Title: My Captain (2/6)
Characters: Kirk, Spock, crew OCs, minor canon crew
Rating: T for safety
Word Count: (this part) 8191
Warnings/Spoilers: Speculation as to canon incidents (footnoted). General TOS canon spoilers. Rating is for violence and blood, nothing more.
Summary: Five reasons why the crew of the Enterprise would follow James T. Kirk to Hell and back, and one reason why he would do the same.
A/N: In case anyone was wondering: the five reasons which make up my title are hidden within these chapters. Each incident within the chapter falls into that reason and they are all connected by said reason, though several incidents will have multiple meanings within that general reason. I'd be interested in knowing what readers think are the reasons I'm using here. Also, there's a hidden subplot here, a growing working relationship between Kirk and Spock that I'm attempting to explore without really using them as focal points; so if you see details like that, I'm trying to get that across without coming out and making the story solely about them.

Also, no matter what I do, keeps erasing my dividing lines. I'm sorry for the confusion. *glares at site*

V.

For two months after the Pike-Kirk captaincy switchover, the galaxy watched the Federation's poster boy with no more than mild interest. He was the Shooting Star of the Academy, the youngest captain ever in the 'Fleet, and appeared to most uninformed individuals as primarily a pretty face with a decent set of brains and a starshipload of melodramatic charisma.

But within the year, all those they encountered in their voyage soon found out one dangerous truth – you don't want to touch Jim Kirk's crew.

One year into the Enterprise's voyage, they had just rotated out twenty-five crewmen at Starbase Thirty-Two and were on their first shore leave with the new crew complement. The captain himself had beamed down with a few of the senior officers in one of the shore leave parties, and had taken up residence with a reluctant-looking Commander Spock in the quietest corner of the seaside bar in which half his planetside crew were entertaining themselves.

"It's logical, Spock," he had slyly overcome the Vulcan's dubious protests. "The crew will behave better if there are COs present, and besides – we didn't even get to get off the ship at the Starbase. I'd like a non-reconstituted cocktail, wouldn't you?"

The I-am-Vulcan-and-therefore-am-certainly-not-annoyed-with-you-illogical-humans look Kirk received did not dissuade him, and much to the eavesdropping crew's amusement, he had ten minutes later beamed down with a very uncomfortable-looking Chief Science Officer.

Four hours later, as he hauled himself out of his seat with a moan, in an attempt to stop a brawl between his fiery new Russian navigator and two half-Ferengi, half-who-knew-what-but-they-were-big-and-hideous smugglers, he was regretting that decision. Spock only gave him The Eyebrow, the one that his mom gave his father years ago when he blew a hole in the barn with a homemade phaser (the one that said "That little monster is your child, dear,") before his unadmitted friend returned to drinking his herbal tea and analyzing the latest treatise from the Interpid's exploratory astrophysics team.

Kirk threaded his way to the escalating confrontation, which had already grown to the point where Chekov was two seconds from being lifted bodily by the neck of his brand-new tunic. "Stand down, Mr. Chekov," he finally snapped with all the authoritative force his formidable voice could carry.

The Russian jumped first out of surprise, and then again into attention. "Aye, sir," the young man gulped, obviously ill-at-ease around his new captain.

But Kirk didn't have the time to placate nervous newbies, or to do more than glare at the two goons who had been trying to coax the ensign's pretty little companion away with crude innuendo and cruder gestures. "Chekov, I suggest you take your friend somewhere more private. Gentlemen," he began, hands outstretched in a universal gesture of peace, trying for the diplomatic approach first, "if you will excuse my navigator?"

The young Russian had taken the pert blonde's manicured hand and was wisely edging away, but the ensign need not have worried; the two aliens' attention had swung to this newcomer in equal parts fascination, amusement, and antagonism.

Kirk looked up, hands loosely fisted at his sides and serene self-confidence in his eyes, as the foremost of the two towered over him by a good eighteen inches.

Bulbous blue-green eyes looked down. "Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation starship Enterprise." The raucous laugh that reverberated from a wrinkled throat sent the bottles on the bar shivering along the edge of the wooden counter. "So this is the little Starfleet captain the galaxy is squawking about?"

The room suddenly went deathly silent.

Spock merely clicked the next page in his periodical.

Aqua Eyes (why did these aliens never introduce themselves before jumping on his crew, so that he could at least refer to them intelligently?) roared with laughter again, casting a look at his hulking companion before turning his attention back to the small human standing before him. "And you are asking us to leave your sweet little navigator alone?" he asked, condescension dripping from the grinning words like a steady, grating-to-the-nerves faucet leak.

"No…" Kirk replied affably, that dangerous smile still firmly affixed to his face. "I'm telling you, mister. Don't. Touch. My. People."

For a moment, the onlookers (mainly Enterprise crew, who alternated from being indignant to amused over the whole thing) watched with interest. Most expected the two aliens to poke further fun at the captain and then move on to more exciting entertainment. Some half-expected the captain to recall the crew (and thereby ruin the fun) rather than cause a scene, while the rest were more interested in just what exactly Chekov was doing with that little blonde back behind the far billiard table.

Few of them were expecting the alien to, without a word or gesture of warning, deck their captain.

