Chapter Fifteen

Spock slowed his pace as he approached the apartment door. He recognized his hesitation as discomfort. It was the same sensation he had often experienced his first year at the academy. Though it had not been his first trip to Earth, he had felt more alien in those dorm rooms than he had ever felt on Vulcan. It had nothing to do with the fact that he had been the only Vulcan to join Starfleet. He had also been the only Vulcan to refuse admission into the Vulcan Science Academy. And that was it, he decided, standing in front of the closed door; this was another first.

He pressed the chime.

It wasn't that he was nervous. Vulcans don't get nervous. It was that this was uncharted territory for him, as so many things had been since he'd met James Kirk.

"The truth is…I'm going to miss you," Kirk said with a mischievous expression.

What was he supposed to say in response? He had never had a friend, and other than his mother, no one had ever professed to miss him.

The door hissed open. McCoy stood in civilian attire, looking anything but relaxed. His hair was mussed as if his fingers had worried it the way humans tended to do when distraught. His eyes narrowed and a deep scowl creased his brow. "What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were with Jim."

Spock raised a single eyebrow at the abrupt greeting. Vulcan, with its violent history and inhospitable geography, was more cordial than most of the human culture. No Vulcan would ever greet another or a guest in such a rude manner. He had always found it interesting that humans thought of Vulcans as cold and unfeeling when their own society demonstrated that exactly.

"We had dinner and he retired early."

McCoy's scowl deepened. It interested Spock the way human eyes changed with their emotions. McCoy's eyes darkened at this moment. He made no move to allow Spock entrance.

"When I left he was sleeping soundly."

"Hmm," McCoy said and stepped aside, casually motioning him to enter. "Did he eat enough?"

"Half of what was portioned." Having not been invited to sit, he stood in the living area where McCoy had led him. "He seemed fatigued."

"He has a low-grade fever," McCoy said and, with a sharp exhale, petulantly dropped into one of the chairs in the living area as if it had offended him in some way.

He had noticed Kirk's fever with concern. The fatigue was understandable, but Kirk's introspective quietness went beyond weariness. The human had barely engaged in conversation with him.

"Are you going to sit or stand there like a damn watchman?" McCoy asked.

Human hospitality. Spock sat without comment. It was then that he noticed with unease that McCoy had been drinking. A bottle of bourbon and a half-empty glass sat on the table before them. "You are drinking."

"I'm drinking," McCoy said and reclaimed his glass without apology.

Also on the table, in clear view, was the PADD that displayed Kirk's vitals.

"Is that wise?" He had never understood the human need to consume alcohol, but he had learned that it often meant emotional distress of some kind.

"Probably not." McCoy took a generous swallow of the bourbon. "What brings you here, Spock? It's late."

"I apologize for interrupting your repose, Doctor, and one of your rare evenings off. I know that you have been over-taxed these past weeks in caring for the Captain, and now have crew physicals to complete."

McCoy fixed him with a questioning stare and turned the glass skillfully between his fingers. The pale light from the ceiling caught the amber liquid, setting it on fire. It was like a living thing in the glass – restless and distracted. Spock had to focus to keep his gaze on the doctor, who waited with barely disguised amusement.

"I am in need of advice," Spock said finally.

McCoy's brows shot up. His eyes lit with amusement. "Maybe I should be offering you a drink."

"I do not follow your logic." He remained unmoving in the chair.

"You want advice from me? On what?"

"Human relationships."

McCoy snorted and downed the last of the bourbon in his glass. "Never mind. I'm the one who needs a drink."

He watched as McCoy poured more bourbon into the glass.

"You're serious," McCoy said, looking up at him.

"Vulcans do not engage in humor, Doctor. I am always serious."

"So I've noticed." McCoy leaned back into the chair. "I might not be the best person to give advice on human relationships, Spock. I couldn't make my own marriage work. If you and Uhura—"

"That is not the relationship to which I am referring."

The PADD on the table beeped.

McCoy focused on the display for a moment. His brows twitched together and an unknown emotion crossed his face. Spock was not skilled interpreting human expressions. He had long discovered that human language was often contrary to its implications, especially with this particular human. The drink in McCoy's hand seemed forgotten as his eyes unfocused.

"There is a concern?" Spock inquired.

