So, my first Star Trek fic! I've seen a load of these 'Five times…' type stories floating around, and thought I'd try my hand at it because a) it gives me a reason to beat Kirk up, b) I get to try to improve the way I write McCoy (I don't feel 100% comfortable with him yet, not sure why- on that note, let me know how I did with him in this chapter, how I could improve etc) and c) it actually motivates me to get some writing done!

Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome, flames will probably make me cry.

Disclaimer: I don't own, and never will own, any part of the Star Trek franchise. 'Mwesu', 'Kla'su' and 'Plo'su' are all names that I made up, and any similarity to existing names is unintentional. Rated 'T' for some language and an extremely brief and fairly vague mention of child abuse.

Jim groaned, pressing his thumbs at the point between his nose and his eyes, where he could already feel pressure building. He recognised the warning signs of a killer headache coming on, and cursed inwardly. That was most definitely not what he needed. Not when Starfleet had some diplomatic business to complete with a small, god-forsaken planet in the middle of lord knows where, and of course they'd decided that who better to send than the Enterprise and the famous James T. Kirk, their poster boy of the moment. If it had been just a simple meeting with the Mwesuni leaders, a case of sitting down at a table, getting straight to the heart of the matter, laying out Starfleet's position and negotiating a solution that met Starfleet's interests, then everything would have been fine. Diplomacy in a formal meeting was something he could do.

But things never could just be simple, could they? No. Sighing, he tugged at the collar on his dress uniform, pulling it so that it sat more neatly around his neck. The 'meeting with wary and possibly conservative planetary elders' thing still stood, of course. He hadn't expected anything else. No, it was what was meant to happen after the meeting that he was dreading. Namely, the five hour dinner held in his honour, according to planetary tradition, ending in the presentation of a gift from both sides as a symbol of goodwill (he'd had to endure a lecture from a certain Science Officer about the significance of gift-giving in Mwesu society, apparently it ensured eternal solidarity or loyalty or something- he'd zoned out fairly early on). Such ostentatious political displays weren't to his personal taste, but if it was necessary in ensuring the success of a mission, then so be it. Normally, when he wasn't tempted to shoot his phaser at his head in the vain hope that it would alleviate his headache, he found such dinners easy to endure while maintaining an image of polite engagement. Now though, nothing was more tempting than locking the door to his quarters, taking a handful of painkillers, removing any and all sources of light, and crashing in his bed for several hours. He most definitely did not want to be making meaningless small talk with dignitaries. Unfortunately, it was all part and parcel of being Starfleet's youngest ever captain; yeah he got the Enterprise and his crew and expeditions and even, recently, the possibility of the first five year voyage in Starfleet history, but he also got dinners and speeches and posing for pictures for local media. If he wanted one, he had to live with the other. And that meant even when he had a supernova-sized headache (oh boy, Spock would have a field day explaining exactly why something like a headache couldn't be supernova sized).

He sighed and turned to look in the mirror, grimacing at how grey he looked. He slapped his cheeks lightly, bringing a little more colour into them, and ran his fingers through his hair. With any luck, he'd get through the meeting and the dinner without anyone noticing his complexion. And by anyone, he thought wryly, he meant a particular Georgian doctor who would hang, draw, and quarter him if he realised that he was ill and working rather than resting.

A knock at the door made him jump. The sudden action made his head spin, and instinctively he leant on the sink. Damn it.

'Jim?'

Leonard McCoy's gruff voice carried clearly through the heavy door.

'Jim, the shuttle to take us to the surface is nearly ready to leave.'

'Give me a minute, Bones!'

Jim grabbed a small box of painkillers out of the bathroom cabinet, tipping a couple into his hand and then down his throat, throwing his head back slightly and dry swallowing. Wiping his mouth, he walked across his room and opened the door to find his best friend standing just outside, wearing his own dress uniform and looking disturbingly like an exceedingly disgruntled badger that has been forced to leave its sett, made to wear a suit, and told to walk on its back legs and work in a bank. Doctor McCoy was rarely found outside his beloved Sickbay, and it was even rarer for him to be seen in anything other than his blue Medical uniform. Whenever he had to attend events as a member of the Enterprise's senior staff, he always had an air of irritation hanging around him.

