Chapter Ten

Kirk's body shook as the spasms subsided. He had held the food down longer this time and the vomiting had been less violent. The nurse removed the basin and he felt McCoy's steady hand on his shoulder as support. He was breathing heavily from exertion and remained still, wanting to be certain the spasms had ceased.

When he felt it safe, he slowly rolled onto his back and pushed his head into the pillow. His headache was in full swing, an anvil pounding mercilessly against his temples. He squinted against the pain. McCoy kept a hand on him and he did not protest.

"Headache?"

He closed his eyes in answer. The storm of rushing blood and convulsing muscles was subsiding, leaving him exhausted again.

"Those are the side-effects of the anti-emetic. I can stop giving it to you, but your nausea and vomiting will probably get worse."

"Those are my choices?"

"I'm afraid so."

"You have a lovely profession," he said.

"How about this - you walked to the door and back without falling down, that's progress."

Kirk dared to open his eyes just enough to see McCoy. "Don't try and cheer me up, Bones."

"I wouldn't dream of it," McCoy said. He pressed a scanner to Kirk's chest and studied the readouts on his PADD.

"That's the fourth time you've scanned my chest in two days."

McCoy glanced up briefly from his PADD. "Don't let it go to your head."

McCoy's tone was light, but Kirk could sense the seriousness beneath it, the way McCoy's mouth tightened as he studied the readings, the intensity in the eyes.

"What's wrong?" Kirk asked.

McCoy withdrew the scanner. "Nothing serious."

"But something."

The doctor set his instruments aside and addressed Kirk. "There's some minor damage to your heart – very minor and treatable."

Damage to his heart? It wasn't enough that his insides were trying to come out and his head was making a play to explode, but now his heart had damage? He let out a heavy breath and turned toward the window.

He was never getting out of this place.

"How long have I been here, Bones?"

"Three weeks."

Two he remembered not at all, and one he wished he could forget. He laid his hand over his stomach. Why didn't they have a decent view from the window?

"Are you hurting?" McCoy asked.

He shook his head. As tired as he was, he was also sore in what seemed like every muscle and bone. Physical therapy once a day was giving him an entirely new set of aches; vomiting several times a day didn't help, either. He shifted restlessly in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position and failing.

"Here," McCoy said gently.

He jerked slightly at the unexpected movement as the bed lowered. He looked at McCoy.

"It's all right," McCoy said, leaning over him.

He scowled. "Bones, I don't want to lie down."

"Just be quiet."

He made a frustrated sound, but was too tired to argue. He hated not having any control over what was being decided for him. Though he deeply trusted McCoy, the process of being treated for any illness or injury was, in his opinion, degrading. When his bed was level, he looked up at McCoy with annoyance.

"Roll onto your side," McCoy ordered.

What was McCoy up to? He stared at the doctor, uncertain. When he didn't move, the older man gently urged him onto his side. A bolster appeared and McCoy tucked it near him, guiding him to lie almost on his stomach.

"Bones…"

His protest was silenced as McCoy's hands began to massage the back of his shoulders, moving smoothly across his aching muscles.

"Just relax," McCoy said. "You're so tense."

He made a conscious effort to relax his muscles. He suddenly realized how tense his body had become, how taut his muscles. When was the last time he had felt relaxed and easy? Was it with the Caitian twins? He had been on the top of the world that night, easily charming them into his bed. Not only relaxed and confident, but in top physical form, as well. He couldn't even remember what it felt like to be virile and energized, sexually potent.

He breathed into the feel of the massage, letting McCoy's gentle motions ease him. He closed his eyes and began to relax.

McCoy felt the muscles loosen under his ministrations. His hands easily glided over Kirk's upper back. He could feel the ribs and bones beneath the skin. Kirk had lost a good bit of weight and muscle in the past few weeks, but McCoy was just now realizing how this illness had taken its toll. Kirk's normally athletic body was shockingly frail.

He had given Jim a medical exam while the ship had been stranded near Kronos. He recalled the hard muscles, bunched with tension. Even battered after hand-to-hand combat with Klingons, Jim still appeared healthy and strong.

His fingers massaged the muscles along the spine.

Kirk jerked suddenly.

"Is that tender?" he asked, frowning.

"Mmm."

The vertebrae were healing, but the muscles and tissue around them were still obviously tender. He made a mental note to speak to the physical therapist about focusing on Kirk's back during the next regimen. Building the muscles along the spine would strengthen Kirk's back and ease the pain of the inflamed tissue.

For now he moved his hands back to Kirk's shoulder, working in long strokes until the muscles relaxed again.

