Author's Note: Thank you for the kind reviews. Before I post a story, I make sure it is completely written in order to avoid the tragedy of not finishing it. I post in two day intervals in order to give myself time to edit and update chapters as I see fit. It makes sense that with this story, initially two chapters and an epilogue, I would be finished. And I was. The epilogue was started-- the problem was, it didn't stop where I thought it would. It has bridged into a third chapter on its own with an epilogue hopefully following it. So, I apologize to everyone here and now-- the next update will probably take longer. Again, this is unbetad, so be kind. Most of all, enjoy.

Chapter Two: Alive

He jerked awake, a crick in his neck and his head hurting. Again, he sat in the captain's chair as he had before but this time, he was not lording over a world of ruin but instead, the bridge as he knew it. It was relatively quiet, just he, Sulu, Uhura and Spock there for the moment. Uhura and Spock were conversing quietly at the communications terminal and Sulu was staring blankly out into space. An overwhelming mass of emotions flooded him all at once; relief, sadness, sickness, joy rushed over him and he dropped his head to his hands. He hadn't realized how harsh the planet's repression had been until now. The memories of his friends dead, of Spock's bashed in skull, of his own battered body washed over him, combined with scents he had not noticed on the planet-- rotting bodies, metallic tangs of blood, rusty metal-- encouraged his gag reflex. He swallowed, choked and sucked in three deep breaths, letting them out through his nose.

"Captain? Are you well?" Spock's familiar, placid voice asked. Spock with his head in one piece sitting with Uhura, not maimed; the two of them were looking at him, Uhura looking confused and a bit concerned and Spock blank.

"Yeah," he lied. "Yeah. Sorry."

Spock stood. "Are you certain?"

"No, no, I'm okay," he said, sitting up straight but feeling himself break out in a sweat. Sulu had turned to him and looked worried. "Sorry, headache and weird dreams."

"Not a dream," it's voice whispered in his ear. "I have fulfilled my side. It is time you fulfill yours."

Uhura had turned back to the terminal. "He's lying. I'm calling the sick bay."

The coldness washed over him again but this time, it felt different. There was no distance or unnatural strength; simply the sudden descent of injury and lifelessness. He felt everything crumble away from him, felt his body slouch over and then out of the chair but could do nothing to control it. Like wax, the scene melted away, even as Spock caught him before he hit the ground. No longer could he hear their voices, or feel their touches, or even see them as he was used to perceiving sight. The situation was distanced from him, a pinprick of light in a tunnel, unimportant and lost amidst the universe. It held him close with dark and childish delight, hands on him and away from him. Then, it reached towards his mind, pulled away from his mind, and combined with it.

It screamed, he screamed and it jumped away from him. Something, he did not know what, tore a chunk out of it and forced it to back away from him. It was loud, silent, screaming, laughing, cringing and flailing, trying to tear at him but failing, sometimes succeeding. Whatever had driven it away gently pulled him back, firm and unchanging, tenderly attempting to stop the pain but failing. It was still too close and it was not defeated. It howled, whispered, charged, held back and whatever was shielding him, pulled him closer.

"You cannot break your promise to me," it spoke but didn't use language.

He tried to reply but his voice was as useless as it had been when he was dead. The thing keeping him grounded responded instead. "What are you?"

"I am all and nothing and I wish my payment," it boomed and whispered. "He promised me and he will fulfill his promise."

"I am unaware of any deal the Captain has made," the other said. "And if it requires his departure, I will need to be briefed. As you can sense, he has also a connection with me and that cannot be broken lightly."

He did not recall making any other bonds or deals with any other immaterial beings. The closest he had come to this was offering his soul in exchange for a hot meal, and that had been to a bar owner he knew well on Earth. He had never believed in a God or promised himself to God's adversary. He had not even attended church of any kind, nor, in a drunken haze, participated in strange, pagan rituals. The visits he had made to other planets with his teammates had never involved him religious ceremonies. His dreams usually could be explained by his food, his worries and his fears. This, on the planet of death, had been his only interaction with something he did not understand.

Except with the mind-meld; those he had not truly come to grips with either. The first, with Spock Prime, had overwhelmed him, shoved him into a mental tailspin which had him waking in cold sweats, fearing things he'd never experienced. His second, with his Spock, had made those memories distant pictures which he could control and face as an observer instead of a participant. And closely following that, had come a third, to set right the thinness of separation between himself and the Vulcan. The multiple invasions into his psyche had not made it any more obvious, or even, clear to him. It left him with the lingering idea of violation, even with his consent, and the idea of an inescapable, unsolicited, unending bond.