McCoy's eyes slowly cleared and he raised the glass to his mouth. "He's having a nightmare."

Not unusual, and the doctor didn't appear to be concerned, merely distracted. He studied McCoy for a moment longer. He identified what he thought was sorrow. But why would McCoy feel sorry? He waited until McCoy finished taking a mouthful of the bourbon before speaking. "Perhaps I should return at a more convenient time."

"Chickening out?"

He stared at the doctor. "I am unfamiliar with that—"

"What do you want to know, Spock?" McCoy asked brusquely.

His hands rested flat against his legs. He realized he had not moved in several minutes. "You know Jim Kirk very well."

McCoy's eyes narrowed as he studied him. "You want advice on your relationship with Jim?"

Something in the way he said it made Spock feel awkward and ingenuous, like he was a little boy again and his mother was explaining why the other children teased him. He quickly reassessed the situation, assessing if the doctor was going to be of assistance to him or simply playing with him as humans do. When McCoy remained still and attentive, he spoke.

"He is an enigma. He is not like other humans I have encountered."

"That's true enough. Jim is one of a kind." His eyes never wavered from their examination. "So what's the problem?"

"I do not know how to talk to him."

"You seem to do okay."

This was exactly why he avoided conversations with McCoy. Vulcan communication was straightforward and exact. Human communication was deceptive at best. Jim Kirk was one of the first humans he had interacted with who preferred a more candid conversation. However, the doctor, he noticed, tended to probe more than state. "I want him to know that I regard him as a friend."

With a sigh, McCoy set his glass down and leaned forward. "Look, Spock, you don't have to say anything. Jim knows how you feel. Why else do you think he risked his career to haul your ass out of that volcano? It's what friends do for each other. Don't complicate things."

But humans were complicated and he had long ago learned that nothing was simple when they were involved. Jim was getting stronger and soon would be back on duty, overseeing repairs and interviewing new crew. The Enterprise would be leaving Earth for its next mission and this opportunity to know Jim better would be gone. They would be Captain and First Officer again. He wasn't certain what that meant, but he knew he wanted more.

"I have never had a friend," he said.

"Well now you do." McCoy's voice was heavy with weariness. "He wants to know if something happens you'll be there with him. No matter how illogical it is, no matter what the regs say, friends stand by each other. If you can't do that, then rethink this friendship. Jim isn't a half-way man."

The PADD sounded again.

McCoy glanced at it and swore under his breath. Suddenly, he turned his attention back to Spock. "Did it occur to you that Jim hasn't had many friends in his life, either? I've known him the entire time he was at the Academy and he pissed more people off than I can count, but he never made a friend."

"Other than you," Spock stated.

"Other than me." McCoy paused and let out a pent-up breath. "Don't make any big confessions here, Spock. Jim wouldn't like it."

No, Jim Kirk wouldn't like a big display. He had learned that in the year he had known the man. He had also learned that Jim was loyal – in a single-minded, dogmatic way he would commit himself to a purpose or a person. For whatever reason, Jim Kirk had committed himself as Spock's friend, and the Vulcan knew Jim would give his life for him. Indeed, he already had.

"I shall consider what you have said, Doctor. Thank you for the conversation." He stood and glanced at the PADD. "You seem unusually pre-occupied with the Captain's vitals."

McCoy stood. "His temperature is up a bit."

Jim remembered the nightmare this time, in startling detail and vivid colors, the blood and the hands that clawed at him – probing, pinching, pushing, taking. He awoke shaking, heart hammering and his skin crawling, covered with sweat. The sheets clung to him and he wanted to kick them off, because even the thin fabric was too much for him to bear, pressing him down. He raised his hand to wipe his forehead, but exhaustion overtook him and his arm gave out. He let it drop next to his aching head like a useless thing, ignoring the tiny tremors that shook it.

Gradually, his heart slowed. He shivered as the air cooled his fevered skin. Of all the images in his mind, he could not recall whose hands had touched him or why. He only knew they were invasive, manipulating his body as if he were a toy to be played with and explored. It was the feel of those hands that haunted him…and the fact that he couldn't remember who they belonged to or why they were on him. Maybe they weren't real at all, but a distorted memory fabricated from his disjointed thoughts.

Shit. He had things mixed up in his head. That was it. Bones had warned him that he wouldn't remember much of what had happened after climbing out of the warp core, and not to worry.