And none of them were expecting to see said captain come back up and promptly explode into a small golden tornado of ferocious, well-calculated, and downright dirty street-fighting.

The scuffle was over before the bartender could even move for his sonic rifle or the crewmen of the Enterprise could yell a protest (or an encouragement, depending).

One alien lay moaning on the ground, grasping at severely bruised ribs, (in addition to other, more sensitive, portions of his anatomy) and sporting a fast-swelling eye. The smaller alien had wisely attempted to run for it halfway through the fight; Spock had looked up from his PADD, reached out to nerve-pinch the brute, and returned to reading, after ascertaining that the captain was quite capable of finishing the battle on his own – and highly enjoying himself, by the look of it.

The Captain straightened up, mopped his forehead and then the blood pooling at the corner of his lips with the remnants of his torn sleeve, and folded his arms at the group of stunned crewmen who were gaping at him.

"We are Starfleet," he barked sternly. "We do not run from a battle, but to that same extent we do not instigate one. Self-defense is the only excuse I will ever accept from a crewman who gets himself into a physical altercation on shore leave or at any other time under my command. Am I clear, gentlemen?"

After an instant chorus of affirmatives, Starfleet's youngest captain snapped off a crisp "As you were," spun smartly in a military about-face, and returned to his seat; thus entirely missing the adoring looks from the new crewmen he'd acquired and the expressions of respect that had begun to build in the countenances of those more experienced.

When Spock delivered him a two-hundred-signature Ship's Petition the next morning, which requested that he hold weekly self-defense classes and teach said classes in person, no one was surprised except Kirk himself.

"Captain," and no, that was not peevishness in the tone crackling through the communicator; Vulcans did not get peeved, "are you quite certain Mr. Scott is functioning at full capability?"

Kirk smothered a laugh as Scotty's face turned an interesting shade complimentary to his uniform, his accent deepening to an affronted burr. "Mr. Spock, it's hardly m'fault that the blasted thing chose this minute to malfunction, now is it?"

"Considering that it was fully functional not ten minutes ago and that no indications of trouble in any other system aboard have arisen in those minutes, Mr. Scott, I am forced to speculate."

"Spock, leave him alone," the captain finally interjected, controlling his mirth. "You're just going to have to enjoy yourself down there for a few hours until we get it fixed."

"We, Captain?" The suspicion was evident; he was caught and he knew it – but there was nothing the Vulcan could do at the moment and so he only grinned.

"I think I might know what the problem is, Mr. Spock, and so yes, I will be helping Mr. Scott in the transporter repair. Oh, and Spock?" he added, in response to the muttered Vulcan words filtering through the communicator, "don't bother asking if it's been fixed, not for at least three hours."

"Understood," was the dry reply.

Kirk grinned, even though he knew he was going to hear about this for the next month. "Good, good, Mr. Spock. Have fun."

He snapped the channel closed on an indignant noise of protest against the accursed word, and grinned at his conspirator.

"You're in so much trouble, Captain," the Scotsman chuckled, leaning easily upon the console.

"I know, I know." The captain smiled, eyes alight with mischief. "But his fifteen Science departments are going to thank me for weeks. You know how he's been."

"Aye, all o' that Vulcans-don't-need-sleep malarkey doesn't really apply when it's been goin' on for five weeks," Scott agreed. "He's been wound tighter 'n a drum lately. I'm only surprised that the planet Command asked us t' survey is so similar to Vulcan's temperature and gravity."

"Mm…about that planet," Kirk hedged cautiously.

"Captain?"

"We might have…been just slightly off and mistaken one of its moons for the planet itself?"

The Engineer examined the younger man's face for traces of deception, and found far too many of them.

He'd never have put his money on the idea that Kirk could literally force his First Officer into a mini-shore leave on the only planet within seventy-five light-years that looked like home.

Bless his little considerate heart.

"Well, sir, it's a mistake that anyone could make."

"I'm so glad we understand each other, Mr. Scott."

Scott's eyes twinkled. "We do, Captain. I'll get on that transporter repair, sir."

"Excellent."

"As soon as ye give me the override codes t' unlock the console?"

The captain cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture of absolute innocence. "Ah. Well, you see, Scotty…"

"Shall we go get a bite o' lunch first, Captain?"

"Mr. Scott, I do like the way you think."

-ooo-

"Increase power to forward starboard shields," the captain barked sharply, as the ship rocked with the impact of another asteroid striking the hull.

"Increasing power, sir," Scott responded from the Engineering console.

"Compensate for gravimetric pull near that larger asteroid," Sulu muttered distractedly under his breath, and Chekov nodded, briefly shaking his hair in an effort to remove the perspiration from his face. "Good. Give me half-impulse aft thrusts on my mark when we reach the magnetic center. Ten degrees starboard."

Another massive asteroid struck the ship, but she barely moved this time. The captain sat tensely in his central chair, knowing better than to give orders to men who knew their jobs better than he did. "Steady as she goes, gentlemen," he remarked quietly, and that was all the encouragement the situation needed.

The Enterprise had been motionless in space for two days while repairs and upgrades were being made to the warp engines, and during that time they had drifted just barely too close to an asteroid belt, several of which larger bodies held a severe level of gravity that wreaked havoc with their sensors. Not expecting this influx of force, the ship had been ill-prepared to drift into such close proximity and found herself firing up the engines too late to steer clear of the belt.