"Answer me," it cried, said, whimpered, requested. The echoes and silence were meant to hurt him but the other protected him. "Why did you hide this? Why did you lie?"

"I didn't," he somehow managed. "I didn't know."

The other soothed. "Do not speak, Jim," and to it, "and I would request you stop forcing his compliance."

"I only ask for what's mine," sweet, gentle, rough, nasty words. "And I will not go until he comes with me."

"Then I will allow for your continued presence elsewhere," the other told it. "But I insist you inhabit a space outside the Captain's mind."

It attacked, retreated, caused him pain, and caused his protector pain. "He gave me this place in trade for the lives of those in this ship and the ship itself."

"And, unfortunately, the Captain tends towards rash judgment and overlooks the necessity to discuss his choices with others," the other said, undeterred by it. "He did not solicit the opinions of those he intended on saving and therefore, gained something he had no right to have and gave something he had no right to give. He belongs not just to himself but also to those he serves and those who serve him. And those who he has rescued have the right to choose life or none. From a logical standpoint, the deal was never valid to begin with."

The other's hold on him felt tenuous suddenly, not because the being had grabbed him back, but because he was slipping. Wherever they were, he could not stay there as they were because he was not on their level. He'd become like a toy, being pulled between the two of them, fought over like dogs fight over a bone and he was not made to withstand that. The other clung to him, he did not cling back. He began to slip through the other's grasp, away from it and the fight and everything. Something peaceful waited for him there; it was not the nothingness he associated with its planet but a restful emptiness that required him simply to be. He had no inclination to fight it.

"I see your logic," it said, but didn't say, spoke words but none. "But I do not agree. He and I made our pact based on his deductions not your form of reasoning."

"Where I come from, logic and reasoning are the only ways to make decisions. Therefore, I refuse to validate your deal and shall not sever my bond with the Captain. If you cannot accept this, I believe we are at an impasse."

"I never reach impasses," it came close as it went farther back. He slipped away only to feel the grip of the other tighten. "I win."

The other did not answer it. Kirk's issue seemed to have finally been realized by the other and the hold on him had redoubled. "The Captain's fading."

"Fading, fading," chanted it like a poetic spell but like plain prose as well. "Fading, fading. So will you. This is what I am. How long can you stay this way?"

The other's hold became painful, severely so. He tried to twist away from it, protesting the treatment that was almost worse than its. It had promised him there would be no pain his existence with it. Would it really be so bad to join the nothingness? Even the empty hollow feeling that it exuded could not be as bad as this agony, endless and building. He struggled, weakly, unable to fight against the iron strength. The other had him too tightly and had not been previously harmed by the turmoil he'd suffered to weaken it as it had him. A sudden jerk would have caused him to scream had he been able to make sound.

"I will have him die again," it threatened, told, cajoled. "I can undo him. You I cannot undo-- I can make poor luck for you, shorten your life, but I cannot affect your overall safety. I promised him safety for his ship and crew, and for it, he belongs to me." It suddenly was close. "You say you want him back, but what are you willing to trade to make it happen?"

"I was taught in the StarFleet that bargaining with terrorists is counterproductive," the other told him. "Therefore, I choose what the Captain would call option c."

Then he lay on the floor of the bridge, producing a low, keening sound. He was curled on his side, his arms around his middle, trying to stop the agony that tore at his every nerve. His face was pressed against someone's knee and a set of hands pushed at his temples. The pain was the worst where the tips of the fingers rested at his forehead, burning on top of the aching and stabbing. He tried to get away from it, cringing away, reaching up to claw the hands but was restrained by someone else. Someone spoke, trying to soothe, but only made things worse.

The too loud swish of the lift made his head explode. He stopped moving, paralyzed by the pain. He barely felt the hands move away from him, or his head shifted onto the ground. The footsteps reverberating through the floor were killing him, step by step by step, shredding what little was left of his sanity. Through half open eyes, he could see standard uniform boots milling around and someone else being loaded onto a stretcher. Then someone knelt next to him, and pried his eyelids open farther. Before he blacked out, he caught the sight of Bones's worried face and a pale hand hanging over the side of the stretcher on its way to the lifts.

