Author: Jenna Hilary Sinclair
Feedback. JennaSTS@aol.com
Title: The World Turned Upside Down
Code: K/S
Series: TOS
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Star Trek and its characters belong to Paramount and Viacom. No infringement upon their copyright is intended.
First Reader: Many thanks to the incomparable Dusky for a thorough edit done at warp speed. She is the best!
Note: This story is part of the KSOF located at http://www.kardasi.com/KSOF/stories.htm

THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN

"Incoming!"

The missile shrieked over their heads as Kirk and McCoy ducked behind an upended sidewalk bench. It provided but meager protection against the sudden barrage of stolen armament that the rebels were throwing at them, but the XEL-3 portable launcher, wherever it was, hadn’t acquired their range yet.

Kirk grabbed the doctor’s arm. "This way!" he shouted.

They dodged across the city street and dived behind a thick cement barricade. It was wedged across a deep storefront doorway and so provided excellent protection. The barrier had undoubtedly been used for riot control by the Federation-backed planetary government of the planet of Nobel, for which they were fighting. Those riots had taken place weeks ago, before the violence started in earnest and the frightened lawmakers had sent a desperate plea for help.

Another missile rocketed across the sky and lodged high in one of the skyscrapers that ranged up and down the central downtown thoroughfare. A shower of glass rained on the sidewalk two hundred meters south; it was no danger to them.

Kirk whipped out his communicator. "Spock!" he yelled. "I need coordinates for that launcher! Do you hear me?"

Only static answered.

"Damn it!" McCoy shouted over the din. "We’re going to be pulverized before that genius Vulcan figures out where—"

Fire rent the sky, they ducked, another explosion half a block away carved a ten-meter wide hole in the street.

"That was close," McCoy breathed. He held his phaser tightly, but for the moment at least there was nothing at which to shoot. The doctor’s eyes searched the blue sky, alive with wispy clouds of smoke. "Tell me again why the transporter can’t just lift us out of this hellhole."

Kirk snorted and checked the charge on the weapon that he cradled in both hands. He carried a phaser rifle with enough power to blow up half a small city. "Never thought I’d hear you beg for the transporter."

"Yeah, well, when it’s my life you’re talking about, I’ll take any exit I can get."

"We can’t risk it, and you know it. The radiation flux of the ion stream is too unpredictable until—"

McCoy waved a hand. "I don’t need you to be imitating Spock, I get the picture." He glanced out across the street and pointed with his weapon. "And speaking of your favorite Vulcan, there he is."

A blue-clad blur disappeared behind a subway entrance fifty meters away, and Kirk had his communicator out and open a second later. "Spock, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be back at base getting a fix on the launcher."

Over the crackle created by the jamming efforts of the rebels, Spock’s voice could barely be heard. "…no possibility of pinpointing…believe close-range obser…cessful."

"I’ll run cover for you," Kirk shouted into the grid, but he doubted that his second-in-command heard him. "You stay here where it’s safe," he ordered McCoy.

"Like hell," defied the doctor, and he followed as Kirk ran down the broken sidewalk.

But no amount of ground-based cover could protect against accurately launched armament. The screech of the missile slicing through air announced its coming, fast and right on target. Kirk threw himself to the ground, his hands over his head, his phaser stuffed up inside the brown field jacket he wore, and he prayed to whatever deity looked over starship captains and those they loved. Then he was up a moment later and threw himself down again, only this time squarely on the sprawled body of his CMO.

McCoy’s "umphf" mingled with the overwhelming roar of the blast. They rode the heaving ground like it was a living, breathing thing, then debris pelted them. Glass shards tore into Kirk’s legs, his back; a chunk of what must have been concrete took dead aim at his kidneys.

All his breath was pushed out at once, and he couldn’t help one convulsive shudder as pain racked through him, but as sudden silence streaked over the scene, he knew they had been very, very lucky. Stifling his groan, he pushed himself up, took one look at a wide-eyed and obviously intact McCoy beneath him, and stared across the street at the steps leading down to the subway.

There was no entrance anymore, it had been ground zero. How close had Spock been to it?

The wreckage of what had once been a vibrant city lay in bits and pieces all about them, but Kirk scrambled across it at top speed, scanning every chunk of twisted metal, every buckled span of sidewalk for some trace of science blue.

