Chapter Two

"Doctor, his blood-pressure is dropping," the nurse said.

"Damn it, Jim," McCoy said under his breath, frowning at the display readout on the wall.

It had been two hours since they had completed the transfusion. They had taken him off bypass, allowing the purified blood to replace Kirk's irradiated blood. The display showed him free of radiation, though the damage had already been done. The decontamination process on Enterprise had effectively removed the external radiation, so there wasn't the concern of continuing exposure.

McCoy watched the display carefully. Radiation was not the issue.

Khan's blood had the ability to repair the damaged cells in Kirk's body, to restore the organs that were dying, in much the same way it had for the Tribble. But it could only do that if Kirk's body accepted the transfusion.

Kirk's body temperature rose a full degree.

The nurse looked at him expectantly. They both knew what it meant.

McCoy ordered a standard anti-rejection drug and walked to stand next to Spock, who had remained in his place in the corner of the room. "He's rejecting the transfusion."

To the Vulcan's eyes, little had changed.

"We'll see if medication will counter the reaction." He studied the Commander with a clinical eye. In the direst circumstances, the Vulcan always managed to present himself as composed and immaculate. Even returning from Kronos, Spock had appeared unscathed, unruffled, when Kirk had returned battered and bruised. But now, for the first time McCoy could remember, Spock looked…woeful. "You should get some rest, Spock."

Spock had no intention of leaving. Vulcans could manage weeks without sleeping if need be. And while he had taken a beating during the battle with Khan, he would not leave his friend under such uncertain circumstances.

"You know you're being illogical," McCoy said flatly and moved back to tend Kirk.

Illogical. The word echoed softly in Spock's mind. It was illogical to hunt a man down and kill him with bare hands for the simple pleasure of it. His entire life had been dedicated to mastering his emotions in favor of logic. Emotions were the breeding ground of wars, and the violent deaths of hundreds of millions of beings since the dawn of time. Logic moved cultures forward by devoting intellect to science and reason.

Logic had saved Vulcan from extinction hundreds of years ago; emotion had caused its destruction.

Still, at this moment, it was emotion that ruled Spock.

"You used what he wanted against him…that was a nice move." Kirk's voice was weak and strained.

"It is what you would have done."

"And this…this is what you would have done." His eyes were bright with pain and unguarded. "It's only logical, Spock."

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few…or the one. How was it possible that this human had been more Vulcan than he? Where did that leave him – half-Vulcan, half-Human? He was failing at both.

The medical staff's touch was impersonal as Kirk lay still beneath their ministrations. Again Spock wondered what Kirk was experiencing. Was he aware of the medical staff and the sterile surroundings? Did he feel confined by the medical equipment that anchored his body in place? Or did he feel disregarded?

Not for the first time, he wanted to touch Kirk to let him know he was not alone.

Illogical.

Yes, he was being illogical.

The medical staff was competent, and they needed a clear space to tend Kirk. Visitors were restricted in the ICU. There was no practical, logical purpose for him to be in the room, much less to keep vigil.

"I want you to know…why I couldn't let you die…why I went back for you." Kirk struggled for each word, each breath.

"Because you are my friend."

Spock stepped out of the corner and walked to the bed. In a single, unapologetic move, he folded himself into the narrow chair and waited beside his friend.

McCoy said nothing as the First Officer sat in the chair. It was against regulations…and probably very un-Vulcan, if he thought about it. But then everything Spock had done in the past forty-eight hours had been very un-Vulcan to McCoy's way of thinking.

The nurse finished hanging the I.V. of anti-rejection medication. McCoy took the time to study Kirk's chart and make the notes required. There was no medical protocol for what they had done, so charting the progress was essential both for the health of his patient and for the future, if ever Starfleet chose to use that such as Khan's blood.

McCoy hadn't asked for authorization or special consideration from Starfleet Medical on whether to use the blood, but once he had committed his patient to the process, Medical had no choice but to allow him to follow through and complete the process. Still, when this was over and, hopefully, Jim was fully recovered, he had much for which to answer.