"You'll remember what you need to remember," Bones had said. "Don't work so hard on filling in gaps you don't need to fill."

It was difficult to stop his mind from piecing together the puzzle, especially since he could so clearly feel those warm hands on every part of his body. His stomach tightened. He liked touch. He was a sensual person and always had been. It wasn't the touch that bothered him. It wasn't the pain. It was something else, something distant and familiar...and wrong. He would not put a name to it.

He stared at the gray ceiling. On the other side of the room were fifty-eight letters waiting to be written. Fifty-eight crewmembers that needed to be recognized. Fourteen had been sucked out through hull breaches. A recovery team had gathered them up a few days after Enterprise returned to Earth. It was not a fast way to die. He had stared at the names and tried to place their faces, but he couldn't.

He closed his eyes. Suddenly, the full impact of the evening settled on him. All those crewmembers dead, and he was afraid of his dreams.

I should get up and write those damn letters.

But my God, he didn't want to. He didn't want to be the captain who had gotten them killed. He knew only too well what it felt like to be on the other side of those letters. He still had the one Starfleet wrote to his mother. It had been a cold comfort to him as a child. How many children would be reading his letter and hating him?

McCoy pressed the chime to Jim's apartment once. It was 0600 and the sun had been up for half an hour, but San Francisco was still ensconced in fog and would be for hours yet. There was barely enough brightness to light the paths between the buildings. Five years later and he still couldn't get used to the gray mornings when it seemed as if the entire sky touched the ground.

He rubbed a hand quickly over his face. He'd had a lousy night's rest and he knew from the readouts on the bio monitor that Jim hadn't fared any better. Even his best bourbon hadn't helped. The unexpected visit from Spock was only an interruption to his saturnine thoughts. When the Vulcan had left he was faced, again, with the unforgettable images he'd viewed and the reason for his sour mood.

It was his own fault. Scott had warned him not to view the footage. But once he knew of its existence, and had seen the expression on Scott's face, it was impossible for him not to look. "You're na gonna like it," Scott had said gloomily. And the engineer had been right. He hated it…and yet he had watched it over and over again, each time more bitterly than the last.

He glanced at the chronometer and keyed in his medical override and waited for authorization. This was base housing, not private sector, and he was still a ranking medical officer with a patient to treat. In the past, he had been very discreet using his override, knowing how much Jim hated the intrusion. Today it was an easy call.

The door hissed open and he stepped inside. Softly lit and silent as a tomb, the apartment was anything but welcoming. He could see the empty, unkempt bed from where he stood, and he scanned the room for Jim.

Damn it.

He scowled at the sight of Jim hunched over his desk with his head in his hands. The glow from the computer screen lit the blond hair a soft auburn, setting the ends on fire. He walked over to the desk, setting his medical bag on the table before coming to stand next to Jim.

"I hate that you can do this," Jim said.

"I hate having to do it," he said flatly. "Answer your door next time." He studied the bowed head for a moment, noting the uncombed hair before catching a glimpse of the computer screen. "I wish you wouldn't do this now."

"I wish I didn't have to." Jim lifted his head to stare at the screen and the three little words that taunted him: Dear Mrs. Hillbrand. "How do you start a letter like this? How do you end it?"

His scowl deepened as he stared at Jim's flushed face and overly bright eyes. How long had Jim been at the desk staring down a duty he would give anything not to have to do? He knew Jim was running a temperature of 38.4, but he still pressed his hand to the fevered forehead and felt the hot skin against his cooler flesh as if hoping his instruments were wrong. Maybe it was just that he needed to touch Jim after what he'd seen last night.

Jim made no attempt to pull away from the touch, his gaze focused on the screen.

"Come on," McCoy said softly and put a firm grip on Jim's bicep. "You need a rest from this." He pulled Jim to his feet and was alarmed at how much of Jim's weight he took as the younger man leaned into him, swaying on his feet. He led Jim to the sofa and sat him down, then went to retrieve his medical bag.

He needed to take two blood samples. One was the required blood draw for Medical, and the other to run a culture to find out why Jim had a fever. He withdrew the extractor and two empty vials.

"Pike told me I'd get people killed," Jim said. "I bragged that I'd never lost a crew member under my command."