"Come on," he commanded under his breath as he checked under a tattered awning that had been blown from a sidewalk café to flutter limply on the street. "Come on. You’re here, you’re—"

No matter how many times he saw it, Vulcan blood was always a shock. A smear of bright green led him around the wreckage of what might have been a motorscooter to his first officer. Encircling his tricorder as if it were precious, life-giving, Spock was curled up in a ball on the ground.

Long ago Kirk had acknowledged to himself how much more he cared about Spock’s safety over any other crewmember’s; it had been a hard-fought, private battle and an almost humiliating realization of weaknesses and vulnerability. Captains should have no favorites. That’s what the mythical book said, the one that governed the commanders of men and women who explored among the stars.

But commanders could not always be the perfect beings expected by their crew and by Starfleet, and it was the merely human man who darted towards the crumpled body of his friend, his heart pounding.

Gently Kirk reached for one shoulder and pulled Spock towards him so the Vulcan could lie flat on his back. That was when he saw that the left side of the dark head was an open green wound. Not a minor cut, not an injury that the healing trance could easily repair—gray-brown brain tissue was clearly visible, some of it bulging from the fractured line of missing flesh, and shards of white bone torn from the skull dotted the pulsing, bleeding mass….

Kirk had seen too many battlefield and survey casualties to allow the bile that suddenly seethed into his throat to have any effect on his actions. He was reaching for Spock’s limp hand and feeling for a pulse even before he was able to clamp down hard on his nausea. The quiver of life beneath his fingers powered his desperate cry: "Bones!"

Life: hope.

But a head wound like that—for a Vulcan….

His face scraped and swollen but his hands steady, McCoy arrived seconds later. "My God," he whispered as he reached for the medical scanner hanging from his belt. "My God. Spock."

Kirk did not allow himself to think. He relinquished his hold on the tumultuously pulsing wrist and stood to survey the ominously still street. If the bombing did not start again soon, the rebel footsoldiers would return with their effective mix of phasers and projectile weapons. Either way, they were out in the open with no protection.

"We have to get to cover," he said mercilessly, standing in the glare of the noonday brightness. The white winter sun cut through the downtown canyon, exposing it, exposing them.

"We can’t move him," McCoy gritted through his teeth as his hands roved urgently over the broken body. "Jim, this is bad. Moving him might—"

"I’ll carry him, we’ll go back to where we were before. You can work on him there."

"Jim! He might die if—"

Kirk swung around at a sudden movement, his weapon ready. But no enemy threatened, just the downed awning shifting in the cool breeze. His voice cracked. "I hear you, McCoy! But it won’t do Spock any good to be blown to bits by the next missile. And we can’t help him if we’re dead."

"All right." Too many times McCoy’s essential humanitarian instincts had been tempered by the painful realities of serving in the ’fleet. He gave way gracelessly. "We’ve got to do something about…." He carefully touched the top edge of the wound, inched a loose flap of skin down. "Goddamn it, not even a sterile field, the worst place for contamination…. Not enough here for even a suture…." Decisively he rocked back on his heels, shrugged out of his field jacket and then pulled his blue medical shirt over his head.

Kirk didn’t say a word as McCoy wrapped the fabric around the Vulcan’s head and face.

"There," McCoy muttered. "At least there shouldn’t be any further rupture. If you’re careful. Let’s move it!"

"Take this." Kirk thrust the rifle into the doctor’s suddenly awkward hands, then hunched low over the strangely headless body of his first officer. He could hear Spock breathing heavily through the cloth, a frightening, very physical sound coming from a man who had so often, it had seemed to Kirk, wanted to deny he even had a body. Spock had always wanted to emphasize the mind….

Kirk jerked away from the thought even as he carefully worked his arms under knees and shoulders, as he extended his elbow to awkwardly provide support for the awful reality of what was unseen under McCoy’s shirt. With one controlled heave he was up, staggered just once, then picked his careful way across the rubble of the street to relative safety.

McCoy paced him every step of the way, consulting his scanner in dead silence that scraped against Kirk’s nerves. Finally, within the shelter of the deep storefront, Kirk laid his burden down. Before the doctor could do it, he moved to unwrap the tunic, which was soaked to a dark, purplish color on one side. Spock drew in a harsh, difficult lungful of air as it came completely loose, and though Kirk cringed before the manifestation of pain, he couldn’t help but think: Thank God—still breathing.

