A/N: If anyone's tracking, I'm going to be taking a few days' break after this one to work on a few prompts that aren't cooperating as quickly. Will be back soon.

Warnings: references to off-screen torture (see first prompt), nothing graphic. Set vaguely post-Empath, and there's a reference to it late in the fic.

No. 14: Water Inhalation

No. 30: Borrowed Clothing

No. 21: Restraints

It's been way too long.

"It's been way too long," he echoes aloud, because the dead silence is more annoying with every minute that passes. Also, his nose itches, and he can't reach it, and that's even more annoying, and he's trapped here with the least expressive species in the galaxy being all calm and logical in his periphery, and that's the most annoying.

"As any passage of time in this context would be defined as more than that which is desirable, your imprecise observation is completely unhelpful, Doctor."

"Well we don't all have a handy little built-in chronometer in that computer we call a brain, now do we! How long has it been?"

A long-suffering sigh. "Three hours and twelve minutes."

"No specific decimal number of seconds? Huh. You must be as worried as I am." Spock does not deny the observation, although McCoy is the favored recipient of a supercilious side-eye. He rolls his own in response. "I dunno why you bother doing that, after all this time. I'm not scared of you or your precious Vulcan superiority."

"Doctor, you would be far better served to conserve your energy. Or at the least, do not contribute to draining mine."

Testy, testy.

But it's a familiar dance at this point, and McCoy knows his dancing partner; and they both know it really takes three to complete the picture. Until all are safe and accounted for, there's no real animosity behind anything said right now.

McCoy allows another few seconds of silence to press in before continuing, in a much quieter tone. "He is alive, right? You can at least sense that, can't you?"

"Yes, Doctor. I would know." The words are spoken without hesitation, which is strangely more reassuring than actual scientific evidence would be.

"That's something, I suppose." He takes another look around, and shudders at the dank, chilly draft seeping from the ancient barred window nearby. While this planet is by no means of an arctic climate, the extended period of nightfall due to lengthy elliptical orbit means the temperature drops rapidly after dark and stays there for much longer than a human is accustomed to. "For the record, I would love to know what your logic says about the Enterprise constantly drawing the short straw with these primitive planets."

"Correlation is not causation, Doctor. The issue is not the Andalucian system's limited societal development; rather, our current predicament is a symptom of a much larger problem, a general lack of situational awareness and recovery procedure on the part of the Federation when contact with a colony world has been lost. One cannot avoid what one has no data regarding. And the Enterprise is typically the vessel sent to the situations with most uncertainty, this one included."

"You'd think we would have learned by now that undercover observation teams should be the norm, whether the planet's warp-capable or not, before we go in with diplomatic guns blazing," he mutters.

"That is an absurdly mixed metaphor."

"Show me where I asked for grammatical critique, Spock." An eyebrow raise is his only answer, and the doctor sends out a vague prayer for patience to anyone listening. "Still no luck in getting out of those?"

Those being the ancient, ridiculously overcompensating chains which have kept them prisoner against a very cold stone wall with embarrassing effectiveness for the last few hours. Though primitive, the devices have been well-kept; they are more than sufficient to prevent anything more than minimal movement. Short of limb amputation, there does not appear to be any method of escaping them without a key or some similar implement.

Their captors had not even bothered to lock the cell door, which is just downright insulting; but it doesn't really look to be an act of over-confidence. While the prison is certainly ancient, the stagnation of the planet's society at large seems to be intentional and selective, and this apparently a functional, if primitive, way to dispose of problems. Why reinvent the effective wheel, in other words.

"Negative. Both stonework and fittings are without flaw or fracture, and even my brute strength is not sufficient to exploit either. At least until we are confident the Enterprise has re-entered orbit and might assist, there is nothing to do but wait. Please apply yourself to that task in silence."

"Or what? You're gonna logic me to sleep or something?"

The chain clinks as its prisoner serenely resumes his meditative stance, eyes closed. "If only it were so easy, Doctor."

His mild amusement at the repartee is very short-lived, as is Spock's return to meditation; because from the yawing expanse of darkened corridor comes a dull clattering of sound that indicates their captors are finally returning.

"Spock!"

"Yes, Doctor. They seem to be far too intelligent to allow for the chance, but we will seize any opportunity which presents itself."

The opportunity does not, in fact, present itself.

