AN: Sorry for the massively long wait on this. I'm getting back into it! Thanks for reading!

Chapter Two

Jim's breaths came out in little huffs, heart pumping with his legs. Looking up at the sun rise on the horizon, Jim felt as if he were running in tribute to the nascent light.

…Or, perhaps, that was just an idyllic thought to get his mind off the lactic acid build-up in his calves. Either way, his legs were burning. Come on, he told himself, Almost there. He had passed mile two about five minutes ago (maybe three), so he had to be getting close. Right?

He shook his head and wheezed. This was a bad idea. This 5k, that was. He would stop running, BUT he wanted to finish. So.

This was Jim's first 5k. For the past three months, he had been training for this very moment. McCoy called him insane. Right now he agreed.

His mind focused back on the agony in his legs. His lungs screamed. Something else! He thought. Think about something else!

He exhaled. Spock.

Spock hadn't shown back up. No one knew anything about his disappearance. It was a vague cloud that hung over the crew like a bad cold. A cold that had no symptoms excepting headaches when you tried to recall the memory of it, which was often. Jim had stopped trying to take medicine for them, and had stopped telling McCoy he was having them. Nothing helped, nothing but running, when his mind was clear and nothing marred it.

It fucking sucked.

Suddenly, the finish line came into view. A clock, digital, stood off to the side. In red digits, it reported: 38:52.

Yes! Jim thought. I'll finish…

Suddenly, a flash. Everything went dark. Hit with an abrupt dizziness, the crowd at the finish disappeared…the cheers…their voices…

"Spock! Spock!" Jim was gasping. He found himself stumbling, disoriented. Something…there was something…

A bright light. The sensation of falling. He blacked out.

"Jim! Jim!"

He was being shaken. He was awake, now. What the hell had happened?

"Jim! Damn it, open your eyes!"

Bones, Jim decided. Definitely Bones. Groaning, he opened his eyes.

"Finally. Geez." McCoy's face was inches from his. He moved back to hand him a cold water. Jim opened it and took a sip. "What the hell are you trying to do?!" he scolded.

"I dunno," Jim said, scratching his hair. It was slightly damp. "Sorry."

The doctor shook his head. "Trying to kill yourself is what it is. Damn it, Jim!"

"Did I finish?"

"Did you finish?! That's what you're worried about?!"

"Hell yes! Did I?"

"Barely, but yes. Drink some more water."

He did. "What was my time?"

"I don't know!"

Jim groaned. "You didn't check?"

"I was more worried about you passed on the street! I'm a doctor, not a stopwatch." Wildly, he gestured toward the bottle. "Water, Jim. You're dehydrated."

Jim turned the bottle up and guzzled it until it was empty, screwed on the plastic top to the vacant bottle, and groaned. "I need to pee."

McCoy sighed and shook his head in tacit disapproval. He stood up, then held a hand out to Jim. He took it. The doctor pulled him to his feet.

Twenty minutes later, after Jim had emptied his bladder, he and the doctor sat at some table in some coffee shop in San Francisco. In front of him—a bowl of soup.

"What's this about?" Jim asked. "Ordered for me?"

"Consider it doctor's orders," he said, looking, as usual, gruff, but almost, impossibly, shy.

Jim shrugged and picked up his spoon. The soup was Minestrone, his favorite.

"How'd you know?" he asked. (It only occurred to him later that McCoy was probably only trying to force-feed him liquids.)

McCoy shrugged and turned an almost imperceptible shade of pink. "I think you've mentioned it before."

Maybe he had. Jim took another spoonful. He took account of what Leonard was eating—some sort of salad, that he noticeably was poking at but not eating from.

"Bones?" he asked. "You alright?"

"Course I'm alright!" he snapped, straightening up a bit. "I'm the damn doctor here."

"Yeah, sure. You haven't eaten anything. What's up with that?"

"I'm getting to it," he said. Now it was obvious—his medical officer was blushing. Blushing!

Jim grinned. "Got a fever or something?"

The slightest of smiles graced the man's lips. He laughed humorlessly. "I think I would know if I had a fever."

"Your face is pretty red for not having one."

He looked suddenly startled, his gaze ripping up. "Red? My face is not…" Defiantly, he hugged and picked up his fork, violently stabbing it into and innocent leaf of spinach.

Neither one of them spoke for a while, nursing their food and glasses of water that the waitress had just come by to refill. McCoy broke the silence.

"Jim," he said.

"Uhuh."

"I…uh…" he looked up at the same time as the captain. Their eyes locked. "Wanted…to talk to you. About. Something."

"Sup?"

"Well…" he paused for a while. "I wanted to talk about Spock."

Shit, Jim thought, almost immediately, swallowing hard. Spock.

It had been three months. Spock had not been found. Was likely lost forever. Spock, his first officer, was gone, and nobody knew how or why.

"Look," the doctor said, leaning forwards, towards Jim. "I know you've been having a hard time. But you've also gotten in pretty good shape."

Spock was the reason for that, as well, although Jim would deny this fact to the ends of the universe. Ever since he had poof, vanished, Jim Kirk had cleaned up his act quite a bit. Quite a sobering experience, he'd say. Especially the questioning afterward. That was brutal. Enough to change anyone.

"Anyway," McCoy continued, "I, uh, wanted to tell you that I'm here for you. And, uh…I care for you." He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "A, uh, lot."

"I know, Bones," he put down his spoon and reached for his water.

"No, I don't think you do." His voice became strained. "I feel…I haven't felt this way since…"

Jim's hand hovered close to the surface of the table, by his sweating glass. McCoy grabbed it. Jim was mildly surprised.

"Truth is, I like you, Jim. I want you to be happy." His thumb drew circles on Jim's, or one, then stopped. "I want to make you happy. And…"

Jim interjected. "Are you asking me out?"

"Errr…" the doctor suddenly dropped his hand, embarrassed. "Well…maybe. That was the general idea…"

Jim grinned, highly amused. "I love you," he said. "You know that, right?"

Red as a beet, McCoy scratched his neck with one hand. "Uh, no, actually, I didn't."

"Well, now you do." Jim snatched at the man's hand, twining their fingers. McCoy opened his mouth, but did not speak. He looked shocked.

"Let's get out of here," Jim said.

McCoy came back to Earth, his eyebrows hitching together in irritation. "Hell no! Eat your damn soup first!"

For the rest of the day, Jim and McCoy window-shopped in the nice side of San Francisco. McCoy scowled and drilled Jim on spending his money, but seemed quite happy as long as their hands remained clasped. They returned to the ship that night, and when Jim snuck the doctor into his room, only a couple of crew members saw him do it. They slept—just slept. Lame, but pleasant.

Jim dreamt.

He was somewhere. Somewhere unknown, but dark. And humid. A solid sixty degrees.

He was running, forwards. It wasn't a nice run, either. It was a desperate dash, one that ripped his legs apart and made his lungs burn.

A light was spreading through the cavern, miniscule at first, then growing exponentially. Jim became dizzy, disoriented…stumbling…gasping…

"Spock!" he was calling, barely aware that he was. "Spock! Spock…!"

His eyes flew open. He inhaled sharply.

The room was dark, cool, the fan spinning above. McCoy shifted, squeezing him just the slightest bit closer to his chest, settling with a sleepy grunt.

Jim nuzzled into the covers and did the same.