Title: Post Amok
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy, OC
Rating: K+
Word Count: 1940
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for Amok Time
Summary: Amok Time after the credits. Spock's life and sanity hang in the balance, and Jim must do the unthinkable: place the life of the one he loves most into a stranger's hands. Non-slash, no pairings. Minor OC.
Author's Note: Not personally viewing TOS as a slash story, something had to keep Spock alive all those years, and I don't really see him in a loving, long-term relationship with anyone but Kirk and the Enterprise. So this is my slightly AU solution. Written pretty much because I love those two and how much they mean to each other.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The bosun's whistle sounded loudly over the shipwide com system, alerting Kirk to the approaching arrival of the delegates' shuttle in the hangar deck. Tossing a hand over throbbing eyes, he flung an arm across his face, feeling every bit of the tension from the past few days rising to the surface. Swinging to sit on the edge of his bunk, Kirk massaged his forehead in irritation.
The Enterprise had recently finished participating in the ceremonies on Altair VI, and since then, had been sent on a supply run, remaining in nearby space until the time when they would be required to transport delegates from two warring planets to a Federation peace summit in a neutral star system.
Another whistle, shriller in its intensity, sounded from the intercom on his desk, and Kirk winced, his headache returning full force. "Spock to Captain Kirk," the calm baritone invaded the quiet of his quarters.
Scowling grumpily, he swatted at the monitor switch. "Kirk here," he clipped out brusquely. "What is it, Mr. Spock?"
The brown eyes surveyed him with a hint of sympathetic understanding. "Sir, the ambassador's shuttlecraft is approaching, and will be docking in approximately 2.8 minutes."
Kirk frowned. "Alright, Spock, I'm on my way. Kirk out." Straightening, he tugged the satiny sheen of uniform green into place, mentally preparing for the last of the diplomatic arrivals. Striding quickly down the ship's corridors to the turbolift, Kirk thought peevishly of the present position Starfleet Command had placed him in. Klingon mindsifters and Romulan espionage were all part of the trade, a duty he gladly shared in exchange for the chance to reach out to the stars, with the energy of his Lady thrumming beneath the deck. But ferrying diplomats across star systems reached the limit to his patience and endurance; and the monotony of travelling through chartered Federation space, combined with the task of pleasing difficult, often arrogant, emissaries, had placed his crew, and particularly his command staff, in a distinctly irritable frame of mind. Besides, Kirk thought darkly as he stepped out of the turbolift and down the corridor towards his two waiting friends, after his nearly fatal encounter with T'Pau on Vulcan almost two weeks ago, he had had just about enough of regal heads-of-state, thank you very much.1
Kirk's hazel eyes narrowed at the memory. He still could not believe the otherwise peaceful planet had been willing to stand on tradition and witness his death, his life almost destroyed by the dearest of hands.
Approaching the honor guard in the hangar deck, Kirk's eyes darted to his First Officer in a swift, scrutinizing glance. Initially following their return from his home planet, Spock had seemed to be recovering from his illness; however, he had not continued to improve and still appeared far too pale and gaunt, and …. off, somehow. Kirk mentally registered a reminder to bring the matter up later with McCoy.
"Gentlemen," he greeted, drudgery and mild irritation pursing his lips. "Here we go, one last time."
The ship's doctor fidgeted, uncomfortable in any apparel but his well-worn scrubs. "I don't see why I have to be here, Captain," he grumbled sulkily. "I'm the CMO, not a blasted Starfleet envoy…"
Spock turned humorless dark eyes to the physician. "That is quite correct," he nodded, instantly seizing the opening. "The repercussions of your misrepresentation of Starfleet's goodwill could quite conceivably cause irreparable damage –"
McCoy sputtered angrily, his eyes widening in vehemence. "Why, you pointy-eared-"
"Bones, Spock!" a sharp whisper from their exasperated captain stopped the tirade. "Belay that." The honor guard stood at attention as the bosun whistle piped the ambassador's party onto the hangar deck. Turning to face the approaching group, Kirk forced a smile on his face and once again turned the force of his charm on the advancing delegates.
Two days later, Kirk's mood had not improved. Plopping down in a chair between his CMO and Science Officer, he looked down discontentedly at the brightly colored cubes the food replicator had seen fit to give him, and he picked up a fork in resignation.
Kirk's eyes quickly scanned the Officer's Mess, noting an attaché from one of the diplomatic parties sitting at a nearby table, dining alone. Several junior officers were enjoying their evening meal, and the room was relatively quiet. "Spock," he turned to his companion, "how 'bout a game of chess this evening, after I finish signing the last of those req forms?" Anything, Kirk thought grimly, to relieve the tedium from another uneventful Alpha shift. He glanced down at the barely touched plate of greens in front of the Vulcan and frowned inwardly.
His First Officer inclined his head. "That would be agreeable, sir, time permitting," Spock answered, knowing the captain required some form of employment before his irritable manner eventually affected the crew. "I must check in with Lt. Ramsey, to ascertain the progress on the event horizon experiment we are conducting from the probe's data feeds. If all is well, then I will join you shortly thereafter."
"Lt. Ramsey, Spock?" the doctor interrupted, a frown crinkling his face. "Wasn't she moved up to bridge duty?" He glared at the impassive face before him. "You got your science people working off-duty again on your little pet projects?" McCoy turned to the captain. "Jim, I don't like it! Those people work hard enough without spendin' their down time hunkered away in some isolated laboratory!"
