Chapter rating: M

Every time Jim glanced at the biomonitor above Spock's bed his stomach gave a sickening little jolt, because the readings were in the red. Then he reminded himself that they were normal for Vulcans and calmed down, only to get an adrenaline burst all over again a few minutes later. Spock was well past the danger zone – the nurses had left not long ago – but Jim hated when Spock was injured, and hated it even more when the one responsible was at large.

He fought to keep a cool head and a light tone. If he didn't, he would probably commandeer Uhura's station and broadcast an angry challenge to Trelane over all known channels to every corner of the Federation. "I don't think he fully understood the concept of Cupid," he said, glancing at the bloodstained arrow on the surgeon's tray.

"That's one way of putting it," McCoy snorted. "Another way is the lazy, good-for-nothing child didn't do his homework and ought to be stuck in the corner with a dunce hat." He sighed as he reached for the dermal regenerator. "We should have gotten his parents' number last time. I would give them an earful they'd never forget."

"I don't doubt it," Jim said, and hesitated as he studied Spock's face. He could have been sleeping, if it weren't for the sickbay jumpsuit. There wasn't even a scar where McCoy had finished his work. "Well, we can't do anything about it now. Except put Trelane's face on the gaming room dart boards."

"Do that, and I might just turn pro." McCoy mimed throwing darts at the far wall with the regenerator, then turned to Jim with a sarcastic grin. "Hey, whaddya know? Bullseye, right on his stupid, pretentious nose." He set his instruments down a little too hard on the surgeon's tray and carried them over to the sterilizer.

"This is going to make for an interesting report," Jim said. "Dear Starfleet. Ran into that naughty little boy again. He meddled with my ship, terrorized my crew, crashed our Valentine's party by shooting my first officer with an ancient Terran weapon, then vanished without a trace. So how's the weather at HQ?"

"C'mon, Jim. You did the best anyone could under the circumstances."

"That's the problem. The best anyone can do is absolutely nothing. Only his own kind can keep him in check, and who knows where they are." Jim sank into a chair near Spock's bed, and got another minor heart attack from glancing at the biomonitors. "For God's sake, Bones, can't you recalibrate that damn thing?"

"What?"

Jim gestured at the offending panel. "If these readings are normal, set it as a baseline."

He realized how close to certifiable he must have sounded when Bones furrowed his brow and put on his concern face. "Sure, Jim. No problem," he said, in the soothing doctor's tone he used on jumpy patients. He tapped at a medical console, and Spock's readings settled into the green. "Look, I think you should get some rest. It's almost oh-two-hundred."

"Not until my first officer wakes up," Jim said. "He needs to know our current status."

"We can't tell for sure when he'll come out of the healing trance, especially with the sleep deprivation. He needs his rest even more."

"Bones, I can't just–"

"You were powerless, Jim," McCoy suddenly snapped. "You were powerless, and he hurt Spock. I know that kills you, but you've got to face the facts."

"I never should have believed him," Jim snarled back, twisting around in his chair to face McCoy. "I should have fought him every step of the way, but I didn't. I made the call. I decided to trust him." He realized he was shaking. With fury or anxiety, he wasn't sure.

"Things weren't going too bad before this. And you didn't act in a vacuum, Jim. The rest of us were willing to wait it out and see what happened."

"Except for Spock." Jim muttered, his eyes drawn back to his friend. He was nearly overwhelmed by the urge to touch Spock's forehead, brush the dark fringe of hair to the side, if only to see if it felt as silky as it looked.

"You've had a rough day," Bones was saying, somewhere in the distance. "Scotty has the con. Now go to bed, before I make it an order."

Jim allowed himself to be hauled up by his arm and pushed toward the door. "Call me the second he wakes up."

Jim was no stranger to work-related insomnia. He could go for weeks at a time without issue as long as they were in Federation space handling milk runs. That was rarely the case these days, as they ventured deeper and deeper into unknown territory, guided only by the readings of distant telescopes. The spectacular views of new planets and nebulae, successful first contacts, and the constant barrage of information often kept him awake with sheer excitement. The dangers were an altogether less pleasant trigger of sleepless nights.

The dangers were what plagued him now, and his mounting frustration at his restlessness only served to make it worse. If Trelane came back, he had to be at the top of his game, but tonight was one of those nights where every relaxation technique in the book failed him.

His first officer, his best friend, was incapacitated in sickbay, and the culprit could be anywhere and nowhere. Jim found himself trapped in a mental catch 22; whenever he forced Spock from his mind, he started worrying about Trelane, and whenever he ousted Trelane, his thoughts returned to Spock.