"Is that better?" he asked.

"Yes."

The word was slightly slurred and it made McCoy smile. As he moved down to the lower back, he stayed away from the sensitive area and worked Kirk's right hip. Lying in bed often caused pressure ulcers on the skin, and the muscles to store lactic acid, both of which contributed to a patient's discomfort.

After everything Kirk had been through, it gave McCoy pleasure to be able to relieve some of his friend's pain. He had intended only to massage Kirk's back and shoulders and offer some relief, but Kirk's body seem to be like soft clay in his hands, and, since Kirk did not object, he continued.

The door hissed open and he spared a glance at Spock who stood politely just inside the room. If the Vulcan thought his activity unusual, he did not show it. Maybe it was because of the man in the bed and the respect both men had for him. Maybe it was simply Vulcan courtesy. Whatever the reason for Spock's silence, McCoy didn't care.

He had seen the look on Kirk's face when he had told him of the heart damage. He had seen that look before on patients in his care – a strange mix of mournfulness and despair.

As he finished the massage, Kirk drew a deep, cleansing breath and rolled onto his back, looking sleepy and content.

"Thanks, Bones," he said.

"You're welcome."

Kirk frowned slightly. "Spock, how long have you been there?"

"Not long, Captain," Spock said and walked to the bed.

McCoy retrieved his PADD and logged his medical orders to the physical therapist and the cardiologist.

"You look like a man on a mission, Spock," Kirk said in a sleepy voice.

"I have been informed that Admiral Komack wishes to see you."

What? McCoy's head snapped up from his PADD. "When did this happen? And why the hell wasn't I informed?"

"Forty-five minutes ago and I believe you have the request in your office."

Son of a bitch. "Jim, I can delay them a while longer."

Kirk's smile barely made it to his lips. "I doubt that. Komack is determined to see me sooner rather than later."

"Jim, you're still recovering," McCoy said. "You can ask for an extension."

"I do not think the Admiral has made this a request," Spock said.

"No," Kirk said. "I don't suppose he did."

McCoy muttered a curse and stabbed at the console to shut off the screen. Komack's assistant was nice enough, but he was a by-the-book, no-nonsense career officer that refused to take no for an answer. Spock had been right: Komack had not made a request.

McCoy leaned back in his chair in the office he'd occupied for the last three weeks and looked out the large window at the inner courtyard of the complex. Doctors and nurses sat around small tables, their white uniforms stark against the greenery that peppered the courtyard. Another flawless day in San Francisco…as long as you weren't looking at the Bay where parts of the Vengeance were still lodged inside concrete and steel.

He watched the scene in front of him with a detached interest. His colleagues were laughing and smiling, sipping their drinks, taking full advantage of a break. He remembered what that was like to sit in the sun and bullshit with his fellow physicians, confer about a patient or simply forget for a few minutes about all the pain around him. Those minutes had been like lifelines to him, a way of balancing his profession. He hadn't always been good at it. It's what had cost him his marriage.

The terminal beeped, notifying him of an incoming message or alert. With reluctance, he glanced at the screen. It was a reminder that he was scheduled to take the graveyard shift in the Emergency Room tonight. The facility was short of doctors, and he had been unceremoniously drafted into service by the head of the Center.

With Enterprise out of commission for the next nine to twelve months, he was due to be reassigned for duties. It was only Kirk's immediate needs and unique circumstances that had kept McCoy somewhat isolated from the deconstruction of the crew. He'd oversee the refit in Sickbay, but that was the extent of his duties as far as Enterprise was concerned. Once Kirk was fully recovered, he had no reason not to be quickly pressed into service as a medical doctor.

The door to the office swooshed open and Boyce strode in. Without being invited, he took the seat across from McCoy's desk and made himself at home. Relaxed and confident, Boyce stretched out his legs and laced his fingers together, resting them on his chest.

It annoyed McCoy that the man took these liberties, as if they were long-time friends and he had earned the right to be so familiar. But Boyce never came to see him without having an agenda. He wondered what it was that brought the senior doctor into his office this time.

"Looks like our boy is eating," Boyce said.

"Yes."

"That's a good sign. I was worried we were going to have to do something drastic."

The word 'we' pricked at McCoy, but he held his tongue and watched the older man in silence.

"Concerning the systolic heart failure, I was hoping he would avoid that."

As did McCoy, but with the amount of physical stress Kirk had been through, it wasn't a surprise. "It's only in the right ventricle, and minor."

Boyce nodded. "Going to be a long recovery."