As a result, they had been forced to navigate through the belt; and while this was not an extremely difficult feat under normal circumstances, especially for seasoned pilots and navigators, in this case several high-gravity asteroids and several more with immense magnetic properties near the center of the belt served to make the already difficult task absolutely nerve-wracking.

They'd been plodding slowly through the belt at impulse power, unable to warp out of the asteroid graveyard for fear of plummeting straight through a small planetoid, and for the last three hours the Bridge had been extremely tense, all personnel concentrating but Sulu and Chekov most of all.

"Steady," Sulu murmured, almost to himself. His fingers danced quickly over the controls, mirroring his co-navigator's movements. "One more burst should put us clear…make sure you stay well away from that third moon; its gravity is ten times that of the asteroids."

"Right…" the young Russian breathed, carefully checking and re-checking his coordinates.

"And…now!"

The ship jolted from the impact of a wandering asteroid, but then they were out – staring out the viewscreen at free stars, a Class-L planet and its orbiting moons fast disappearing to their left and below as they hurtled free through the vacuum of clear space.

"Course for rendezvous with the Declaration resumed, Captain," Spock's calm voice intoned as their speed increased. "All stations report functions normal. Minimal structural damage from the asteroid belt."

Twin sighs of relief exploded softly from the front console, and the captain's relieved huff of a laugh echoed them. "Well done, gentlemen," he said, nodding his thanks. "That's something they don't have you do in sims at the Academy."

Chekov grumped something in Russian, but Kirk amusedly did not ask him to repeat it; he heard Sulu's "You're so not kidding" loud and clear.

"Mr. Sulu, Mr. Chekov," he added, rising and moving down into the center of the Bridge, "take three hours off. Go get some dinner, coffee, a nap, a stimulant from McCoy, whatever you feel you need. Report back at 0530 hours; we'll want you at the controls when we hit the outskirts of the Alderann nebula."

"Keptan? Our shift has not concluded yet –"

"Ensign, you've been on duty for nearly ten hours due to subbing for Matthews and Renault this morning; there's no need for an experiment in how long you can function without a break for rest or food, and nothing is going to happen to us in this area of space," Kirk answered, smiling fondly at the young Russian. "I need you both at peak performance in three hours. Now get out of here. Mr. Spock, please call for a replacement helmsman and navigator."

Sulu's protest was swallowed up by a yawn, and the two men grinned somewhat sheepishly at their superiors' raised eyebrows.

"Out," Kirk ordered succinctly, jerking a playful thumb toward the turbolift doors.

"Aye, sir."

Once inside, Chekov glanced at his thoughtful companion. "Sulu?"

"Mm, just thinking about the Captain," the other replied absently. "He could have just given us an hour break, not three hours."

The navigator nodded emphatically. "He used to be a navigator himself, you know. (1) He probably knows what it is like to be under such pressure."

"And I doubt somehow that Captain Garrovick gave him a three-hour naptime in the middle of the evening," Sulu returned with a grin as they left the lift for the Officers' Mess.

Chekov snorted. "Is logical. He does not want us piloting the Enterprise into the Alderann nebula later."

Sulu thought of the quiet approval that had radiated from the command chair through the stressful last hours, the silent encouragement and lack of testy, nervous hovering that he had half-expected from the young captain, Kirk's recognition of their exhaustion; and he shook his head in fond amusement.

"Sure, Pavel. It's quite logical."

-ooo-

"Are you entirely certain, Captain?"

There was no tone of recrimination in the question, no unspoken reminders of the ugly events surrounding the worst transporter malfunction of his life, no undermining of his authority. Just the simple question, wanting to reaffirm that his decision was not rashly made.

He appreciated that Vulcan sympathetic honesty, and now nodded. "I am, Spock. She can't stay; it's too dangerous. For both of us," he clarified bitterly.

The Vulcan was silent, for he knew not what to say that might make the decision easier.

James Kirk was a healthy young man, particularly attractive by human standards, and subject to human impulses and emotions as any man was.

Janice Rand was an extremely forward, open-minded, and magnetic individual, who was also subject to those same impulses and emotions.

James Kirk (when in his right mind and body and not split in two, both halves slowly dying alongside his conscience (2)) cared too much about his command, his ship, and his people to ever act on those impulses.

His yeoman had proven, more than once, that she had no such convictions that the no-fraternization rules should be entirely upheld.

It could not be permitted to continue, and the captain had come to that decision on his own. Spock was more than slightly impressed by the logic involved in the choice to transfer the yeoman with a high-honors recommendation (3); it took more self-control than many men would have possessed to make the choice, and far more nerve to carry it out in the fact of the woman's quite understandably hurt (and angry) reaction.

Under other circumstances, in another profession, the situation might have been harmless. Here, aboard the Enterprise, with those two extremely vibrant personalities, it was deadly. And Kirk had realized this without outside help.

The captain was far more perceptive, and far more wise, than his youthful appearance would seem to indicate. He was making the right decision, protecting both of them by an enforced distance, despite the pain it caused at the time. Spock respected that.

And, many years later, so would Janice Rand.