Bones looked Jim up and down, as though trying to work out what could possibly have caused his captain to take so long to get ready, before looking him in the eyes and raising an eyebrow.

'Took you long enough, kid.'

Jim shrugged.

'I don't just wake up with perfect hair, you know. It takes time and effort to look this good all the time.'

Bones' eyebrow disappeared into his hairline, his patented 'why-the-hell-am-I-even-friends-with-you' look pasted on his face. The doctor turned and began walking at a brisk pace towards the landing bay. Smiling slightly, Jim hurried to catch up, ignoring the throbbing pain between his eyes.

Despite the army of Klingons battering against the inside of his skull, Jim was happy to count the meeting a success. The elders, after some initial reticence and extensive discussion, had accepted Starfleet's conditions for joining the Federation, and agreed to re-establish their system trade routes, which had been destroyed by petty conflict the decade before. The three hours of debate had ended with the Mwesuni eagerly shaking Jim's hand, talking animatedly about the benefits of Federation membership for their race. Their naturally high voices had become increasingly shrill as they became more excited, and their words were like long pins being slowly pushed into Jim's head, aggravating the headache to the stage where he was barely able to concentrate on the conversation. Luckily, the elders didn't seem to have noticed their guest's disengagement, and had continued chattering all the way to the hall where the dinner was to be held. Rather more unluckily, Bones seemed to have realised that something was off (damn that 'something's-up-with-Jim' radar of his) and had attached himself to his side, occasionally glancing at him in a way that Jim recognised as an attempt to spot any physical injury. Of course, he hadn't seen anything obvious, and so had had to content himself with being even more barnacle-like than usual.

Now, the two were sat next to each other, three hours and three courses into the dinner. Jim's head felt like it was going to split at the seams, and the prospect of eating made his stomach physically churn- he'd only been nibbling a sample of each dish served to him (something else he was sure his overly observant CMO had spotted) and even the miniscule amount he had forced into his stomach felt as though it was going to reacquaint itself with the outside world if he made any sudden movements. As the imaginary Klingons inside his skull seemed to be aggravated every time he shifted his head to face whoever was addressing him at any given time, staying as still as possible seemed like a good solution. However, the fact that the room was lilting around in a decidedly nauseating fashion didn't help his headache or swirling stomach.

He frowned slightly, concentrating on a brick on the opposite wall. Maybe if he focused on that, the room would stop moving. A wave of pain pulsed through his sinuses and temples, and he blinked to clear the thousands of white spots that crowded his vision, sucking in sharply through his nose. He remembered something his mom had once told him, on one of her extremely rare trips back to the Iowa backwater where she'd left him- funny what you remember when there's what feels like a mechanical drill shoving its way backwards through your head.

He was young, nine at the most. She was knelt in front of him, stroking his face with the sort of gentleness that he associated only with her, the kind that he never got from anyone else in his life. Her fingers ghosted over the cut on his cheek, from where Frank's ring had left its mark- not that he'd told her Frank was responsible, he'd blamed it on a rock because Frank would've killed him if he'd told her.

'You listen to me, Jimmy. If you're ever in pain, and there're no painkillers at hand for whatever reason, you breathe in deeply for 8, and then release it slowly for 10, and you keep doing that for as long as you need to. It'll help, I promise.'

He swallowed hard in an attempt to contain the sudden flood of memories and then, keeping his eyes fixed on the same brick, inhaled slowly- 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8- and exhaled- 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. And again. Slowly, his vision cleared. He couldn't tell if the pain was really getting better (it was probably psychological) but at least he no longer felt like he was going to embarrass himself by dramatically throwing up and/or passing out at a diplomatic event.

'Hey, Jim. You alright, kid?'

Jim took his eyes off the brick and turned to look at Bones, inwardly cursing as the room began doing its drunken waltz thing again. Putting on his best mask, he smiled.