Long and slow, but Kirk had nothing but time now. By the time the Enterprise was refitted and repaired, Kirk should be able to take command.

"I heard he's getting the Medal of Honor. Does he know?"

McCoy shook his head. "I suspect that's why Komack wants to see him."

"Did you see the press release? Quite a show."

He had seen it, as much as he tried to avoid it. The hospital was buzzing with the news and it was just by the grace of whatever deity watched over them that Jim had not heard about it. It was the first Medal of Honor Starfleet had recommended in five years, and that made it an event.

Boyce sighed as his gaze drifted to the window. "This used to be my old office. Back then it was patients filling the commons, not medical personnel. 'Course the Center was smaller."

McCoy studied Boyce with new interest. It occurred to him that he hadn't seen Boyce spending any casual time with other doctors. Boyce had been in Starfleet since medical school. In all those years, McCoy found it odd that the man hadn't formed any real friendships.

"You serve on any starships?" McCoy asked suddenly.

Boyce perked up and smiled. "Oh, yes. Did my residency on the Atlanta, the first non-human ship commissioned. Sickbays were small and given only the essentials, not like they are now. Took quite a bit of arguing from us to convince Starfleet to put more state-of-the-art medical equipment on the ships."

"I didn't know that."

"Yes, we were considered "non-essentials," until one of the starships harbored a virus that tore through the ship and killed eighty percent of the crew. They wouldn't even let the damn ship dock for fear of spreading the virus."

He had read about that at the Academy. It was part of Fleet medical history on disease control, and here was a man who had been there. And for the first time, McCoy realized that Boyce was getting close to retirement, one of the reasons he no longer served on a ship. He'd spent the last of his career days at the Center or teaching classes at the Academy. Then he'd been decommissioned like a ship that had outlasted its usefulness.

For a moment, McCoy saw himself looking into a mirror as he looked at Boyce. Without another thought, he reached into the drawer to his left and pulled out a bottle of bourbon and two small glasses. He set them on his desk and poured two fingers full. He pushed one of the glasses toward Boyce and held his up for a salute.

Boyce eyed the glass briefly and then picked it up.

"To fighting the fight," McCoy said.

Boyce nodded once and downed the shot like a pro.

"Think about it, Captain," Komack said in a firm but gentle voice.

Kirk knew that tone. It meant Think about it, but do it my way. It was a soft order, but an order nonetheless. He nodded once, because he was still an officer of Starfleet and Komack was…well, Komack. His body sank into the mattress as exhaustion suddenly fell on him. They had been talking for over an hour.

"I've tired you. I'll leave you to your rest." Komack executed a curt nod from the foot of Kirk's bed and did a smart about-face.

Kirk turned away from the departing Admiral and looked out the window.

The Medal of Honor.

How in the hell could they be giving him the Medal of Honor? Was that what they were giving out medals for now? Getting people killed?

There was a time, not too long ago when he would have beamed at the honor; now it seemed empty and strangely inappropriate. He had disobeyed a direct order from the head of Starfleet and had gotten dozens of crewmembers killed.

"It was an illegal order, Kirk," Komack said. "You are to be commended on your ethics."

Where was this flexibility when he had decided to break Starfleet rules and save an entire race of people on Nibiru? That decision had earned him a demotion and the loss of his ship.

"Had you fired those torpedoes on the Klingons, it would have started an all-out war," Komack said.

Sure, but he hadn't been thinking about war; he had been thinking about revenge. Starfleet was simply changing the rules to fit their needs. Something Jim Kirk had made his short career doing. So, where did that leave him?

"Command has decided to allow your rank as captain to remain," Komack said.

"And Enterprise?"

"Still under your command." Komack's expression changed to one of amusement. "You seem surprised."

"Perplexed, Admiral. I did everything wrong during this mission. I got a lot of people killed and probably made relations worse with the Klingons."

Komack waved a dismissive hand. "Relations can't be worse with the Klingons. Let the politicians handle them. They have their own spin on things. That's not for us to decide. We're explorers and, when we need to be, the peacekeepers of the Federation."

But he hadn't kept the peace. His very presence on Kronos had resulted in the destruction of three Klingon cruisers and the death of two of his own men. The only thing right he had done was to stop Khan, and maybe he had stopped what Marcus had started.

"You're a hero, Kirk, whether you want to be or not. Starfleet needs a hero right now. We're awarding you Starfleet's highest honor in recognition of your conspicuous gallantry, intrepidity and bravery when facing insurmountable odds."

He closed his eyes, feeling the light pounding in his head.