Resting a hand on one tension-less, bony knee that he hardly knew he was touching, Kirk shuffled to the side as McCoy worked in the chill shadows. The Vulcans had it right: emotion had no place when rational decisions had to be made. He couldn’t give in to the fear pounding in his gut, the dryness of his mouth, or his worst imaginings. He had a duty to perform, regardless of what had happened….

"Bones, you work on him here while I try to get to the launcher." To accent his words, another rocket shrieked down the street over their heads, but it landed blocks away out of their sight, and it seemed so insignificant in the face of the personal tragedy before them that neither man reacted to it at all. "I’ll pick you up on the way b—"

But McCoy cut him off even as he expertly palmed a hypo from the kit at his side. "No, you can’t do that." The instrument hissed as he shot the contents directly into the carotid artery.

"I’ve got to. Everybody’s pinned down until—"

The scanner whirled and McCoy anxiously shifted his attention from the lax figure sprawled on the ground to the flashing figures on the tiny screen and back again. His hand, with gentle, sure fingers spread in support, rested just under the Vulcan’s chin. He didn’t spare a glance for Kirk. "I can’t deal with this here. This is…. We’ve got to get him back to base. He’s hemorrhaging. I need the HG analyzer, there’s major vessel work to be done…. Now, Jim!"

"Bones," Kirk asked desperately, "we can’t cut through the interference to call for a shuttle, we can’t transmit that far. You heard it yourself."

"We’ve got to," McCoy insisted stubbornly. "There’s no other choice. We’re losing him."

"You’ll have to do your best here until we can neutralize—"

McCoy rounded on him, his expression tight and desperate, his blue eyes blazing. "I can’t perform miracles, Jim!"

"Neither can I," Kirk snarled, but he was up on his feet with the communicator open before his lips. "Kirk to Nobel base." He shook the static-filled answer before McCoy’s face in impotent rage. "See? See? What am I supposed to do, abandon the mission, the safety of all the rest of our people on the planet to carry Spock back to base?"

"Yes!" McCoy roared, up on his knees. "Yes! For Spock!"

Kirk’s anger suddenly burned out. "Not even for him," he said, unnaturally calm. "I can’t." He turned away and stared blindly out at the street, where duty called him to be.

A long moment of silence stretched. Then a rustle of movement behind him, and a hand—stained green—rested on his shoulder. "I know," McCoy whispered. "God, Jim, I’m so sorry."

Kirk turned. "No chance at all?" he asked bleakly.

"Not unless we get him somewhere I can operate. The base at a minimum. The pressure in his brain is building, if I can’t relieve it soon…."

"How soon?"

McCoy passed a hand over his five o’clock shadow. "Twenty minutes? Half an hour? It’s so hard to tell with him."

Kirk drew a deep breath, looked past McCoy to where the body that housed the spirit he loved was fighting a losing battle. "All right," he said. "All right. Twenty minutes. We’ve got twenty minutes to think of— The tricorder!"

He dashed out into the street, in a minute he’d returned with Spock’s tricorder. Breathlessly, he announced, "Spock protected this more than he did himself when the missile hit, it’s why he was injured. There must have been a reason—he never does anything without a reason."

For four years Kirk had been the captain of the Enterprise, but before his promotion he’d climbed through the ranks. Tricorders might have changed since he had last operated one on a planetary survey, but he still knew how to extract and interpret the data stream. He sat, propped it on one knee, and set it to disgorge its most recent readings. Spock wouldn’t have had time for correlation or analysis; whatever he had been protecting must be in the raw data. Kirk was conscious of the passing minutes, keenly aware of the labored breathing coming from the corner. He wouldn’t look at Spock, didn’t want to look at him, he had to think….

Got it!

"He figured out the jamming frequency."

McCoy looked up from his post on the floor. "How does that help us?"

"It’s a variation on tachyon transfer technology…never mind. If I use the tricorder to augment…."

Three minutes to run the computations, using formulae he hadn’t thought of in years, another four to establish a wireless connection between communicator and ’corder, and he was ready. "Kirk to Nobel base. Kirk to Nobel base."

"Captain!" It was Sulu’s clear, competent voice. "Sir, where are you? Nobody’s managed to cut through the jamming except you."

"Never mind that, send a shuttle to these coordinates right away. Did you get that, Lieutenant?"