He prayed he'd die.

He was on the farm in Iowa, picking the rocks out of a horse's hooves. They'd never been his favorite animals on the farm-- he'd been kicked one too many times-- but he respected their strength and beauty. Though he rarely did his chores, the one thing he never skipped out on was caring for the horses. It gave him a sense of calm most people he knew associated with meditation and yoga. Taking care of horses took full concentration and yet, provided him with the unconscious, repetitive action that released the tension from his shoulders and freed his worries. Not even working on his motorcycle did that and he loved the machine more than he'd ever love an animal. Moving on to brushing, he carefully moved in slow, repetitive strokes, with the hair.

It was nice out, early in the day-- which was odd, because he couldn't remember the last time he'd been up this early-- when the air was warm but not oppressively hot. A breeze drifted lazily by and he caught the scent of warm hay combined with mud and animal. It was familiar, if not pleasant, and relaxed him further. He'd hated his childhood, mostly for his stepfather's temper and his mother's absence, but he'd liked the farm fine. It had plenty of places to hide, plenty of ways to skive off and piss off his step dad. There had been days like this where he could stay out for hours, riding the dusty back roads and only stopping to enjoy the view.

If Starfleet hadn't worked out, he would've come back. Maybe he'd continued his rebellious ways for a while but in the end, he could see himself settling down in a place like this, working in a mechanic shop. He wouldn't work on a farm-- not for a real wage-- but he'd go visit them sometimes, help harvest corn, and ride the occasional horse. He could even see himself getting married if he found the right girl with the right smile and eyes and hair. Sometimes, if he squinted, he could see himself with children, bringing them up right; they wouldn't ever have to have an absent parent or worry about a beating for acting out. His kids would get a normal, happy life.

"This is a different place," the horse said to him as he brushed the knots and dust out of its mane. "I've never seen a place like this."

He shrugged a little. "It's all right. Peaceful. Beautiful. Not perfect but I haven't found a perfect place yet."

"It's part of you," the horse continued, examining its surroundings. "Would you say it helped make you who you are?"

He shrugged again and the horse went silent. He moved to the main part of its body. The horse turned its head to watch. "I would live in a place like this if I could."

"Why don't you then?" he asked it.

"I cannot live nor can I stay with the living," it answered honestly. "That's not what I am. I collect things but they cannot be with me. I can only possess them. Do you understand that?"

"No," he said. "But I can still feel bad for you." He paused. "Have I given in?"

Then it was no longer a horse and they were no longer on the farm but by the cliff where he'd crashed his stepfather's car. It was nothing and everything, like it was good at, and he was in the clothes he'd been wearing when he'd first met Pike. He shuffled along the side, staring down into the abyss and imagining he could still see the twisted remains of the 'classic.' It moved and stayed still as he enjoyed the sun and the wind. After a certain length of time, he could not tell how much, it spoke.

"You have not. He protected you. You cannot join me but that does not mean I cannot visit you."

"I see. Well, no offense, but I'd prefer you didn't make it a regular thing," he told it, jamming his hands into his coat pockets. "You understand?"

He got the impression of a negative, like a headshake or a sound but with neither of those present. "But I think its because we are so different," it added on to this. "I think that's why I like you. Your friend, I can understand on a basic level. You are very, very odd. I wish I could keep you. Maybe I'll find a way someday."

"I won't come quietly."

"I would not want you if you did."

He took in a deep breath. "What did he give you?"

"Nothing, everything," it replied. "Nothing for me but everything for you."

"Cryptic."

"But it is truth."

He stared out over the expansive space, soaking in the land and the peace. It stood, sat, waited, paced beside him. "Gonna keep collecting things?"

"What else could I do?"

"I don't know," he said. "Try to create. To keep life."

"Maybe," and then it was a woman he would marry, with thick, dark ringlets of hair and soft, wide eyes. "But," sinister, innocent, wonderful, terrible, "I rather like what I do better, I think. It's so much easier." It kissed him firmly on the lips. "I will see you again, James T. Kirk."

And he was alone. His motorcycle, the one he'd given to the random station worker when he'd joined Starfleet, the one he'd spent all of his money on for years, the one that he'd spent hours working on until it ran better than when it'd been fresh off the assembly line, was waiting for him when he turned around. He climbed on, started it up and took off down the road. The world sped by him, a blur of browns and greens. Everything was quiet, not silent, but not loud and bustling as he'd become used to over the years. He had missed this without even realizing it; it was a relief to return to it.