Rubinius II was a planet inhabited by a humanoid species whose society was in an advanced technological state; warp drive capable, but with a history of limited space travel simply due to financial difficulties. The planet's government was a ridiculously complicated hierarchy, resulting in more planetary finances being diverted to its bureaucracy than to its people, who either congregated in large metropolises or else owned vast, hundred-acre farms surrounding them. The planet was rich in mineral deposits, and while there was no dilithium to be found, the other natural fuels and ores the small satellite hid beneath its agriculturally-rich exterior made it prime fodder for a Federation-Klingon conflict.

Therefore, James Kirk had been threatened with all the power the Admiralty could wield, of dire consequences to befall were he to botch this Second Contact mission and fail to win the alliance of the Rubini with the Federation.

The Rubini were an affable, tolerant people at First Contact; very few cultural taboos, and a wide variety of philosophical and societal views that excluded no individual based upon any sort of preference or prejudice. There were few laws save those pertaining to extreme violence or immorality in existence on Rubinius, for apparently there was no need for them, and those regulations that did exist were so obscure and their punishments so harsh, that there had been only scarce instances of law-breaking in the planet's history. In short, Kirk informed the landing party with a smug grin, it was virtually impossible to offend them by saying or doing the wrong thing – a rare gift, in diplomacy.

The Captain and his party, consisting of Spock, Lieutenant Sulu, two Security guards, and the newest ensign on rotation in the Xenosociety department, had spent the past five hours in pleasant conversation with the Rubini greeting party, touring the capitol grounds and generally stalling until the captain deemed the time right for beginning treaty negotiations. The planet's primary continent's capital, Roshkau, was as pristine and alienly beautiful as any they had ever seen; even Spock admitted to being intrigued by the intricacy of the Rubini architecture, and the parks and gardens scattered around the governmental plaza were filled with fragrant flowers and several varieties of insects and small rodentoid species.

Chancellor Rhana, the head of State, explained as they toured a lush, pond-scattered scape just outside the Third Branch of State building that all life on Rubinius was equally precious, and that even the flowers were carefully protected and cultivated against any predators save those necessary to balance the ecological system. Children were taught at a young age to, quite literally, 'keep off the grass,' save in those designated play areas scattered about, and to leave non-biodegradable litter in the public parks was one of the few offences serious enough on the planet to deserve confinement time.

Security guard Garrovick ducked a pseudo-horsefly the size of his fist, wide-eyed and simply praying the thing was not attracted to the color red. Kirk's eyes twinkled in humor at the suppressed swatting instinct before he turned his attention back to the Chancellor's far-too-detailed history of the building they were currently looking at over the park's fence.

A thump sounded from a nearby tree, and they looked wide-eyed as what looked like a purple flying-squirrel (with only the wings on its two front legs; it had no back legs, more like a bat than a squirrel) landed there and regarded them with beady black eyes, chiripping in cheerful greeting.

The place was idyllic, if a little strange with its creatures that looked like giant mutant versions of their Terran counterparts.

Kirk was absently trying to listen to Sulu's geek-out over a plant that apparently changed colors depending upon the mood of the person looking at it, when a sudden shout came from behind him. He was pushed a pace to his left, and at the same time caught a flash of red and the smell of ozone as his second Security man – Thompson, his name was – brought up his phaser in a rapid move and fired a short stun beam where his captain's head had been.

The largest wasp he'd ever seen, at least eighteen inches from tip to wickedly-barbed tail, fell to the grass and began twitching from the mild charge, buzzing angrily. The Rhau-besk, the things were called, he remembered from his briefing, and their sting was fatally poisonous within ten minutes.

And yet, that was the least of his difficulties. The monster wasp finally whirred angrily and then lay still, dead and harmless on the lawn of the park pathway.

And the entire group fell silent, horrified.

Kirk instantly stepped forward, hands outstretched slightly behind him on either side as if to physically shield his crew, but more to keep them from acting than protect them. "I'll take care of this," he snapped in a quiet, but no less forceful, order. "Back up, all of you. Not you, Thompson; stand with me. Spock, beam the rest of the landing party back to the ship. Now."

"Captain, I –"

"That was an order, Commander." The responding tone was brittle with ice, and even Spock dared not cross it.

"Aye, sir. Mr. Scott, four to beam up."

The whine of the transporter sounded behind them, but the Chancellor appeared not to notice, so focused was he upon the unfortunate Security ensign. Thompson stood, stunned at the rapid change in plans and emotions, and wondered what he did – other than saving his captain from death by the powerful venom the wasp carried in its stinger?

"Chancellor," Kirk began gently, and the ensign recognized the Kirk diplomatic voice immediately. "This was an honest mistake, and I can explain –"

"Kirk, there is no possible explanation or excuse for such a transgression!"

"Sir, I assure you, my man was only trying to protect me –"

Rhana's eyes flashed fire. "Enough, Captain! We will not negotiate with those who blatantly desecrate the sacred Rhau-besk! Your subordinate has broken one of our most sacred laws, Captain Kirk. You were made aware of this before your arrival here – and you were aware of the punishment that follows such a desecration."

The captain's face paled slightly, but his voice remained calm, soothing, in an effort to mend the situation. "I was aware, Chancellor," he admitted quietly.