Severed artery, Bones had told him. Enough tissue damage to induce the trance. Fairly serious blood loss. They used up more than half of the blood Spock had banked over the last six months during the course of the operation. Jim could still see it through the darkness behind his eyelids, staining his shirt sleeves green as he applied pressure while McCoy and a small army of nurses set up the emergency operating theater. It just kept flowing, pouring over his hands. It wasn't the first time, and he knew it wouldn't be the last.

He'll be fine, Jim told himself, and rolled over to find a cool spot on his pillow. He's stable. All he needs is rest. He's going to be fine. It was only when he started to believe it that he realized reassuring himself was a bad idea. His mind stopped dwelling on Spock's health, and in his exhaustion, it was free to drift toward the roots of his concern.

Important colleague, he thought firmly. Valuable member of Starfleet. Loyal friend.

Warmth, his body whispered. Want. Magnetism, humming just beneath his everyday awareness. Jim was rarely attracted to men, so when it did happen, said attraction was persistent and distracting. But it was one thing to appreciate a married, 20th century Earth pilot from a safe distance, leaving him back in his own time. Appreciating a fellow Starfleet officer he saw every day, and a Vulcan one at that, was out of the question.

Yet he couldn't micromanage his brain, and more than once over the past year, he had dreamed of Spock in a nonsensical and decidedly nonprofessional context. They were stupid dreams, all covert shower glimpses and nudist planets and tight hiding spots. Within them he felt as awkward and embarrassed as a teenager, with even less sanity at his disposal, but the sheer amount of tension between his uncontrollable dream-self and Spock was always the same.

The first time it had spooked him for a week, so much so that he couldn't even look at his first officer without breaking into a sweat. After the second or third time, he started conjuring up excuses about his subconscious venting stress or frustration over a lack of intimate companionship. Mostly he just tried not to think about it. This was always more difficult at night, when nothing seemed quite as real as when he paced the bridge.

"You're a very lonely man, aren't you, Captain?"

No point in dwelling on something out of reach.

Jim rolled over to his side, his other side, his back, but nothing was even slightly comfortable. He huffed out a sigh, and tried to ignore the faint tightness of his briefs, but any attempts at distraction felt artificial. When there wasn't anything to do, no paperwork or planets or enemy ships, almost nothing could drag his attention away from his libido once it got even the slightest bit of momentum. How he even had a libido at all when he was so wrecked by stress was beyond him.

It had been a few days, he thought vaguely, and it did always help him sleep. But ever since that first alarming dream, it had become tricky to indulge in the sin of Onan without his mind wandering to places where it ought not go, should never go. Lately the constant reigning in of his imagination's whims made the experience more like a chore than anything else.

"Don't you wish for someone to warm your bed? Bestow upon you the saucy looks of Caravaggio's models? Writhe beneath you like St. Sebastian?"

Spock may not have fully understood the references, but Jim did. Images that had seemed merely amusing during an obligatory art history class many years ago were far more interesting than his younger self had given them credit for. After so much experience with the explicit, now it was the subtle that got under his skin more easily. And if he had to describe Spock in one word, it would be subtle.

No, Jim thought furiously. He was not doing this. He was not fantasizing about his friend, not ever, and especially not now. But all the same, the near miss today had only amplified his emotions, and the desires attached to them, to frightening levels. Because, after all, what if Spock had died? His willpower was brittle with fatigue, and his head spinning with doubt.

A quick glance at the clock informed him that at this point, he had to try something, unless he wanted to pass out and drool on the arm of his command chair tomorrow.

He gave up and pushed down his briefs to take himself in hand.

He focused his thoughts intently around Mia, an Orion girl from his academy days, one of his first and best lovers. She was the one who helped him get over his bookworm's embarrassment in those early years, who taught him how to talk about sex and revel in the act. He thought about the way her soft thighs tightened around him, the way her slender waist twisted in pleasure. The way she made him feel whenever she turned up the pheromones enough that they could spend all day in bed.

He fell into his usual rhythm; a few long, punishingly slow strokes followed by twice as many short, quick ones. Then stopping for a moment to build anticipation, teasing the head with his thumb, gathering the slickness there into his palm.

She'd probably dyed her hair again, he thought idly. It was never the same for more than a few months. Maybe it was darker now. He always thought she looked her best when it was black, set against her skin, flushed dark green with exertion.

He drew a finger into his mouth, then another, sucking gently for a few seconds as he lifted his knees and planted his feet flat on the bed. He worked them into himself, impatient, seeking out the spot that he knew would curl his toes and bow his back. But impatience could only carry him so far; finishing in five seconds wouldn't satisfy or wear him out in the slightest, so he walked a thin, agonizing line between too much and not enough.

