Chapter Fourteen

McCoy pressed the buzzer to Kirk's apartment for a second time and checked his chronometer, forcing himself to take a deep breath. He could be sleeping. Give him time.

It had been two days since he'd released Jim. He hadn't planned on visiting until late this afternoon, but Jim hadn't answered his video comm last night or this morning, and the bio monitor was showing some worrisome data.

He shifted his weight, feeling the familiar restlessness surge through him. He knew that Jim had finished with Tir early this morning, and that the sessions always took a lot out of Jim. He knew Jim hadn't been sleeping well either, so it was plausible that the man was dead to the world. Except that wasn't what his vitals were showing.

Come on, Jim. Answer the damn door.

He didn't want to use his medical override. Things were tenuous between the two. He felt the tension and Jim's resistance at being what he perceived as controlled. Despite their friendship, he was Jim's doctor and it was his responsibility to get Jim ready to return to duty. Something Starfleet Medical had reminded him of just yesterday.

"Don't push him too much," the head of Medical had said. "Let him come back on his own time."

As if McCoy were rushing him. What did these bureaucrats know of Jim Kirk? He was a name and a series of medical statistics in a file, and although they had been following his progress, they clearly knew nothing of his behavior. Kirk didn't understand limitations and he certainly didn't understand quit.

He gripped his medical case and mentally went over the data he had studied this morning. Jim's electrolytes were off which meant he hadn't been eating well. That was concerning enough, although not a surprise, but added to that his blood pressure was decreased and there were indications of kidney and heart stress.

He was about to override the entrance lock when the door opened. It took all of his professionalism not to curse aloud.

"Miss me already, Bones?" Kirk stood with his head slightly inclined, dripping wet with a towel wrapped haphazardly around his narrow waist. Pale and shivering, he turned and walked back into his apartment.

"Took your time," McCoy said tersely. He entered slowly, studying Kirk's every move: the cautious movements, the unsteady pace, the careful way he held himself, the uneven respirations. He was in pain.

Why hadn't that shown on the monitor results? He made a mental note to adjust the settings. He set his case on the coffee table as Jim walked into the bathroom without a word. He looked around the apartment. He was familiar with Jim's residence, having spent more than a few nights killing beers on the sofa and trying to forget all the things they didn't want to remember. Jim wasn't the neatest man. There were always dishes or empty bottles strewn about, along with unfolded clothes and the occasional jacket thrown across the back of a chair.

McCoy frowned. What the hell had Jim been doing in the apartment for two days? The place showed little sign of being lived in. Spock had said they had eaten, but he didn't see any dirty dishes or empty glasses. He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. As he'd feared, it was barren of food. Not even takeout containers.

Jim wasn't eating. Lack of food explained something of the data he'd been receiving, but he had hoped he was wrong. Jim knew how important it was to keep eating and he'd been doing well in the hospital, even gaining weight. He shut the refrigerator door. This was one battle he didn't need. He had hoped that Jim would comply a little with his medical instructions. Now, barely three days out and it was clear that he was going to have to make some changes.

With a sigh, he walked back into the living area and passed the small desk in the corner. These were Officer's Quarters, and Starfleet was, if anything, efficient. Each apartment was equipped with a small desk and a terminal that had access to ship's logs and mandates and just about anything else a Starfleet officer might need. The desk, he noticed, was the only area that looked like it had been occupied. Curious, he moved around to the back to see the terminal.

Damn it!

On the small screen was a list of names he immediately recognized: He had signed all their death certificates. He hadn't allowed Jim access to Starfleet reports while in the hospital. He had forgotten that these would be awaiting Jim on his return. Every commanding officer received a copy of the death certificates. They required his verification and approval before sending on to Command. Spock, as second in command, had actually signed the reports while Jim lay in a coma. But the commanding officer would still get a copy.

I should have warned him about this. He glanced at the pending files. Jim had been composing letters to the families. Of course, the time-honored duty that had withstood centuries of war and loss now landed, for the first time, on Jim. No wonder he wasn't sleeping.

Jim exited the bathroom wearing only a pair of loose-fitting pants. "I thought you weren't coming until this afternoon."

"And I thought we agreed on compliance."

Jim glared at him as walked over to the dresser and opened a drawer, plucking out a dark undershirt. "You and I have different ideas of compliance, Bones."