Sulu’s voice could be heard off line giving orders, then he was back. "Aye-aye, sir, one shuttle on its way. Should be airborne in two minutes. ETA: seven and a half minutes."

Kirk heaved a sigh of relief. They might stretch McCoy’s twenty minutes, but not by much. And he had confidence in Spock’s ability to hang on. "Good. Put one of Spock’s people on the line. I’ll transmit this data so we’ll all be able to communicate with everybody."

But across the small space that enclosed them, McCoy suddenly tensed in every muscle as his scanner whirred closely by the pointed ear.

"Jim!"

Kirk left his open communicator transmitting and ran to the physician, to where Spock still lay like a concrete effigy. "What’s wrong?"

"The worst," McCoy said grimly. His free hand clenched and unclenched over and over, as if he desperately wanted it to be moving, healing, but knew he could do nothing. "A rupture in the medulla transma—well, the worst spot."

"Give us eight minutes," Kirk said desperately, staring down at the pale white face of his first officer. "Maybe less."

"He doesn’t have eight minutes!"

Kirk transferred his gaze to his CMO, but he was thinking frantically; he was not going to allow this to happen. Not to Spock. Not to his friend, his right-hand, his conscience, his support, his love that never was and never would be. Not to the brilliant mind and gentle spirit and determined soul.

Kirk had been called ruthless by friend and foe alike, and ruthless he was. In the nighttime hours he’d sometimes confronted the question—what was he willing to risk for Spock?—and never had been able to provide an answer. Now, in less then a second, he knew.

"If we can transport the two of you to the ship," he asked quietly, an eerie, guilt-ridden, and completely determined calm washing over him, "could you save him?"

McCoy gulped. Kirk saw the fear in his eyes right along with the decision. "There’d at least be a chance. Can you get us up there?"

"Now that we’ve got communication going, we can try. Transporting is dangerous in these conditions, not impossible. Spock talked last night about making some adjustments so we could try it with some experimental animals."

McCoy opened his own communicator to provide a signal, put it on Spock’s chest, and rested one hand on the Vulcan’s shoulder. "Just what I always thought I’d be, an experimental animal."

"We could beam just him to the base instead," Kirk offered urgently, already knowing what Bones would say, wanting him to say it, but having to give him an option if only to salve his own guilty conscience. "Dr. Travis could—"

"Without me? I increase Spock’s chance for survival, and you know it. Besides, there’s no time for that, Jim. Let’s go."

"Bones, are you sure you want to do this?" But even as Kirk asked, he was re-directing his comm unit towards the ship.

"No, but if I don’t," the doctor said calmly, "I’ll never be able to live with myself. How much of a chance do you think we have?"

"I don’t know," Kirk choked. "I’m not the one who quotes the odds."

"Right. For a minute I forgot that. See you on the Enterprise, Jim. I’ll do my damndest to save him for you."

McCoy gave him a crooked grin, Kirk gave the order, and the transporter beam, twenty-eight thousand, four hundred and eleven kilometers out in space, began the transformation of molecules into energy.

Kirk watched with his breath held. Four days ago he had given orders that the transporter not be used except in extreme emergency; he clearly remembered thumbprinting the official file. Spock had recommended it, he had agreed, all crewmembers had been alerted. Until solar conditions changed, it was just too dangerous to transport anyone anywhere.

As the characteristic hum of the transporter grew in volume, the two figures—Spock flat on his back, McCoy leaning over him on one knee—slowly lost their physical substance and coalesced into brilliant white light. Was the outline shape as sharp as it should be? Kirk strained his eyes. Was the droning sound off-key?

His heart in his throat, Kirk watched the two people about whom he cared the most in all the worlds fade from view. He stared down at his open communicator and did not think at all. He counted. Slowly. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

Oh, God.

Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.

Speaking into the grid, asking what was going on: that was impossible. He’d either hear what he couldn’t tolerate hearing, or he’d distract the technician from whatever she was doing to try to retrieve those scrambled bodies.

Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two.

Something inside him froze. He walked over to the heavy barricade that separated him from the chaos of the street: the abandoned vehicles, the looted goods, the twisted metal, that canvas awning flapping in the westerly breeze. He thought about how clouds were building up overhead, and how maybe there would be a late-fall storm before sunset.

Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two.

He thought about the people who had worked and lived in this abandoned part of the city, who had been driven out by the kidnappings and torture and threats, the tools of terrorists everywhere. Where were the innocent people tonight? He thought about what had driven the rebels to do what they had done, and what propelled them to put their own lives in jeopardy. There was always a reason.

Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty. Forty-one.

"Spock," he whispered. "Bones."

He thought about the configuration of the XEL-3 Starfleet issue projectile launcher, how much energy it took to operate it, where it must be hidden. If he could just get close enough to it, the phaser rifle would destroy the outpost easily. The rifle—he glanced to the side—was propped up in the corner where Bones must have put it.

Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine.

The message he wanted to hear wasn’t going to come. Why did he always expect miracles?

The weight of the weapon was satisfying as he swung it over his shoulder. Maybe he should wait for the shuttlecraft, but Kirk wanted movement, action. Watch out rebels, James Kirk is going to blow your weapon launcher to kingdom come. The communicator closed with a snap.

And then it beeped, and by reflex his wrist snapped it open, and an excited, triumphant voice was saying, "We did it, Captain! We did it! They’re here!"

James Kirk got down on his hands and knees and was violently sick. Then he wiped his mouth on his jacket sleeve, told the transporter tech, "Good job. Carry on," and went to do his duty.

***************

On the night before the ship made orbit around the planet Nobel, where rebels were protesting the duly elected government with force and the situation in the capital city was critical, the captain of the Enterprise said good-night to Commander Spock, watched him leave, and prepared for bed.

The nights were the worst. After the tasks of the day were accomplished, after a last check-in with the bridge, when he lay down for rest, he could not stop the yearning.

If only Spock were beside him. If only he could reach for that warm body and mold their nakedness together, if only Spock would press against him and join their lips, if only they could talk in the warm intimacy of afterglow. A hundred if onlys that would never be.

After almost a year of wanting, he was familiar with the sadness, the ache in his heart and in his empty arms, but he never got used to it. Like an open wound that never scabbed over and healed, his love for Spock was always there, throbbing.

Kirk pulled down the Starfleet-issue coverlet and the sheet, slid under them, and stared at the shadows that washed the ceiling of his darkened cabin. In the beginning, he had been so shocked. He, James Kirk, seduced by the subtle, innocent smile in his first officer’s eyes? Desiring another man? He’d never even contemplated making love with a male; the female form had always stirred his body, if not always his heart.

But it was his heart that had stirred, and his body had followed, he knew that. For weeks he had tried to analyze away his fierce attraction, thinking that if he only could understand why the time spent with Spock was so precious, why those shy smiles made Kirk’s stomach clench with tenderness, why the fierce compulsion to share his nights as well as his days with an emotionally-controlled Vulcan was as necessary to him as food or air, then he could reason himself back into a state of equilibrium.

Kirk shifted restlessly under the sheet and laughed hollowly. The Vulcans said that emotion was a form of insanity. It certainly couldn’t be controlled. His passion for Spock had only grown.

It had been Spock’s integrity that had been Kirk’s undoing: it shone like a bright light in the darkness. The myth spoke that Vulcans could not lie, but Kirk had come to learn something more important about his first officer. Spock could not betray himself or that in which he believed. And he believed in everything Kirk held dear: honesty, loyalty, effort, intensity, the search for truth and the desire to do good in a capricious universe. Kirk could no more resist such a shining soul than a moth could turn away from a flame.

It had been Spock’s honesty that had been his undoing: the Vulcan might hide his emotions, but when he did reveal them they came from the center of his being. A look of concern during a landing party, fierce concentration during a crisis on the bridge, quiet amusement shared at the antics of young officers—all of it was essential and undiluted, and Kirk had been entranced at the beauty he glimpsed. It made him thirsty for more.

It had been Spock’s innocence that had been his undoing, that and the undercurrent of sadness that stirred Kirk’s heart with the desire to turn it into joy. This accomplished scientist, this supremely competent Starfleet officer, this friend who enriched all his days: deep down inside, Spock was lonely and searching for something to complete him.

For a long time Kirk had hoped that something was him. He lived with the image of the two of them, side by side in all things and enriched by love. He’d searched for ways to get closer to Spock and had succeeded. Their friendship flourished, and it was a sweet pain to Kirk to see how easily Spock accepted his company. Sweet because it was a small taste of what he wanted—all of Spock, all his time, all his mind and his sweet, seductive body—and pain because it wasn’t enough.