Whatever Starfleet's opinions of their selective societal progression, the indigenous beings of this planet, a relatively prosperous sphere orbiting a red giant in the Andalucia system, are physically powerful, highly intelligent, and know better than to waste time in unnecessary interaction with their lesser important prisoners. Neither he nor Spock have the security clearance needed to override a starship's weapons failsafes, so they are irrelevant to the equation.

The two dark-clad guards never even come close to his and Spock's side of the cell, and they carry no implements which could be seized by a fast-moving prisoner; just a small stun weapon which fits neatly in the hand, impossible to knock away and quite effective at close range.

Not that Jim Kirk is anything resembling a fast-moving prisoner, right now.

Moving, yes, but it could not be considered quick by any definition. While there is no immediate indication of serious injury, no visible blood or bruises (and McCoy's grateful for that at least), his face is very pale, and he's moving as if he were thirty years older. That indicates a likelihood that the Andalucians are more informed than expected about human physiology.

As a doctor, he knows more than either of the other two how easy it is to cause maximum pain without lasting or visible physical damage.

But the captain is certainly awake, and relatively mobile, which is more than they had been expecting, given what these people said they wanted. (Apparently, their selective development and decision to remain in the planet's dark ages, so to speak, does not apply to their thirst for destructive weaponry, of which a starship has much.)

However, any relief turns to immediate concern when there's not even a token struggle or protest, as the guards roughly manhandle the captain back into his own ancient manacles, and then leave the cell without a word.

"What the – is that it?" McCoy demands, glaring after them and the unlocked door they left behind in mockery of the situation.

"Bones, don't give them any ideas." Kirk's eyes are closed, his head tipped back against the cold stone. "They have plenty already."

Good lord. "Jim, are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." A rough exhale, and Kirk seems to finally get his feet under him, opening his eyes with a reassuring glance in their direction. "Really, I'm fine, Bones. Save it for when we get out of here."

The when is encouraging, even if the better look the doctor finally gets by leaning forward as much as the chains will allow, is not. The captain's face looks even paler despite the warm torchlight, and he's shivering slightly. Is that just excessive perspiration, or is his shirt actually wet?

"Either of you got a plan here?"

"I'm working on it. Spock?"

"Nothing concrete as of yet, Captain." The words are calm and clear, although there's a sharp tension in the Vulcan's posture that wasn't there a few minutes ago. "Is the Enterprise back in orbit?"

"No. They…" Kirk pauses to cough into his shoulder. "They had me try to contact her, even though it's too early. No response, so I'd assume she's still on the previously communicated schedule." He coughs again, a little wetly, and finally closes his eyes once more. "We have about four hours until she arrives, I think? But…I need twenty minutes. Tell me when that's up, Spock."

"Yes, sir."

That command, more than anything else, is alarming. And it's very evident now, even in the dim light, that the captain's gold tunic is nearly completely wet, which would explain the shivering, and possibly the rapid breathing.

It might, McCoy realizes with a sick feeling of dread, also explain the coughing, and the evidence of receding adrenaline, typically following an intense fight-or-flight event. These people are stuck in their parallel equivalent of medieval times, and that no doubt carries over into their interrogation methods, too.

The implications are horrifying, and when Spock turns to him with a drawn expression, it's clear that, being a little closer, he's already seen everything and drawn the same awful conclusions about what's been happening the last few hours.

"We may not have twenty minutes," McCoy says quietly. "If he falls asleep, all his weight is going to be on those chains, and he's already having breathing issues, sounds like."

"He's also very much awake, still," Kirk drawls, with wry amusement in the tone despite the situation. "I'm not dry drowning, Bones. Not yet, anyway. Calm down."

"Oh you did not just tell me to calm down after finding out you've been waterboarded!"

"Doctor."

"You're not helping, Spock!"

"Bones. Honestly, I need those twenty minutes."

The raw admission is enough to arrest his frustration in its tracks, and he sighs, reluctant to cause more distress than is needed. "Fine. But you can't fall asleep, Jim."

"I really don't think I could right now, but understood."

"Jim, I'm serious!"

"Doctor," Spock remonstrates quietly. "I will watch him. Meanwhile, I suggest you formulate a plan for medical treatment to be initiated upon our escape from this place, in the event the opportunity presents itself."

It's nothing more than busy work, and he knows it; but it does the job, and gives him something to think about other than the sound of increasingly labored breathing from the other end of the cell. It doesn't typically get below 10 degrees even after nightfall here, so there shouldn't be risk of hypothermia, even in wet clothing; but it's definitely no warm summer evening, and the chill won't help in warding off shock. The regular, tinny rattle of chain links indicates Jim is certainly still shivering, even if he appears to still be on his feet and relatively aware, just somewhere else mentally.

