There are hundreds of regulations on a starship, thousands of them in the Service, along with General Orders, protocols, directives and guidelines. Even Spock cannot count exactly how many because he is not always party to the redrafting, addenda and appendices which arrive thickly woven into Kirk's comms queue on an almost daily basis.

Despite his reputation as a maverick, the Enterprise's Captain sticks to the spirit if not the letter of most of the rules and regulations most of the time. His First Officer adheres rigidly to the rules 98.4 per cent of the time. The missing percentage is the focus of much Vulcan soul searching. They are both uncomfortably aware that when the other is in danger they each have a tendency to interpret the rules governing safety and behaviour of the command crew somewhat flexibly.

It is a recurring problem.

"May I remind you, Captain, that your participation in the landing party was not required, and that you exposed yourself to unnecessary risk when -"

"And may I remind you, Mister Spock that had I remained on the bridge it is likely you and Lieutenant Fernandez would still be trapped in the Si'uleth energy field."

"I had calculated the energy resonance some 45 seconds before you re-appeared, Captain. It was only a matter of recalibrating the bandwidth on the tricorder and I am 97 per cent certain that -"

"Well, in my view it was a lot more efficient to...persuade Her Excellency that it was not in her interest to continue the Si'uleth alliance and switch the whole thing off at source."

"Captain, while the efficacy of your 'persuasive' methods is not in dispute, I would submit that the deception exposed you to unwarranted danger from multiple sources, and that as your First Officer it is my duty to ensure the ship's captain..."

And so on.

-oOo-

For a moment he doesn't know where he is. And for a blissful interval of several seconds he can't remember who he is either, or why a part of him is missing.

But, when the truth dawns with the light through his eyelids, it's gentler this time; a slow seep of sorrow that aches in his throat, rather than stabs at his gut.

Something is different.

Oh god, he's slept. He's actually slept.

The air smells alive, the room is quiet, and he is not alone.

Christine Chapel sleeps untidily on the other side of the room. One arm emerges sprawling from a pile of blankets and cushions on the floor. The other is crooked, elbow up, across her eyes. The tricorder has fallen sideways on the rug beside her. She's been as good as her word; she has watched him through the night. He, on the other hand, completely failed to live up to his end of the bargain. And then left the woman, who was only trying to help him, to sleep on the floor.

He should wake her and persuade her to move to the bed. But he can't face a conversation right now. The rain has stopped at last. He has a sudden urge to walk on wet grass, to hear birdsong. And he's ravenous.

He picks up his muddy boots from outside the shower where he'd kicked them off the night before and steps silently into the next room. On the kitchen counter is a large pile of what appear to be peanut butter sandwiches and a scribbled note in large letters: 'We had a deal. Eat.'

He smiles. And, glory be, in the fridge is a quart of cold milk. Somehow she's sourced non-synthesised milk and brought it to Idaho. Feeling even more guilty about leaving his Good Samaritan on the floor, he grabs the plate and a full glass and heads out onto the porch.

Sandwiches have never tasted so good. Feeling all of about five years old, he demolishes almost the entire plateful in minutes, and drains the milk in a few gulps. As he stands stiffly to brush off the crumbs, he can feel his shirt sticking to the dried blood on his skin, the bruises protesting, and he knows he should go back inside. He did make a deal after all.

But the deal is already broken, the woods are still calling him, and the early summer sun is warm on his face. With the last sandwich clutched in his hand, he steps off the porch and heads up the hill.

-oOo-

There were two suns on Fortuna. Two suns and no moon. But at night the asteroid belt hung close enough to produce its own reflected illumination, a shimmering pale pink rainbow of light that arched from hill to horizon.

It was supposed to be a diplomatic mission. Low risk, mundane, and his least favourite part of the job. He's a soldier not a diplomat, at least that's how he prefers to think of himself. Unfortunately Starfleet has noticed his track record of pulling irons out of fires and these endless bargaining sessions are beginning to take up a disproportionate amount of his time and of the Enterprise's mission logs.

Despite exhaustive computer searches, almost entirely originating from the science station, there was no apparent reason for him not to lead the mediation on Fortuna, no detectable danger to the ship's commanding officer that would provoke yet another wearisome discussion about the wisdom of leaving the bridge, and not even a hint that his First officer should accompany him.