Tonight, the version of Mia in his head was not aggressive or confident. Her hands were cautious, almost methodical, her kisses exploratory. She was asking him what he liked instead of telling him, her shyness mitigated by curiosity.

As he grew closer, his imaginings lost coherency, and everything dissolved into flashes.

Dark eyes. A low voice. Long fingers, coaxing him over the edge.

Whatever he sighed when he climaxed, there was no one to hear but the walls.

Jim reported to the bridge the next day, mildly exhausted, ill-tempered, and somehow more sexually frustrated than he had been the night before. It was as if the closer his body felt to death's doorstep, the more desperate it became to reproduce.

His bad mood was exacerbated by the fact that there was still no sign of Trelane, and there hadn't been the entire night. It was downright unnerving, like watching a horror holo where the music kept building as the main character made the brilliant decision to wander into the basement. Every time a particularly bright star passed through their field of view, Jim would look up sharply from whatever he was doing to make sure the light wasn't coming from an abrupt reappearance. He didn't believe for a minute that this nightmare was over.

In the meantime, he poured over Spock's notes on the scans they had been performing since Trelane's arrival. There was nothing to go by except what they had already gathered, what they already knew. Energy fluctuations might warn them if and where Trelane had offended the laws of nature, but his actual presence was invisible to their equipment.

But there was still that signature, that particular electromagnetic frequency exclusive to Trelane when he messed around with matter. Spock had a few comments on the phenomenon, including some that talked about the possibility of destructive interference, but all of his cautious conclusions stated that Trelane was too powerful for anything on the ship to take him down. Jim threw himself into physics concepts he hadn't used in years in his quest for understanding, the mental exercise keeping him a healthy distance from the deep end.

There was an effortless elegance to Spock's math. Maybe it was the product of aVulcan education, but Spock used shortcuts Jim had never seen before, equations that must have been his own invention. He accounted for every variable with notation so compact and clear that Jim was tripped up by his disbelief that it could be so simple. Spock's approach was meticulous, as deep as it was broad, and yet…

Jim was reminded of the first chess game he ever won against Spock, all the more memorable for the fact that he had given up on winning altogether. He had moved with reckless and random whims for the first half of the game, and Spock, in his bewilderment, began to make mistakes. He kept searching for a pattern in Jim's chaos, when the chaos was the pattern. Jim could still visualize every move, but it was Spock's face he remembered the most.

He was so absorbed in the memory that he almost jumped when Scotty's voice sounded over the bridge com. /Captain Kirk? Are you there?/

Jim took a moment to blink away the afterimages of numbers and Greek letters before picking out the com button on the arm of his chair. "Go ahead, Mr. Scott."

The second's worth of hesitation spoke volumes. /I'm down on G deck, sir. We have a wee bit of a problem./

"I'm on my way."

It took a tremendous amount of resolve to pass by sickbay without so much as a glance inside, but Jim managed to pull it off, partly to avoid the appearance of favoritism and partly out of a multifaceted guilt complex. He located Scotty at the entrance to the former lounge as he was telling Chekov yet another part of his tour story.

"…the bastard offspring of a kraken, a gorn, and a mugato."

"I do not believe you! How is such a thing possible?"

Then Scotty spotted him and nudged Chekov with his elbow so the ensign turned around. The two of them sobered immediately, and Jim realized what they had been engaged in was akin to gallows humor. Over the years, he had learned how to tell the severity of the ship's problems based on the creases of Scotty's face, and right now the chief engineer was old before his time.

"Captain. We weren't sure until a few minutes ago, but… the hull is destabilizing," Scotty said. "We'll have to drop out of warp soon."

Jim channeled his anger into clenched fists, which made him feel slightly better, and slightly less likely to start shouting at innocent bystanders. "Trelane?"

Scotty nodded and turned to Chekov. "Tell him, laddie."

"As far as we know, he extended zhe warp field beyond its maximum range to fit zat ballroom inside." Chekov explained. "But since he disappeared, it has been contracting again. Putting stress on zhis side of zhe hull. When it becomes too small to fit zhe room…" He cupped his hands together and tore them apart in an explosive gesture.

"The bubble bursts." Jim concluded. "We can't warp without tearing off half the ship."

"Worse than that, sir. We'll barely have impulse. I cannae make her go any real speed with a tumor of half-baked construction sprouting from her side." Scotty laid a hand on the nearby bulkhead. "Poor girl."

"How long will this take to fix?"

