His heart rate had elevated around three o'clock in the afternoon, which worried Nurse Wang. He insisted that it was nothing, and for her not to worry, but she in turn insisted on running tests, skipping muscle strengthening, and hitting him with a higher than usual dosage of sleep medication much earlier than usual.
Jim couldn't really protest, because what was he supposed to say? That around three o'clock his intellectual musings had desisted into reliving Spock's lips around the straw, and then applying it to... Other things? That his hand had trailed below the belt to deal with the sudden problem, the entire short time worrying that she or Spock would catch him, by the end moaning the later name into his fist, and then dealing with the new problem of what to do with the evidence by making the arduous climb to the bathroom? Yeah, no. He'd didn't get embarrassed easily, but that would have put him in the grave.
So he paid for his transgressions with an early bed time. Not that he minded, really, because he was exhausted, in part due to his transgression, one he'd become more familiar with being Captain and not having the regular flow of women he used to at the academy, but he was also tired all the time these days.
Sleep was uneventful, the pure bliss of a heavy, dreamless knock out. It was how he woke up that was interesting.
He slammed into consciousness, eyes flicking open and breathing pattern changing immediately, as he'd come accustomed to with medication mediated sleep patterns.
Despite his sudden waking and resulting stretch and yawn, he caught it. The soft stroke of fingers on his hair, the way his mother used to while she cried, and he sat, terrified, trapped in her drunken arms. The fingers froze mid journey, but Jim did not want them to stop, so he closed his eyes and pretended to fall back asleep, turning slightly towards the motion. The hand resumed its stroke, pushing his hair away from his forehead, neat and smooth, precise.
"Spock," he fake murmured, cracking his eyes just slightly to see the response. The one he received was not the one he was expecting.
"He is here, Captain," said Uhura, and at that Jim opened his eyes fully, staring into Nyota's kind, weary face. He blinked a couple times to make sure it was her.
"Good morning Lieutenant," Jim sits up much easier than he did yesterday. She laughs slightly at his statement,
"Captain it's three in the morning, and I don't deem that a "good morning". But whatever floats your boat sir."
"I thought you were released for your two month leave yesterday-why aren't you in South Africa yet?"
"My shuttle was laid over in New York for two hours, and I thought I'd say good bye to Spock before I left. He just happened to be here with you," she smiles, "So I thought I might as well say goodbye to you too."
"I'm flattered Uhura," Jim says with slight sarcasm, and she rolls her eyes.
"Oh stop. You know I would have come even if Spock was somewhere else." Her communicator beeps, alerting her that he launch time is approaching. " I'm so sorry, but I do have to run. You slept through most of my visit. Now get better, okay Captain?"
"Yes ma'am," he said craning his neck up as she kissed his forehead. "Um, you missed. My lips are down here,"
"You never let up Captain," she chuckled, retreating from the bed and approaching Spock. She woke him by stroking her hand down his face, who stirred gently in his sleep, blinking blearily at his beautiful girlfriend.
"Nyota,"
"Goodbye Spock,"
"Goodbye," she kissed him, tenderly, cupping his face, as his hand held her arm, their lips pressed so softly, so perfectly together. Kirk closed his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose. His infatuation was irrational, now he just needed to convince himself of this. Why did he have to die? And why did he have to come back to life? He was Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise damn it, he needed to pull himself together, get off this damn bed and out of this damn hospital. But not right now. I was three in the morning, after all.
Nyota graced him with one last smile before slipping into the hall, door hissing behind her. Spock directed sleep clouded eyes in his direction, mouth open, about to question something.
"Sleep Spock," Jim ordered, but gently, and the man obliged immediately. His eyes closed, his head drooped onto his shoulder, and he was gone.
Wait.
Had Spock been sleeping in his room every night, in that horribly uncomfortable chair no less?
Well, wow.
That made up for the not stroking the hair thing and nearly giving himself away in front of Uhura. But now he was wide awake with no where to go but up and out of the bed-he was feeling remarkably better, whatever they were medicating him with (other than Khan's blood) was working wonders.
Taking a deep breath he slid his legs over the side of the bed, and then put weight on them, before lifting out of bed. No shaking, no nausea, no feeling that his bones were brittle enough to snap like twigs if he took a step. So he did. And another, and another. He wanted to laugh out loud, but was afraid to wake his commander, slumped so uncomfortably in that chair, still in full uniform, gray hat askew on his still impeccable hair.