'Yeah, Bones. I'm fine, so quit your worrying, ok?'

McCoy huffed loudly at that, his eyes giving Jim the once over.

'No offence, but you don't exactly look 'fine'. You're even pastier than usual, and you've been giving that brick a death glare for the past five minutes. I'm surprised you didn't burn a hole through it, or make it fall out the wall, or something.'

Jim rolled his eyes- and instantly regretted it. Damn this goddamn headache straight to Hell. He was keenly aware of his friend's gaze on him, and picked up the spoon in front of him. At some point in the last few minutes, the fourth (and thankfully penultimate) course had been served. It looked like some form of green gelatinous blob, and Jim could've sworn that it had tentacles. He poked it tentatively, and the blob wobbled back at him. He swallowed. It was fine, he could eat this. It was just like jelly. Green, quite possibly once alive, jelly. Cautiously, he dug his spoon into the- thing's- side, and scooped a little out. Quickly, he put it in his mouth, resisting the urge to grimace as he felt it slide easily down his throat. Definitely slimier than jelly. He looked across the room at the rest of his crew, smiling slightly at their reactions to the blob. Chekov had gone a delicate shade of green, Scotty was alternating between a mouthful of blob and a swig of the burning alcoholic drink their guests had plied them with, and Uhura appeared to be discussing the blob with the Mwesu seated next to her. His throat tightened compulsively. They were his crew. His family. Once again, he was struck by how protective he was of them, and the thought of anything happening to them, of anyone doing anything to harm them, made him angry beyond belief.

'Is there anything you would not do for your family?'

Well, no. He'd die for them. He had died for them. And he'd do it again in a heartbeat. Bones would beat the shit out of him for even saying that, but it was the truth. It had been the truth since Nero, had been the truth throughout the Khan ordeal, and would probably continue to be the truth for as long as the Enterprise was under his command. He watched them for a few more moments, briefly forgetting the pain throbbing menacingly between his eyes.

A light tap on the shoulder made him look round. Kla'su, the Mwesuni who had been designated his personal aide for the evening, was standing just behind him, escorting an extremely elderly male who Jim recognised to be Plo'su, the revered Chief who had elected to send his eldest son to that afternoon's meeting in his stead.

'Captain Kirk, it is my pleasure to introduce Chief Plo'su. He has waited long to make your acquaintance.'

The ancient Mwesu clicked his tongue and bowed his head. Jim reciprocated the traditional greeting, and then stood, holding out his hand.

That was a bad idea. Shit.

The dizziness that he had managed to control when he was seated surged through him at full force. He felt his legs weaken, just as a bolt of fire seared through his brain.

And then the ground was rushing up to meet him and darkness enveloped him, and he welcomed it with open arms.

'Jim!'

At barely 40, McCoy believed himself too young to be at risk of heart failure. Seeing his best friend suddenly and inexplicably fall to the ground, however, was enough to make him reconsider that assumption. For one long, awful moment, his mind went into overdrive and he saw Jim in a body bag on the Enterprise, Jim in a cryotube, Jim hooked up to life support in Starfleet Medical but with no vital signs showing on the machines, just straight lines and blank screens, and the horrible, gnawing fear that he'd been too late, that this was one time when he wouldn't be able to patch the heroic idiot up again and make him as good as new.

Then he blinked and he was back in the hall, surrounded by Enterprise crew and Mwesuni alike, with Jim out cold on the stone floor. Quickly, he moved to examine the captain, instinctively placing two fingers on the pulse point in his throat, just to reassure himself that yes, his friend was still alive, despite current appearances indicating otherwise. Jim's heart was racing just a little too fast, setting off alarm bells in McCoy's head- a high heart rate usually meant the patient was in pain, or there was something serious going on that was causing the body to panic. He hoped it wasn't the latter. He didn't know if he could cope with another one of Jim's close-shaves, not so soon after they'd got him back. He rolled Jim into the recovery position, swiping his hair back off his face. He winced when he saw how ashen the young man was, noting the pain lines stretching across the otherwise unmarked face. Mentally, he cursed himself for not bringing his Medkit with him; a tricorder would be beyond useful at the moment.