He closed his eyes for a moment to clear his thoughts. He couldn't think about repercussions. Jim's full recovery was all he wanted. There was enough misery to go around given Marcus's instigation of war against the Klingons, his personal agenda with Khan, and his intention to destroy Enterprise. The brass would be chewing on this one for months. McCoy foresaw endless hours of debriefing for them all.

To hell with my career.

What was the point of being a doctor if he couldn't make a difference? He may have given up on his life when he joined Starfleet four years ago, but he had not given up on being a physician.

He had no intention of making friends with anyone the day he joined Starfleet. He'd only wanted to disappear. He'd figured it was just random luck that he'd taken a seat next to a young man who had innocently offered him comfort and shared his disconnection to the world. But now he believed it had been fate.

He scanned the display on the wall. Kirk's temperature had risen another degree.

What was it then that drew him to this man he had come to truly care for and count as a true friend?

"Doctor, the lab has a question," an intern said, stopping by the alcove unit.

McCoy nodded. The lab had Khan's blood and was working on a serum based on the tests he'd run on Enterprise. He set down the thin PADD and stepped out into the main area of the ICU. A familiar figure caught his attention.

"Mr. Scott," he said approaching the waiting man. "What brings you here?"

If Spock looked woeful to McCoy, than Scott looked positively heartbroken. The energy and drive had drained from the normally exuberant engineer, leaving him resigned.

"How is he doing?" Scott asked, inclining his head slightly toward the ICU units.

"Alive."

Scott nodded. There was nothing inscrutable about his features-the Scotsman wore his emotions plainly enough. A battle of guilt and anger played out across his face. "Can I see him?"

McCoy released a heavy breath. "No, I'm sorry."

He couldn't have the entire crew of the Enterprise filing in for a visit, though he understood their concern. Everyone wanted to see the Captain who had passionately offered his life to Marcus in exchange for that of his crew, and who had ultimately died so that they may live.

"Aye," Scott said softly. "I just…."

He studied Scott closely and couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. Scott had tried to stop Kirk from entering the warp core, and then was there to watch helplessly as Kirk lie dying, locked behind the chamber doors. It was Scott who had called McCoy and had escorted Kirk's body into Sickbay. Scott who had stood bereaved as he had unzipped the body bag.

Now Scott looked at him with eyes that pleaded and raged. "He went into that damn chamber knowing he could na' have made it."

What else was there to say? What does a person say about the man who had willingly given his life for yours? If Scott had stopped Kirk, then they would all be dead. It was left to those who had survived to wonder what might have been.

Scott shook his head and weariness settled on him. "I'm sorry. He matters, you know?"

"I know. We're doing everything we can."

Scott nodded and turned his face away. He looked…lost.

"Get some rest, Mr. Scott. You're not helping anybody by getting exhausted." He hesitated a moment. "I'll let you know if anything changes."

Scott left the ICU none the better for his visit.

What could McCoy do? He had no words of comfort for others…or himself. As a physician, he knew Kirk's odds weren't good. The damage from the radiation was bad enough, but now he was rejecting the very blood that was required to save him. If they couldn't get Kirk's body to accept the transfusion, he would die.

He stood behind the circulation desk and punched in the lab.

Kirk wasn't going to die.

McCoy wouldn't let him.

Chapter Three

"10cc of epinephrine!" McCoy ordered. "And get a cooling blanket on him."

Alarms sounded loudly as the nurses worked quickly to cover Kirk's feverish body with the cooling blanket. His temperature had soared to a dangerous level and the instruments showed his bronchial tubes were swelling shut. McCoy watched the EKG on the medical display. It showed dysrhythmia.

How in the hell could he be rejecting the damn anti-rejection medication?

"Run the lines open. And shut off those damn alarms."

Within minutes, the monitor showed a steadier heart rate. They had not taken him off the respirator. His oxygen saturation was the only normal reading on the display. As his vitals normalized and new medication pushed, McCoy took a moment to reassess.