"Captain, what the –"

"Shut up, Thompson."

The order was harsh, not at all like the usual calm energy that exuded from the captain, and Thompson stared, still uncomprehending. "Sir?"

"I said shut up," Kirk hissed from the corner of his mouth. "Unless you want to die here on this planet, Ensign?"

"For stopping a giant wasp from killing the captain?" the young man retorted, stung by the reaction to his simply doing his job.

"Ensign, the next time you are given a brief regarding a mission, I suggest you read the cultural taboo section," Kirk snapped, hazel eyes darkening to a dangerous green. "You've just killed their sacred animal – the physical manifestation of their god of death."

The Chancellor had been listening suspiciously to this muttered conversation, and took Thompson's horrified eyes as a signal that something had gone wrong somewhere. "The punishment for such an offense is, as you were well aware before arrival, Captain, death," he stated firmly. "Were you ignorant of this prior to your arrival, the punishment would have been mitigated. As it stands –"

"As it stands," Kirk interrupted, but with such finesse that the Rubini never realized it, "the offense is mine. I did not inform my men of the offense or its punishment, and therefore the blame for the offense must rest with me and me alone."

It was an outright lie – the captain would never dream of not informing a landing party of cultural no-no's; Thompson had just skimmed the report, being distracted at the time.

Wait, the punishment was death?

"Captain –"

"What do you not understand about the order to keep your mouth shut, Ensign?" the captain snapped, straining for control.

"But sir, they'll –"

"Chancellor," Kirk turned, glared determinedly up at the party before him. "As the fault was mine, in being remiss with my landing party, would you agree to administer the punishment to me alone, and continue to negotiate with those blameless members of my landing party?"

The taller man looked down, studying the captain curiously and not without respect. "Despite the grievous offense, we admire the desire to make amends for the wrong," he finally replied, "as well as the character of a leader who will willingly shoulder the blame for his own fault rather than foisting it off upon a likely scapegoat. I will resume our negotiations with you, Captain, if you are able to do so after the punishment."

Kirk's head shot up, partly in relief but mostly in bewilderment. Thompson was too terrified and sick to his stomach to do more than hope he had heard correctly. "The punishment for the sacrilege is death, Chancellor; I know that well," the captain answered solemnly. "I do not understand."

"Captain," and the taller man moved down to look pointedly between the two Starfleet officers, "I am well aware of your character, and am also aware of the fact that no man who can rise to a leadership position in your Federation would be so remiss as to leave his negotiating party uninformed of so serious a crime and its consequences."

The unfortunate ensign felt the blood drain from his face straight down into his shoes.

"That you would willingly shoulder the blame for the offense to protect an underling who does not deserve that consideration, is a worthy quality, and one that my people do not possess," the Chancellor declared regretfully. "We can learn much from your Federation and its people."

Hope brightened the captain's eyes.

"But the law must be upheld, Captain," the Chancellor continued with a darkening frown. "You speak of this Federation and tell us our governing system will remain our own, and yet you would refuse the punishment we administer for our greatest offense?"

The hope died, and even Spock would have been proud of the mask that fell smoothly across the captain's face. "I would not, Chancellor," he replied with unmistakable earnestness.

"Good," was the approving reply. "However, Captain, we are not unreasonable. Were you aware of our laws of innocent substitution when you took the blame for this man's crime?"

From the slight contraction of the sandy eyebrows, Thompson could see Kirk had no idea what the Rubini was talking about. "…No, sir, I was not," the captain replied truthfully.

"You speak the truth, which is well for you; for the clause would not be applicable to you as an outworlder had you been aware of its existence prior to your selfless act." Rhana's eyes softened slightly, and his aides had relaxed into a slightly horrified state, rather than the near-battle stance they had assumed after the initial wasp-killing. "The clause is rarely used, but in this case we will certainly apply it to this unfortunate situation. Namely, the law is this: if an innocent man desires to take a crime's punishment in the stead of a guilty man, then the sentence is mitigated to the next degree."

The captain mulled over this for a brief moment, slight relief bringing a bit of color back to his cheeks. "Am I permitted then, to know what the next step down is from the death penalty?" he inquired, without the traces of cocky humor he normally would have indulged in after learning a situation was not as bad as he had initially feared.

"You may call the practice barbaric, Captain, but it has proven a most effective incentive in our culture," the Chancellor replied, his voice tinged with slight regret. "The next lightest sentence after the death penalty is a flogging."

A brief look of horror crossed the young captain's face, but he squared his shoulders resolutely. "Then, Chancellor – I am prepared."

Rhana nodded solemnly. "We respect your offer of substitution, and we will negotiate with you, Captain Kirk, if you are able to do so after the sentence has been carried out. Your subordinate will accompany you."

"Captain," Thompson tried, forcing the words out past a throat numb with nausea.

Kirk glanced at him with eyes of cold steel. "That will be all, Ensign."

-ooo-

The next hour was the worst one Thompson could ever remember; he'd been through some horrible space battles, and one other disastrous away mission – and a traumatic childhood experience involving his older brother in a terrible hovercar accident – but none of them filled him with the raw, stomach-twisting horror of seeing his innocent captain taking a barbaric punishment that should by rights have fallen on him.