He reached the farmhouse again, stopping at the beginning of the drive. From where he sat, he could see into it though subconsciously he knew that this would be impossible in real life. His mother was sitting in there, drinking a coffee and reading a book-- an old style book with pages and paper. His stepfather stood in the kitchen, chopping up vegetables. His lips were moving and Winona nodded vaguely. Eventually, he put the knife down and walked around to her. She looked up at him as he approached and he smiled broadly. Leaning over her, he pressed a kiss on her lips which she returned. When they parted, they were both smiling in a way they'd never smiled when he'd been around. He didn't know quite how that made him feel. He started the bike up again and left. He didn't need to see anymore.

When he opened his eyes, his head aching and his mouth dry. His first thought was that he'd been imbibing a little too exuberantly the night before and maybe taken a few hits in a fight. The more he became aware, the more he realized that he hurt everywhere, from his feet on up. The dim light burned his pupils so he closed his eyes again. He wanted water, as the dryness reminded him of his time dead, but had very little interest in moving. So, he lay there, achy, eyes closed and wondered where there was. It didn't matter too much to him-- at least now, the pain was not so substantial that he thought it would kill him and he didn't feel the heavy weight of nothing either.

The sounds soon told him it was the sick bay though they did not hurt like sound had before. They washed over him, soothed him, almost put him back into sleep. He drifted through the footsteps and whispered conversations and rustling uniforms. When someone came to check on him, he was half-dreaming about being in his quarters, in bed. Then a hand settled on his shoulder and brought him back. He let his eyes open a bit and squinted up into the familiar face of on Leonard McCoy.

"You with us, Jim?" his friend whispered, almost soft enough that Kirk nearly didn't understand.

"Whacchadoin, Bones?" he mumbled, feeling his lips crack. But they bled as they did so he didn't mind.

McCoy shook his head. "Looking down at the biggest pain in my ass since my ex-wife." It was affectionately said and he could tell McCoy was relieved about something. "How do you feel?"

"Muzzy," he admitted. "Thirsty."

McCoy grabbed a cup of water from the bedside and soon he was sitting up, taking tiny sips from it. Through the haze that was his brain, he could see McCoy was exhausted. Dark bags had settled under his eyes and his skin had gotten a grayish tinge. His uniform was a bit wrinkled and even his usual scruffiness seemed too much. Bones placed the cup down again.

"How is the pain?"

He shrugged and groaned at the tension there. Bones raised an eyebrow. "S'not bad, s'just sore. Y'look shitty, though. Sleep much?"

"Not since I met you," McCoy snipped. "Spend too much time cleaning up after the great misadventures of James Tiberius Kirk." He must've fallen asleep because when he looked up again, McCoy was gone. The next few days passed such as this, brief moments of awareness spliced with seemingly brief moments of unconsciousness. By the time he was able to realize that he was about to fall asleep, he was spending most of the day awake anyway; bored as hell but strangely grateful for the control he'd been allotted. Every time McCoy came by-- he had realized that most of his checkups were being done personally-- he'd inquire as to when he'd be released and be given a noncommittal answer and sometimes, a sedative.

The day he was plotting an escape attempt, he got a visitor finally. His world had been devoid of contact, though Bones had insisted there had been quite a few people there for the first few days, and he nearly fell off the bed when the almost silent presence came. Luckily, the same presence was quick and caught him half-way off and helped him settle back. He cringed a bit as he sat back on the cot, annoyed by both his surprise and his body's weakness.

"I see you are, in fact, fully functioning as Doctor McCoy has assured me," Spock said to him which was the closest he would probably get to a 'good to see you're getting better.' "There was a period when your death seemed imminent."

He tossed his legs over the side of the bed again, not allowing his first mate's sudden appearance to stop his decision to leave. "Nice to see you looking good, too. Bones said you did a mind-meld and screwed yourself up. Everything in order?"

"Certainly, I would not take over command for you if I was somehow incapacitated," Spock said, watching him like a hawk as he tried to stand. "The injury I suffered was mild."

"Good to hear," he panted, locking his knees as his feet touched the ground. "Thought you might have died as you didn't drop by." He didn't begrudge Spock that. It was not in his first mate's nature to sit at the bedside of an unconscious or semi-conscious person. To say he felt it was illogical was mild.

