Don't believe in no-win scenarios

Jim's made it. Holidays are done, big damn speech over, all without alerting the crew to how detached their Captain has become in the last week and a half. With all the extra shifts he'd taken on over Christmas, it would be easy to assume Bones made him take the day off to rest and recuperate.

They'd be wrong.

Bones knew Jim wouldn't be on shift on the Fourth. He never does much of anything that day. If the end of December drains the light out of the Captain's smile, then the first week of January looks like it's killing him. He and Spock tried to get him out of his quarters and focused on something--anything else. But Jim's shut himself away in his room. There's a holo set up on his desk of a man who looks an awful lot like Jim, standing happily beside his mother.

Jim stares at it from his seat, before burying his head in his hands. His birthday isn't something to celebrate. It's a reminder of the tragedy that changed everything.

New York circa 2013 isn't such a bad place, Jim has decided. There's so much to take in and watch that he's certain he could be kept busy for months on end just trying to learn everything he could. Clint had explained currency to him today--Jim knew what it was, just not how it all divvied up. He'd done a bit of research on a clunky old machine Clint had told him the name of and Jim had subsequently forgotten. Some kind of ancient PADD device on an obsolete web browser.

Some girl had shown up hassling Clint about something or another a while ago, and the archer had assured Jim he wouldn't be gone long and left. She was too young for Jim to pay much attention to, and Clint didn't need Jim tagging along for every babysitting job he ended up getting drug off to. Or it was a neighbor asking him about a leak in their ceiling, in which case Jim was just a jerk.

Wooden stairs creaked in protest when Jim finally left the apartment building, being careful to lock up with the spare key he'd gotten from Clint that was stowed safely in the pocket of his purple sweatshirt he was borrowing. Eggs again for the third day in a row didn't seem appealing, and Clint had given him a bit of money, so Jim is heading down to the corner to grab a bite of whatever awesome smelling food was being sold by the vendor he'd been watching from the window for three days now.

"Bro, look! At the corner by the falafel stand bro!"

There, at the corner, was a scruffy short haired blond in a purple sweatshirt and sweatpants, fumbling in his pocket for the correct change to pay for his order. Truly, an easier target would never happen. He didn't even look like he'd had his morning coffee yet. (Jim hadn't). The next thing Jim knows, his delicious smelling food is strewn on the street as a couple thugs in tracksuits drag Jim off into an alley trying to beat the shit out of him.

"What the hell?!" That was his breakfast, assholes!