For the first time in his life, James T. Kirk was in a really good place.

A really, really good place.

He was away from Iowa, for one thing. No more wastelands of corn, no picket fences, no eternally dusty dirt roads. No more asshole stepfathers or resentful older brothers or judgmental neighbors. No more concern about when mom was coming in for shore leave, or if she'd even come by the house when she did. No longer his problem. Fucking yay.

Starfleet had taken him without question, for another thing. Even with his record, even with the fact that he'd turned up in San Francisco bruised and hungover from the day before, the name Kirk meant something to the recruiters. He'd been handed a full ride with free tuition, free books, room and meals, a bus card and no questions asked. Jim had spent a lifetime avoiding anything 'fleet related, but Starfleet wanted Jim, and... it felt good to be wanted, however stupid that sounded.

He had discovered that he had a friend, most importantly. This had been a surprise, given the purposely cocky and borderline antagonistic front that Jim put up when he was in public. It kept him from getting attached, which in turn kept him from being abandoned by those he was attached to, and this had served him well in his short nineteen years. But as Bones had said, you can't puke on a guy in a shuttle and then just walk away.

And true to his word, walk away Bones had not. Yet, anyway. They wound up sharing a small apartment together a block from the Academy, courtesy of Jim's status as a Starfleet orphan. He'd been allowed to request his own roommate, and since he didn't know anyone else the answer was obvious. This worked out well, because in spite of his habit of pushing people away Jim had always held a deep-seated fear of being alone. In exchange, it's kept Bones out of the dorms with all the kids a decade younger and stupider than himself.

When Bones had asked how he'd wound up with his own 'fleet-issued apartment, Jim muttered something vague about his parents careers and changed the subject. He'd gotten into the habit of introducing himself to people as Jim, just Jim, and he suspected (desperately hoped) that Bones hadn't made the connection that his new roommate was the Kelvin Baby himself. If Bones knew, he hadn't brought it up, and that was just fine. People who knew treated him differently at best—at worst they called up the newspapers and tried to sell them embarrassing holos.

Starfleet had taken the position that what the Academy didn't know wouldn't hurt it, and as such no announcement was made to the staff about Jim's presence there. The Admiralty and Christopher Pike knew exactly who he was, of course, but didn't want any disruptions with the student body nor any undue pressure put upon Jim to live up to his father's name. Pike himself was putting exactly that pressure on him, the hypocrite. He meant well, at least. He'd volunteered to be Jim's advisor and emergency contact, and Jim couldn't deny that he was fond of the man. Pike had steered him in the right direction.

And hey, Jim was in a really good place right now.

Six months in, his GPA was perfect and he hadn't been hospitalized once. He'd skipped a few classes, been in a couple of bar fights, but no arrests and no admittances. Bones had frowned at his bruised face disapprovingly both times, but said nothing. That was the weirdest thing about their friendship: Bones was a doctor, and Jim fucking hated doctors. Self-important, condescending bastards with cold hands who treated you like a five year old. Bones was different somehow, he thought, but the truth was that Jim sincerely hoped never to be in a position to need medical help from him. No reason to ruin what they had going, right?

In six months they'd developed an easy rapport, either chatting or doing homework in comfortable silence in the evenings. They got up every morning at dawn to run a couple miles at Jim's suggestion; he thought the physical exertion would keep himself focused and take the edge off Bones's anxiety in the flight simulators. It seemed to be having an effect, in that he hadn't actually passed out since the third week (although the puking was still a regular occurrence.) After classes they'd have dinner and study on the days that Bones didn't take a shift at the 'Fleet hospital across from the Academy's campus.

On the days Bones did work, like today, Jim was left to his own devices. He usually went to parks or libraries or a coffee shop to study. Preferably coffee shops like this one, on the other side of town from the Academy, where he wouldn't encounter any fellow cadets. He never had gotten along well with his own peer group and he knew it, so he avoided them in favor of adults. Maybe that's why he was drawn to Bones—Bones was an adult, not a just-graduated-from-high-school adult but a real adult with a real education and a real career path.