All his life and through the Academy he'd dreamed of being picked to serve on the Enterprise, for everyone knew only the best of the best were placed on the flagship; and now he was certain that he was to be jettisoned at the next Starbase – provided he was not court-martialed first for endangering a diplomatic mission and his captain's life.

Even his darkest thoughts could not fully distract him from the wicked singing of the whip as it was brought down on his stubbornly-silent captain's bare shoulders and back; each whistling brush through the air another reminder of his own incompetence. If only he had not been distracted with that transmission from his brother when the brief showed up on his monitor! He had only skimmed the information, more interested in the lives of his young niece and nephew, and now Kirk might even die due to his negligence.

Because the captain was willing to die to save him.

He thought he might be sick everywhere.

The whip cracked again, and he was almost relieved to see the captain finally go limp, dangling helplessly against the restraints that held him upright by his wrists against the post – but with the next strike, he choked back a wave of bile, for it was obvious that Kirk had not fainted, merely given up the will to remain on his feet against the pain.

And the captain still had not made a sound.

That hurt almost as much as the guilt did – the knowledge that he would have been a whimpering mess long before now in that situation, and that he would be dead now were it not for Kirk's volunteering to take the blame for something entirely not his fault.

Finally the strokes had been counted to their end, and silence fell across the courtyard. The guards who had seized him as he instinctively moved forward when the first strike fell released his arms slowly, and the Chancellor shot him an icy look of contempt that froze the blood rushing through his veins.

That look changed to one of surprise and respect, when the captain's ragged breathing halted for a moment. James Kirk slowly hauled himself back to his feet, obviously leaning against the post for support but standing nonetheless.

"The sentence is finished," Rhana spoke, the sound echoing around the carved granite of the courtyard. "Cut him down." The Chancellor turned to Thompson, his voice calm. "Tell your captain I will speak with him in fifteen minutes' time, in the Receiving Hall."

Thompson nodded, swallowing down the heated anger that flared up at the man's calmness about such a barbaric punishment, but wisely held his tongue completely; he was not about to make things worse than they already were by opening his big mouth.

A shadow darkened the bright sunlight at the edge of the awning under which he had been held as a spectator during the flogging, and he leaped forward to take the limp form of his captain from the guards supporting the half-conscious man on either side.

"Sir, I –"

"At ease, Ensign," came the murmured reply, forced through a jaw tightly clenched against the pain. Kirk's eyes were squeezed tightly shut, his breath coming in slow, shallow rasps in an effort to not move tortured muscles any more than they must be.

As one of the guards tossed the removed gold command shirt onto the bench, Thompson half-tugged, half-guided the captain back under the shade of the awning. He moved as if to lay the shorter man down on his front, but Kirk held up a hand, falling to one knee and bracing a hand against the bench.

"Sir, you have fifteen minutes, the Chancellor said; you should lie down –"

Kirk's thin laugh sounded more like a sob of pain than actual amusement, but he did smile slightly. "Yes, I should," he breathed, closing his eyes for a moment. "But if I do, I know I won't get back up…give me exactly six minutes to catch my breath and then get me back on my feet, Thompson."

"Sir, if I –"

"And…pipe down for those six minutes, will you?" the captain murmured, as his head dropped to rest on his hand, shoulders shaking with the strain of attempting to control the pain.

Thompson shut his mouth promptly, which he would have done anyway for it was with that final motion that the captain slumped enough that he could see the extent of the damage of the man's back for the first time. The whip had been of thick leather, and the wielder of it not brutal but certainly expert; laying the lashes with methodical evenness from shoulder to waist, the last layer cutting deeply into the first and second, creating welts and drawing a critical amount of blood that, if not attended, to could possibly cause the captain to bleed out within four hours, he judged.

If the negotiations took longer than two, Thompson decided he was comm-ing McCoy, orders or no orders. He didn't have anything to lose anyway; he was certainly losing his posting and possibly his commission over this already.

The six minute-mark finally passed, and he hesitantly dropped down beside the captain's heaving form.

"Sir, what can I do?" he helplessly settled for asking, and wished his voice hadn't decided to crack just as he spoke the first word.

Kirk's head lifted, eyes dull and clouded with pain as they looked at him. "Next time I send you a briefing…read it…in its entirety, Mr. Thompson," he answered, a bitter edge sharpening the words into a knife straight through the heart.

Wordlessly, for he knew he probably would burst into tears if he looked any longer at that pain-filled expression, he could only nod.

"Get me up, Ensign," Kirk gasped, after valiantly trying to stand on his own power and failing the first two attempts. "We've got a treaty to nego…" Thompson winced at the strangled noise that substituted for the end of the word, when the captain moved his arms for the first time.

"Sir, should I call Mr. Spock and the Doctor?" the ensign asked hopefully.

Kirk glared at him under a sheen of perspiration. "You may recall the landing party down here once we're in the Hall, Ensign, and not before. And not a word of this is to be breathed to any of them, is that clear?"

"Sir, you can hardly –"

"The Rubini are evidently admirers of strength, physically and that of character, Thompson. I will not show weakness in front of them unless absolutely forced to," Kirk snapped, though his face went a deathly shade of gray as he attempted a cautious neck roll.

