Chapter Six

Kirk drew in a tight, halting breath and closed his eyes in an effort to concentrate on keeping his trembling legs from collapsing. He was regretting his earlier bravado when he announced to McCoy that he didn't need any help to stand.

He felt himself sway and a strong hand instantly gripped his arm.

"Keep breathing, Jim," McCoy ordered.

He sucked in a short breath. A shudder tore through him and he experienced a weakness he'd never known before. His lower back throbbed intensely, spreading out toward his chest and sinking into his pelvis. The sound of rushing blood was a deafening cacophony.

"How are you doing?"

"Terrific," he muttered. It was all he could manage through his tightly clenched jaw. He forced open his eyes. He was never so aware of his own heartbeat. The room spun and blurred in a sea of nondescript shades of white – disorientating and opaque. Who the hell's idea was it to paint every goddam wall white?

It was difficult for him to tell where the boundaries were, where wall and floor met. He felt as if he were bleeding into the space around him. Sweat ran down his temples. He drew another staggering breath, feeling the pull of every muscle and nerve from his hip to his shoulder.

Alarms sounded loudly.

"Okay, let's get him back," McCoy ordered.

Back where?

He was being ushered into the bed and had no strength to resist. He was still connected to an IV in his arm, but thankfully the urinary catheter had been removed that morning. All this was little comfort to him now. The nerves in his back were on fire, creating a sudden wave of nausea. His world had been reduced to a thick dense fog, gray and static…and filled with pain.

He sensed the commotion around him, but paid little attention, concentrating instead on breathing as little as possible. Every movement of his lungs caused shards to dig into his abdomen and back. It gnawed away at his center, made worse by the trembling in his body.

A blanket covered him; a cool compress to his head, voices…the cold sting of a hypo on his neck.

His heart rate slowed and the rushing in his ears subsided to a dull susurrate, leaving an ache behind his eyes. His thoughts cleared as the room came into focus. He saw McCoy staring down at him with an expression that bordered on amusement.

"Lie still and let the hypo work," McCoy ordered. He passed a small instrument near Kirk's head.

But Kirk weakly pushed it away, scowling. His hand fell back to the bed. Even that small act of defiance had a cost. His back throbbed in cadence with his heartbeat. Whatever McCoy had given him it had only barely taken the edge off his back.

"You did well, Jim."

"I stood for five minutes," he said in a dour tone.

"And you were expecting to sprint down the hall?"

Yes, that was definitely amusement he'd seen on McCoy's face.

"You might have warned me," he said.

"I did warn you. You didn't listen."

He closed his eyes, furious with his body and not too happy with McCoy either. The trembling in his body had reduced to shivers that seemed only to make the pain worse. He hated the weakness and hated not having a moment of privacy. He couldn't even relieve himself without it being monitored.

His body was constantly being poked and prodded. He knew the only way out was to walk through the doors, and he couldn't even stand.

I hate this.

McCoy sighed. "Jim, you were unconscious for two weeks. You have to go slow. You haven't built up your strength yet."

He didn't like being weak. It was one thing to be wounded – a soldier carried off the battlefield. It was another to be bedridden with exhaustion – too weak to stand and trembling like an invalid.

"Not to bore you with the details of human physiology, Jim, but men who spend two weeks unconscious don't just wake and start running. You lost a good bit of muscle and weight in those two weeks, not to mention the stress put on your major organs by fighting the transfusion."

"You've got to be kidding me," he said under his breath and opened his eyes to glare at McCoy. "You're giving me a biology lecture."

"You could use one," McCoy said gently fired back. "Listen, Jim, I don't want to overstress your system. You're still fighting off a fever."

"I'm not made of glass," Kirk shot back.

"I know that," McCoy responded evenly.

The trembling had finally stopped. He was spent, wrung dry. The good thing about physical exhaustion – he was too tired to think and, hopefully, too tired to dream.

"The next time will be easier," McCoy promised and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Get some sleep."

Sound medical advice.

"Damn it, Spock, that isn't what I said," McCoy retorted.

They were in the hall just outside Kirk's room. They had stepped out so as not to disturb a sleeping Kirk, and where McCoy felt free to speak his mind.

"There is no need to become emotional, Doctor."