He looked at Kirk's chart, quickly reviewing the list of anti-rejection medications they had tried in the past four days. Kirk's body hadn't responded to any of them, still rejecting the alien blood. They were running out of options.

It was a little after 0100. Dimly lit and run by a smaller third shift, the ICU seemed eerily empty. He had been awakened by the duty nurse and informed of Kirk's rapid deterioration. By the time he had entered the room, Kirk had gone into anaphylactic shock.

The serum the lab had finally completed had been administered…and quickly refused.

Kirk's body was literally rejecting itself. And it was taking its toll. Electrolytes and rhythm impulses were all off scale. His heart was showing stress. And that didn't include the damage the radiation had already done. It drained a tremendous amount of energy for the body to fight off infection or reject a part of itself. Though unconscious, Kirk was succumbing to exhaustion and McCoy wasn't certain how much more the young man could take.

He allowed himself a moment to look at Kirk. It was difficult not to see through his physician's eye, not to diagnose and evaluate. A part of his mind calculated Kirk's odds, while another part looked on with sorrow. It was so hard to see his friend this way…vulnerable…dying.

"I think these things are pretty safe."

The very first words Kirk had said to him were of reassurance…comfort. What could he say now to comfort his friend? He looked at the still features. Despite being terribly ill, Kirk still looked impossibly young. Too young to be commanding a starship; too young to bear the responsibility for the lives of hundreds of crew.

Of its own volition, McCoy's hand reached out and gently pushed back a few strands of sandy-colored hair. Then he drew back his hand.

It wasn't good for a doctor to get too close to his patient. Too late, it's a done deal.

With a deep breath, he took a seat next to Kirk and tapped the screen of the PADD. He began reviewing the data from the moment Kirk was brought into Sickbay.

"You're starting to look like your patient," a voice accused.

McCoy looked up from the screen he had been immersed in and met the critical stare of Dr. Boyce. For a moment, his mind stumbled. The senior medical officer was not prone to entering the patient wards before 0700. Then he took in the surroundings and realized the ICU was in full swing.

Boyce looked up at the patient display. "He didn't like this one, either."

"No," McCoy said heavily.

"What do we have left?"

Though McCoy was Chief Medical Officer on Enterprise and by extension Kirk's personal physician, Boyce was the attending physician at Starfleet Medical Center. That made the older physician primary on Kirk's case, though he had happily taken a step back to let McCoy lead.

"Not much." He looked down at the PADD. "I keep thinking we missed something."

Boyce studied the display with keen eyes, then made a non-committal noise and moved to examine Kirk. "He's still running a fever."

"It's down from last night." McCoy joined him on the opposite side of the bed. A primitive and unfamiliar sensation rose. He didn't like the other physician examining Kirk.

Boyce was old-fashioned. The advanced medical technology made patient diagnostics and care more efficient, but less personal. The display showed dozens of intimate details about Jim Kirk as they were fed through the sensitive scanners on the bio-bed. A doctor could pass a scanner over the patient and know more about where he hurt than the patient himself. But there were times when a doctor just wanted to put his hands on the patient and feel for himself what was wrong.

Boyce was such a doctor.

The older man's hands were sure and practiced. He checked the intubation tube on the respirator before running his hands down Kirk's chest and resting on the flat abdomen. He gently palpitated the area and frowned. "He's got some distension."

Both men turned their heads to study the display, focusing on the pain indicator. It showed low levels.

"I've kept the analgesics at moderate levels," McCoy said. With all the other medication Kirk was on, he hadn't wanted to compromise Kirk's system any further by heavy doses of pain meds; there were very few to which the man was not allergic.

Boyce pulled up the cooling blanket to cover Kirk's feverish body and took a moment to scrutinize the unconscious form. He looked up at McCoy. "He's showing signs of extreme stress."

"He's under extreme stress."

The two physicians faced off in silence. McCoy wasn't going to be intimated by this man, no matter how senior he was in rank or experience. He knew what Boyce saw. Any third year medical student would have been able to diagnose the chronic stress that had become so evident in Kirk. The monitors left little to imagination.