Thompson was silent.

"Besides, have you ever seen a Vulcan version of a total nervous freak-out before?" the captain asked, quirking an impertinent grin at his subordinate.

"A…" The younger man gulped, wondering if the captain had perhaps lost some of his sanity along with the blood oozing from his back. "No, sir. I have not."

"Trust me, you don't want to," the captain returned with a wan smile. "Now, Ensign…I would appreciate the loan of your black undershirt, if you would be so kind."

Thompson's heart crept slowly up into his throat in an effort to choke him, for he knew exactly why the captain would want the extra layer – to soak up the blood between skin and gold tunic while he attempted to salvage this mess to end all messes.

Kirk made one attempt at pulling the cloth over his head, nearly passed out on the spot, and then none-too-eagerly accepted the aid from his subordinate. As he carefully yanked the hem of the shirt down and then helped the captain on with his tunic, Thompson attempted to ignore the small noises of pain that seemed to escape the captain's compressed lips despite his efforts – incredible ones, too – at controlling the agony of tortured muscle and flesh. The man's skin was not clammy as it had been five minutes ago, however; either adrenaline had driven off the shock or else Kirk simply had a virtually non-existent pain threshold (possibly both).

When the captain stepped confidently into the Receiving Hall four minutes later, and launched into the most brilliant diplomatic discussion of his mission thus far (even Spock was suitably impressed), Thompson knew at that moment he would die himself – kill himself, if need be – before ever letting something like this happen to his captain again.

-ooo-

He had intended to see the captain to Sickbay (he had still not been given a regression of orders about hiding the injuries from the rest of the crew), but Kirk gave himself away when they materialized. Beginning to step off the Transporter Pad, the captain swayed drunkenly.

"Captain?" Spock's eyebrows crawled together, puzzled, and he took Kirk's arm to steady him.

Unfortunately, when the captain staggered again the Vulcan's reaction was the typical one; he kept hold of the gold sleeve with one hand and cautiously brought the other to support the center of balance in the lower middle of the captain's back.

Thompson started forward with a worried warning but was too late. Kirk went white to the lips and promptly passed out with a faint moan, legs buckling bonelessly under him as he slumped into the Commander's arms.

"Captain!"

Spock took one look at the limp golden head lolling against his sleeve, as well as the blood that was now beginning to soak its way through the third layer of fabric, and turned the most frightening glare any of them had ever seen upon the quivering ensign.

And after that day, Thompson could safely say that he had seen the Vulcan version of a freak-out, thanks very much.

-ooo-

Dr. McCoy was frightening to most of the crew when he was in a pleasant mood; now, as he flew about the ward in Sickbay, barking orders to anyone in sight (and swearing something awful at those who were a bit too slow in jumping when he said jump), he was truly frightening. Even Spock, after having gently deposited his captain on his stomach upon the bio-bed, retreated before the inexorable force of those icy blue eyes, which were showering shards of cold fury upon the entire landing party for not having a med team ready in the Transporter Room when they had beamed back aboard.

Thirty minutes later, after the captain had been stabilized with an IV of fluids and was recovering from two blood transfusions, Thompson released a breath he had no idea he had been holding and turned resolutely to his CO. Spock had been waiting silently outside the large glass window separating the Captain's Room (yes, McCoy had finally started calling it that when Kirk came aboard so often in need of it) from the rest of the ward, eyes fixed upon the scene inside and their soft brown flaring into a black smolder every time Kirk unconsciously flinched under the CMO's gentle hands.

"Commander Spock," the ensign began. He wished his voice were not so hoarse, as the Vulcan no doubt was disgusted enough with him already, without added emotional displays.

"Ensign."

"Sir, I…it's probably time for me to be placed on report."

Spock's eyes left Kirk's pale face for a moment, flickering downward in the closest approximation to a quizzical look as a Vulcan ever got. "On report, Mr. Thompson?"

"Aye, sir." He gulped, but continued resolutely; it was only the right thing to do even if it meant accepting that his whole dream-future had collapsed around him and buried him in the rubble today. "I can walk myself to the brig if you would prefer to remain here, sir."

Spock spared him a mildly exasperated eyebrow. "Ensign. If the captain wished you placed on report, he would have informed me of that fact when we met on the planet's surface for negotiations," he replied dryly.

"He was hardly in a condition to do so, sir –"

"Nevertheless, if he intended to administer official repercussions for this incident his attitude toward you would have been vastly different, Mr. Thompson; in fact, I recall specifically his asking to speak with you privately upon the completion of our mission." That eyebrow hovered threateningly. "Captain Kirk's protection of his crew is his primary concern at all times. You will not demean his sacrifice today nor complicate his recovery by presuming to dictate his commands, Ensign."

The intense tone should have sent him crying for cover, but instead he only trembled in relief. For if Mr. Spock did not believe Kirk intended severe repercussions for his actions, then that was the truth; the Vulcan knew the captain better than anyone aboard. He might still be transferred to a Starbase, but at least Kirk would not be booting him in disgrace before then. He could be happy with that; it was far more than he deserved.

