A/N: Note to self: shameless bribery = win. Many, many thanks to the 20+ of you who reviewed last chapter! Please keep them coming! This chapter is a little longer than the others, but I figured you all would rather have a couple hundred words extra than a three week wait. ;-)

All previous disclaimers apply.

Seventh Circle

Chapter 9

"On the contrary, Captain, they are essential."

"But whatever made you think I would wish for your…cooperation?"

"The fact that we are having this conversation reveals that you have no idea what I want."

Well, she's certainly right about that, Kirk thinks sourly.

Lilith's words rattle around in his head, refusing to fall into any sort of place. He grips his temples in a vain attempt to ward off the frustrated ache forming behind his eyes and tilts his head to read McCoy's chrono display. The doctor has only been asleep for a few hours. Kirk isn't mean enough to wake him now without a good reason. Not for the first time, he wishes Spock was there. Spock barely slept, and maybe his Vulcan logic could make some sense of Lilith and her riddles.

Kirk feels a sharp stab of guilt for the selfish thought as he abruptly remembers where his first officer is. God, he must be more tired than he thought. It's not as if Spock is out for a walk on the observation deck. Unlike McCoy, he is cautiously hopeful that his first officer's iron will and Vulcan stamina are more than a match for anything the Janusians can throw at him.

The captain sighs and places his hands on the floor to lever himself into a slightly more comfortable position. One of them slides in something wet. Surprised, he lifts his hand to examine it. He recoils when he sees the red smeared across his palm and fingers.

Blood. His uninjured hand is covered with blood.

Heart pounding, he rubs the hand on his trousers and looks around frantically for a source. There is a scarlet line on the floor shining wetly in the yellowish light of their tiny lamp. Kirk follows the rivulet with his eyes, all the way to—

Chekov.

His musings are instantly forgotten as fear lances into his brain. The captain elbows Bones before leaning over and shaking the ensign gently. He can feel the heat radiating from Chekov's body even before his hand makes contact with the kid's shoulder. "Chekov?"

The Russian stirs slightly, his ashen face glistening with sweat as it turns up towards Kirk. Twin thin streams of blood are trickling from his nose and the reopened gash across his forehead, down his face, and to the floor. Chekov's eyes, strangely distant, finally flutter open.

"Keptin?" he asks feebly, raising a shaking hand to dab weakly at his nose. "Am I late for the bridge, ser?"

Dazed fear slowly spreads across Chekov's face as he notices the blood staining his fingers. "Uh, don't worry about it," Kirk stammers, trying to reassure the kid despite his own alarm. "Riley said he'd cover for you."

McCoy grunts irritably and peers Kirk's shoulder. "What now-- Jesus Christ, Jim, why didn't you wake me sooner?"

Even McCoy's years of experience can't keep the shocked horror out of his voice. Kirk flattens himself against the wall as the doctor moves over to crouch on Chekov's other side. Bones brushes the kid's filthy curls off of his forehead to get a better look at the cut. He swears again as his fingers make contact with Chekov's hot skin. He presses a broad hand to an uninjured part of the ensign's face, his eyebrows knitting together ominously.

"Bones, what's he bleeding like that for?" Kirk asks, appalled.

"How should I know?" the doctor snaps. He rocks back on his heels to study the teenager briefly. It takes him a moment to collect himself before he begins to work.

Meanwhile, Chekov's vague, imploring eyes seek out Kirk. "Mr. Riley, ser? I do not vant…a black mark on my record."

Kirk swallows hard and tries to sound reassuring even as he watches McCoy's deepening frown. "Don't sweat it, Ensign. No black marks on your record today."

The captain looks on helplessly as Bones tries to tend to the boy. It rapidly becomes apparent that the only thing he can do is stay out of the doctor's way. He reluctantly relocates to a seat closer to the cell door, anxiety gnawing at his insides. Eventually Kirk can't stand it anymore and tries to look away. Yet the sound of McCoy's soft drawl, interspersed with increasingly irrational outbursts from Chekov, still reaches his ears. It hurts him to listen.

