A/N: Sequel to 'Six Degrees of Separation,' this piece follows Kirk, McCoy, and Spock during the three years leading up to, encompassing, and shortly after TMP. Contains references to 'His Last Breath' and 'Learning Curve,' so it'd be helpful to read those works first. The time references (i.e. three months) refer to the amount of time that has passed since the end of the five-year mission.

Beta: All three of my betas are being pounded by RL of late, so while they have each provided comments early on that helped with the focus and direction of this piece, the vast majority was written without a safety net, so any problems with canon, characterization, grammar or style are all my own. Many thanks to Anna and Verenna, but especially to T'Paya, for squeezing me into their busy, hectic lives. :D

Shadows and Dust

Kirk – three months

He awoke, the brilliant sunlight streaming through the floor-length window, warming his face, clouding his vision with red as it beat against his closed eyelids.

Rolling over, he spared a glance at his chronometer: 06:37. He flopped back on the pillow, a groan escaping his lips. He'd been asleep for less than three hours, but knew that the elusive departure into oblivion, escape, was beyond him at this point.

Unfortunately, this day began with very little variance from all the rest of the days over the last three months – the time of day might change, the sunlight might be replaced with the sound of a driving rain, or be filtered through a thick San Francisco fog – but all his days had begun thus.

On this particular morning his next shift didn't start until 14:00, but it was useless to lie here – sleep would continue to evade his best efforts to recapture it. Visions of the mounds of paperwork that awaited him on his desk at the office only served to further sour his already grim mood. Even as captain of the Enterprise, paperwork had always been the bane of his existence. At least there he'd had Spock, who had shouldered a good portion of that burden for him.

Initially thoughts of Spock made the corners of his mouth turn up ever-so-slightly, but this feeling of normalcy, of business as usual was rapidly replaced with one of crushing grief as he remembered their current situation.

And he dreaded most what was to come next.

My friend. What are you going through today? Are you working on banishing all emotion, all thoughts of your previous life? All thoughts of your friendships? Of McCoy? Of me? Part of me clung to the unrealistic hope that once you saw the tape you'd reconsider – not for my sake but for yours. This will leave an indelible mark on you, my friend, and not in a good way. There were other options open to you; you yourself told me about them. Anything would be preferable to sacrificing half of who you are. And the worst thing is I pushed you into this; I'll have this on my hands for the rest of my life. I've already lost everything; there's no point in you doing the same.

Steering his mind from thoughts of Spock, it now settled on McCoy. Kirk grinned subconsciously, despite the fact that he couldn't bring himself to call his friend and apologize. Yes, he missed the doctor as well, but was comforted by the fact that of the three of them, McCoy had been the only one with the foresight to do what was best for him.

Despite the fact that their last face-to-face meeting had been ugly – tempers had flared on both sides, McCoy severely chastising him for taking a ground position, Kirk stubbornly defending his decision – he at least knew the doctor cared – something he was unsure of where Spock was concerned. He couldn't help but take some small satisfaction in the fact that McCoy would now be berating his own clients to eat right, lose weight, get more sleep, and steer clear of any activity that could be even remotely deemed dangerous. After all, why should the good citizens of Georgia be deprived of his brusque, gruff bedside manner?

And McCoy was doing what he loved most – unencumbered by the limitations of a shipboard sickbay or the restrictions imposed by Starfleet medical. The doctor had told him that he intended to hang out his shingle in his old ancestral home. He'd have part of the ground floor converted to a state-of-the-art medical suite. He thought back to that evening, before the conversation had soured.

In five years, I've managed to save quite a bit of my pay – what the hell did I have to spend it on anyway? – and now I feel like I should give back to the community that nurtured me as a child. My father left me the house when he died, and it's way too big for just me. Joanna is off doing her own thing, and I can't see myself getting married again, so I think I'll convert a good portion of the ground floor to a clinic...

McCoy's face, which had been animated for the first time in months with a genuine passion, gradually faded from his vision, to be replaced with the austere walls of his bedroom. Maybe he'd driven Bones away, too but at least it had been a push in the right direction. Of the three of them, McCoy was the only one who'd done the right thing, made the right choice.

Knowing it would be pointless to remain in bed, he climbed to his feet, heading for the fresher. It was going to be another long day.

oooOOOooo

"Sir?"

He looked up from the stacks of reports covering his desk, trying mightily to curb his displeasure at being disturbed. Over the past week and a half, he'd made very little headway on the unruly pile. The young yeoman seemed to pick up on his train of thought.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, Admiral, but you have a call. The Vulcan Ambassador's wife wishes to speak to you." The young man's confusion was evident – the Operations office as a rule didn't delve into diplomatic matters.

Kirk's frown melted into a slight smile. "That's fine, yeoman – patch her through; I'll take it in here."

"Yes sir, very good sir," the young man said, hurrying off to comply with the admiral's wishes.