Barely has Spock quietly vocalized that the twenty minutes have expired, when there is unexpected noise and a voice at the other end of the corridor, again.

The captain starts, eyes flying open with a look of dismay. "We were supposed to have an hour," he mutters with a rare curse of frustration, glancing over at the two of them. "They were pretty clear. This is our last chance, Spock."

Spock nods curtly. "Understood."

Dread and anxiety are not a pleasant combination when mixed with helplessness, but there is little McCoy can do to assist in whatever is coming.

The captain glances over the doctor's direction in what looks like reassurance, but before he can say anything, ends up staggering back a step against the wall as a rough coughing fit erupts from deep within his lungs. It lasts a full ten seconds, and when it ends, he looks even paler than before, slumped in the restraints and blinking hazily at the silhouette of the single approaching guard.

"Jim, are you all right?"

Kirk nods, though he seems to be barely holding on to consciousness.

McCoy is about to yell at the Andalucian to move his alien backside because whatever they want, they won't get it if they kill the human holding the information, but there isn't even time for that. The hulking native enters the cell, heads straight for the semi-conscious human and unlocks the left manacle with brisk efficiency. Kirk shuffles slightly, head still lolling on his chest, and doesn't make any move to take advantage of the situation as his arm flops uselessly to his side.

"You were to give him one hour," Spock's powerful voice suddenly reverberates authoritatively off of the stone walls, startling the guard as he's in the process of unlocking the remaining manacle.

The Andalucian half-turns in surprise, exclaiming something in a native dialect that none of them understand, and makes a vaguely angry, threatening gesture in the Vulcan's direction.

The next second, he screeches in a startled, high-pitched wheeze and drops like a rock, hands clutching at his back, only to be caught in a somewhat sloppy, almost full-body chokehold around the neck a moment later that he's apparently too surprised or pained to break free of.

Ten flailing seconds later, the Andalucian is just a limp pile of limbs on the floor, and there's a heavy thump as Jim slumps back against the stone wall, face flushed drastically from its previous pallor. He's alert enough to flick Spock a look of thanks for the timely distraction, though the effort appears to have been draining.

"What on earth just happened?" McCoy asks, dumbfounded.

"A lot of luck…and a little science. You're not the only one who has intimate knowledge of species-specific anatomy, Bones. I met an Andalucian on a shore leave once."

Of course he did.

"Who knew that'd come in handy…twenty years later?" The words are punctuated by a painful, ragged inhale, and the captain's hand drifts almost unconsciously to his side – clear indication that McCoy's earlier supposition was correct, and they just can't see the physical results of the interrogation.

"Captain." Spock's voice is gentle, but urgent. "Jim. We have minutes, if that."

Kirk nods, and exhales slowly, then pushes himself back to his feet in a surprisingly quick motion. He paws briefly at the dangling right manacle, and finally manages to yank the small key from it before stumbling across the cell. Two quick snap-clicks, and Spock's restraints fall away.

"Down the hall, third right. Some kind of…supply room, what's inside looks inconsistent with the societal development. Confiscation storage, maybe? Guessing that's where they tossed our communicators. Weapons, if nothing else."

Before McCoy can even blink or parse the stilted instructions, Spock nods and vanishes down the corridor like a ghost at the stroke of midnight.

The captain appears beside him a moment later, and starts fumbling with the chain holding the doctor's left wrist prisoner in its iron grip. The color has once again leeched from his face, and in this proximity McCoy can hear a wheeze underlying the shallow, rapid breaths that sound close to his ear.

"Almost there, Jim," he murmurs, because verbal comfort is the only medical remedy he has to offer right now. Kirk's hands are still shaking, but he finally finds the tiny key-hole, and a minute later the manacle pops open with a dull clink.

The doctor sighs in relief and flexes his cold fingers - just in time to hastily plant his feet and wrap the freed arm around Kirk's waist as his eyes start to lose focus, head dropping to land on McCoy's shoulder. "Okay, easy, Jim. I got you. Just take a deep breath for me, can you do that? There we go, that's good."

"Sorry, I just…need a second, my head's spinning," is muffled into his shoulder.

"I know." But they might not have a second, unfortunately. "Can you give me the key?"

"Hmm?"

"Put the key in my hand, Jim. You can do it, come on."

