Chapter Eight

Kirk's legs trembled to hold his weight, but still he stopped, pressing his left arm against his aching side. The bed was a few more steps away. A few more steps and he could lie down.

"Do you want to stop?" McCoy asked from somewhere behind him.

He shook his head. A sharp stabbing spread from his lower back, digging into his groin like a sharp-edged blade. Lifting his legs took a supreme effort, as did navigating the short distance from his bed to the door and back. His brain knew what he wanted to do, but his body seemed not to follow his instructions. So his walking, if he could call it that, was more like a clumsy shuffle.

He drew a cautious breath and made an effort to straighten. He closed his eyes to concentrate on lifting one leg; one step, then another.

Why was it so difficult to make his legs work? His head pounded with a familiar headache. He sucked in another breath. Every muscle and nerve was strung taut, but he steeled his determination. He'd be damned if he was going to quit.

The room tipped.

Breathe.

A hand gripped his quavering arm, adding support. Just as he made it to the bed, his legs folded suddenly beneath him and he unceremoniously collapsed to the bed. He needed no prompting. He gratefully sank back onto the mattress, letting the softness take his weight.

Head pounding, perspiring and every muscle quivering, he closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. There was nothing he could do for his back that throbbed and ached.

Hands lifted his legs back onto the bed and fussed about him. He didn't resist. He wore light-weight pants and a loose-fitting underwear shirt for cover. The clothing made him feel a little less vulnerable. He simply lay on top of the bed, catching his breath and trying to get the room to steady around him.

He heard the whirl of instruments and knew that McCoy was near. He opened his eyes and met the amused gaze of his friend.

"Told you it would be easier the second time," McCoy said.

"You enjoy your job too much, Bones."

"Is that all the thanks I get for rescuing you from Satori?"

It hadn't exactly been a rescue.

He hadn't made it all the way through the hour interview with Satori. After forty minutes, he'd begun to struggle to keep his eyes open and the Admiral had to abruptly end the interview. He was asleep by the time the nurse entered to check on him. When he woke, McCoy was there to usher him to his feet.

He closed his eyes again in a vain attempt to ease the pain in his head. Why was it always so damn bright in this room? He put a hand to his head and noticed his arm trembling. He let it fall back to the bed where someone – a nurse he presumed – took possession of it. He'd almost forgotten about the IV.

He heard McCoy give her some medical orders, something about keeping up his fluids intake, medications. He let the sound of their voices drift into the background of his thoughts and concentrated on lessening the pain in his head and back. McCoy would give him something if he asked for it, and most times when he did not, but he knew any pain meds would put him right to sleep and there was something he wanted to talk about with McCoy.

His heartbeat thundered within his chest and he tried to slow his breathing to dull the pounding in his head and back. He realized his muscles had tightened from the pain and he made a concentrated effort to relax. He focused on air filling his lungs with slow, steady breaths – in and out. His spine relaxed against the bed….

He slowly opened his eyes. The room was cast in shadows from the late afternoon sun. He'd fallen asleep. A blanket covered him. He felt sticky with perspiration. He looked around the room and saw Spock, wearing only the standard Starfleet black teeshirt, standing by the window, looking out.

"Is it that bad?" Kirk asked. His voice was rough and weak.

Spock turned his head to look at him. "Captain, I hope I did not disturb your rest."

"You did not, Mr. Spock." Kirk pushed himself up onto his elbows, testing his muscles and back. "We have to talk about what you do on your off-duty time."

"Captain?" Spock tilted his head, puzzled.

"It's not that I don't appreciate the company – I do, but…shouldn't you be spending your free time with Uhura?"

"Lieutenant Uhura, as with most of the Enterprise crew, is taking a furlough. She has gone home to visit her family."

Kirk's arms began to tremble and he felt the first pinch of pain in his back. "You don't want to see your family?"

"My father is elsewhere engaged. His duty as Ambassador often takes him from home. In any event, there are too many duties with the Enterprise under repair, and senior officers have pointedly not been offered furlough. We are to remain on Earth and available." Spock regarded him with concern. "Do you need assistance?"

His arms wouldn't hold him any longer. He fell back as they collapsed and bit back the cry of pain the sudden, jarring movement caused him.

Damn it!

He closed his eyes tightly against the pain and said, "No."

But Spock was at the bed and skillfully tapped the controls to incline it for him. Relaxing, he let the bed do the work then opened his eyes. "Thank you."

"Doctor McCoy informs me Admiral Satori visited you."

"I wouldn't call it a visit," he said drily.

"The Admiralty is anxious to conclude its investigation."

"I bet they are. When you set it all down on record no one looks good."

"I do not believe that is the reason for the investigation."

"No, but…things are going to change because of it." He laid his hand flat onto his abdomen in the hope of easing the dull cramping. He'd taken a few mouthfuls of the liquid brew McCoy called food, and promptly threw it up.

"We can only hope."