It was late when they concluded negotiations. He can still remember the quiet satisfaction of a job well done - a deal which had taken all his reserves of empathy, charm and what McCoy calls sheer sneakiness. But the end justified the means. The factions had been warring for three long-lived generations. Now they had a workable treaty and an equitable division of both mineral wealth and habitable land. The glow from the sky seemed to give even the superficial diplomatic niceties an added warmth; rose-tinted glasses were lifted in solemn sealing of accord.

Later he had time to reflect on how often the ugliest landing party experiences started on the most beautiful planets. To wonder, in an idle moment, if he should ask Spock to do the math.

But there was no time then. There was barely a beat between the familiar lurch of rematerialisation and the agony of the weapon which froze him as he stood. And, even as he fought to master the white pain that spiked through every nerve ending, he could see the stone hewed cell bore little resemblance to the council courtyard he thought he'd left behind.

But, as the rebel leader stepped forward from behind the console that had hijacked his pattern, he did have time for the fleeting thought that Spock would be furious.

-oOo-

The air is sharp as peppermint at the back of his throat. In space you soon stop noticing that every recycled breath tastes faintly of plastic and ozone. You forget you're inhaling a chemical compromise, the perfect balance of oxygen, nitrogen and trace gases designed to produce optimal performance from a disproportionately human crew.

This air, washed clean by the rain, tastes alive; it even feels alive as it washes over him, runs cool fingers through his hair. Such a simple thing to feel a breeze. As he reaches the top of the small hill overlooking the cabin Kirk gasps it by the lungful.

Yes. This is what he came for. This clean reality. He has to let it cut through, to reach deep; he has to find a way to think in the quiet space beyond a grief that swamps and an anger that burns through his defences to the flood.

At least the anger is familiar, and the fact that the anger is self-directed even more so. He's used to harnessing anger, turning it to his advantage. But paired with this ache, this alien sapping grief, he has no idea how to deal with the familiar. He is consumed.

The quiet space recedes, always out of reach.

Because always he sees that text from the post-mortem report, read once and remembered forever; the shapes are burned deep into his synapses in letters and numbers. The numbers are the worst.

Now he's breathing in shuddering gasps. He finds he has to put a hand out to steady himself on the nearest tree.

It would be so easy to sob. But he won't allow himself that. The darkness waits and watches. A sob, even one sob, would be enough for it to move forward, to restart its pursuit.

There is a sound behind him. And he knows without turning who it is. He straightens his shoulders.

"Your tracking skills are impressive, Doctor," he says to the empty air in front of him.

"Not really, sir." And he does turn then and finds he has to smile. Behind her his path up the hill, footsteps through wet grass, is as clear as navigation lights.

"I guess I wouldn't make much of a fugitive. I'd better learn how to cover my tracks if I want solitude."

She looks different under Terran sunlight, out of uniform, and gazing up at him, assessing him with what he suspects is a medical eye. But she's uncomfortable; he can tell she's got the 'keep away from me' message and he's suddenly ashamed of himself.

"You're not the only one who loved him." That's what she'd said. Since when did he have the monopoly on grief? And where does he get off thinking he knew his First officer so well? There were whole areas of Spock's life he apparently did not want to share, even with his best friend.

"Listen, I'm sorry about last night," he says. "I don't know what came over me. And I'm sorry you ended up on the floor. You should have kicked me onto the couch."

"You looked like you'd been kicked about enough for one night." She squints into the sun behind him. "And I've slept in worse places."

He believes her. Emergency Ops is no posting for those who like their home comforts.

"Thank you for the sandwiches."

She nods. "That was only the first part of the deal, Admiral."

She steps up beside him and, for the first time, he notices she's carrying that damned tricorder. And a medkit.

"Oh damn it, Chapel." But he doesn't have the energy to fight this battle again. How can he explain that he does not care about the physical pain of a few scrapes, that he welcomes it even. Physical pain is something he learned to deal with a long time ago. It is both distraction and yes, perhaps in this case, penance.

"If the officer won't come to sickbay, then sickbay must go to the officer. That's something Leonard taught me a long time ago. Sit down, sir. This won't take long."

He waves his hand in surrender and sinks down, his back against the trunk of the oak tree he'd been using to support himself.

"Shirt off, please." She keeps her eyes on her tricorder readings and, with a sigh, he unbuttons the front of his shirt. But he won't take it off; he rebels at that.

