A/N: Here's the third stanza of the poem mentioned in this chapter:

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! Heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

Thanks for reading!

-=-=-=-=-=-

There was an IV stuck in his wrist—that was the first thing he observed—and his entire body was unspeakably sore, and an unnamed panic stuck in his throat, choking him and seizing at him—he tried to sit up, but he felt fresh scar tissue on his back tighten. Jim, he thought suddenly, staring at the ceiling, a blank steel—

"Down, Spock. He's fine. Not a cut on him besides the bite."

Leonard McCoy was looking at the Vulcanoid with a look of vague amusement and concern, leaning on the doorway, his pose predatory. Spock stopped trying to sit up.

"What happened?" Spock demanded, conscious of his gaze tightening but not particularly conscious enough to do anything about it.

"Best I can tell-" McCoy pushed off the wall, leaning in to examine the monitor set up beside the sick-bay bed. "-you jumped into an abandoned building with Kirk in your arms. You took most of the force going through the window and landing on the floor..." The doctor raised an eyebrow, his countenance again shifting. "That or you flew there. We got the meds to him in time. Just rest."

The Vulcan nodded, forcing himself to relax as best he could.

"And in case you'd like to know," the doctor drawled, "you had several deep lacerations on your back and arms—nothing we couldn't fix, although there's some minor scarring on your back. A concussion, dehydration, some burns on your hands, no nerve damage or scarring. Don't move quickly, it's bad for your head." The unspoken threat of sedation hung in the air.

Spock studiously ignored the doctor. "May I see him?"

"Normally I'd say no, but you did save his life. Follow me—and remember—"

"Yes, doctor. No sudden movements. I understand."

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

When Jim awoke, he didn't expect to be in sickbay. Well, really, he hadn't expected to wake up, much less on his ship. He wasn't even hooked up to an IV and there were no bandages, no new scars, only a vague headache. This, however, although in itself a singular occurrence, was not that which startled him the most. What he really hadn't expected to see was Spock asleep in the chair to his right.

"Hey Spock."

No movement.

"Spock. Spock. Hey, SPOCK!"

Then, movement. The captain settled back down contentedly.

"Captain?" the Vulcan said, sleep thick in his voice. Jim couldn't help but smile as the Vulcan rubbed at his eyes with his hands, much like a child...his hair was uncharacteristically messy and he was, oddly, only wearing the sick bay issued sterile pants—Kirk had to refrain from getting out of bed jjsut to hug him.

"Spock," he said warmly. But then he paused and looked away, his expression darkening. "I'm sorry."

"Although I did not approve of your decision, Jim, you did save both of our lives and for that I am grateful." The first officer stretched his arms out in front of him and rolled his neck from side to side, and the sound of bones cracking into place echoed dully through the chamber. "There is nothing for which you should apologize, although I am still intrigued as to why you thought it necessary to stun me."

There was a moment of silence as Spock settled, then leaned forward to examine his captain.

Kirk had since stiffened, tangling his hands in the sheets of the cot. "I couldn't kill you," he said.

Spock paused, then raised one eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"I couldn't. If you got infected I'd let you tear me apart before I could bring myself to shoot you. I know it's illogical, but...well, both of us would have ended up dead." A pause. "So...logically...I had to keep you from getting infected."

"By shooting me," said the Vulcan dryly. "Captain, there is a poem. It is by a Terran, and considerably old, but you may have heard of it. The title is O Captain My Captain."

"...by Whitman. About Lincoln, I believe?"

"Yes, Captain-" Spock leaned back into his chair, resting his fingers together in front of himself. "-but since, has been used to commemorate the loss of a leader who died for his cause, more poignantly when upon the cusp of victory. I do not wish to have to associate the poem with you. If you place yourself into the path of danger once again- and so blatantly- I will be most angry."

Suddenly: "Anger is an emotion, Spock."

The Vulcan's expression hardened at that. He searched his captain's posture, his intonations, countenance, previous words, long previous postures, intonations, countenances, words—and it seemed less a jibe than a question. He noticed he was gripping the armrests most aggressively and forced himself to relax. The shallow impressions of his fingertips remained like pockmarked scars in the plastic. Then, tonelessly, he said, "So is friendship. Love. Captain."

Kirk's eyes were searching the ceiling.

"I must confess to some degree of emotion. If you might find such hinders—"

"Spock," Kirk said.

His first officer's eyes darkened.

"Come fucking closer. Move the chair or something. See I want to hold your hand, but I don't think I can sit up and you're too damn far away," the human grumbled.

Spock dragged the chair forward, still tense, but as he clasped the captain's right hand between his, he relaxed, and Kirk eventually drifted off to sleep, his expression obviously content, and Spock's eyes softened minute by minute, to something warmer—

Twenty minutes later, McCoy, who had wandered in to check on Jim, sighed. Nothing to bring a couple together like space zombies, he thought, but couldn't it happen somewhere other than my sickbay?