God, he wishes Spock was there. As he tries to reassert some control over the emotions tearing at his exhausted psyche, Kirk realizes how much he has come to depend on his imperturbable first officer in the past months. He feels strangely adrift without the Vulcan's quiet, dependable strength at his right elbow; the cool logic that is always ready to temper Kirk's more impulsive nature.

He could use some of that Vulcan serenity right now. Who needed an agonizer in the face of such maddening helplessness? Watching the last vestiges of Chekov's lucidity fade away and McCoy's ineffective efforts to hide his growing alarm is far worse.

By the time Spock reappears around local noon, Chekov is delirious with fever and McCoy is as worried as Kirk has ever seen him. The kid can barely lift his head and is muttering incoherently in two languages. Wrapped up in Chekov's plight, Kirk barely notices Spock's presence until the cell door opens with a loud creak and he stumbles in. Intense relief washes over him as soon as he recognizes the Vulcan's familiar silhouette.

Kirk hauls himself to his feet. On first glance, his first officer seems tired but appears unharmed. The heavy burden weighing on his shoulders lightens a little. "Spock."

"Captain," he says, his tone vaguely brittle. "I am relieved to see you are uninjured."

"So am I," Kirk replies with an almost smile. Bones looks up at the sound of voices, the small motion unintentionally catching Kirk's attention. McCoy's eyes narrow slightly as he studies Spock. They warily follow the Vulcan even as his hand rests protectively on Chekov's shoulder, but he says nothing. Puzzled, Kirk looks back at Spock.

The changes are subtle. His face is composed as usual under a layer of grime, though his hair is lightly ruffled and stiff on one side with dried blood. He carries himself nearly as he always does, square-shouldered and ramrod straight. But as Kirk watches, Spock's face spasms as a fragment of expression breaks through the calm mask. The Vulcan closes his eyes for a moment and breathes deeply. His features gradually smooth again, but a slight tremor is visible in his hands. Any one of these symptoms on its own Kirk could chalk up to sheer exhaustion.

But despite his renewed calm, a distinct flicker of fear has come into Spock's dark eyes.

Kirk frowns with concern, but McCoy's voice interrupts before he can ask. "Jim."

It is only then that Kirk notices Spock has taken a half step backwards, but McCoy's tone is too urgent to ignore. Swearing under his breath, Kirk moves to face the doctor. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the Vulcan sag ever so slightly and retreat to the side of the cell farthest from Chekov and McCoy.

Ignoring the screams of protest from his muscles, Kirk crouches in front of McCoy and Chekov. The doctor raises his eyebrows and glances in Spock's direction. Kirk shakes his head almost imperceptibly. A forced conversation with his old adversary was probably the last thing the Vulcan's frayed nerves needed at the moment. With a last concerned glance at Spock, Kirk turns his full attention back to McCoy.

To their mutual relief, Chekov has finally fallen asleep. His condition appears otherwise unchanged. Kirk shoots the doctor a questioning look. McCoy shrugs innocently, and Kirk finally realizes that the only reason McCoy got his attention in the first place was to give Spock a minute to pull himself together.

"I'll deal with Spock. You worry about Chekov," Kirk orders softly before Bones can open his mouth.

The doctor looks like he is going to protest, but thinks better of it. "Worry…that seems to be 'bout all I can do these days," Bones says wearily. He sighs as Kirk's vivid eyes flick to Chekov. "I don't think I need to tell you it's not good. Fever, delirium…and this infernal bleeding! It's getting worse."

"Worse?"

"It's weird as hell, Jim. I can't get it to stop, and it's spreading." McCoy indicates one of Chekov's arms, where a small sliver of bare skin is visible. "See the bruising on his wrist? I took his pulse there earlier and there was nothing. Some of the older wounds have reopened; old bruises enlarged and darkened. There's other new bruises too."