"Right." There's a vague noise of frustration, but he feels the fumbling press of metal against palm a moment later.

"Good. Now sit down. Carefully, if you're hiding broken ribs."

"I'm not. Promise."

"Be careful anyway, and try not to cough more than you have to, it's not going to help. Now sit."

"And stay, good boy?" is the impertinent reply, delivered around a breathless laugh as the captain slides down the stone wall with a faint noise of relief.

"I've been saying for years I should chip you like a puppy given the number of times we've lost your signal on an away mission, don't tempt me. Soon as – there he is. It took you long enough!" The cuff finally falls away, and he yanks his arm free, rubbing the inner wrist absently as Spock re-enters the cell. "Did you find the comms?"

"I did. And your medical kit," Spock replies, handing over the small black satchel and communicator, the latter of which the doctor re-attaches to his belt. Spock then drops gracefully to a crouch, and promptly manhandles Jim into a strange fluffy poncho-looking garment woven in Andalucian colors, despite the man's spluttering protests and one flailing gesture of righteous indignation. But soon enough, the warmth from the ugly thing clearly trumps any indignity. The captain finally mutters a graceless thank-you and leans heavily into his First Officer for a second, before hunching angrily into the cozy fabric like a wet cat after a bath.

"It should be pretty easy to get out of here, shouldn't it?"

Spock sits back on his heels and looks up. "Under ordinary circumstances, I would agree, as this seems to be a lesser-used interrogation facility. However, it appears that the delayed return of the guard has been noticed. I could clearly hear orders on the floor above being given for the dispatch of at least six more, no doubt in search of this one."

"Can we take them out?"

"Possibly, but the likelihood of incurring physical damage in the process is very high if we make the attempt. They are armed, however lightly, and we are outnumbered physically and numerically; we are also constrained by what is already a slight violation of the Prime Directive."

"It's not like that was our fault."

"Correct, but it would be best to not exacerbate an already tense situation," Spock replies. "Also, the Enterprise is now in orbit, well ahead of schedule."

"Good job, Scotty," Kirk murmurs.

"You could have said so! That must be why the Andalucians didn't give him an hour."

"Agreed. Mr. Scott advises we must gain altitude above planetary sea level before we can employ transporter capabilities. That requires an ascension of roughly fifteen meters, or the equivalent of three stories in this prison's layout, where we must then find a suitable beam-out location."

"That's doable."

"It certainly seems to be a more attainable goal than attempting to fight our way to the surface. If required, I can also create a distraction on this level and follow you."

"They don't need you, Spock, they need me." Jim struggles to a kneeling position, breathing heavily, and then slowly stands with the help of Spock's arm and the wall. "There's no guarantee they won't just kill you and be done with it. They at least need me alive for my override codes."

"They're not getting either of you, and that's not up for debate," McCoy counters, as he yanks a hypospray from its resting place and measures out the correct dosage with well-practiced ease.

But a hand clamps almost painfully to his wrist just before it's administered, and Kirk glares at him with the crystal-clear lucidity that only comes from a sudden adrenaline surge. "I don't fall for the same trick twice, Bones," he says, cold and dangerous. "You sedate me again for my own protection and I will transfer you permanently. I am not joking."

"It's just tri-ox for the laryngospasm, but that's good to know," he replies, amused. "Now. May I have verbal permission to begin treatment of your drowning symptoms, sir?"

"Sorry. I…I'm sorry." A convulsive shiver. "I –"

"You're fine, Jim. Lord knows you've got every right to be jumpy right now. And I kind of deserve that."

After a jerky nod of approval, he finally depresses the oxygen cartridge into the captain's neck with more care than usual, and is pleased to see that the labored breathing, at least, seems to ease almost immediately. It's certainly not a treatment regimen, but it should be enough of a stop-gap that they can get off of this cursed planetoid without a serious incident.

"We'd better get a shore leave after this mess, is all I got to say," he mutters, popping the empty cartridge out and reloading it with a heavy sedative. He keeps it firmly in hand, just in case they run into any stray Andalucians on their way out.

A wry laugh, and Kirk curiously shakes the fluffy fringe of his poncho with just a hint of his usual dramatic aplomb, nose wrinkling at the odd smell that results. "For once, I agree with you. Somewhere very dry and very warm. What do you say, Mr. Spock?"

"I might be able to assist with such a destination. Presuming old age does not overtake us by the time you begin moving, sir," Spock says dryly, and indicates the open door with a gesture of very human impatience.