She doesn't push. Apparently satisfied with her readings, she puts the tricorder down on the grass, produces the sterilight from the med kit and gently runs it over the exposed skin.

"You've managed to get dirt deep into these cuts," she says disapprovingly. "If I had you in sickbay I'd debride some of these areas.'

"If you had me in sickbay I'd be unconscious, Doctor Chapel. Because that's the only way you'd get me in there with a few grazes. I had worse falling off my bike when I was 12."

"I doubt that, sir. This time you fell off a cliff. Or had you forgotten? Lean forward, please."

Another sigh and he obeys. She lifts the fabric and, although she's gentle, he stiffens slightly as the material sticks to the cuts beneath. She stops, reaches down to the med kit and then begins to soak the shirt with warm liquid.

"So what were you doing out there in the middle of the night, if you don't mind me asking?"

He can feel himself bristle. "Not that it's any of your business, but I went out for a run. I wasn't expecting visitors." That came out sharper then he'd intended. He tries to lighten his tone. "I thought you medics would approve. Bones is always on at me to get more exercise."

Her hands are careful as she lifts the loosened shirt and examines his back. "I doubt he'd have advised jogging up flooded hillsides in the dark. Sorry, this will feel a little cold."

She's spreading on some gel now with gentle, practised fingers. Kirk suddenly can't remember the last time anyone touched him, the last time he allowed it. His reaction is a shock but she doesn't seem to notice, just continues. "By the way, did you ever notice our friend the doctor is a whole lot better at offering advice on the subject of exercise than actually taking any himself? How often have you actually seen him at the gym?"

He laughs in spite of himself. "Well, now you come to mention it - "

"And he eats like a bird. I know for a fact he relies on supplements to keep his blood tests within Starfleet parameters. Even though he was the one that set the guidelines in the first place. I'll leave you some of this to use later." She wipes her fingers, pulls out the regenerator and starts to work on his chest.

He finds himself missing the soothing touch of her fingers. He'd begun to relax. The hum of the regenerator is warm vibration against his skin. He closes his eyes for a moment, leans his head back against the bark.

"Well, he seems to thrive on the McCoy diet," he says. "I can't remember the last time he fell ill. Maybe he makes up the missing calories in liquor."

There's a pause in the hum and he opens his eyes. She's frowning. "Well, that's the odd thing. When I saw him in San Francisco he wasn't drinking."

He lifts his head. "That is odd. He was on water when I saw him too. Maybe it's something to do with the pills they put him on after -" He stops. Of course, she doesn't know about what happened as they headed into spacedock. "After we came back."

She raises her eyebrows, but he doesn't want to go into detail. "He had a bit of an...episode on board ship. Broke into Spock's cabin. Then couldn't remember anything about it. I asked the psych team to have a look at him." They'd tried to have a look at Kirk too, but he'd seen right through their oh-so-subtle questions. His reaction had been anything but subtle.

She resumes the hum. "Can you turn a bit and lift your arm? An episode, eh? That might explain-" She stops, concentrating on the sticky gash that runs down his side.

"Explain what? That's really itchy by the way."

"Good, that means it's healing. I should have treated this last night. You might have a scar here. To add to your collection."

He shrugs and leans back again. "You were saying..."

She's thoughtful. "He was really funny with me, Jim. Not funny ha-ha, funny peculiar, damned peculiar. He said things, he knew things-" She stops again. "I can't reach. Will you just take off the damned shirt?"

He hesitates. It's not the half naked thing. She's seen him stripped off before in sickbay although, thank god, he was usually unconscious at the time. It's the vulnerability thing. And he's not a pretty sight if his memory of last night's shower is accurate.

Oh what the hell. He starts to pull his arms from the sleeves. She has to help him. And, judging by the way she takes a sharp intake of breath, his memory was spot on. But she doesn't comment, just pulls out the gel again and starts to work it into his shoulders. He has to admit the stuff works.

"So what did McCoy say that was so peculiar?"

"It wasn't just what he said, it was the way he said it. He held my arm - too tight. I've never thought of him as particularly strong. He talked...about me. Actually he talked about 'us'. There was never an 'us', Jim. And his voice... he didn't sound like him, if you know what I mean."

He does know. He remembers. "Lost his southern gentleman charm, had he?"