He remembered the first time he’d tried to make it real. The words had been so difficult to find, and so he’d tried to hint.

"Do you ever wonder," he asked one afternoon as they worked on quarterly reports in briefing room seven, "why we don’t have more committed couples on board the ship?"

He could tell Spock was surprised, saw the interested look as Spock examined the question as if he were turning a unique specimen over in his hands. "I have not given the matter much thought. The uncertain nature of our profession, the dangers associated with it—"

"—would seem to me to encourage intimacy, not discourage it."

"I do not believe," Spock said with a trace of humor quirking his lips, "that there is a lack of intimate relationships on board the Enterprise."

"I know, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about…love. Not temporary liaisons but true commitment. For people who work and live together all the time, who learn to trust one another, to value one another, doesn’t it seem to be a natural thing to happen?" Kirk didn’t even try to keep his tone impersonally curious, he was aware his voice was earnest.

"There are two official pairings on the ship and one registered group marriage of four."

Spock could always be relied upon to present the facts to his captain, but this time Kirk didn’t care about numbers and statistics. He was after feelings, and though Spock revealed more of himself to his captain than to any person on board, still he guarded his inner self. It was the inner Spock, barely glimpsed but tantalizingly desirable, that Kirk wanted to share. But it couldn’t be shared unless Spock opened himself first. Paradox. Kirk pursed his lips in frustration.

"Eight people out of four hundred and thirty. And we’ve been out here for more than three years. I don’t understand it."

"I believe that Doctor McCoy might be more conversant with this subject than I."

"I don’t want to ask Bones, I want your opinion."

Unruffled, Spock tilted his head and asked, "May I inquire why this sudden interest in such sociological phenomena?"

There, the opportunity to be blunt, the chance to say: Because I want us to be one of those committed couples. What do you say about joining our minds and our hearts and our bodies, Mister Spock? You are my nighttime fantasy and my heart’s desire combined. Come, live with me. I want to fall asleep in your embrace, to waken in your arms, and to plumb your body as deeply as you plumb my mind.

If Spock had given him the slightest encouragement, he would have said it.

But innocence regarded him from the soft brown eyes. It hasn’t even occurred to him, Kirk concluded, that I might be talking about a specific couple. About us.

Or perhaps it was just fear of what the answer might be that caused him to retreat. Kirk shrugged. "I was just wondering. I would think there’d be more. Because it seems so," he flashed a quick grin, "logical."

"Logic," Spock countered, "has never played a large role in human sexual interaction, according to my observations."

"Sometimes logic can be very seductive."

One brow lifted towards the ceiling in startled, instant skepticism. "That is a theory I have never considered before, Captain. Initial examination does not lend it much credence. The personnel evaluations appear to be complete. Shall we continue with requisitions?"

Kirk could control his reactions almost as well as Spock could. He nodded at the sudden change of subject and noted how far Spock had gone with him. All the way to the implication that Vulcans with their logic could be seductive. Was Spock’s change of subject an explicit warning? Or was it simply discomfort with the topic? Neither possibility gave Kirk hope.

In the months that passed, hope warred with doubt. Spock was his friend, they shared responsibility and danger and an occasional meal during shore leave. Kirk moved their once-a-week chess games to their quarters and Spock followed willingly. During the quiet minutes between moves, when Spock was contemplating his strategy, Kirk would feast his eyes upon him and rejoice in his presence, and when Spock looked up, Kirk could see open trust in his eyes, and affection. There were days when he felt so close to Spock, when he relied on him so utterly for strength or advice or analysis or conversation or comfort that it seemed inconceivable that the Vulcan could not discern how Kirk felt about him. How could Spock, so perceptive where he was concerned, not notice that his captain loved him?

Others began to notice, and Kirk was glad that they did. McCoy joked and started to call the first officer "Your favorite Vulcan." Although Spock had pointed out that since Kirk was not well acquainted with any other Vulcans, this statement had little merit, he hadn’t truly objected.

His favorite Vulcan. Kirk sighed in the darkness and turned over onto his side. Little enough on which to base his hopes. Or his fantasies.

The sexual fantasies had bothered him the most. He’d felt they were a betrayal of his friend and a lapse in his self-imposed discipline. He never allowed thoughts of the two of them together to intrude upon the daytime hours—he was too committed to his duty to his crew and his ship to indulge in adolescent behavior—and he tried to strictly control his daydreams at night as well. Most of the time he succeeded. But sometimes he was so tired of keeping up the pretense of friendship alone that his thoughts took flight on their own. He wanted more from Spock, and he needed more for himself. His body cried out for release in the arms of a true lover, and his soul longed for understanding and comfort.