Kirk grabbed his physical therapy cane just in case and after a second thought his communicator, slinking into the hall, checking to make sure the coast is clear, and then starting off.
The hospital was almost eerie at night, though undoubtably very busy in the ER on the bottom floor and emergency surgery on the first couple floors. But up here in long term care, it was silent except for the whir of air conditioning and the lights as they flicked on and off as he passed underneath them.
He didn't use his cane, he didn't need it, his legs were working almost perfectly, though they did lock strangely once or twice, causing him to wince with pain. He even narrowly avoided a speeding janitor bot, coughing in the chemical lemon fumes it left in its wake. One turn at the end of the hall and he was there, good thing too, because he was definitely tiring.
A giant viewing window that reminded him of observation deck 7 back on the Enterprise glittered before him. New York City towered and sprawled before him, lights twinkling and flickering like a human galaxy. It was beautiful, but nothing man made could ever hold a candle to the majesty of space.
A purple search light swept across the city, and it hit him.
The sinking feeling, the shots, the glass exploding, the torpedoes and the explosions, his desperate attempts to take out the ship before it was too late, the crunch as it went down, Khans cool face as he transported away. The run back to the conference room, locating Spock, locating Pike. Knowing it was too late, that Pike s dead, that his only real father was gone, the horrible crushing anguish that he had failed, that he had failed again, and Pike was gone. Forever.
Kirk gasped, lurching forward, stumbling as his legs gave way, bracing on himself on the three inch glass.
The stinging, his eyes were watering. The burning, he was on fire. But it didn't matter, he had to save the ship. Bang. Bang. Bang. One more. One more. One more. The burning was fading, leaving a sickening tingling in its wake. He was out of his head, he was dying, but he kept going walking, stumbling, crawling, dragging himself the final meters, sealing off the core, knowing it wouldnt matter in his lifetime. The fear, the horrible, crippling knowledge that he was in a no win scenario, and he was going to pay the dearest price for his arrogance, just like his father. Spock, there. Spock, with him through the horror. His lost final words, pressing his hand to the door in a last ditch effort to convey what he never knew he needed to say, hands separated by three inch glass-
Kirk gasped for air, fighting his way through the flash back. He griped his communicator, digging his nails into the tile, grounding himself in reality. He was here. He was alive. He was here, not in the warp core. He was not burning, it was cold. It was cold. It was cold.
Breaking free he took in one more gulp before returning to normal breathing patterns. Jesus. It had never been that bad before. Jim was crumpled on the ground, his cane had skittered away in his convulsions. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the seam in the window, using it to heave him of upwards, bracing on the glass as he took one limping step, and then another, snatching his cane off the ground, using that to support the left, and the wall to support his right, communicator tucked into his star fleet issued boxer briefs because yes, this entire adventure had occurred in a paper hospital gown.
Then his cane slipped on the trail left by the racing janitor bot that had nearly knocked him over earlier. It went flying forward, and so did he, losing his precious grip on the wall as he wiped out on the ground.
"Not again," he groaned. He was going to have serious bruises to explain to Wang tomorrow. He reached his hand up for something to grab onto on the wall, a ledge, a handle, a niche, anything. There was nothing. Beginning to panic now he stretched for his cane, but it was about a meter away, and across the very slick floor. "Damn it," he muttered, brining his shaking legs under neath him, managing to kneel, but when he tried to stand he began shaking horribly, which he assumed as a bad thing, and decided to stop.
Nausea, something he hadn't felt since the first couple days out of his coma, rushed though him, and he groaned, putting his head between his knees and leaned against the wall, trying not to hyper ventilate. Shit. This was bad.
His communicator in hand, he flicked it open without thinking.
"Spock," and waited the moment it took on earth for the system to find the desired recipient.
Then more panic began to set in. What if Spock didn't wake up? Want if he'd turned his communicator off? What if-
"Jim?" The voice was tired, but panic bled in as he realized the situation. "What has happened? Where are you?"
"I can't get up Spock. Jesus Christ, I can't get up," anxiety began to take over and his voice broke as he lost the battle against hyper ventilation. "Jesus."
"Where are you?" Spock insisted.
"The hallway. Christ Spock, I can stand, I can't stand. " Jim was hyper ventilating now, shivering. It was suddenly freezing.
A door swished open, was his room really that far down the hall, and a frantic Spock looked away before he spotted him, shoving his communicator into his dress uniform and sprinting to his location, dropping to his knees at his side, helping him stand. God, he was so weak! So helpless! He wasn't even in control of his own mind.