"Lost his southern gentleman accent too. And he knew things, things I've never told him. He reminded me of -" She's behind him, he can't see her face, but suddenly he doesn't want to hear her say the name. He interrupts.

"-well, we should cut him some slack. He's been through a hell of a lot."

Hell is a good word for what he saw when the sickbay doors opened. The memory is fixed and bloody like that handprint on his uniform.

"I heard it was bad. I wish I could have been there. But he's been through battles before. That first mission-"

"Not like this."

His voice is sharp. She pauses for a moment then continues, and although she doesn't say anything he can feel the question in her fingers on his skin. It's suddenly important for her to understand.

"They were just kids, Chris, on their first training cruise. They drew lots to get on board. Everyone wanted the Enterprise, of course they did. They thought they'd won the lottery."

He hasn't talked about this to anyone. Hasn't allowed himself to think about those glowing faces on that first inspection.

He forces himself to continue. "It was supposed to be a quick jaunt around the backyard to give them their spacelegs, get them to inhale some stardust. They'd never seen combat. Hell, most of them had never seen a Constitution class starship before, not up close."

He watches as his fingernails bite deep into the palm of his hand. It's as if as fast as she removes his pain he has to reinstate it.

"We took a lot of casualties in that first strike. Engineering was hit worst. We didn't have enough biobeds. Bones had to treat them on the floor. Burns, smoke inhalation. We weren't battle ready, didn't have a full team of medics. He couldn't treat them fast enough." He has to stop then. He doesn't trust his voice.

Eleven of them had died, five would never return to active service, because of him. Because he'd made a mistake a first year cadet could have seen coming. When they died he hadn't even known their names.

He knows them now, could recite them in his sleep. Names, ages, grades and aspirations. He knows the names of their families too. That was one job he'd made sure was done before he'd fled Starfleet.

He moves impatiently. "Are you nearly done, doctor?" There's a shadow in the corner of his vision. A dark shadow.

"Nearly. Hold still." The hum of the regenerator deepens. Her voice is careful. "He was a madman, Jim. You couldn't have known." She touches his arm with warm fingers. "And if you hadn't stopped him he'd be a madman with power that doesn't bear thinking about. None of us would be here."

He stiffens. The information on Genesis is classified. "I wasn't aware that was in the press release, doctor."

"It wasn't. But I have a day job, Admiral. Emergency Ops, remember? I only patch up Starfleet officers in my spare time now. There..." She hands him his shirt. "All done. Well, as done as I can do without access to the proper equipment. You should get checked out with the med techs when you get back to Starfleet but I suppose I'm wasting my breath."

He needs to move. He stands up abruptly and shrugs on the damp shirt.

"Thank you. You haven't lost your touch." The sun has gone behind a cloud. He shivers and she sees it.

"I've got some reports to write up," she says. "Doesn't really matter where I do it. Do you mind if I stick around for a few hours? Thought I might cook something. You can't live on sandwiches."

He shrugs. Not sure how he feels about company, but he can hardly tell her to leave now. "Help yourself but don't go to any trouble on my account. And I wouldn't trust that synthesiser. It was old when Sam and I were young. There are pans, chopping boards," he waves vaguely back in the direction of the cabin. "I'm just going to... I think I'll walk for a while."

He thinks she says something as he sets off down the hill, away from the cabin, away from words. He doesn't hear what she says. And when he looks back to the crest of the hill she's already gone.

-oOo-

Spock was furious.

The fury would not be detectable by anyone but Kirk. But he could see it even through the static on the flickering screen. Could see the violence barely suppressed beneath the stillness of his stance, hear it in the harsh undertone of his voice. His first officer, usually so full of grace and poise, lost fluidity when he lost his temper, became stiff and uber-Vulcan.

But Matthias, the leader of the rebel splinter group, the man who now pulled his head up by the hair, was blissfully unaware he'd stirred a Vulcan hornets' nest. He seemed oblivious that producing the Enterprise's blood-stained and immobilised captain for further torture in sight of the bridge crew was not going to improve his chances of either living long or prospering. But, as he blustered on about his plans for an unsullied genetically pure homeland, as he gave his ultimatum, he looked down and, for a moment, his voice faltered. He could not understand why the captain of the Enterprise would smile at him with such pity.

-oOo-