Something in the Vulcan's tone made him search the stoic features. It occurred to him that he really didn't know what his friend thought of all that had happened. McCoy had told him that Spock had risked his life in a fight to subdue Khan, but that was all. He knew that his friend had kept a close vigil as he lingered between life and death, and that somehow Spock had had a hand in Khan's returning to a cryogenic state.

"There are no simple answers, are there?" Kirk asked.

"There rarely are where humans are concerned."

Kirk lay still and studied Spock for a long moment. "What were you thinking about before I woke up?"

Spock was silent for a long time, and Kirk wasn't sure he was going to answer. Then Spock spoke in a tone Kirk had never heard.

"I was thinking about the tremendous loss of life because of one man's hatred."

For a moment, Kirk wasn't certain if Spock was referring to Khan, Marcus or Nero. Maybe it didn't matter. Weren't they all essentially the same? And hadn't he, Kirk, been just as guilty?

"Everything happened so quickly with the Vengeance and Khan…" Kirk dropped his gaze.

The two of them had said their goodbyes in those last few minutes of what they thought was Kirk's life. They had said what mattered and neither man need speak of it again. But what of the decisions Kirk had made? What did Spock's keen, analytical Vulcan mind think of them?

A powerful hand on his shoulder spun him around.

"I cannot allow you to do this. One of my principle functions on this ship is to ensure that reason and logic prevail in the making of all decisions, something I firmly believe you are incapable of doing at this moment."

"We never really got a chance to talk," Kirk said.

"During battle there are rarely moments for debriefing," Spock said.

He looked up at Spock. "I'm not talking about debriefing, Spock. I'm talking about what you think about what we did."

"You saved—"

"No," Kirk said, shaking his head. The movement ignited fresh pain in his skull. "I'm not talking about what we did at the end. I'm talking about what we did in the beginning."

"The decision to pursue Khan."

"Yes," Kirk said softly. "I wanted to kill Khan."

"As did I. It is not about what we wanted to do, but rather what we ultimately did do." Spock settled his shoulders. "Jim, Admiral Marcus feared the future. His fear drove him to sacrifice his own humanity, the very thing he sought to protect. To that end, he was willing to sacrifice every living being on the Enterprise."

"That wasn't his conviction, Spock. That was Marcus covering his ass. We knew too much to be allowed to live."

"Precisely."

He looked at his First Officer and friend. What was it that Marcus had said? "A simple manhunt." But there was nothing simple about it. Marcus had set a complex chain of events into motion, moving Khan and Kirk into position like chess pieces on a board. Kirk's own emotions had both condemned and freed them. He didn't know what to think of it all. He wasn't accustomed to winning by losing.

He closed his eyes, hoping his head would stop hurting.

"Damn it, Jim, you have to eat." McCoy stood at the side of Kirk's bed, scowling at his patient. Kirk had taken only a sip or two of the liquid nutrition then disregarded it completely.

Kirk lay in the bed. As thin and pale as he had become in the past weeks, he still managed to present himself in true command form. McCoy noted the set of his jaw and the way he squared his shoulders. Even under the direst circumstances Kirk was still a force to be reckoned with.

"I have a question," Kirk said.

"It better be what's for dinner." He looked down at the PADD and studied the recent results from this morning's blood draw. The plasma levels of fatty acids and ketone bodies were increasing and glucose levels were decreasing rapidly. Kirk's body was struggling to fuel the major organs, taking protein from tissue and muscle – something Kirk could not afford.

If Kirk didn't eat today, McCoy was going to have to make a difficult medical decision – one that he knew Kirk was not going to like.

"Why am I having trouble walking?" Kirk asked.

McCoy looked up from the PADD, stunned. The question took him by surprise. Part of him wanted to laugh aloud at the outrageous question. Given the amount of damage Kirk's body had sustained, McCoy was happy the man was breathing; walking was a bonus. But it was the first time Kirk seemed to take any interest in his own recovery, so McCoy gave him his full attention and put on his best physician's face.

"Jim, you've only been on your feet twice. That's hardly enough to make an accurate assessment of your walking abilities."

"I'm having trouble…making everything…work," Kirk said with obvious frustration. "I know what I want to do, but…it's like my body won't cooperate."

"Jim—"

"And my arms shake. I can't even hold a goddamn cup."

"Your system—"

"It's not about strength; it's something else."

"Will you shut up and listen to me!" His temper had finally surfaced, and he made an effort to get control. He set the PADD down. "The terminal level of radiation very nearly destroyed every cell in your body. It impacted every organ, every nerve path. The cells have healed, thanks to Khan's blood, but your brain is still trying to…rewire itself."

Kirk didn't like that answer, McCoy could tell.

"Some things are going to take more time than others," McCoy said.

"So I wait?" Kirk asked with a scowl.

"No, you do your physical therapy and you eat."

Kirk turned his head away from McCoy. "I want to take a shower."

One thing McCoy knew about Kirk: He was damn good at deflecting.