"Your cane Captain," Jim could barely grab it, his hand was shaking so bad, and he missed it the first time. They began their limping, shuddering walk back to the room, Jim's arm slung across Spock's shoulders, trying to calm his rapid breathing.
"Try and relax Captain. Take deep breaths," Jim tried, but then his chest caught. He stumbled, and Spock stooped with him, taking all his weight.
"I can't." Jim tried gulping in air, but there wasn't enough, he was suffocating. "I can't breathe. I can't breathe. Spock I can't breathe."
"Hold on Captain," he said, and then the world was moving as he was lifted, and swung into rock like arms. Blood pulsed in his eyes, jittering the hallway as his door approached much faster now, carried by his first officer.
"I feel like," Jim groaned, throwing his head back into Spock's shoulder. "God, like there is a shuttle on my chest. Jesus."
"Hold on," he repeated, every so gently lying Jim on his bed as he writhed and gasped for air, trying to dislodge whatever was weighing on his chest, crushing his lungs, crushing his throat like when Spock has choked him on the bridge. It didn't compute that because he was talking, he must be able to breathe.
"Nurse Wang, come in, this is Acting Captain Spock, yes it's extremely urgent, something is wrong with Jim."
She appeared moments after that, sleep disheveled, ordering that Spock restrain his shoulders while she ran tests, and Jim watched her with rolling eyes, trying to take deep breaths, focusing on Spock's worried brown expression above him, so dark you could barely make out the his pupils
, even in the now blinding hospital light.
Finally whatever the weight was lifted, and he took a deep, lung filing breath, relief washing through him. Thank God. For some reason he though he was having a heart attack, even though no one got those any more.
Nurse Wang hypoed his neck with something, and immediately all his muscles relaxed and he smiled as a pleasant rum like haze descended over his mind.
"What was his ailment nurse?" Spock clipped, turning to face the exhausted woman. Instead of answering she beckoned him into the hall, and he followed, eyebrow raised curiously. Despite Jim's less than lucid state, he could hear the conversation, and analyzed it later.
"I'd repeat my inquiry but that would be illogical."
"Sometimes you are too Vulcan. And there is nothing physically wrong with him. He's actually ahead of schedule in physical recuperation."
"I am sorry Nurse Wang, but the complexities of human pranks escape me. You witnessed the same events I did. How can nothing be amiss?"
"I didn't say nothing was amiss. Physically yes, nothing is wrong aside from bruising on his knees and elbows from a fall. But psychologically he has to be a mess Spock. Leonard McCoy brought him back from the dead for Gods sake! No one has ever come back from the dead before. And Jim Kirk didn't pass away peacefully from old age. He died burning from radiation in a warp reactor on a falling star ship. Not to mention all the trauma experienced before that."
"So you are stating he is suffering from... Emotional injury?" There is no sigh, but it is implied.
"Physiological trauma officially diagnosed as PTSD, but close enough. What we, well you mainly, witnessed back there was an anxiety event, panic attack, what ever you want to call it-hyperventilation, heart-attack like symptoms, he most likely experienced flash backs... It's a text book case. Can you blame him?"
"Can you heal him?" This time there is an audible sigh.
"There is no magic cure. I gave him a hypo to keep him calm for the next few hours so we can both get some sleep, and it shouldn't be a problem after that. But there's no way of knowing if or when it is going to happen again. He just needs time, Spock. Give it to him. And if he's half the man they say he is, well, he'll get through this."
"He is twice the man they say he is," is Spock's reply, and with a swish, he is back in his seat, fingers steepled before his face, watching Jim.
Jim wants to say something to that last comment, but he'll either admit what he was trying so hard to hide or start to cry, both of which happened when he was as drunk as he felt.
Passing out was the most diplomatic solution.
Hello all!
Just to let you know, most updates aren't going to come as quickly as they will these next few days. I had this plot bunny, but its grown into a plot beast, so expect plenty of chapters around 2,000 words. I'm excited to explore this characterization of Kirk, because come on, that scene was the Spirky-est moment since the opposite scene in the Wrath of Khan, and in some ways even more so. Is his love requited? Just wait and see. Also I want to try and take Pine's Kirk, which I feel is often misrepresented in fic, and add a little shatner in there. Such as unnecessary touching.
Oh also, this may become M, like very M, in the future, though Im not sure. I'll warn you at the beginning of a chapter if it is.
Happy almost Independence Day to those in the USA!
-Natcat