Amanda's face soon filled the viewer on his desk. "Jim. You look well," she commented brightly.

He couldn't suppress an answering grin. "Thank you," he responded. "And you look stunning, as usual, Lady Amanda. To what do I owe the honor of this call?" he asked, inclining his head slightly toward the comm unit.

"Sarek and I are on Earth for a few days, and he is currently tied up in meetings here at the Embassy. I was wondering if I could trouble you to meet an old lady for lunch?"

He felt his stomach lurch. Did she have news of Spock? Was it something she didn't feel comfortable sharing over an open channel? Or perhaps among the super-sensitive Vulcan ears at the Embassy? He quickly shelved the uneasiness. "I'd be delighted. And for the record, it's been ages since I've had such a gracious and charming dining companion."

"Flatterer," she shot back, a wide smile making her eyes dance. "And it's been ages since I've dined with a bona fide hero," she countered, happy to play along. Again the unsettling feeling gripped him as he realized just how much he missed this kind of banter, this dry, laconic wit. Must be where Spock had learned it.

"You'll excuse me if I take exception to that description, but lunch sounds great if you'll still have me."

"Wonderful. It's all settled, then. Do you know where La Vaca Rústica is?"

"I know the place well. It's one of my favorite restaurants."

"Perfect. Meet you there in say, half an hour?"

"It's a date." He couldn't keep the mischievous grin from stealing over his features.

Her blue eyes sparkled in response. "Just don't tell my husband that – he is a Vulcan after all. See you soon." The screen went blank to the sound of her gentle laughter.

oooOOOooo

As he entered the restaurant he automatically scanned the room. Years of command experience had taught him to constantly evaluate any given situation or location. That, at least, hadn't changed. He spotted Amanda, already seated at a table for two by a large row of windows. She caught his eye, too dignified to wave outright.

The maître d' approached rapidly. "May I help you," – quickly he inspected the insignia on Kirk's uniform – "Admiral?" Kirk usually came here in the evening; he didn't recognize this particular greeter.

"Thank you, but I'm meeting someone, and I see she's already here." He gestured toward Amanda's table.

"Ah yes. The Lady Amanda." He eyed Kirk appreciatively. "We are pleased whenever she graces us with her presence. If you'll follow me, sir."

The two wound their way through the maze of tables. "I'll send your server over right away Lady Amanda, Admiral," he said, nodding to each before retreating.

He settled himself in the seat across from her. Impulsively she reached out, covering his hand with her own. "Jim, it's so good to see you. Thank you for meeting me. I may live on Vulcan and while there eat and try to behave like a proper Vulcan wife, but I just can't resist coming here whenever we're in town. I guess it's my inner carnivore coming out." She grinned sheepishly.

"I must admit I was a little surprised when you mentioned this place, but now it makes perfect sense. It's where I always come when I want the best steak in town."

"And as you can imagine, it's not really Sarek's cup of tea. Oh I know he'd indulge me if I asked it of him, but I'd rather not have him watch me tear into and dispatch an oversized portion of animal flesh."

"Then the pleasure is all mine. Most of my dinner companions subscribe to the Leonard McCoy school of culinary delights – salads and tofu – so I'll enjoy dining with someone who can appreciate this food as much as I do."

As if on cue, their waiter appeared. "Ma'am, sir, are you ready to order?" he asked, deftly filling their glasses with ice water.

"Jim?" She turned to Kirk. "I always get the same thing whenever I come here. Not much of an adventurist, I'm afraid."

He found that hard to believe. Here was a woman who had given up everything to marry a man whose culture was totally different, completely alien to her. Not only had she become his wife, but she left behind everything she knew, abandoned her way of life to make a home on his world, among his people and their customs. Hardly a woman without grit, without an indomitable spirit. "Somehow I doubt that, but please go ahead."

"I'll have the queen cut of prime rib, medium rare, a baked potato with sour cream and steamed vegetables," she supplied quickly, decisively.

"And for you, Admiral?" their server asked, turning to Kirk.

"Who am I to disagree with the lady? I'll have the same," he informed the young man, shooting his companion a look of approval.

"Very good." The waiter hurried off to fill their requests.

She strove to fill the awkward silence that ensued. "Well, Jim, you look like you've lost weight."

How could he admit to her that he hadn't felt much like eating in the last few months? He was sure Spock wasn't exactly experiencing the full gamut of culinary delights, and his friend had always been thin, almost painfully so. Imagining that ascetic face even more pinched and angular than before never failed to cause a surge of guilt. Somehow, eating his fill just seemed inappropriate when he knew his friend was probably going hungry as a result of the severe path he had chosen. He closed his eyes briefly in an effort to banish the disturbing image. "You know, it's funny. Even though Dr. McCoy has returned to private practice in Georgia, I can still hear him admonishing me every time I try to eat something he wouldn't approve of. During our tenure on the Enterprise he was constantly on me to watch my weight."