"The hell there isn't!"

A nurse passing by turned her head toward them in interest as she moved down the hall.

It was taking all of Spock's discipline as a Starfleet officer and as a Vulcan to maintain his composure at McCoy's outburst. "Vice Admiral Satori is well within his authority to request an interview with the Captain."

"And I'm well within my authority to refuse him." McCoy scowled and paced restlessly in the small space in front of Spock.

"That would not be wise."

Vice Admiral Satori was head of Starfleet Inspector General. Despite his role in Starfleet – conducting internal investigations on Starfleet personnel – he was an easy-going man who had a way of disarming others, a dangerous combination for a man in his position. Spock had noted that the man was extraordinarily successful at getting what he wanted.

"Every crewmember on the ship has given him an interview," McCoy said. "He doesn't need Jim's and sure as hell doesn't need it today. One more interview isn't going to change anything and you know it."

"It is not about changing, Doctor, but about maintaining."

McCoy's scowl deepened. "I've been arguing with Boyce all morning Spock. I'm not in the mood for riddles."

"Then I will simplify this for you. The captain is the commanding officer on a ship that crossed into Klingon space, engaged the Klingons in battle and helped to destroy another Starfleet vessel that was commanded by the head of Starfleet. He must give an interview."

"He's not strong enough."

"Doctor—"

McCoy came to a standstill in front of Spock. "It's not just Satori. Komack wants to see him, and someone from Medical Command— "

"I understand your reluctance in this matter, and I am well aware of the interest the Captain has generated in Command, but your refusal to allow them access to him will only cause more concern."

"For two weeks the man in that room lingered between life and death." McCoy stabbed a finger toward the closed door. "He almost gave up his life so that his crew could live, and now you want me to just hand him over to a couple of curious Admirals who don't have the bare courtesy to wait until the man can stand on his own feet."

Spock remained ramrod straight and unmoving. When he spoke, his tone had lowered to a personal level. "Doctor, you cannot protect him forever."

McCoy's shoulders fell. He looked deflated. "I don't want to protect him forever, Spock. But he can't even walk to the end of his room and I've got Admirals circling him like vultures on a day-old carcass."

Spock had never encountered the fiercely protective nature of McCoy, and he wasn't certain how to manage it. He respected this part of McCoy – the consummate physician and loyal friend – but the often overly emotional human had very narrow vision.

"He is our friend, Leonard, but he is also captain of the Enterprise."

McCoy was unmoving for a moment, then spun away from Spock on the heels of his boots. "I know that, damn it," he said without turning back. "But for a few more days, can't he just be James Kirk?"

"The two are not mutually exclusive, Doctor. He has duties as a Starfleet Officer…and so do you."

McCoy remained facing away from Spock in silence. When he turned back to the First Officer he looked like a man who had just made a bargain with Satan. "I was a doctor before I was a Starfleet Officer. What about my duty to my patient?"

"Do what you see fit, Doctor, but remember, your decisions impact all of us."

Reluctantly, McCoy met Spock's eyes, then turned and walked away.

McCoy entered the Medical Center ward in a foul mood. He was awakened at 0500 hours to the insistent chime of his computer. He was unceremoniously being summoned to Starfleet Medical Command. He'd spent the morning in a briefing room with Boyce and the head of Medical answering questions regarding Kirk's treatment and progress. The Admiralty wanted a progress report, he was told.

Apparently he'd been remiss in his updates.

He'd barely stepped out of the room when he was sequestered by an assistant of Satori, who insisted on a firm date and time to interview Kirk. The Admiralty, the assistant had said, had promised his cooperation. McCoy had managed to buy his patient another day. But that was it.

The proverbial genie was out of the bottle and suddenly all of Starfleet and Earth were buzzing about news of Kirk – the hero who saved the Federation, the miracle man who had defied death. It made for great media fodder. To make matters worse, someone had leaked about Admiral Marcus' perfidy to the media and all of the Federation were expressing outrage at Starfleet.

Citizens of the Federation didn't collectively pay Starfleet to provoke a secret war with the Klingons, and they sure as hell didn't pay for a war machine. Starfleet had always been about exploration, strengthening the Federation through alliance, not weaponry.

It was a powder keg waiting to explode.