Those were the times, when he was weak, when he gave in to images of what he longed for: Spock in bed next to him because that was where he belonged, turning over towards him, inviting him with that little smile that barely curled his lips. Warm, soft lips seeking his, a probing tongue he sucked into his own mouth. There would be just enough light so he could look down between their bodies and see Spock erect, wanting him. Spock would suck on his nipples, then Kirk would kiss the greenish puckers he’d glimpsed only a few times. Then Spock would grow impatient, he’d pull his captain over him, and Kirk would slide into what was sure to be the lush, hot, safe haven of his ass.

And then to bring Spock the ultimate joy of the body. His lover would arch up under him, would clutch at his back and groan because he loved what they were doing. Spock in the midst of orgasm, his head thrown back, his mouth agape, his muscles frozen in the moment before climax—he wanted to give that to Spock so much.

His accelerated breathing sounded harsh in his solitary quarters. Kirk turned over onto his back and reached down to lightly touch his hardness through the fabric of his briefs. Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. Not any night.

Tonight Spock had come to him with devastating news. My clan has requested that I consider a bonding, he had said, speaking slowly as he stood before Kirk’s desk. They have suggested a woman recently widowed. She is a hydraulic engineer who has no objection to my Starfleet career.

Spock had paused, as if giving his captain the opportunity to speak. But Kirk was paralyzed inside, and no words came to him as he stared up at his first officer.

Although permission from my commanding officer is not required until formal arrangements have been made, Spock had said, I thought it best to alert you to the forthcoming change in my circumstances at this time. He had looked very Vulcan and forbidding, and Kirk hadn’t known how to reach him.

He had tried anyway. Slowly he’d risen to his feet, leaned forward with his hands flat on the desk. Is this what you want?

Wanting is not a part of this situation, Spock had replied, not meeting his eyes. I will do what I must.

Kirk had wanted to say: There are always options, Spock. You don’t have to go down that road. Walk with me instead. But he hadn’t. There had been so many opportunities in the past year, so many instances where silence and companionship must have relayed the song in his heart. But Spock hadn’t heard. Or maybe Spock just couldn’t sing the same song. Instead of walking with his captain, he would tread the traditional ways of his people. A woman who did not object to his career. That was his answer to his closeness with his captain.

As he watched Spock walk out of his office, Kirk had known that he would do what he must. He would take his love and wrap it ’round with friendship, tightly, so that no part of it would ever show. He would not force himself on his friend.

He turned over on his side again and resolutely willed his erection away. Tomorrow they would finally make orbit around Nobel, the situation there was critical, and he needed his sleep.

But he could not stop the yearning.

***************

Forty-seven hours after the miracle that had brought Spock and McCoy safely from Nobel to the Enterprise, the Copernicus settled in the ship’s shuttle bay, bringing with it eight security guards and one begrimed, bewhiskered, drained captain.

Kirk ignored the ramp and jumped down from the side to the deck instead. The Galileo was just loading up for a run to the planet’s surface, so he spent a few minutes briefing the lieutenant in charge of the security detail about conditions on Nobel and quietly encouraging the security men and women. So far the ship had sustained four casualties from the fighting, with Spock being by far the worst. No one mentioned the danger below, and Kirk lifted his hand in silent farewell as the door hissed closed and the shuttle prepared to take off.

In the turbolift Kirk rotated his tired shoulders, then shrugged out of the field jacket he still wore and rotated them again. The jacket was filthy, torn, and stiff with dark bloodstains; it dangled from his fingers because he was momentarily too tired to sling it over his shoulder. He needed a status report from Scotty, a shower, a shave, a meal, a few minutes to dictate their progress in recovering the hostages to Starfleet Command, and ten hours of sleep, in that order.

But Kirk straightened as the lift decelerated and stopped at deck eight: sickbay.

Sickbay always had a certain air about it when critical patients were being cared for; perhaps it was the level of the lighting, or the odor of medicines, or the focused bustle of doctors and nurses. The captain stepped through the doors into the quietly intent, antiseptic atmosphere he never wanted on his ship, but had seen too often.