"Really? He seemed like such a sweet, compassionate man," she said with complete sincerity.

"Suffice it to say you don't know him like I do," he countered with a wry grin.

"Well no matter the reason, you look fit and trim, although I must admit that the new uniforms are…interesting to say the least," she commented, sipping from her water glass.

"An understatement if ever there was one." His look was playful, mischievous. "I must confess that they're very comfortable, but somehow it's hard to be taken seriously when you're wearing…pajamas to work."

She was unable to suppress a laugh at that, and he continued, glad to see her taking joy in something. A marked difference from the last time the two of them had spoken.

"I couldn't imagine trying to fight the Klingons wearing this – although it wouldn't be a fair fight – they'd probably die laughing."

She was giggling in earnest now, her demeanor relaxed, lighthearted. He couldn't help but join in.

They continued to make small talk, Amanda chattering excitedly about her garden back on Vulcan. It seemed hardly any time at all had passed when the waiter appeared, his tray laden with their meal.

"Well, here's to us carnivores," Amanda commented, saluting Kirk with her fork, her eyes flashing, her look teasing, before closing her eyes briefly in pure enjoyment as she slowly savored the rich, tender cut of beef.

"This is fabulous," Kirk said appreciatively, downing his first bite. "I've never tried the prime rib here, but you've made a convert out of me. I'll definitely be having this again." He swiped at his mouth, wiping the juice dribbling down his chin with his napkin.

She smiled thinly at him, her brow crinkling in stark contrast to his last comment. She lowered her fork, her gaze intent upon his. "Jim, I hate to pry, but I was wondering if you've heard anything from Spock?" She had stopped eating and was regarding him keenly.

"You're not prying – your concern is understandable – the answer is 'no,' and frankly, I'd hoped that's what this lunch was about. I was going to ask you the same thing."

Her face fell at that. "I expected as much. The Masters at Gol did say he wouldn't be permitted to respond to the tape you sent him, but a tiny part of me hoped that maybe he'd change his mind after seeing what you had to say."

Kirk squirmed uncomfortably. "I really didn't expect my two cents to have an impact on his decision."

"Don't kid yourself." She searched his face. "I don't believe that for a second. It seems to me that yours was the only opinion that mattered to Spock."

"Unfortunately, we didn't part under the best of terms," he confessed softly, eyes downcast.

"Oh, Jim. Spock valued your friendship more than anything. I can't imagine that he left due to anything you did." The sincerity in her tone left him feeling hollow, empty, responsible.

"Well you'd be wrong." The words escaped his lips before he could stop them. "I told you there was an incident where a crewman died. Essentially, I blamed him for that death in no uncertain terms."

"But you said one life was saved. Did he save the wrong one?" He could see her trying desperately to piece together the sketchy details she knew of that unfortunate event.

"It depends on your perspective, I guess." He decided on complete honesty. He may have cost her any future contact with her only child. In light of that, he owed her the truth at least.

Meeting her gaze squarely he drew an unsteady breath, visibly troubled. "I was the crewman he saved. At first, I was extremely angry. No captain wants a member of his crew to sacrifice their life in order to save his own. And I was convinced the choice was made due to our friendship. But after a few days, I realized that Spock had made the logical choice – the other man was so severely injured, he wouldn't have survived. And before I came to fully understand that I berated Spock for his actions. I drove him to this decision, I'm afraid. It's all my fault." He was absently pushing the food around on his plate, once more unable to meet Amanda's eyes.

He glanced up guiltily, startled, as she laid a hand on his forearm.

"Nonsense!" He was shocked by the vehemence of her reply. "I'm sure that wasn't the first time you ever reprimanded Spock during the years you served together." Her gaze turned introspective. "You know, reprimands and attempts at parental discipline always rolled off Spock like so much water off a duck's back when he was growing up. From an early age, he always marched to the beat of his own drum. He tried to follow the teachings of his father, as a Vulcan son is expected to do, but things didn't always work out the way they were supposed to." She hesitated, striving to accurately explain the unexplainable. "I believe his decision to live his life as a Vulcan was made because he felt it would be best for him, that it would help him to fit in among his peers, not because it's what his father wanted. Just like his decision to join Starfleet."

Her eyes cleared, empathy softening her features. "Oh Jim, please don't blame yourself. All his life, Spock has made choices that totally confounded us. Why should this be any different? I have always liked to think that that's the part of me I have given to him – the ability to think outside the box and not merely follow the rigors of Vulcan philosophy simply because that's what's expected of him." She paused, thoughtfully. "I had always hoped that someday he'd be able to draw out the best attributes from each of his cultures and somehow be able to successfully integrate his dual nature." She stopped suddenly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Sadly, that's no longer an option. I just hope to God he knows what he's doing, and that this will bring him the peace that has so far eluded him."

