby until he was sitting up on her lap. Bracing him with one hand against his chest, she lightly patted him on the back. A bubble of gas finally worked its way through his diaphragm in a surprisingly loud expulsion of sound which had Sammy collapsing into gales of laughter that she suspected only another four year old boy could truly understand._

_The baby waved his hands in the air, entertaining himself and his brother by showing off his latest trick of blowing wet raspberries. Winona closed her eyes. The happy sounds of the baby's chortling gurgles and Sammy's little boy giggles were a soothing balm on the gaping wound left on her soul by the loss of George._

"_Okay." She scrubbed one hand through Sammy's coarse thatch of hair. "Time for bed, mister."_

"_Could you maybe just read me a couple of these?" He flung himself forward and leaned precariously toward the floor as he pulled a well-worn book of nursery rhymes from beneath the chair. Winona ran a hand over the cover, immediately recognizing the book as one George – with his love of 'real' books – purchased the day after she had told him they were expecting Sammy. _

"_Jimmy wants to hear a couple of stories too," Sammy wheedled and, unable to resist his pink-cheeked cherubic expression, she gave in gracefully._

"_Just a few," she warned. "You pick three, sweetie, and then it's time for bed."_

_She read aloud from the book – timeless rhymes that had entertained children for hundreds and hundreds of years – her voice rising and falling as she told the tales of Mary and her lamb, Jack and Jill's fateful climb and Little Boy Blue sleeping under the haystack. She closed the book and Sammy gave her a sleepy smile._

_Rising onto his knees, he studied his brother once again. The baby blinked owlishly and sucked furiously on the two fingers he had popped into his mouth._

"_Mommy? Don't you think Jimmy kinda looks like Little Boy Blue from the book?"_

_Winona glanced down at the illustrated cover and followed Sammy's pointing finger toward the blue-eyed, blonde-haired character in question. She cocked her head to the side, studying the baby. _

"_Hmm. Sort of," she agreed. She leaned down and pressed a smacking kiss against the rounded tummy poking out between the hem of the baby's pale blue t-shirt and snowy white diaper. _

"_Maybe that should be our nickname for him," she suggested, laughing as Sammy's eyes lit up with pleasure._

"_Yeah!" The little boy jumped to the floor and let out a mighty yawn. "Come on, Blue, let's go to bed."_

_/_

The name had stuck for a few years until one day, with all the self-importance a ten year old could muster, Jim had declared that he _hated_ the nickname. Sam had cheerfully acquiesced – having already come up with a handful of other names meant to more fully convey the contempt of an older brother for one younger.

But privately, Winona had always thought of her youngest by the name given to him that quiet evening.

Now, keeping vigil at his hospital bedside, she willed him to open his eyes. Having given into the pleas of others that she get some rest of her own, Winona had not been present when her son had roused from the coma state in which he had laid for almost two weeks. And though McCoy had assured her that his was now a natural sleep necessary for the healing process, she needed to see his eyes open; needed to hear the sound of his voice.

A sound in the hall drew her attention and she looked up, hoping to see Sam striding through the door. She had been granted compassionate leave and had contacted Sam immediately upon receiving word about Jim's condition, expecting that he would drop everything and come. Though Jim's friends and crewmates had been wonderfully supportive, she wanted her family nearby. But all these long days later there was still no sign of Sam.

Shaking her head, she returned her attention to her youngest son.

"Oh, my little boy blue," she sighed. "What are we going to do with you?" She stroked her fingers over the back of his hand, remembering a time not so very long ago when that same hand – then so tiny and fragile – had tangled in her hair or curled trustingly around her own. She looked into his face, the strong line of his jaw covered with a thick bristle of blonde whiskers and she couldn't help but wonder when and how time had moved so quickly that her little boy had turned into such a _man_.

As she absently played with his fingers, she remembered that there was a second, less well-known poem also bearing the title of 'Little Boy Blue", its' verses written from the point of view of anguished parents grieving the loss of a young boy. And listening to the beeps and whirs of the equipment tracking every breath her son took and seeing his pallid cheeks and unnaturally still form, she knew that for all intents and purposes, her son _had_ died. And suddenly the words of that other poem were frighteningly significant.

"And, as he was dreaming, an angel song awakened our Little Boy Blue," she whispered hesitantly as her tired brain picked through her memory for the words. "Oh, the years are many, the years are long..." She dashed a knuckle under her eye to wipe away a tear. "…what has become of our Little Boy Blue?"

"Come on, baby," she pleaded to no avail. "Wake up for me."

Exhausted, Winona lowered her head, resting her cheek on their joined hands. She drifted, vaguely aware of the sounds of a busy hospital all around her as medical personnel rushed up and down the hallways or quietly entered the room to check on Jim.

She had no idea how much time had passed when finally her patience was rewarded. The hand beneath her cheek twitched once, and then again.

Cautiously, Winona raised her head. She saw Jim's lips move soundlessly and watched his chest rise and fall as he drew in and released a long, deep breath.

"Jim?" She rose from her chair and settled one hip on the edge of his bed. "Can you hear me, baby?"

Though his face was turned slightly away from her, she could see the pure blue of his eyes as his lashes parted for the briefest of seconds before falling closed again.

"Jimmy, come on," she encouraged. "Can you wake up for me?"

Jim's head rolled on the pillow toward the familiar sound of his mother's voice. Heavy lids lifted and again she was greeted with a flash of vivid blue.

"Hi," he breathed.

"Hey, baby." Joyful tears dampened her lashes. "I've been waiting for you."

"Mom." Jim swallowed and licked dry lips. "When…" He rubbed a tired hand over his eyes and shifted as he tried to sit up.

Winona pressed a gentle hand against his chest and tapped the controls on the side of the bed to raise it slightly. She poured a small measure of water into a cup and held the straw to his lips.

"Small, slow sips," she cautioned as he drank.

"Thanks." Exhausted from even so simple an act, his head flopped back against the pillow. "When did you…" He blinked, trying to keep her in focus. "When did you get here?"

"Oh, I came as soon as I got word."

"Long way," he slurred tiredly, thinking of the distance she would have had to travel from her distant posting.

"Nah, it was a snap." She demonstrated with a quick flick of her fingers, drawing a tired smile from her son.

"Hop, skip and a jump," he rasped agreeably.

"You bet."

Winona saw an irritable expression cross his face and his feet kicked sluggishly beneath the blankets. Knowing how he hated being confined, she un-tucked the covers and settled them loosely over him, exposing the tips of his feet in the way she knew he liked.

He gave her a weary smile of thanks and against his will, his eyes drifted closed again. He jerked himself awake with a start.

"Sorry." He fought a losing battle to keep his eyes open.

"Mom… 'm sorry," he rasped. "…like having weights on my eyes. So tired."

"Shh." She stroked a hand through his thick hair. "It's okay. Go to sleep, baby."

He hummed in agreement and nestled his head into the pillow.

"How long?" His eyes popped open again, pinning her with his weary gaze.

"How long, what?"

"How long can you stay?"

"I'm not going anywhere." She pressed a lingering kiss to her son's forehead and settled back into the chair by his side. "Go to sleep, Blue. I'll see you when you wake up again."

His lips quirked in a drowsy smile at the old endearment and he shifted into a more comfortable position as he drifted into a contented sleep under the watchful gaze of his mother.

End


End file.