He had never before been in such close quarters with the half-frightening, half-intriguing First Officer before, and as such his nervousness had only compounded with the passing of minutes. He had been petrified that he would bear the blame for Kirk's condition – as well he should – but no retribution had been given from the Vulcan and he was grateful for small favors.

He had never seen a Vulcan actually close his eyes in relief before, but he watched in surprise as this one did, when McCoy finally marched out the door of the captain's room and growled an affirmative to the question put to him about Kirk's condition.

"Then I shall be on the Bridge, reporting to Starfleet regarding the Rubinius II alliance, Doctor, as I shall not get a word in edgewise with you at the moment," Spock finally interrupted the tirade regarding Kirk's propensity for trouble.

McCoy cocked his head to the side, looking at the Vulcan. "What, you're not going in to see him?"

"I am certain you will agree that the captain need not have an abundance of visitors in order to facilitate his healing process, Doctor; and the ensign, I believe, needs to see him more than I."

The young man gaped after Spock as the perceptive Vulcan left, wondering if he had heard correctly – that he needed to talk to Kirk, to see if Kirk was okay, rather than the captain wishing to speak with him. He's never thought Vulcans would make decent psychologists.

McCoy apparently had, for the doctor shot him a calculating look and then pointed him toward the door of the recovery room.

Kirk was lying on his side, for he hated sleeping on his stomach, propped up between pillows on both sides and with an IV drip fastened to the back of his free hand. His pale eyelids shivered slightly, as he no doubt was fighting the onset of secondary sedation with every cell in his body.

"Captain?" Thompson finally asked softly, not willing to wake the man if he were asleep already.

The captain's eyelids fluttered unsteadily for a moment, and then opened completely, eyes alert enough if slightly cloudy from medication. "Mr. Thompson," he rasped in reply, wincing at the gravelly sound of his voice. "Sit down, if you please."

He grabbed the chair and moved it into position so that Kirk would not have to move more than his eyes to see him, and sat.

"Stop that," the captain chided gently, seeing how he was fairly shredding the cuff of his uniform shirt in his nervousness.

"Yes, sir."

Kirk looked at him for a moment, and then gave him a weak smile. "Relax, Ensign. There's no serious harm done here; you look like you think I'm going to jettison you out the nearest airlock for a simple mistake."

"Simple mistake!" he exclaimed. The monitor over Kirk's head beeped loudly in protest, and he hastily lowered his voice. "Sir, that 'simple mistake' nearly cost you your life, and definitely would have had they not had those substitutiary laws!"

"Yes," Kirk agreed simply. Seeing the ensign's face crumple, he continued gently. "But had you not stunned that wasp in the first place, Thompson, I most likely would have been dead anyway."

He hadn't thought of that.

Kirk nodded. "You made a mistake, Ensign – a big one," he stated. Thompson winced, but knew he definitely did not deserve for words to be minced in the matter. "However," the captain continued, his voice softening, "it's a mistake anyone could have made. And I'd rather you make a mistake in trying too hard to do your job, than making a mistake out of sheer carelessness for the lives around you."

"Sir, I…" He could not meet the gentle amber eyes, and studied his still-dusty boots instead. "I…am so sorry," he whispered helplessly.

He felt rather than saw the older man smile. "I know you are, Ensign. If I thought you were not, then I would be transferring you immediately."

Head jerking up, he stared at the captain in incredulity, and a budding hope. "Sir?"

Kirk chuckled weakly. "You're not going anywhere, Thompson. A crewman who makes a mistake and learns from it is the type of crewman I want aboard this ship, because it means he will be twice as careful the next time around. Granted, if this sort of thing happens again, then –"

"It won't, sir," he breathed, relief rushing through him like a flood of warm water, thawing the icy fear that had gripped him all morning. "I swear it, Captain."

"Good." Though the smile had fallen from Kirk's face out of sheer sleepiness from medication, his eyes were still warm and forgiving. Thompson could have cried out of sheer happiness. How did you thank your superior for saving your neck at the expense of his own? Any other captain in the 'Fleet might – probably would – have left him to fend for himself, not willing to disturb the wheels of native justice and risk the treaty-signing.

"All right, you two – Thompson, get your backside out of there or I'll drag you out, so help me!" McCoy's voice screeched through the inter-comm beside the bed.

He jumped, and the captain laughed before muttering around a small yawn. "Go on, Ensign."

"Aye, sir. Captain, I…" He trailed off as the man's eyes fluttered closed, then dragged themselves open again, dazed.

"Sorry," came the sleepy apology. "Bones has me pumped full of who-knows-what…"

"I'll let you sleep, sir," he promised, and turned to go.

"Ensign," Kirk called after him, shifting slightly to look at the young man.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Someone once told me that mistakes…are only mistakes if you refuse to learn from them. When you do learn, then they're called experience."

He took a deep breath and summoned up a watery smile, and a much sharper, more respectful salute.

The captain smiled back, and waved a limp hand. "Dismissed."

(1) See the episode Obsession
(2) The Enemy Within
(3) We never see Rand again after the first few TOS episodes (not that I missed her in any way, believe me); she disappeared until ST:TMP. I really don't think Kirk would have been foolish enough to keep her around long after the events of Enemy Within, Naked Time, and Miri; he might have enjoyed the attention and even been attracted to her, but he wasn't an idiot.