Kirk felt an answering tightness in his own throat. He still hadn't told her everything, and didn't think he could, or should. In his letter, Spock stated the decision was made because their friendship had become too close, the Vulcan unsure if he could act logically when Jim's life was in danger. So, to Kirk's mind, the blame did indeed rest squarely on his shoulders, regardless of her arguments to the contrary.

"I'm sorry Jim. Suddenly, I've lost my appetite," she confessed, tossing her napkin onto her plate and pushing it to the center of the table, the light, easy mood that had first marked their conversation all but destroyed.

"Me, too," he responded, following suit. "I'll see that you get back to the Embassy now. Waiter," he called, signaling for their server, "Check, please."

oooOOOooo

Late into the night, he sat alone in his darkened apartment, a half-full glass of Saurian brandy dangling from his hand, the empty bottle resting on the floor at his feet. Brooding over the events of the day didn't afford him any answers, or solace.

Before Amanda had gotten into the waiting aircar for her return trip to the Embassy, she'd pressed him into a brief hug. "Please Jim, don't be so hard on yourself. I don't want this decision of Spock's to hurt you as well. We just have to have faith that somehow it will all work out in the end." She'd squeezed his hand, kissed him lightly on the cheek and disappeared into the back seat, pulling the door closed behind her. He'd watched until it was out of sight, feeling his life slipping away from him along with that large, black sedan.

He took a healthy swallow from his drink. What the hell is wrong with me? he wondered, glancing toward the large picture window in his living room overlooking the city below. Why do I always push everyone who matters to me out of my life? His thoughts turned to Ruth, Janice, Carol, Edith, Miramanee. As the years went by, he had gotten worse, not better at managing his personal liaisons. So much for the theory that with age comes wisdom. Hell, he'd even caused the deaths of the last two women he'd fallen in love with.

He'd decided after Carol to focus strictly on friendships, but he hadn't fared much better there. Gary had been his best friend all during his academy days, had even risked his own life to save Jim's, and he'd returned the favor by burying his friend alive under a pile of rubble on a barren, godforsaken, out-of-the-way world. It didn't really matter than when Kirk had killed him, he wasn't truly Gary anymore. He should have found some way to bring his friend back from the brink; some way that didn't end in the finality of death.

After Gary, he'd vowed to never let anyone else into his life again, but despite his best efforts to the contrary, McCoy and Spock had had other ideas. As the years progressed, these two came to mean more to him than he'd thought possible, but just as he'd done in the past, he'd managed to drive them away as well. McCoy was no longer speaking to him, and while he hadn't killed Spock outright, the end result would be the same. The man he once knew would cease to exist.

That's some track record you've got there, he said to himself sardonically. It seems personal relationships, of any kind, are not within the realm of possibility for me. The pain was intense, especially so because he believed it was self-inflicted, a direct result of his inability to foster and maintain a close, intimate rapport with anyone, on any level. This, combined with losing his vessel, his command, essentially his freedom, his individuality, was almost unbearable.

I always knew I'd die alone. And I can't get any more alone than I am right now… He consciously steered his thoughts from this destructive path; that certainly wasn't the answer. He deftly drained his glass, climbing onto unsteady legs and heading for his bedroom. Hopefully, he'd consumed enough alcohol so that he could at least spend several hours of what during the last three months had come to pass for sleep in a dreamless stupor.

McCoy – three months

He awoke, sweating, the air thick, oppressive, birdsong audible in the background. Glancing at the window, he saw the curtains move slightly in the early morning breeze. But the breeze was not cooling; it didn't offer any relief from the sweltering heat and humidity. Tossing back the thin sheet he swung his legs to the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment before getting to his feet and heading for the shower.

Serves you right, he admonished himself silently. Man has learned to tame the elements; it's your own damned fault for refusing to take advantage of it.

But five years in space had made him long for the sweet smell of fresh, non-recirculated air, and he was willing to put up with the discomfort to enjoy the soothing sounds and scents of a peaceful, southern morning. Even though he had been back for three months, he still couldn't bring himself to close up the house and turn on the environmental controls. He knew that constant temperature, that even humidity, would conjure up memories he wasn't ready to explore yet. He realized it was just a matter of time, though. The Georgian summer was on its way, and sooner or later he'd have to engage the system, forcing him to come to terms with that chapter of his life and the mental images those consistent conditions were sure to evoke.

Thoughts of Jim and Spock were always accompanied by severe bouts of heavy-hearted pain. They had diminished from the intense sorrow he felt during the first few weeks he'd been back to a dull, steady ache. He never imagined he'd spare a second thought for the time he'd been in space, but he couldn't deny that he missed both men terribly – even Spock. What he wouldn't give to be able to engage in a witty repartee with his favorite verbal sparring partner at the moment. He halted that train of thought immediately. He'd had no say in the matter where Spock was concerned, but leaving Jim and the Enterprise had been his choice and there was no going back now. He'd been adamant with Nogura and later with Jim that he was done with space for good. I'll be damned if I ever set foot on the deck of a starship again, he'd told Nogura hotly. He'd spent his whole life up to this point burning his bridges behind him; why should this be any different? He sighed heavily.