"Clearly," he said shortly, watching as Jim struggled into the shirt, his movements awkward and impeded by obvious discomfort.

Why the hell did he have to start writing those letters now, when he wasn't even recovered? Did he think so little of his own life that he was willing to compromise what little progress he had made?

"What?" Jim asked as he made his way into the living area. "You've got that look. Crew failing their physicals? Starfleet change the requirements? Tribble die?"

McCoy didn't take the bait. He moved from the desk into the living area, fixing Jim with an unremitting stare. As Jim joined him in the living area, he opened the medical case and retrieved a scanner. He knew what the scanner was going to show; he had already made his diagnosis, and he was furious.

"Sit," he ordered.

As Jim took a seat on the couch, he noticed the younger man was still shivering. He placed the small scanner on Jim's chest and reviewed the data that poured into his PADD.

"Take a deep breath," he said. "Another."

He frowned at the data and felt his temper rise. Setting the scanner aside, he quickly punched in an order to Medical to have an IV and solutions delivered immediately to the address. He turned his attention back to his patient. "You haven't been taking your medications."

"I'm taking them," Jim said. "They don't always stay down."

"And you haven't been eating."

"I'm eating. I just told you."

He drew a short breath. "You've gotta eat, Jim. I told you before that you can't go this long without eating. You've got to eat every day, several times a day."

"I ate, Bones." Jim's mouth drew into a tight line. His lips paled.

"Don't lie to me," he said curtly. "You're dehydrated and hypoglycemic. Any first year med student could see that."

The door chime sounded. Jim made a motion to stand, but he put a firm hand Jim's shoulder. "Stay put."

The nurse at the door wordlessly handed over the IV setup and solutions he had ordered. He confirmed the order and signed the release, dismissing the nurse, and then returned to Jim.

"What's that?" Jim asked with a frown.

He began to set up the IV. "Parenteral nutrition and isotonic crystalloids. You're blood-pressure is low and your kidneys are sluggish. This is the quickest way to get your blood volume up and balance your electrolytes."

Jim was already leaning away. "I don't need that."

He stopped his preparations and stared hard at Jim. "Did I give you an option? You've been out of the hospital for less than three days and I find you moderately dehydrated. Do you know how serious that is in your condition?"

"I don't have a condition!" Jim was on his feet now and swaying unsteadily.

"Yes, you do!" He didn't flinch. "I'm not having this conversation with you, Jim. Now, I can stand here and wait for you to fall down and then administer the IV, or you can sit down and let me help you."

For a long minute, Jim didn't move. He stood pale and shaking on unsteady legs and McCoy was concerned that Jim was going to take him up on his threat and wait and pass out. It wouldn't be the first time Jim's stubbornness outlasted his common sense. He certainly couldn't last much longer without lying down. He was already swaying. Then, suddenly, Jim sat, his legs collapsing to land him abruptly on the sofa with a soft grunt.

"You don't make anything easy, you know that?" McCoy said, hanging the IV solution to the portable pole next to the sofa. He gently grasped Jim's right arm and pushed up the sleeve of his undershirt, all the while keeping an eye on him. "Don't suppose you'd like to tell me why you aren't eating? Are you still vomiting?"

He broke the sterile field on the catheter and inserted the cannula into the cephalic vein. Jim had been on IV therapy for so long, he wanted to choose a fresh vein to avoid any complications of collapsed veins.

"Jim?" he prompted, taping the line securely to Jim's arm.

"I guess I forgot."

That was as close to a confession as he was going to get. He studied his friend for a moment and then adjusted the drip flow on the solution. It was plausible that Jim had forgotten to eat, especially since food was not a priority to him. Still….

"What about drinking? Did you forget to do that, too?" he asked calmly.

"I've been drinking."

He scowled. Either Jim was lying, or he really didn't remember, which was even more worrisome.

Jim shivered, his brows drawing together. He put a hand to his forehead. "How long is this going to take?"

"You have some place you need to be? Lie down and let the solution take effect," he said, placing a hand on Jim's shoulder and gently but firmly pressing him down to lie flat.

"There'd better not be a sedative in this," Jim complained as he eased back onto the soft cushions, wincing as his back settled into a new position.

"A sedative is the last thing you need," he said. "I need to get you rehydrated, then we're going to talk."

"Terrific."