Scotty glanced away thoughtfully before he spoke, which was never a good sign. "At least two days, sir," he said, after what was likely an impressive bout of mental gymnastics. "And we'll have to seal off half of decks G and H to do it. We cannae risk an air or gravity leak, not this far from a starbase."

An inconvenience, maybe, but the warp situation was worse. They would be dead in the water, open to whatever dangers lurked in this unknown portion of the quadrant. "Perfect," Jim muttered. "And how long before we have to stop?"

"About six hours, Keptan."

Jim closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His head was overflowing with this new knowledge, with Spock's notes, the conflict between navigation and astrometrics, a long-past chess match, but most of all, with Trelane's mysterious absence. What was he waiting for? What kind of prankster shocked their victim with a handshake buzzer and didn't wait around to see their reaction?

The kind who still had something up his sleeve. When the dust settled, Trelane would be there, but for now, it was Jim's move.

He marched over to the nearest com station and opened a channel. "Bridge, this is the captain speaking. Mr. Sulu, lay in a direct course for the PSR C50312 system, warp eight."

/Sir? That course has been rejected three times./

"And now it's approved. Executive order," Jim said. "ETA, Lieutenant?"

/Five point six two hours, sir./

Jim breathed a sigh of relief. "Just what I wanted to hear. Get Lieutenant DeSalle and meet me in the conference room in ten."

/Yes, sir./ Jim admired Sulu's ability to sound baffled after all that had happened these past few days.

"Lieutenant Uhura, contact Starfleet and tell them we've run into some technical difficulties. We won't be reaching Vallar 3 on schedule."

/What if they ask for more details, Captain?/

Jim rubbed his jaw in frustration. A few curious bureaucrats back at their comfy desks were the least of his worries. "I don't know. Blow into the mic and tell them they're breaking up," he said, and shut off the com link.

"Sir, don't you think we should backtrack?" Scotty said cautiously. "Stick to familiar territory while we're belly-up?"

"Familiar is the last thing we need, Mr. Scott." Jim said, turning sharply away from the panel. "Trelane isn't gone for good. It's not his style. He'll be back to gloat soon enough, and I intend to roll out the welcome mat."

That put the old fire back into Scotty's eyes. "I'm not sure what you have in mind, sir, but sign me up!"

"Then stabilize the eyesore, and make sure the shields are in top shape. If this works, you'll have all time in the world to fix her up later." He clapped Scotty on the shoulder, and the chief engineer gave him the solemn nod of a soldier before battle. "Chekov, you're with me."

"Yes, Keptan."

He led the Enterprise's resident prodigy toward the turbolift, but halfway there he couldn't stand the uncertainty and suspense any longer. He stopped in an alcove, asked to see Chekov's PADD, and called up Spock's data files, complete with a few new annotations.

"Read this, ensign."

Chekov studied his notes for a minute or two, his face screwed up in concentration, and Jim waited, drumming his fingers against his thigh. Finally Chekov looked up, and he spoke slowly, like he was reluctant to critique his superior officer's efforts. "Keptan, none of zhese wavelengths are specific enough. I do not see how zhey will cancel out Trelane's frequency."

"That's because they won't," Jim said. "It's not about winning, ensign. It's about making him lose."

Chekov's face lit up with understanding. "Not cancel out," he said. "Drown out."

"That's the idea." Jim couldn't help but echo Chekov's infectious smile. "Now let's go. I have a bet to make with Sulu."

About an hour into afternoon shift, McCoy finally called him into sickbay with the message he'd been waiting to hear. When Jim got the com, he was busy helping Scotty's team with the reinforcement efforts, and he practically threw his blowtorch at DeSalle in his haste to answer the summons. He made himself stop to catch his breath before entering sickbay, so he wouldn't look quite as frazzled as he felt after jogging across G deck.

"He's awake?"

McCoy raised an eyebrow, but didn't look up from his desk full of paperwork. "Hi, Jim. I'm just peachy, thanks for asking. How are you?"

"Bones."

"Go see for yourself." McCoy waved him through to the half-circle of biobeds beyond the divider, where a somewhat disheveled but awake Spock was reclining against his pillows.

"Jim." Spock's face was strangely open and unguarded, and he graced Jim with the most brilliant Vulcan eye-smile he had seen in a long time. It was more than a little pleasant, but Jim had spent the better part of three years ignoring the soft warmth and contentment that flooded through him at times like this, so he started to shove it to the back of his mind.

But then Spock slowly turned his palm up, and shifted his arm toward Jim's side of the bed. He glanced from his hand to Jim in a silent but unmistakable request.

Too relieved to overanalyze, Jim took Spock's hand and squeezed it in his own. It felt good to touch like this, a gesture with no purpose other than mutual affection. "You're all right?"