"Doctor," Spock intoned dryly, inching one delicately slanted eyebrow upward, "those people are not required to perform any duties outside of their scheduled shift time. The Science Department has an abundance of tenacious individuals, and should they choose to expend their off-duty hours in research, rather than participate in the cacophony of a rec room, I see no reason for your interference." The dark eyes, shooting shards of black ice towards the medical officer, and causing two nearby ensigns to scurry hastily away, turned towards the captain, and softened almost imperceptibly as he noted the wide-spread grin on Kirk's face. "Would you not agree, sir?"
Jim's smile widened, his gaze moving from one friend to the other. "I wouldn't…presume to disagree with you, when it comes to your people, Spock," he began, but was interrupted by raised voices coming from the nearby table. A delegate from the neighboring planet had passed through the room towards the food replicators, and had consequently jostled the table where the attaché was consuming his meal, causing an angry shout from his antagonist. The disgruntled alien rose menacingly and faced the delegate, both tempers churning just beneath the surface.
Kirk rose as well, his friends' quarrel forgotten; and Spock stood silently behind him, ready to intervene with his captain should the situation require it. The attaché's eyes followed the commanding officers' movements, and he hesitated before turning away and resuming his meal in silence. With a snarl, the other delegate stalked out of the Mess, glowering at passing crewmen in the corridor.
Kirk let out a slow sigh and lowered back into his chair. "Spock," he began, his eyes still on the attaché, "I want you to review the break times for the officers on all three shifts for the next few days, and rotate their breaks so that we have senior or bridge officers in here at all meal times."
Spock nodded, "Aye, sir, I will see to-" his breath caught sharply, and his head dropped down, one thin hand rising to his temple, trembling.
Kirk was instantly alert, laying a hand on the blue sleeve, watching in concern at the momentary anguish that flitted across his First's expression before it was banished by Vulcan control. "Spock, what is it?" Kirk's voice lowered, all his recent anxiety for his friend resurfacing abruptly.
The dark eyes turned to him, with what would have been a confused, and almost lost, expression, if that were not an impossibility with this particular individual. "Bones," Kirk muttered, turning to the surgeon, his hand still supporting Spock's arm, "take him down to Sickbay, and give him a full examination. I want to know what's going on."
Relinquishing his hold on the Vulcan to the medical officer, Kirk's gaze followed them out of the Mess as Spock accompanied McCoy without protest, a most concerning sign. The captain pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the start of one of his frequent headaches reappearing, and he fought down a growing sense of unease, memories from the nightmare of two weeks ago springing unbidden to his thoughts.
Unable to return to his quarters or rest, Kirk walked the ship, making his way down an hour later to Sickbay. Striding into McCoy's office, he barreled over to the desk to face the doctor, who turned irritably from the viewscreen he had been studying intently. The CMO held up his hand, stopping the rush of words readying on Kirk's lips. "Just wait, Jim," he muttered. "I don't know what's wrong with Spock," the doctor admitted, reaching a finger to switch the viewscreen off, and turning his attention to the younger man before him.
Kirk bristled, his back straightening in indignation. "What do you mean, doctor, 'you don't know'? Did you examine him or not?"
"I did, Captain!" McCoy flared back, meeting Kirk's anger defensively. "But I can't figure out what's going on with that crazy physiology of his – and I don't think Spock knows what's going on either," he added, his drawl becoming more pronounced in his agitation.
He sat back down behind the desk and motioned for Kirk to take a seat in the opposite chair, but the other man waved a hand impatiently, moving to pace the length of the room. "Well, what did you find, Bones?"
McCoy shook his head, never caring to admit when he was at a loss for diagnosis or treatment. "I don't know, Jim-boy," he rumbled, running a hand through his hair in a distracted habit of nervous thought. "He seems to have symptoms pointing to a change in intracranial pressure – nausea, headaches, lethargy, irritability…" the doctor counted off symptoms. "But his ICP readings were normal, or at least I think they're normal for him; and I found an unusually large increase in brain wave activity. I don't know," the physician picked up a stylus and fidgeted with it," it just doesn't make sense."
"It….it couldn't be the pon'farr again, could it?" the captain hesitated, not wanting to hear the answer.
But McCoy shook his head. "No, I asked him about that; Spock was certain this is different."
Kirk stopped pacing, and raised fear-shadowed eyes to his friend. "Then, what will happen to Spock? We're too far from Vulcan, Bones. I need answers."
"Well," McCoy shrugged, "if his condition is related to a change in ICP then his headaches and other symptoms will continue to worsen, and could possibly be accompanied by seizures and loss of consciousness later in the process, unless we are able to find the cause and treat it. But that's just my best guess, Jim; we're speculatin' in the dark here."
Kirk stood motionless, his eyes fixed blindly at a point on the deck, indecision and frustration alternating on his face. McCoy waited quietly until Jim looked up and cleared his throat. "Where is he now?" the question came softly.
Leonard walked around the desk to touch the captain's elbow briefly. "I sent him to his quarters to rest, and advised him to place a call to Vulcan, to speak with a Vulcan healer."
"Thanks, Bones," Kirk managed a grateful, fleeting smile that never reached his eyes, and turned on his heel to walk swiftly from the room.