Standing under the stream of warm water, face upturned into the powerful spray, he made a conscious decision not to think about it, turning his thoughts instead to the modifications scheduled to begin today to turn several of the downstairs rooms in this oversized, Victorian house into a medical suite where he'd be able to treat patients and perform basic surgical procedures. Nothing fancy, but at least he wouldn't be beholden to hospital administrators. He'd had his fill of ridiculous rules enforced by desk-bound bureaucrats who were living in their own warped version of reality. He was looking forward to being his own boss; setting his own standards and doing things how he saw fit for a change.

Rousing himself from these thoughts he turned off the water. He'd better get a move on if he wanted to be ready when the workmen arrived for the day. He hurried to shave and dress in the short time he had left.

He made it downstairs in time to gulp down a cup of coffee before being interrupted by the doorbell. Draining the dregs from his mug, he set it in the sink before heading off to the foyer.

"I'm coming," he groused testily as the buzzer was rung for a second time, more urgently, insistently than before.

He opened the front door to a crew of five workmen, already perspiring heavily in the morning heat. That tears it, he thought glumly. I'm gonna have to turn on the air conditioning or these guys are gonna lynch me, he reflected silently, his eyes roaming over the burly bunch.

"Come on in fellas," he said with much more enthusiasm than he felt. "Before I show you to the workspace, can I offer any of you some coffee?"

"No thanks, Doc, we're all set." This from the large man in front, obviously the crew chief. "If you can just take us to the rooms in question, we'll get started, Dr. McCoy."

"Sure, right this way," he said, leading them down the hall toward the back of the house.

oooOOOooo

He had explained to the foreman exactly what he wanted and turned to leave the room, when a tentative voice stopped him. He turned at the sound to find one of the workmen at his elbow. The man was a head shorter than he; pudgy but not fat, a three-day growth of stubble covering his chin and cheeks.

"Hey Doc, got a minute?" Oh no, here it comes; he wants free medical advice about his high blood pressure, or his impotence or something.

He flashed a grin, totally devoid of warmth, at the man. "Sure. What can I do for you?"

"You Dr. McCoy? Dr. Leonard McCoy?"

"That I am." He examined the man's face closely. Was he a childhood friend? Someone he'd gone to school with? Try as he might, the man's identity remained elusive.

"Leonard McCoy, as in Chief Medical Officer of the USS Enterprise? As in served under Captain Kirk?" The man's eyes were wide, hopeful.

"Yes," he answered slowly. Just where was this guy headed, anyway?

"Wow! That's incredible! Can I shake your hand?" A beefy appendage was thrust before him. He grasped the proffered hand, still at a loss as to where this conversation was going.

"I've been reading about Kirk for weeks. That was some mighty fine stuff he did in space. His story inspired my son to apply to the Academy. What was it like, being on his ship?"

Certainly not all it was cracked up to be, he desperately wanted to answer, but uncharacteristically, proper decorum came to his rescue. "Jim Kirk is an interesting and complex man. I can definitely say there was never a dull moment," he answered evasively.

"He was the only one of twelve starship captains to come home with most of his crew and his ship intact. Sounds like it was a lucky break for you." He smacked McCoy roughly on the shoulder. "Wonder why they didn't give him another space command? Seems like a total waste of talent if you ask me."

"My sentiments exactly," slipped out before the doctor could bite his tongue. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to start ordering the equipment I'll need to outfit this medical suite." He made a motion toward the door, and was stopped by a strong grip on his upper arm.

"Sure, Doc, sure. I didn't mean no disrespect. It's just that if my boy gets accepted, I'd like for him to serve under someone with as much experience as Kirk." The man shifted nervously, licking his lips. "I'd like for my boy to come home in one piece, you know?"

McCoy couldn't help but feel for the man. He softened his voice and met the anxious gaze squarely. "Don't worry. We learned a lot during that mission, and with Admiral Kirk now in charge of Starfleet Operations, he'll be in an excellent position to see that future commanders gain from his firsthand knowledge of what they can expect. I'm sure your son will be just fine." He forced himself to grin at the concerned father, who answered with a wide smile of his own.

"Thanks, Doc. I'm sure you're right."

"Corson, stop chit-chatting, get your butt over here and get to work." McCoy's new-found admirer flushed at these terse words from his boss.

"Gotta go, Doc, but thanks for the pep talk. I feel better already." After pumping McCoy's hand furiously once again, the worker hurried off, the tools on his belt clanking together loudly in protest.