Despite his motionless figure, Kirk's adrenal glands were releasing epinephrine as a response to the stress of the transfusion. His blood vessels were constricting, creating hypertension. There was a real danger of damage to his cardiovascular system-a complication Kirk did not need.

This type of continual stress produced changes in the neurons and their synapses in the hippocampus, leading to impairments of memory and spatial orientation. And then there was Kirk's immune system which had been severely compromised by the radiation. He had no antibodies; even a simple cold could kill him now.

"Leonard," Boyce said in a low, knowing tone. The single word was a remonstrance.

McCoy was tired. The weariness was bone deep, and weighed on him like an anchor. He felt helpless and ineffectual. Doctors were taught to cure, to fix what's ailing, and a vital part of that training was learning to accept when they have done all they can. But McCoy wasn't ready to quit. Not by a long shot. He clasped his hands behind his back in an unfamiliar military stance.

"I think you're too close to this one," Boyce said.

So that was it; the real reason for Boyce's visit. Doctors don't treat their friends for good reason. Had the rumors finally caught up to him? Impartial judgment was a luxury McCoy couldn't afford.

"He's not giving up," McCoy said. "Neither am I."

Boyce was silent for a long moment. McCoy could see the man's thoughts turning; Boyce had every right and the authority to remove McCoy as Kirk's doctor. And there wouldn't be a damn thing McCoy could do about it.

Boyce nodded once, a barely perceptible move. "I want a full report on his progress." He turned and took one step away. Stopped. "And Admiral Komack wants to be briefed."

McCoy didn't watch him leave. He stayed in his place by Kirk until he sensed the new presence of a familiar figure.

"You're late," he said without turning around.

"I did not wish to interrupt," Spock said.

"I would have welcomed an interruption," he said solemnly.

"Doctor Boyce does not agree with your treatment plan?"

What treatment plan? He was swinging at balls being thrown at him, trying to keep Kirk alive long enough for the man to recover. "Professional disagreement."

"Captain Kirk did not respond positively to the latest anti-rejection medication?"

"He did not," McCoy said and moved away from the bed. As if things weren't bad enough, he would now have to face Admiral Komack.

"His temperature is higher," Spock noted.

"Yes," McCoy said heavily, retrieving the PADD from his chair. My god he was tired.

"He is in pain?"

"It's being managed." He studied the report, not certain what Komack wanted to see. How much did the Admiral really know?

"He looks…fragile."

McCoy turned sharply at the words, stunned. For a brief moment he saw Spock unguarded. The stern, impenetrable Vulcan shield had dropped to reveal something very human. The normally disciplined features had softened into an expression of…. He wasn't certain what. Compassion? Fear? …Love?

So, that's what a Vulcan looks like when he's helpless.

"He is fragile, Spock," he said carefully.

And in an instant, the shield was back in place. Spock straightened slightly and turned away from McCoy without seeming to move at all.

What would it take, he wondered, for the Vulcan to reach out and touch Kirk? Would it be a plea from Kirk, the simple relief of Kirk's survival, or his dying breath? He shook his head. He had never admired emotional restraint. Life was too damn short.

Spock heard McCoy sigh and then leave the room. Vulcan hearing could easily discern the conversation McCoy was having with the duty nurse, but the instructions did not interest him. Alone and unobserved, he took the opportunity to study his friend.

Fragile?

It was a word Kirk would not want used to describe him. Spock had seen Kirk beaten and bruised, swaying on his feet with pain, and even grief-struck with emotion. In all that, there was always an indefinable energy that set him apart, brought him to vibrant life.

That energy was gone now.

Kirk lay unnaturally still. His complexion had gone from pale to ashen, and now was covered with a sheen of sweat. The blue eyes that seemed to Spock to change tone and color with emotion, were hidden behind pale lids that made no attempt to flutter. The respirator forced oxygen into Kirk's lungs, but it was manufactured motion. It offered Spock a false sense of comfort that, at this moment, he refused.