He walked to the bed and retrieved a throw blanket. Covering Jim, he took a seat in the chair next to the sofa and snatched up his PADD. He reviewed Tir's notes on the PT session, wondering if the therapist had noticed Jim's dehydration and pain. Tir's notes were clear and detailed: Pt completed program with minimal interruption. Considerable pain in lower back during routine 4. Unable to complete routine 6 due to lack of arm strength. Left arm shows rapid fatigue and loss of coordination. Hydrated Pt upon completion.

If Tir had given Jim fluids, why was he now so dehydrated? Unless he had been dehydrated going into the session. McCoy scribbled orders to Tir for his next session and closed the file. He glanced at Jim, who had begun to fall asleep. His impromptu visit was going to take longer than he had anticipated. With a sigh, he sent a request to have Dr. L'Armia conduct the physicals he was scheduled to perform this afternoon.

By the time the IV solution was complete, Jim was sound asleep. McCoy hung the parenteral nutrition. While Jim slept, he ran some additional scans, pleased to see the stats elevating and leveling off. For the rest of the exam he needed his patient awake

He realized he had fallen asleep only when he awoke. He took a moment to take an abstract inventory. The buzzing in his head that had persisted during McCoy's visit was thankfully absent, as was the nausea and shivering. He lay unmoving beneath the warmth of a blanket, cocooned in softness. Safe. The muted sound of voices disrupted his peace as he realized he was not alone. Mentally frowning, he concentrated on the low, composed voice. Though he could not hear specifics of the conversation, the dialogue had a distinct medical feel to it.

Bones.

He slowly opened his eyes. He was on the sofa and the afternoon sun lit the windows, brightening the normally somber room. Damn. This wasn't good. He'd slept and Bones was still here, watching him, waiting. At least the IV was gone, although that was of little comfort. Cautiously, he sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the sofa. The room tilted once, then righted.

The low thrum of conversation stopped abruptly. The tone changed and he heard the next words clearly.

"That's all for now. I'll check in later."

That was McCoy's voice coming from behind him. He swiveled his head to see the doctor shut his communicator and rise from the table in the eating area, focused intently on him.

"Glad to see you're awake, Jim."

His tone suggested otherwise. It had a familiar edge to it that told Jim he was still pissed off. "How long have I been asleep?"

"A few hours." McCoy joined him in the living area and took a seat in the chair next to the sofa. He was observing Jim with a clinical eye – sharp and penetrating. His medical case was still on the coffee table, the contents laid about, having been in obvious use. "How do you feel?"

He nodded guardedly. "Good. Must have been tired."

"Dehydration will do that to you."

Here it was. McCoy was not one to let anything go. If he had something to say then he'd say it, even if it took hours. He could begin chastising a patient just before anesthesia took hold and continue his tirade in the recovery room just as the poor guy was waking. Jim had been on the receiving end of McCoy's soliloquies more than once.

He turned to McCoy with a look of resignation. "You're pissed."

"Got that, did you?"

"You being so good at hiding your emotions."

"It's not funny, Jim." McCoy scowled. "If I can't trust you to follow the simplest instructions like eating, how am I going to trust you to do the rest?"

He opened his mouth.

"You know, believe it or not," McCoy continued, "I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to get you back on active duty. I'm trying—"

"Bones—"

"—to get you off the radar. It isn't just me. Every treatment or medication I administer is reviewed by Medical and Command. They have access to your file anytime they want. This little stunt doesn't bode well for you getting out from under their scrutiny and back on duty."

Something in McCoy's words fueled his temper. Maybe it was the fact that he didn't seem to own anything of himself any more, that his body and mind refused to cooperate with what he wanted, sabotaging his efforts to shake loose every memory of what had happened. Or maybe it was that he finally understood what it meant to be part of an experiment, owned and restrained. "Then give me a different doctor," he snapped.

McCoy's eyes darkened. "I can't. I'm the one who formulated the serum, remember?"

"I didn't tell you to put the damn blood in me."

"And I didn't tell you to climb in the warp core!"

They stared at one another; their words ringing in the silence of the room, both of them knowing it was too late to cancel them. In the back of Jim's mind, he wondered how long they had wanted to say those things to each other. Then every ounce of resistance went out of him. His shoulders slumped and he looked away for a moment.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I'm grateful for what you did, Bones. It's just…."

"You don't like this."