"Jim, you can't do this to yourself." He sat on the low table in front of Kirk and took the other man's arm, pushing up the sleeve. "Every commander loses crew in this business, just like every doctor loses patients. It comes with the job."

"He called it blind luck." Jim looked at him as the extractor was pressed to the inside of his arm. "What am I supposed to say to those families, Bones?"

McCoy held the extractor steady as the vial filled with blood. Raising his eyes to meet the brilliant blue ones, he said, "You say what's in your heart, Jim. Nobody is looking to get out of their pain. They just want some acknowledgment. They want to know their loved one mattered."

Jim held still while the vial filled. "What do you say to the families when you lose a patient?"

He shook his head. "It's different for me, Jim. The patient is in my hands. No one ever believes they are going to die when there is a doctor in the room." He remembered every face of every person he'd had to speak to after a failed surgery, and is still amazed at the look of utter disbelief on those faces.

"What do you say?"

He met Jim's eyes with a penetrating gaze. "I say I did my best."

The extractor beeped; the vial was filled. McCoy removed it and quickly snapped in an empty one.

Jim frowned. "Why are you taking two? Does Starfleet Command need that much of my blood?"

"One is for me," he said. "Your fever is higher. That tells me you've either picked up a virus or an infection. I need to know which."

Jim sighed heavily, but held still while the blood draw continued. "They teach you what to say in medical school?"

"They have a class on it."

"Did it help?"

"No." He watched the vial fill.

"You know Starfleet has regulations about writing condolence letters."

"I know. I read them," he said. The extractor beeped again.

Section 5, Para 2: The letter should show warmth and a genuine interest in the person to whom it is addressed. Avoid unfitting compliments and any gruesome description. Took Starfleet ten pages to say what any moron with half a brain would know.

The instrument sealed the injection site as he withdrew it. He looked at Jim. "You don't have to write them."

For a long moment Jim said nothing, but the intensity of his gaze revealed more than fever. His eyes were deep water, still and unexplored. He was the only person McCoy knew that could look both young and old at the same time. For an instant, McCoy saw a flash image of the young man as he kicked relentlessly at the misaligned core housings, struggling to stay alive long enough to save his ship.

Finally, Jim spoke. "Yes. I do."

McCoy let out a pent-up breath and rolled the sleeve down. "How's your back?" he asked, digging through his med kit and pulling out a loaded hypo.

"It's fine."

He raised doubting eyes and shot his patient a look that said, Don't lie to me.

Jim shrugged. "A little achy."

McCoy gestured to the hypo in his hand. "An anti-emetic. You're eating breakfast." He pressed the hypo to the base of Jim's neck before he could protest, then stood and walked into the kitchen to make breakfast. He had brought a high-protein, high-calorie oatmeal-like grain for Jim to eat. It was easily digestible, if bland to the taste.

McCoy maneuvered easily in the kitchen. Jim wasn't big on cooking, but the apartment came equipped with the basics, enough so he could cook the grains. Within ten minutes he had two bowls filled. He topped them off with rice milk and cinnamon. As he entered the living area, he saw that Jim had curled onto the sofa with a blanket wrapped around him, and was fast asleep.

Now he goes to sleep. He set the bowls down. He hated to wake Jim, knowing the younger man needed the sleep, but he wasn't going to let him skip a meal, either. He gently touched Jim's shoulder and gave him a light shake. "Jim."

It took a full minute of coaxing before Jim opened his eyes. The heavy brows drew together and he could see Jim struggling to wake and orient himself.

"Come on. Wake up." He slipped his hand beneath the blanket and pulled on the arm, drawing Jim into a sitting position. "You have to eat."

"I was sleeping," Jim said owlishly.

"You can sleep after you eat." He pushed the bowl of warm grains into Jim's hands and retreated to the nearby chair to eat his own breakfast. During his medical internship, he had spent three months at a specialized recovery unit where he had discovered that patients ate more when others were eating with them. It was one of the reasons he had sent Spock to have dinner with Jim. It was also an excellent opportunity to observe the patient.

He looked at Jim, who sat holding his bowl and blinking the sleep from his eyes. The young man looked like a balloon slowly deflating. "Eat."

Jim roused a little more, drawing a shuddering breath. "Most doctors would let their patients sleep."

"Most patients don't spend their nights at their desks when they should be sleeping."