McCoy watched him go, a feeling of unease settling over him. He'd convinced Corson no problem. Too bad he couldn't convince himself that all would be well. Gripped by a disquieting feeling of apprehension, he turned on his heel and made for the door.

ooOOOoo

As he was seated before the terminal in his study, the cool, dry air coursing from the vent above him ruffling his hair slightly, he found himself unable to concentrate on the images of medical equipment flashing on the viewer before him. He was haunted by the brief conversation he'd had with the workman. If even a layman could see what a huge mistake it was assigning Kirk to a ground position, why hadn't he been able to make the Starfleet brass understand? Shortly after discovering that Kirk had been promoted and assigned as Chief of Starfleet Operations, he'd confronted Nogura in his office, trying desperately to make the man see the absurdity, the utter foolishness of this decision.

Nogura had been unwilling to budge, and McCoy quickly realized the decision hadn't been made in the best interest of Jim Kirk, but of Starfleet. Kirk was a genuine hero in every sense of the word, revered by military personnel and civilians alike, and McCoy rapidly reached the conclusion that it had been done for two very different reasons. Firstly to parade him before the public as concrete evidence of Starfleet's success, and secondly to reign him in, to make sure they had him firmly under control; that they were the puppet masters pulling the strings on Starfleet's most celebrated captain, the consequences to the people who would risk their lives in space in the future, or to Jim Kirk himself, be damned.

When his protests to Nogura and other members of the Admiralty had fallen on deaf ears, he had tried to convince Jim Kirk of the irrationality of his choice. That had been a most painful confrontation, and the last contact he ever expected to have with his former captain. Without warning he found himself transported back to that momentous evening.

He'd gone to Kirk's apartment, only to discover the man sitting alone in the dark, sullen, contemplative, obviously hurting. He'd reluctantly accepted the drink Jim had offered him. He needed a clear head to adequately and convincingly make his point – one which he was sure Jim Kirk didn't want to hear or believe. After a few long minutes of small talk and idle pleasantries, he had broached the subject of Kirk's recent career choice. "I spoke with Nogura today, Jim. He told me accepting the promotion and the ground position was your idea."

Kirk's lips twisted into a grimace. "You did? That must've been some meeting. You two alone in the same room together? That explains the huge cosmic disturbance I saw over HQ earlier."

"C'mon, Jim, I'm being serious here. Don't go trying to change the subject on me." His eyes softened. "Why Jim? Your plan to get another command sounded viable to me. Once you get your dander up you're virtually unstoppable. Why didn't you go for it?"

Kirk rose swiftly to his feet, stopping in front of the fireplace, swirling the liquid in his glass before draining it. "I told you on the ship Bones, I just need a change of venue," he said stiffly, without meeting the doctor's gaze.

"I thought you weren't going to do anything drastic – your words, not mine. If you ask me, this certainly fits the bill." Despite his best efforts to control it, McCoy's voice had started to rise.

"Give it a rest, Bones. It's been a long five years; I'm entitled to a break." Subdued; defeated.

McCoy considered that before answering. "You know, I've never known you to need a break before; in fact, over the years I practically had to threaten you with incompetence to get you to take leave at all. Relaxing isn't in your genes, Jim. You constantly need to be on the move, facing physical and intellectual challenges in order to function like the rest of us average, normal folk."

"That's not what you said when you forced me to take leave on Triani Prime," Kirk countered sharply, irritation creeping into the timbre of his voice.

"Don't give me that shit, Jim – you know what I mean. There's a fine line between allowing yourself time to rest and recuperate and throwing in the towel. Maybe you didn't off yourself, but you might as well have. Being planetbound is going to be the death of you, and I sure as hell am not gonna be able to sit back and watch it happen." Much to his chagrin, his temper was starting to assert itself. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

Kirk chuckled softly in response, finally meeting McCoy's eyes in an effort to dispel that notion. "Don't you think you're being a little overly-dramatic, Doctor?"

"Am I? Am I really?" He moved to stand beside Kirk, resting an empathetic hand on the bent shoulder. His voice was now laced with compassion. "You know Jim, it's not your fault. I was wrong to blame you before. This isn't the first time that blasted Vulcan has gone off half-cocked. Stop beating yourself up over it, okay?"

Kirk moved away from his friend, McCoy's hand dropping limply to his side. His former captain whipped around to face him, anger and sorrow vying for control over his features. "This isn't just about Spock, Bones. I may have brought my ship back in one piece, but there are ninety-four brave souls who didn't return with us. That's my fault, too." He stopped suddenly, turning away and pacing across the room.

Kirk's voice softened, quavering slightly. "I need to come to terms with that. I'm mentally and emotionally drained. And that's a piss poor combination for an effective commander. I'm not ready to have any more deaths on my hands."

"Well I've got news for you, Jim. Sitting here day after day wallowing in self-pity isn't the answer, at least not for you. The best medicine for someone like you is to get back on that horse, look your past squarely in the eye, and move on. Sitting behind a desk far removed from the critical decision-making process is certainly not the way to go about it."

"You make it sound like I'll be out of the loop on everything. I can assure you that's not the case. My experience and input will be used to help create the next wave of starships, to train their personnel and senior officers in such a way as to help prevent many of the mistakes I made. Not to mention I'll be calling the shots regarding the deployment of our current assets."