"But nobody's laid a hand on him since the first night," Kirk observes. The blood continuing to trickle down the ensign's face makes him feel sick.

"I know. Something else, something internal, is causing him to bleed. I think it's some kind of disease, a virus maybe. Won't know for certain until we get back to the Enterprise. But we have no idea what all's lurking around down here. Hell, he could have been infected intentionally."

Kirk looks from the anxious doctor to the mercifully unconscious navigator. He sighs and runs a hand through his dirty hair. "Shit."

"My thought exactly. I wanted to wait until he was asleep to say-- If this keeps up, Jim, there isn't a blessed thing I can do about it."

Bones does not need to finish the statement. The unspoken plea in his voice stabs Kirk like a knife. Damned if he's going to let Chekov die.

But McCoy is no longer paying attention to Kirk. He is staring at Spock.

One look at the Vulcan and Kirk instantly knows something is very wrong. His first officer's eyes are desperately squeezed shut and his entire body quakes like a leaf. Kirk stares as Spock's hands suddenly clench into fists. The trembling abruptly ceases. For a fleeting moment, Kirk thinks the danger has passed. The Vulcan's eyes fly open. He just has time to shoot his friend a stricken look before his frayed nerves finally snap.

Spock turns and quite deliberately slams his fist into the stone wall.

Before Kirk's shocked brain can process the event, Spock repeats the gesture again and again with an almost manic fury. Green blood blossoms on the stones.

"Spock!"

Kirk and McCoy yell at the same time. Kirk nearly trips over his own feet as he lunges across the cell. He seizes Spock's elbow as the Vulcan winds up to punch the wall again and hangs on with all his might. Spock rounds on the captain, his face contorted in a paroxysm of rage Kirk has not seen since the day he assumed command of the Enterprise. His shoulders tense, and for a split second Kirk is afraid the Vulcan is going to strike him.

"Spock!" he cries, "What're you doing?"

Spock blinks. His body freezes, but Kirk can feel him trembling through the grip on his arm. His face gradually reverts to its usual calm mask. He closes his eyes for a moment and his taut body relaxes slightly.

"Thank you, Captain. You may release me now," he says, his voice a shaky parody of its usual monotone. His chest is still heaving as he avoids Kirk's eyes. "I apologize if my outburst startled you."

"Startled?" McCoy begins incredulously, but Kirk silences him with a look. Not wanting to antagonize the Vulcan further, he warily relinquishes his grip on Spock's elbow.

"The hell was that?" he demands.

The Vulcan dispassionately examines his mangled knuckles before responding. His voice is brittle. "It seemed logical at the time, Captain."

Kirk ignores Bones' thunderous expression. "Explain."

Spock still will not look at him. "I lost control," he says simply.

"So you broke your hand?" McCoy bursts out in spite of Kirk's warning glare.

"I lost control," Spock repeats softly, fixated on the thought. Kirk clears his throat loudly and the Vulcan comes back to himself. "The wall provided an appropriate and effective outlet for the offending emotions."

"What?" Kirk exclaims. Spock sounds more than a little unhinged.

Spock shifts uncomfortably. "The wall was a more appropriate outlet than you, Captain, or Doctor McCoy."

He meets Kirk's eyes. The icy, emotionless commander who once lectured him about the importance of controlling fear is gone. The Vulcan is profoundly afraid.

Finally, Kirk understands. Spock's trembling was not a sign of exhaustion, but a sign of exertion. It takes all of his strength to keep himself under control. If he lost it…Kirk knew Spock could easily kill them all in a rage. Spock knew it, too. Kirk's heart sinks to his boots.

"I have reestablished control, but I do not know for how long. I underestimated our captors," Spock explains dully. "They have correctly deduced that Vulcans are highly resistant to physical torture. Instead, they attack the mind. They are attempting to compromise me emotionally, Captain, and I regret that their methods are proving much more effective than I had anticipated."

Kirk doesn't hear the words; only their implications. Spock is not going to be able to help him. He is on his own.

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