"Good morning," Nurse Hiller said with a smile. She was one of the three ICU nurses who currently cared for Kirk.

Spock withdrew slightly from the bed.

"You don't have to move," she said pleasantly, moving to the opposite side of the bed. "We're just going to reposition him."

Another nurse joined her.

"We have to put the brace on," Hiller said. "He broke a few vertebrae."

The brace was an immobile energy field that surrounded Kirk's middle, making it impossible for his spine to shift. Together they slowly turned Kirk slightly on his side, careful of the intubation tube. His body moved with boneless softness, as if he were nothing more than a puppet with the strings severed.

It was difficult for Spock to watch the idle manipulation of the man he had come to admire. Unable to even breathe on his own, Kirk was completely dependent on these strangers for his basic care.

"Did Dr. McCoy order Halderpine?" the nurse asked.

"No. I think they're going to try another anti-rejection drug," Hiller said, tucking the cooling blanket around Kirk.

"This fever is taking a lot out of him."

"Yes," Hiller said and moved to tap lightly on the intravenous output machine. "He doesn't seem to want to cooperate."

Both nurses exited as unobtrusively as they had arrived.

Spock moved forward again and sat in his familiar chair by the side of the bed to keep vigil. He did not have experience in these things. He was not certain what he was supposed to do.

His brief years on Earth had not given him experience in the human medical field. Vulcan, with its great scientific technology and advances, healed in what Humans would view as a very archaic manner. Vulcans simply withdrew their consciousness and focused on mending their bodies. There was little need for such physiological intervention.

He found himself looking at Kirk again. It was the stillness that bothered him the most, as if the very life had been stolen from the young captain. He wondered how much longer this human would be able to fight. When would the struggle overtake Kirk? Would he simply surrender?

Spock's eyes trailed from the softened features to the edge of the bed where Kirk's hand was curled into a gentle fist, lying exposed on top of the blanket.

Fragile.

Yes, humans were fragile.

He reached out and let his fingertips caress the pale hand.

A pattern had emerged in the small ICU room. A cycle of new medications, blood analysis, and cardiovascular support made up the days that followed. Kirk remained unconscious and they continued alternating between by-pass and respiratory support. His fever persisted, and none of the medical staff knew where he got the strength to continue to fight.

And then one day, Kirk's body began to respond to the treatment.

Hiller handed McCoy Kirk's blood results. Her eyes were lit and a small smile played across her round face.

McCoy reviewed the lab results. "His cells are beginning to repair themselves."

He didn't look up as he spoke, knowing that the Vulcan remained in his familiar spot at Kirk's bedside. Spock had become a permanent fixture in the ICU.

They had waited ten days, battling to keep Kirk alive, never knowing from moment to moment if the captain would succumb to simple exhaustion. Now, for the first time, McCoy saw real progress.

Spock stood. If a Vulcan could look happy, then McCoy supposed Spock did. The Vulcan looked at the medical display, as if seeking confirmation of McCoy's prognosis. Kirk's vitals showed no sign of the improvement.

"It's a good sign, Spock."

Then Kirk's condition steadily began to change. By the end of the day, they were able to take him off the respirator. His blood-pressure increased marginally and slowly his fever reduced.

The "super-blood," as McCoy had come to call it, was regenerating at an astonishing rate. It replaced cells that had been damaged and protected those that had not. Even the most advanced of medical science could not accomplish what Khan's blood had done on its own. Kirk's red blood-cell count rose as the days progressed and McCoy felt comfortable enough to move him to a private room.

Kirk remained unconscious through it all, much to Spock's dismay.

"He'll wake when he's ready," was all McCoy would say on the subject.

Kirk became strong enough to undergo surgery to repair the broken vertebrae. McCoy became somewhat of a permanent fixture himself, monitoring Kirk's progress closely. The medical scientist in him distrusted the results.

Then, in the very early hours of a quiet morning, Kirk began to wake.