"Touché," Jim said and lifted a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

McCoy ate his breakfast slowly, observing Jim without appearing to observe – a talent he had perfected as a medical doctor. It came in handy with medical-phobic patients like Jim.

They ate in silence, he not wanting to disturb Jim who was at least cooperating about eating. Anyway, there was little to say. After a while, Jim set the bowl down. McCoy gathered the dishes and noted with approval that Jim had eaten almost all of what had been portioned. Returning from the kitchen, he went straight for his medical bag and withdrew a slim case. He opened it and selected two vials, one containing a clear liquid, the other amber-colored. Sitting back on the table in front of Jim, he snapped one of the vials into a hypo.

"This is an antipyretic for your fever," he said and gently pressed the hypo against the base of Jim's neck. Despite his care, Jim tightened his jaw and grimaced with a low groan from the back of his throat. It was a highly-concentrated dose that burned like a son-of-a-bitch. McCoy disliked using the drug, but he didn't like the progression of Jim's fever, and this drug was more aggressive.

"Sorry about that," he said and rubbed the site of injection. "That one kicks a punch."

"Thanks for the heads-up." Jim rotated his neck and shoulders before massaging the spot. "We done? Tir is going to be here in an hour and he won't be too happy if you've incapacitated me."

McCoy noted that Jim's breathing was slightly labored and he had begun to shiver. Before he could grab his scanner, the PADD pinged an alert, drawing his attention. Jim's temperature crept up another half a degree. He took a quick scan. "Change of plans. I'm cancelling PT and you're going to bed."

"Bones—"

"No argument. You can go take a shower while I get a few things." He went into the sleeping area and changed the sheets. "Computer, raise room temperature three degrees."

He grabbed his PADD and punched in orders to have the blood samples picked up and analyzed. He cancelled his morning appointments and was just finishing preparing another pair of hypos when Jim exited the shower wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs that covered the first five inches of his thighs. The monitor stood out on his bare wrist.

McCoy watched as Jim walked toward the bed, his gait slightly halting. He was reminded of how the young man had looked upon his return from Kronos. Jim wore the same weariness and defeated look. Standing all but naked in front of him, McCoy observed the overly thin body, the flushed cheeks and pale skin. Jim looked tired.

Jim's eyebrows rose at the sight of the changed linens. "You cook. You clean…maybe you missed your calling, Bones. Ever consider switching professions?"

"Every time I have to treat you." McCoy handed Jim a clean short-sleeved undershirt without comment, carefully watching him as he put it on. There was no hesitation in the movements, no sign of pain. Still, a deep shiver tore through him and the muscles along his torso and midriff rippled. McCoy stopped Jim from getting another shirt. "Just this, Jim."

Jim frowned. "I'm cold."

"I want access to your arms. I've raised the room temperature and the blankets will warm you up." He stepped aside from the edge of the bed, giving Jim an easy path.

Still, Jim hesitated, standing firm with a scowl. McCoy could see the wheels turning. Jim had a quicksilver mind. He processed information at an incredible rate and made decisions rapidly. He was deciding, McCoy knew, how far to push…and if he could win.

Jim's gaze touched on him. Whatever he saw in McCoy's face, it made him expel a deep sigh. He slipped into bed and reached for the blankets and the promise of warmth.

"Hold on." McCoy prevented Jim from drawing up the blanket. "I need to give you a few shots." He picked up the hypo he'd set on the nightstand. "Turn onto your side. This one needs to go into the muscle."

Turning, Jim made a sound that was a cross between a frustrated growl and the same sound McCoy's small daughter had made when she was unhappy. It brought a smile to his lips. He hooked his fingers into the band of the briefs and pulled them down to expose Jim's left flank. He easily found the ventrogluteal muscle and pressed the hypo home, allowing the contents to empty slowly.

He then changed out the vial to a broad-based antibiotic that Jim could tolerate, just in case the fever was an infection. This one he injected into the carotid artery. When he was finished, he pulled up the blanket around Jim and studied the soft, drawn features. The scowl was still there. "You all right?"

"Tired." Jim's eyes were closing.

"Sleep," McCoy said, putting a hand on Jim's shoulder. He stayed until sleep loosened the frown. When he was certain Jim was into a peaceful rhythm of sleep, he rose to go.