Starfleet was doing a spectacular job of covering its ass, and that only drew more attention to the young hero who had fought the renegade Admiral- the son of George Kirk, living up to his heritage.

McCoy rounded the corner into the private wing that housed Jim's room. He'd missed rounds that morning and was anxious to check on Jim. Just as he approached, Ryan exited Kirk's room carrying a tray. He looked at the tray of food she had covered and she shook her head.

Jim still wasn't eating.

Another battle.

He took a moment to shake off his irritation and fatigue, and entered the room. Jim was unsettled in the bed, his face flushed with fever. Out of habit, McCoy studied the readings on the display. He knew from the detailed report he'd received at home that morning that Kirk had had a disruptive night. Between nightmares and the pain, Kirk had barely slept. The fever was wearing on his system, leaching away what little energy McCoy's treatments had given him.

"Jim, you've gotta eat."

"Bones, I'm not hungry."

McCoy looked at the ashen complexion and dullness in the blue eyes. The display monitor told McCoy that Kirk's heart rate and respiration were increased, which was in line with a higher fever. Electrolytes were still off, as were protein counts. The fever was causing fatigue and achiness. McCoy was certain the nausea was only one unpleasant discomfort among many for Kirk.

"I know this is difficult," McCoy said. "We're introducing what your system needs little by little, but it's going at its own pace. You'll feel better once you eat."

"No. Not now."

McCoy knew Kirk hadn't been able to keep anything down that he'd attempted to eat. He really didn't blame the man for refusing, but there was only so much nutrition a body could process intravenously. He had to get Jim's gastrointestinal system working.

"It's a paradox, but you aren't going to feel hungry until you eat."

Kirk didn't respond and McCoy could see the petulance on his face. McCoy sighed – partly out of frustration and partly out of sympathy. Nothing was going to cajole Jim; he had dug in his heels. McCoy turned to the medical table to retrieve a small scanner and stepped next to the bed.

His physician's eyes never failed him. Always diagnosing and evaluating. As a doctor, he had become acutely attuned to the suffering of others, and knew instantly when a patient was hiding discomfort or trying to create subterfuge.

Jim was clearly hiding his pain. McCoy noted the sweat soaked sandy hair and light bruises beneath the blue eyes. He even saw slight tremor in Jim's left hand that the man was trying to hide.

"You look like hell," he said.

Kirk showed a brief expression of surprise. "Is that your professional opinion?"

"It is." McCoy passed the scanner over Kirk's ribs. "How does your back feel?"

"I'm not going to be fighting Klingons anytime soon."

Translation: Better, but not great. The scanner showed the vertebrae healing, but the nerves were still hyperactive. He eyed the spikes on the monitor with concern. Physical therapy would only irritate the nerves, but he needed to get Jim moving to stimulate his system.

The liver was slightly enlarged and he made a note on the record to draw a sample and to run a full cardio panel along with a neurological scan. The tremors could be fatigue, or they could be something else.

"When can I get this out?" Kirk asked, indicating the IV.

"When you start eating."

Kirk made a sound between a growl and sigh and turned his head to stare out the window.

"Look, Jim, the radiation killed all the good bacteria in your body, not to mention what it did to your blood cells and autoimmune system. Khan's blood was good enough to bring you back from the dead, but the blood you're producing now is your own. I can't just treat one symptom. I have to treat your whole body."

Kirk continued to stare out the window.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Yes."

McCoy watched him for a moment. The petulance had faded and he looked now like a man who had reached his limits and was about to lie down in defeat. McCoy realized suddenly that that idea bothered him more than watching Jim struggle to stand. Defeat and James Kirk didn't go together.

Maybe Spock was right. Maybe protecting Jim wasn't the right thing to do.

Spock regarded Kirk with discomfort. "I had thought a more detailed report on the ship's status would ease some of your concerns and help you to feel…more connected."

The PADD rested loosely in Kirk's hands. It seemed heavy and burdensome and he rested it on his lap. "It does. Thank you," he said quietly and seemed to become lost in thought.

"My report to Starfleet Command is also there," Spock supplied.

Kirk said nothing.

The room was quiet, except for the soft sounds of the display monitor. McCoy still had Kirk on a tight watch. His fever had not gone down and medications were still being pushed through an IV in his arm. Though there were improvements to his health, Spock could see he tired easily.

