Debris

Jim Kirk was not the type of man to be very easily persuaded. This was something one certain young Vulcan had – very recently, in fact – come to terms with.

Especially when it came to persuading the man to stop placing blame on himself.

This was one of those times.

Jim stared silently up at the frozen picture on the view screen. The image that sat there had been imprinted into his mind around this time the night before. Yet, for some reason, he felt the need to see it again – and again, and again. It reminded him of what he'd done. Not that he liked that feeling, no; he hated it, despised it with all his heart. He deserved that pain.

Kirk, mesmerized still by the picture, didn't hear the door to the bridge swish open, didn't comprehend the fact that he was no longer alone. He barely felt the hand placed soothingly on his shoulder, but that, at least, was enough to pull him away from the bizarre dream-like state he appeared to be in.

Spock looked in worry at his friend, watching his face closely as the younger man dipped his head. He now seemed to prefer staring at his own shoes over staring at the view screen.

"Captain."

He received no response. Sighing slightly, Spock gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and tried again.

"Jim. You need to rest."

Again, he received no verbal response. Jim instead turned to face his First Officer and, wordlessly, buried his face in the other man's shoulder.

Because on that view screen was a picture of an explosion, of fiery debris; of a fellow starship they hadn't been able to rescue.