"You can't tell me you really believe that? Sounds like Nogura's got you thoroughly brainwashed already, and you've only been wearing admiral's braid for a week." McCoy's doubt was readily apparent.

"That's enough, Doctor!" Angry, forceful, the fire and determination of the man he once knew visible for an instant. "I think I know what's best for me."

"That's where you're wrong, Jim – you've never known what's best for you. It always took me and Spock smacking you upside the head to make you see reason, and now that safety net is gone."

"You know, I seem to remember surviving just fine before I met you two." Said through clenched teeth, a long pause ensuing as those words hung heavily in the air between them. "And besides, if that's what you really believe, then that's all the more reason I shouldn't be directly responsible for any more young lives, don't you think?" He had moved to the oversized window and was staring out at the darkened street below. "Why is everyone entitled to a break but me? Spock's off doing what he thinks is best for him, you've resigned your commission to reenter civilian practice – why shouldn't I be allowed to do the same?"

"Because it's not the right choice for you. Good God man, what do I have to say to make you see reason? You're not like Spock, and you certainly aren't anything like me. For the most part, my time in space was ninety percent boredom and ten percent sheer, unadulterated terror. But not for you. You were in your element. For you it was all one big adventure.

"You're a breed apart, Jim. Only one man in a million comes along like you; someone who's so perfectly suited for their chosen profession that they could no more cease doing it than stop breathing." McCoy raked a hand through his hair, stepping to the window as well. Concerned blue eyes tried to search the hazel ones which remained steadfastly averted. Softly. "I guess we're more alike in that respect than I realized. Medicine is everything to me, but I was restricted, constrained by the trappings of duty and regulations. In order for me to thrive, I've got to be able to do things my way. Just as being captain of a starship is everything for you. Don't lose that, Jim. It'll eat at you from the inside out until nothing's left but the shell of the man you once were."

"You've made your point, Doctor, now get the hell out." The eyes snapped to his, now crackling with rage.

McCoy met that fierce gaze, his own eyes hardening to chips of gray flint. He opened his mouth to speak, but the look on Kirk's face silenced him as surely as if he'd just been punched. "Fine! I'm going! I'm done trying to talk some sense into you, and I sure as hell don't want to be around to see you slowly but surely kill yourself."

He turned on his heel, heading for the exit. "Stupid, pig-headed son of a bitch. Excuse me for actually giving a damn, and trying to help. I can assure you it won't happen again," he muttered under his breath. Snatching his coat from a hook on the wall he shrugged it on and made for the door, disappearing into the hallway as the panel swooshed closed with a resounding click behind him.

He felt his throat constrict convulsively as he remembered that bitter conversation. Closing his eyes he passed a hand over his face in an effort to clear his vision and force the hurtful images from his mind. Sadly he realized there was nothing else he could do. Numerous times over the last few months he'd wanted to call Jim and apologize; had even found his hands on the comm unit, keying in Kirk's number, but each time his stiff-necked pride had kept him from completing the impulse. He'd called his former captain the next day and left a message, trying to smooth things over, but Kirk had never returned the call. I've done all I can, Jim. It's up to you now to realize your mistake and do something about it. I just hope you come to your senses before it's too late…

Spock – three months

He awoke abruptly, shivering, the cold clinging to him like a heavy, unexpected frost on tender spring flowers. The room was sparse, barren, his Spartan quarters on the Enterprise palatial in comparison. Kolinahr meant learning to control the mind to a degree he had never quite experienced before. He had been able to banish the pain inflicted by the neural parasites on Deneva, but this went beyond even the scope of that. Total control – physical, emotional, and everything in between.

And it started with the cold. Vulcans, as a desert people, were accustomed to dealing with high temperatures, even thrived in them, but the monastery at Gol was situated deep in the mountains, the rooms and passageways carved by hand many millennia ago from the solid bedrock of the sacred hills. The temperature here was a constant 13 degrees Celsius, much lower than the normal surface temperature of the planet, and this was the first of many areas of mental discipline the acolytes were required to master.

There was no heat source in the room, save the very small fire burning on the outstretched hands of the meditation statue. It was intended only to provide a ghostly illumination, and to give the acolytes a focal point when running through their daily mental exercises, but in the tiny, confined space it did offer a limited amount of radiant warmth.

The bed consisted of a thin mattress stuffed with natural plant fibers, situated directly on the stone floor. No pillow or blankets were permitted. Discomfort was another area they were expected to manage on a daily basis.

In the three months he had been here, he had already conquered this area of control. So why was he shivering? His mind supplied the answer: The dream had been particularly vivid and disquieting. He was in the cave where DeSalle died, but this time he had obeyed his captain, wresting the young lieutenant from the spike pinning him to the floor and fleeing for the exit. He laid the lifeless officer on the ground outside, one hand over the wound in DeSalle's throat, the other applying pressure to the gaping hole in the man's abdomen left by the razor-sharp shard of rock, his eyes closed, trying desperately to regulate DeSalle's circulatory and respiratory systems.