No, he didn't like being the subject of an experiment. He didn't like being deemed the hero of a disaster. "It wasn't supposed to be this way."

McCoy took a breath and leaned his arms on the tops of his knees. "I know this is difficult for you, Jim. I know you don't like being sick. I don't like having to answer to Command on how I treat you. I don't like a bunch of bureaucrats inspecting your medical records and drawing conclusions about things they know nothing about." He shook his head. "This is how it is right now. We just have to get through this."

He turned to his friend. "I don't know how."

McCoy's eyes softened. "We go one step at a time."

He didn't know how to do that, either. There were a dozen things that demanded his attention, a hundred thoughts that persisted in his head. How was he supposed to sort it all out? He had all but destroyed the Enterprise, lost more crew than he could bear to count, and had probably started a war with the Klingons. How was he supposed to take that one step at a time?

McCoy frowned. "Jim—"

He tore his gaze away. "You're right. It'll be okay." He turned back to this friend and smiled reassuringly. "I make a lousy patient."

"Tell me about it." McCoy didn't return the smile, still serious and thoughtful. "You can't not eat, Jim."

He nodded and rose, feeling the familiar pull in his back. Despite a few lingering aches, McCoy's treatment had definitely made him feel better, less tired. He felt a little chilled, leaving the warm blankets behind. In his line of sight was his desk and the dreaded task that awaited him. Restless, he stepped out of the living area and found himself at the window, staring at an equally dreaded view. He often found himself there during the day, absorbing the scene and letting his thoughts drift. It anchored him to everything that had happened. He would stand by the window and try to find his rage. But it never came.

McCoy appeared at his side. "I have to finish my exam, Jim. And then you're going to eat something."

Jim looked at him and saw the concern in the tired eyes. McCoy, he knew, never had difficulty connecting to his own anger. It always seemed to be there, just beneath the surface, cresting his compassion from time to time. Jim saw it now. He knew that as much as he hated being controlled, his friend hated not being in control. Patients were supposed to listen to their doctors' directives and get better. They weren't supposed to challenge.

When he didn't move, McCoy gently gripped his arm to reinforce his compliance. With a sigh, he surrendered, letting McCoy lead him back to the sofa. "You know, you could have done all of this while I was asleep."

"No, I couldn't. Instruments only tell me so much," McCoy said, seating himself next to Jim on the sofa. "For instance, they don't tell me why you aren't eating."

"I told you, I forgot."

"Yeah, you told me." McCoy took out a scanner and pressed it to the left side of his chest, watching the data feed through to his PADD. He moved it several times, intently studying the data.

"So, am I going to live?"

McCoy cast him a dour look. "Turn around. I want to scan your back."

"Well, since you asked so nicely." It was clear McCoy wasn't going to let him lighten the mood, and that the doctor's anger was closer to the surface than he realized. He shifted his position on the sofa and felt the light pressure of the scanner just where his vertebrae had been broken. It didn't hurt, but he pulled away reflexively, protective of the injury.

"Is that hurting you?" McCoy asked, pausing.

He shook his head. When the scanner returned, he held himself in place. McCoy moved the scanner to several different areas and he found himself shifting uncomfortably.

"Hold still another minute." McCoy put the scanner down and replaced it with his probing fingers. "Does that hurt?"

Hell, yes, it hurt! His entire spine galvanized under the probing. "What are you doing, trying to cripple me?"

"Settle down," McCoy said calmly and ceased his examination. "There's some inflammation between the vertebrae." He made a note on the PADD. "I'm going to give you an anti-inflammatory."

He turned in time to see McCoy load a hypo. "Bones—"

Too late, the hypo hit home at the base of his neck. "Damn it! Warn me, will you?"

"I did warn you."

He rubbed his neck, glaring at McCoy. "Are you done?"

"No." He typed on the PADD. "Since you aren't taking your medications, I'm going to have to administer them daily."

"I can take my medications," he said firmly.

"Yes, I presume you can, although I haven't seen any evidence of that."

McCoy's condescending tone infuriated Jim. "I don't need a keeper."

"No, you need a nurse, but I don't trust you with any of them, so you get me."

He watched in seething silence as McCoy retrieved another scanner, this one a general tricorder that fit in the palm of his hand.

Holding it just in front of Jim, he scowled at what he read. "You have a fever."