Spock was quiet for what felt like a long time. He closed his eyes and weakly clasped Jim's hand in return, as if he too were savoring the sensation of the touch. "I believe so."

"Once again, his backwards hobgoblin anatomy saved his life," McCoy piped up from where he was digging through a supply cabinet behind them. "Good thing no one who shoots him with archaic weapons bothers to do their research first."

"Ah, yes. Trelane." Spock seemed to come to his somewhat confused senses. His face grew stern, and he let go of Jim's hand, trying to sit up. McCoy somehow made it across the room in time to shove him back down, which shouldn't have been as easy as it looked, a testament to Spock's current state.

"Hold it right there. I have you off duty for the next twenty-four hours."

"That will not be necessary, Doctor."

"Don't tell me what's necessary! You were hurt badly enough to bring on your Vulcan mumbo-jumbo. I'm not letting you out of here with a band-aid and a lollypop."

"The termination of the healing trance means I am fully recovered."

"It would, if you had actually been sleeping right. But your hormone levels were all sorts of crazy when you went under, because you do things like stay up for a week at a time!"

Jim found himself caught between two equally imploring and exasperated stares. He didn't feel like arguing with either of them, so he resorted to protocol. "I'm sorry, Spock, but if the good doctor says you're off duty, you're off duty."

Spock made a vague noise that could have been either protest or assent, and McCoy muttered something under his breath that sounded like 'impossible pointy-eared demon.' The doctor stalked back into his office, motioning for Jim to follow. "Come over here and take a look at his charts."

Jim passed behind the divider, glancing over his shoulder, distracted. "Is it really bad enough for–"

He turned around and almost collided with McCoy, who seized his arm and leaned in close. "Listen to me," he whispered fiercely. "I don't have any idea what's going on around here, and he shouldn't either."

"Bones, I–"

"I mean it, Jim. Keep him out of the loop. You know he'll look for any excuse to start running laps around the ship."

Jim lowered his voice to object. "I can't lie to him."

"I'll take care of that. Just reassure him you've got everything under control."

"But I don't–"

"Everything is under control. Now go." McCoy gave him a little push, and Jim barely caught himself before he stumbled out from behind the divider.

The fact that Spock looked more tired than suspicious of the secretive conversation only emphasized the truth behind McCoy's insistence. While Jim longed for Spock's input, even if he wouldn't agree with plan and made the whole team backpedal, Spock was in no shape to exert himself. Jim cleared his throat and strode back over to the biobed.

"He's right, you know. You need to take better care of yourself."

"Yes, Captain." Spock said blandly.

"What happened to you at the party, anyway? Before all this, I mean?"

"I left you when Sulu presented a distraction, to avoid reprimand. I was stricken with paralysis as Trelane began to speak." Spock frowned faintly. "Where is he?"

"He's gone. We don't know why." Jim called upon his best poker face. "Maybe his parents nabbed him again. Maybe he got bored of us. I'm not one to question a good thing."

"It would not be an tremendous surprise," Spock said, sinking back into his pillows a bit and staring at the ceiling. "He is nothing if not inconstant. And our current status?"

Fortunately, McCoy moved in for backup, handing Spock a PADD. "Right here."

Spock scanned the readout for a few tense seconds, but for reasons lost on Jim, he found it acceptable. He nodded and returned it to McCoy without comment, and the doctor strolled back to his duties, looking self-satisfied. Jim was perplexed, but he forced himself to bite the bullet and finish what McCoy had started. "Don't worry. Everything is under control."

Incredibly, that placated Spock enough for him to drop the topic. He seemed to drift for a few seconds, obviously straining to keep his eyes open, but then he shifted and managed to focus on Jim again. "In any case, assuming that Trelane does not reappear, would you accompany me to dinner tonight?" He glanced toward McCoy's office. "If the doctor doesn't bar the way out, that is."

"Of course, if you think you're up to reassuring everyone." Nobody involved with their little project would be there anyway.

"I should clarify. I meant in my quarters."

"Even better." Jim nodded, and resisted the urge to touch Spock's hand again. "But only if you rest until then."

Spock regarded him for a moment, his eyes crinkling in amusement. "Yes, Jim."

"Get to work on that."

It was only when Jim departed from sickbay that he noticed Spock hadn't offered an excuse for the private dinner. Nine times out of ten, he suggested they go over department reports on such an occasion, or crew promotions, or debriefing materials. At the very least, he proposed a game of chess, or perhaps kal-toh, which consisted mostly of Jim staring at the board until Spock pointed out the right moves.

Then again, the man hadn't slept in days. He was only half-Vulcan, after all.