"I feel I have fatigued you, Captain," Spock said. "And perhaps unnecessarily burdened you with details you need not know yet."

"It's not you, Spock." Kirk seemed to rouse from introspection. "I appreciate the updates, and the company. It's just… I don't…sit well."

Spock raised his brows in amusement. "I have noticed that."

His attempt at levity did not work. Kirk remained solemn. For the first time Spock noticed how much weight Kirk had lost. Thin through the shoulders and chest, and pale from his ordeal, Kirk managed to still command an air of authority. He was still captain of the Enterprise.

But something deep within the human had changed. Spock could feel it as certainly as he knew his own thoughts. Some of the recklessness had given way to a deeper sense of responsibility. It was that responsibility that now weighed on Kirk.

"Don't you ever get restless, Spock?" he asked lightly.

The question caught Spock off guard. "Vulcans do not get restless. We are taught at an early age to reflect, to think before we respond." He tilted his head slightly. "For that very reason we are solitary."

Kirk looked at him for a long time. Spock realized suddenly that it was not fatigue that he saw in Kirk, but sorrow.

"I don't mind solitary," Kirk said thoughtfully. "I mind the Universe moving around me while I stay in place. Not being able to get out of this room, to…barely be able to get out of bed…it's too much time to think."

"That would suggest your thoughts disturb you."

Kirk nodded ever so slightly and moved his gaze away. "They do," he said softly.

Spock was silent for a long moment as he searched for the right words. Their friendship seemed new and fragile to Spock. He was uncertain where the boundaries were, the ones that could not be crossed. It seemed that he had stumbled over those boundaries since they had met, provoking Kirk's ire more than once.

And yet, Kirk had allowed Spock to see his tears when Pike had died, to witness his grief in a way that a man like Kirk rarely shared. That denoted a certain amount of trust he had in Spock.

Kirk had trusted him with his ship. And at the moment of his death, Kirk had exposed his own fear, reaching out and seeking Spock's help for emotional control – as though the Vulcan had a secret skill that he could pass on to his friend. Little did Kirk know at that time every Vulcan discipline Spock had studied and mastered had completely failed him when he had needed it the most.

He had failed his friend.

"When my mother died," Spock began slowly, "I felt restless."

Kirk looked at him, listening intently.

"The image of my mother falling into oblivion just within my reach played out repeatedly in my mind. A few seconds earlier, and she would have been saved. If I had positioned her behind me, she would have been saved. There were a hundred and three possibilities that would have resulted in her life being saved, but only my one action, or lack of it, that resulted in her death."

Kirk was thoughtful and silent. When he spoke, his words sounded as if they were coming from far away. "Do—do you still see her?"

"Not that image."

"How did you do that?" Kirk asked. "How did you stop your mind from playing that scenario over and over? How did you find peace?"

"By realizing that there is no peace in examining a fictious event to alter a fictious outcome."

Kirk frowned. "That doesn't sound very Vulcan."

"Jim, of all the species in the Federation, only humans spend an inordinate amount of time and energy wanting a different reality other than what is. Vulcans understand the futility of that desire."

Kirk thought about that for a moment. "Graceful acceptance."

"There is nothing else to be done. You made your decisions, as I made mine."

Kirk shifted uncomfortably in bed and drew a careful breath. "I read somewhere that those who don't learn from the past are condemned to repeat it."

"George Santayana. He also believed that history was nothing other than assisted and recorded memory, and therefore believed that the past was subject to continual change less similar to the original experience."

Kirk studied him for a moment, suddenly looking drawn and pale. "We can change the past by how we look at it."

"You cannot change the past, but you can change how you view it."

Kirk's eyes narrowed. "That sounds like cheating, Spock."

A single brow lifted. "It is changing the conditions."

Kirk chuckled lightly and rested his head deeper on the pillow.

It was the first time Spock heard him laugh in many weeks.

"I must not tire you. Doctor McCoy will be displeased."

"I'm all right," Kirk said. But his eyes were already closing.

Spock waited until he heard the even, gentle sounds of Kirk's breathing then retrieved the PADD still resting in Kirk's lap and left the room.