McCoy picked up the PADD again and began making notes. "I'll have one of the nurses give you a bed bath. You should enjoy that," he said drily.

"No. I want a shower."

McCoy's fingers paused on the PADD and he drew a steady breath. "Jim…."

"Bones, I just want—" Kirk closed his eyes and pressed his head against the pillow. His body had become rigid and his arm had begun to tremble. He looked like a man who wanted to hit something…or someone. And then he suddenly seemed to let go. "I just want a shower."

McCoy looked at him and felt a pang of guilt. Of course he wanted a shower. He'd been feverish and sweating, lying in the same bed for over two weeks. His hair was matted with sweat. Patients recovered faster when they were engaged in the healing process, had a pleasing environment, and felt comfortable. It was the smallest request, and one McCoy knew he couldn't refuse.

He looked at the private bathroom at the end of the room. Every medical instinct within him was advising against it. Kirk wasn't strong enough. His body didn't need the extra stress. He could barely stand; much less take a shower on his own.

"Okay," McCoy said quickly before he could come to his senses.

It was Kirk's turn to look surprised. "Really?"

"Yes and then you eat."

McCoy stepped out of the room without another word and returned with a hoverchair. He set it aside and went about the task of disconnecting Kirk's IV, leaving the catheter port still inserted into the vein. When he was finished, he stepped back, giving Kirk room, and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Kirk carefully moved his legs over the edge of the bed and took a moment to orient to the new position. McCoy watched him closely, noting the throb of pulse in his carotid artery. He wanted to tell Kirk to take his time, but he held his tongue and waited.

Kirk drew a few steady breaths and straightened his spine, gathering his strength. He held up his hand with the catheter, silently demanding it be removed.

"No, that stays."

Kirk scowled and stood, swayed slightly on wobbly legs. McCoy resisted the urge to reach out and steady him. Jim needed the illusion of independence.

Kirk looked at the chair. "I can walk on my own."

"It's the chair or nothing."

Kirk hated being outmaneuvered as much as he hated depending on others. But he must have really wanted a shower, because he obediently slid into the waiting chair without another word.

This is stupid. He's probably going to end up fainting in there.

The bathroom was small but functional. The sonic shower had elaborately calibrated controls for patient safety. McCoy punched in the settings: temperature, speed of sonic blast, duration. He set the cleanse function on light wash in deference to any sensitivity Kirk would have on his healing incisions. A bench automatically slid out of the wall in the narrow stall.

Without a word, McCoy helped Kirk out of his clothes, taking care not to force or rush him. Kirk's coordination was compromised and even removing the shirt proved cumbersome. McCoy eased him, naked and shivering, onto the bench.

"I've set the controls. Five minutes," McCoy said and stepped out of the stall.

"Five minutes!"

The door slid shut and automatically activated the shower. McCoy had set the door to partially obstruct Kirk; giving the man a modicum of privacy he so craved, but still allowing McCoy to keep a vital eye on his patient. He was able to see above Kirk's shoulders as the sonic shower rained down.

McCoy immediately commed a nurse to bring a fresh set of clothes and to change the bed linens, all the while watching Kirk. If he had worried about breaching Kirk's privacy and making the man feel self-conscious by watching him, he soon learned he didn't need to. Through the clear door he could see Kirk sitting with his eyes closed, letting the sonic water stream over him. Through the defused door, McCoy watched as the stress seemed to wash away from his friend. For a moment, McCoy could almost fool himself into thinking Kirk was his old self: unwounded, vibrant, so young.

The shower ended and still Kirk didn't open his eyes, keeping still during the drying sequence, as warm air gently evaporated the sonic water.

By the time the shower had ended, Kirk's fresh clothes had been handed to McCoy and the bed had been changed.

Getting Kirk into clothes was not as easy as getting him out of them. The shower, as McCoy had predicted, had enervated him; he was unsteady moving into the chair. McCoy gripped him securely and with practiced hands set him into the chair in one smooth move.

McCoy took only a moment to take a quick pulse, feeling the thunder of racing blood beneath his sensitive fingers.

Damn it.

He struggled to get Kirk into the fresh clothes. Kirk's breathing was labored from exhaustion and he seemed to be phasing out, his lids heavy. As McCoy finished and stepped away he noticed Kirk was shivering.

Yes, this was stupid.

He pushed the chair and Kirk in it into the main room. A nurse stood waiting at the side of the bed, an expression of disapproval on her face. McCoy had learned early in his medical career-don't piss off the nurses. And doing something they saw as their job pissed them off. She looked at Kirk who was wilting in the chair, then looked directly at McCoy. Wisely, she said nothing.

She helped him get a very wobbly Kirk back into bed. McCoy covered his shivering body.

"I hope this was worth it?" McCoy said in a tone that sounded more accusing than questioning.

"It was." Kirk's voice was faint and his head seemed to be too heavy to keep upright.

Idiot.

He meant the both of them.

By the time he had reconnected the IV, Kirk was sound asleep.