He became aware of a tall presence kneeling beside him, and didn't even have to look to know who it was.

'Spock, we need to get him back on the ship. Now.'

The Vulcan nodded, briefly reaching out to touch Jim's hand before turning to address Scotty. McCoy vaguely heard the two talking as he tended the captain, gently running his hands over Jim's body in an attempt to ascertain whether there was any internal injury that could have caused his sudden collapse. It was an antiquated technique, but it was still fairly effective and in the doctor's eyes, it was a damn sight better than sitting back on his heels and doing nothing.

'Ensign Nichols says they're ready when you are, Doctor McCoy.'

McCoy glanced at Scotty and gave a quick, terse nod. A moment later he felt the slight prickling sensation of being beamed up through the atmosphere, and then both he and Jim were safely on the Enterprise's landing pad. A gurney, accompanied by Chapel and two other nurses, was already waiting to receive them. As they rushed forward to gently lift Jim's inert body onto the bed, McCoy made a mental note to thank the Scotsman for his initiative when all this was over.

The two minutes it took to get to Sickbay felt like hours to McCoy, yet at the same time it passed in a blur. He heard himself booming instructions to the nurses, as much a medical professional as he ever was- Doctor McCoy, CMO on board the USS Enterprise, for whom every patient was a life to protect. He was also aware of the fact that he had placed his hand on Jim's forehead and had held it there, occasionally running it through the blond hair in the way that he knew calmed Jim down, and of the fact that his heart felt like it would probably leap out of his mouth, if the lump in his throat wasn't in the way- that was Leonard McCoy, from Georgia, father of Joanna, best friend of James Kirk, scared shitless that he was about to watch said best friend slip away from him for the second time in six months.

Once they were safely in Sick Bay, he lurched into action. Lunging for the nearest tricorder, he ran it quickly over Jim's body, his eyes searching for the damage that he knew would be there. Or rather, the damage he was certain existed, given how high Jim's pain reading was. The scanner beeped and he frowned at it, before running it again. It beeped once more, showing him the same result. Migraine.

McCoy resisted the urge to throw the machine against the wall, instead setting it down on the side with all his other equipment. Running his fingers through his hair, he tipped his head and breathed in deeply, releasing the air in a steady stream before turning to look at the unconscious man lying on the bed.

Migraine.

The doctor shook his head, relief flooding through him. Not a major, life threatening injury. Not Khan's super-blood finally backfiring on them. Just a normal, run-of-the-mill migraine, the kind countless crew members suffered from, the ailment that had plagued mankind for centuries and for which the only cure continued to be painkillers and rest.

If he wasn't fighting the urge to punch an unconscious, defenceless man for causing him inordinate amounts of fear, McCoy would have laughed.

Quietly, he hooked Jim up to an IV, which immediately began feeding him a steady supply of painkillers, just enough to knock the pain on the head. He watched as the pain lines on the young captain's face began to release, and smiled softly to himself. Fetching a towel, he deftly made a cold compress and placed it on Jim's forehead. Perhaps not the most advanced medical technique, but one his momma swore by when treating her own migraines. He located a blanket and pulled it over Jim, and then straightened up, his fingers finding Jim's pulse again. The now steady beat comforted him, chasing away the last remnants of that fear that he was going to lose him, a concrete sign that James T. Kirk was still alive, still part of the universe, still around to cause certain CMOs to suffer minor heart failure once a week. Rubbing his hand over his face, McCoy stepped back from the bed.

Dammit Jim. You've got to stop doing that to me.

After grabbing a PADD full of reports that needed finishing, he dimmed the lights, and sat himself in the chair next to his captain's bed. He listened to Jim's quiet, even breathing, thankful for that tiny yet immensely reassuring sign of life. This wait wasn't going to be like the last time, when the silence in the room had been crushing and there was the ever present fear of 'will this work? Was I fast enough?' Now, he just had to wait for Jim to wake up.

This time, Jim was going to be fine.