"I have been attending to both your business and my own, Captain," Spock informed him, reaching out to grasp his elbow when he started to slide. "I apologize for not visiting you sooner."

He clung to Spock's arm for balance. "Don't worry about it. I'd rather have the old girl running smooth than waste people's time keeping me company." His legs gave out and Spock caught his other arm, levering him back up against the bed. "Damn it."

Spock did not respond to this directly. "I am… glad to see you active."

"Trying my damnedest," Kirk said. Once again, he slid off the bed and this time forced his legs into submission. They shook violently but seemed to hold. "I have to assume you came for a reason other than to say hello to me. Not that I'm not enjoying our stimulating conversation."

Spock firmly grasped his elbow again. "I did have purposes behind my visit though I admit that one of them was to simply ensure myself of your recovery."

"Aw, sweet of you," Kirk teased. "I'd almost mistake that for love."

"I also wished to apologize for my hand in your injury," the Vulcan continued, ignoring the Captain's glibness. "My invasion of your mind created greater problems for you instead of helping. For that, I request your forgiveness."

He smiled reassuringly and tried taking a step forward. "No big deal, Spock. I mean, you saved me after all. A little hurt's a part of life."

"Saved you?" Spock echoed. "Captain, I could not reach you. The mind-meld did not work properly. You escaped under your own power."

But he hadn't. He stopped focusing on keeping his legs steady and ended up collapsing once more. This time, Spock was prepared and he barely fell at all. Someone had helped him escape, the one he had known merely as not it, and after much contemplation, he'd initially decided it had to have been Spock. No one else on the Enterprise, to his knowledge had the ability to engage in such a battle. If Spock claimed to not have been able to assist him, then who was it? He had no doubt that person had saved not only his life but his sanity. Had that person not stepped it, he would be dwelling in an unpleasant blankness with the thing forever.

"Jim?"

"Sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I just-- it wasn't you?"

Spock's mouth twitched slightly, as though to frown. "No, Captain, it was not me. Did you experience another form of mind invasion?"

But the voice had reminded him of Spock. He had gotten the sense of the Vulcan from it, both in speech patterns and in voice. It had sounded like Spock, behaved like Spock-- it had even had Spock's inflection when using his name. It had used words that he had expressed to Spock, certainly his turn of phrase about finding another option.

"I thought-- or maybe I just--" He shook his head again. "I must have imagined it. Strange."

"Perhaps you should lie down," Spock offered. "You seem disoriented."

"No, no, I'm fine. Just… surprised is all," he cleared his throat. "Sorry, you came to tell me things and I'm being difficult. Was there anything else?"

Spock's silence portrayed the lack of belief more than saying it to him. Gently, he pressed Kirk back on the bed before he spoke. "I came to request, once you are well enough reassume your duties, for leave. I received contact from the Vulcan colony and my elder self has fallen ill. I would like permission to go there and see him. He feels his time may be short and claims to have things to tell me."

"Soon as I'm back on my feet," Kirk assured him, half-heartedly. "If you speak to him, tell him I send my best wishes for a recovery."

"I will deliver your message," Spock said. "Do you require Doctor McCoy? You've grown very pale."

He shook his head. "Nah, just an odd moment."

He couldn't rationalize it out and became so vague in his speech patterns that Spock called Bones over anyway. Bones fussed, both at Spock for 'exciting' the Captain and at Kirk for, after Spock's revelation, 'trying to get up before being damn well ready.' Kirk gave him little attention, focused on trying to figure out what had happened. It had been bad enough dealing with the thing that had attacked him, with its contradictions and insubstantiality. To lose the certainty of a familiar presence in the experience shoved him back down the rabbit hole. He'd wanted confirmation or denial of the strangeness, something to assure him that most of it had occurred.

"It is weird, Bones," he told the Doctor that night. "I could've sworn Spock was in my head when that thing got me."

"Sure he was," McCoy grumbled, watching Kirk consume his dinner and munching on his own. "Gets into everybody's brain, damn hobgoblin."

"I mean really there."

"He certainly tried. Nearly killed you both in the process."

"I just--"

"Jim," McCoy interrupted. "Sometimes, you just have to thank whatever powers are out there for the good luck and stop worrying about the how."

"I guess," he said.

But he didn't agree.

I am hoping for Monday.