Reaching the end of his notes, Jim drained his coffee and picked up his books, then dropped a handful of credit chips on the table. It was almost dark, and the next bus would be running momentarily. Maybe when he got back he'd take a nap, and then when Bones came in from work he'd manipulate him into coming out drinking over the weekend if he hadn't already volunteered for a shift at the hospital. Jim knew that medical students had to serve a certain number of hours in the clinic and emergency rooms at Starfleet Medical Center in order to qualify for a permanent posting.

Bones needed some relaxation, and it was almost Christmas break anyway. They could hit a bar or two on Saturday night and get buzzed, maybe take a cab to the holo theater and see if anything good was playing. Bones would be good company and his presence would ensure that Jim didn't get into any trouble. Irrational as it sounded, Jim was reluctant to do anything stupid in front of Bones. He thanked his luckiest stars that so far nothing had caused him to have a panic attack or a humiliating allergic reaction in front of the older man.

Oddly enough, the second that thought crossed his mind he felt the faint ghost of a tingle on his lips. Funny how your brain works, he thought. The mere thought of his allergies could trigger a phantom reaction. He took a deep breath, shaking it off, and waved his bus pass through the scanner before sitting down. The air was stale inside the crowded bus, and he'd be glad to get back off near the apartment. Maybe he ought to get off before the last stop so he could pick up a couple of pizzas for dinner. Usually Bones came back from his shifts around midnight, dead on his feet, and crashed without bothering to eat anything.

God it was hot on this bus. Yes, getting off a stop ahead and walking by the pizza place would be welcome if for no other reason to get some fresh air. He moved to shift out of his jacket but realized with a minor jolt that it wasn't there. Damn, he must have left it back at the coffee shop. Was it worth turning around and going back? Probably not, it was just a standard gray 'fleet issue thing, easily replaced. And even though it was December the temperature probably was hardly likely to drop below freezing in this part of the country, even if he managed to stay out after dark. Oh well. Jim pressed his lips together in frustration, thinking that Bones would have had something to say about Jim being out in December without a jacket just on general principle...

...when he froze entirely, blue eyes widening in dawning horror. His lips were still tingling, and it wasn't fucking imaginary. In fact his whole mouth was buzzing and it wasn't hot on the bus, it was just Jim whose skin was suddenly burning and—his epi-pen had been in his jacket and his jacket was still at the damned coffee shop!

Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

Christ, how could he be so stupid? The bus was slowing, and he had to get off at this stop and do something. What had he eaten in the last half hour? Coffee with sugar and cream, two plain donuts, nothing else since this morning. None of that should have triggered the swelling he could already feel in his face, maybe the barista had given him the wrong coffee, or the donuts had been contaminate by god-knows-what or maybe he'd inhaled something funny and he was reaching for his comm and fuckfuck, it wasn't there because it was in his jacket too and his jacket was at the goddamned coffee shop!

Jim rushed off the stopped bus, stumbling and apologizing to the passengers trying to board, breathing slowly through clenched teeth. This is not the time to panic, moron! he tells himself. He'd only been on the bus for a couple of minutes, so the coffee shop was only a few blocks away. He could grab a cab and high-tail it to the nearest clinic or hospital, or he could make a mad dash for the coffee shop and his epi-pen. But now his hands were tingling too, and if he made it to the coffee shop would he still be able to hold the pen? But if he got in a cab, how long might he be stuck in traffic before reaching an emergency station?

His feet carried him in the direction of the coffee shop for a block, but he stumbled before he made it to the crosswalk and stopped to lean against a pole because fuck if he was going to trip and fall down in the middle of the street and get run over. Maybe if he wasn't such a dumbass he'd have had his jacket and his pen and he would be fucking fine now, on his way home with pizza. Maybe if he wasn't such a dumbass it would have crossed his mind to ask the bus driver to call an ambulance and he would be fucking fine right now, on his way to the ER. Instead here he was, gasping as his throat began to close, hugging a telephone pole and if he was honest with himself he'd know that it was a miracle that he'd lived this long anyway. Survival of the fittest, right? He'd always known it would get him one day.

After six months of relative calm in his life, this was an epic screw up. Haha, epic, right? Jim laughed mentally at his own joke, even as he realized that he was about to pass out. As the tunnel vision started to close in and he dropped to his knees on the concrete, Jim found himself wondering idly whether or not Starfleet would let Bones keep the apartment after he was dead.