Pretty boy sure doesn't fight like he's made of blown glass. Jim's pulse is thundering in his ears, blocking out the cheers of the crowd, the jeering or the shouts. The dust floats by in slow motion even as the air rushes out of Jim's lungs.

The chain clatters.

Survive. Survive, Jim.

Jim twists around, grabbing one of Han's wrists when the other brings his arms down, throwing Han over his shoulder instead. He doesn't even notice the chain whip around and bust his lip open. He's taking the half second to gasp for air, clear his vision. That knee to his chest had definitely been more than a glancing blow.

Like this, the Captain isn't pretty. His eyes have a feral desperation to them as survival instinct takes over. Dulls the diplomat in him and brings out something far more broken and older. The Jim Kirk that made it this far.

He doesn't wait for Han to get to his feet again, bringing a boot down to stomp wherever he can find purchase.