The sound of the roof collapsing snapped his focus from the task at hand, the paralyzing flash of shock and pain reverberating in his head almost causing him to black out. Jim! The link between them had flared brightly for an instant, then suddenly ceased to function as if it had overloaded, burned out. He carefully probed along the fragile thread trying to catch even a glimpse of his captain's consciousness, but it ended in blackness, emptiness. Not the blackness of an unresponsive mind, but the emptiness of complete and utter isolation. Tearing his attention from this inconceivable development, he glanced down at DeSalle. The once vibrant eyes had gone vacant, staring blankly skyward, the chest no longer rising and falling, no pulse palpable beneath the hand he had on their REFLEX candidate's throat. It was as he feared – by following Jim's orders he had condemned both men to death. Unimaginable despair gripped him. It was at that moment that his mind had fought its way up from the depths of this hell conjured up by his subconscious.

Spock found himself breathing heavily, his body wracked by an uncontrollable shaking he knew had nothing to do with the chill in the air. It was bad enough he was having difficulty properly managing his physical reactions, but Vulcans don't dream. Once again, his human half was betraying him, causing him to deal with issues that were non-existent for the other acolytes. He was already beginning to grasp the proper methods for controlling his conscious thoughts and actions; but his subconscious was proving to be a different matter altogether.

Rising to his feet, he walked across the small chamber, sinking to his knees before the meditation statue. He only had a few minutes, but he must regain control before he was required to attend his morning lessons. The distress the dream had caused was twofold: Not only was he forced to relive DeSalle's death, but Jim had perished as well. It was a mindset he had to master immediately. Here especially, he was viewed with mistrust, disdain. No one – not the other acolytes or the masters themselves – believed that he, a half-breed, could attain that which often eluded full-blooded Vulcans. He must succeed at all costs – there was nothing else left for him.

His class had started with twenty individuals; six of those had already dropped out. But things here were done differently than in a traditional learning setting. There were numerous milestones one had to pass in order to attain Kolinahr. As each student conquered a specific level, they moved on to the next, proceeding at their own pace. Of the fourteen novices left in his original group, three had moved on so far, including Spock, who had surpassed the primary level of training several weeks ago, the first in his class to do so. But now it felt as if he were back at square one, less prepared even than when he had initially arrived on the desolate plain at Gol.

Perhaps T'Sai had been right. He recalled the conversation he'd had with the matriarch when she'd summoned him to her office after he'd been at the ancient place of intellectual enlightenment for just over a week.

"Spock, a tape has arrived for thee from thy former captain."

He fought to keep his expression blank, his voice even. "I do not understand Master T'Sai. Once we have crossed the threshold and entered into the temple, no further contact is permitted with the life or those individuals we left behind."

"Normally, that is the case, but given thy unique circumstances it was felt by a consensus of the masters that it would be necessary for thee to view this tape and fully explore that aspect of thy past in order to banish it once and for all from thy mind. I saw in the meld we shared upon thy arrival that thee considered this human t'hy'la." Had she not been Vulcan, a master of Kolinahr, Spock would have said the words were spoken with the slightest hint of contempt, as if he'd somehow sullied the wholly Vulcan notion of t'hy'la by naming a mere human as partner to that sacred and mystical bond.

Panic had gripped him. Would she require him to examine the contents immediately? It was too soon, and Jim Kirk was a most perceptive and persuasive being. It was conceivable that by viewing the tape, Spock would alter his decision to become Kolinahru.

"Before I departed the Enterprise I left a letter for my captain, as I was instructed to do. This chapter of my previous life has already been closed. To reopen it at this time would not be logical." No hint of emotion inflected in his words. How he had managed this, he did not know.

He had been determined not to flinch under her intense scrutiny. "Agreed. However, the bond of t'hy'la is not easily broken and is contraindicated for one who wishes to be Kolinahru. There is no room for such a bond within the confines of a mind dedicated to pure logic. Are thee prepared to sever this link?"

"I am prepared," his lips had answered immediately, but his heart was not so sure. "I have already closed down the link between us. With disuse, it will dissolve of its own volition."

Again, her fierce gaze had raked over him. "Very well. It will be for thee to decide when to examine this message thy captain has sent thee, but it must be viewed before thee can be granted the title of Kolinahru, and we must have proof that the link is indeed gone."

"Understood, Master T'Sai." He hadn't trusted himself to say anything further.

His vision cleared as he focused on the asenoi before him. I must not permit myself to think of Jim. That will only lead to madness. Summoning an inner strength from reserves he wasn't aware he possessed, he began the steps necessary to lead him through the various levels of meditation that would allow him to function as he was now expected to, despite the turmoil raging within him.