The head nurse looked up from her place next to a patient in the outer ward, murmured a quiet word to her assistant, then went over to Kirk.

"Good afternoon, Captain," she said in a quiet tone, and steered him, by the simple expedient of taking his elbow, to the corner of the room furthest away from the patients.

Kirk went with her willingly. Somewhere in the last several days he’d lost track of ship’s time; he’d thought it was early morning in late gamma shift. "I need a report on casualties," he said bluntly, too tired for diplomacy.

She didn’t seem to notice. "Lieutenant Bashwan has been released and should be back on duty tomorrow. Lieutenant Harriday, as you see," she gestured behind her, "is sleeping but doing well. Her wounds will heal without further surgery. Ensign Shah, however, is scheduled for surgery in an hour and is being prepped now."

"His leg?" Kirk asked. He’d received reports while on Nobel.

"Should accept the graft with no problem. Fortunately we have an excellent match."

"And Commander Spock?"

"Is in the isolation room with Doctor McCoy, Captain. I’m sure the doctor wants to see you." She led the way in silence.

Iso was tucked in the back corner of sickbay, next to the stasis center. The nurse gestured forward so he could stand under the decontaminating rays at the entrance, then she palmed the lock, and the door swished open. A wave of heat thickly embraced him; he took a deep breath and stepped in.

Although McCoy looked up from examining a printout of some readings, the CMO didn’t say a word as Kirk slowly walked up to the bedside. The jacket, forgotten, trailed on the floor.

Kirk hated sickbay and he knew that Spock, in his quiet, understated way, did, too. Sickbay exposed weaknesses and subjected patients to humiliating indignities, although McCoy would hotly argue that he was saving lives. That was true, but often at the expense of dignity.

The narrow bed, with rails up on both sides, cradled an ominously still figure draped loosely by a white sheet. Tubes trailed from beneath the bedding, and machines hummed quietly on either side, so close to the biobed that there was barely room for Kirk as he moved up and stared down at the Vulcan. His favorite Vulcan.

Though Spock had been positioned on his back, his head was turned to the right to expose the dressing that draped in a crescent arc around his left ear. Disturbingly, almost a quarter of his head had been shaved, and Kirk didn’t want to remember why that had been necessary. McCoy had already reported they’d been in surgery for seven hours the day before. Touch and go, he’d said. Not a good prognosis, he’d said.

Spock’s alabaster arms rested over the sheet, straight at his sides, disturbingly like a corpse’s. White on white: pure, undefiled skin over the sickbay antiseptic covering.

For almost two days on the planet below Kirk had done what he’d had to do to help resolve the impossible situation on Nobel, in which Starfleet shouldn’t be involved at all, in his opinion. He hadn’t joined the ’fleet to fight police actions that interfered in a planet’s sovereignty, but he did know how to follow orders. His opinions he kept to himself. Instead he’d fought, he’d coordinated, he’d negotiated, he’d eventually led a group that stormed a small house on the outskirts of town, where they’d recovered four of the five Cabinet ministers who’d been held hostage by the rebels. The rescue hadn’t ended the conflict, far from it, and the skirmishes continued even if a rudimentary government was back in position. There’d been no place for weakness or emotion or sentiment in any of his actions, and so he’d allowed none of it to exist.

But now, in his own ship’s sickbay, he could permit all parts of himself to be. He stared down at his friend’s pale, still face, and for a moment he wasn’t strong at all, he was just a man with a secret, helpless love that gnawed him from the inside. It hurt. Damn, it hurt. Spock.

He hovered at the very top of a tidal wave of feeling—helplessness, despair, anger—and he knew that with very little effort he could slide down that wave, tumble in it, succumb to it, drown in it. He choked, imagining what it might be like, facing the moment when—but no. He wouldn’t face it. No. No

With an effort, he straightened, and while gripping the bedrail, he could control again.

Kirk reached over the cold metal railing and carefully rested his hand on the slightly curled fingers. Spock’s hand was warm to the touch, the outline of bone hard against soft skin. He’d known that’s how it would feel, if their hands ever touched for any other reason but duty.

"Any change?" he asked softly, his eyes roaming the masculine face: the whisper of short eyelashes, the arch of brow, the slightly parted lips he had never kissed and never would.

"Nothing good."

He glanced up at his CMO but kept his hand on Spock’s. "Tell me."

McCoy sighed wearily. "Like I said in the report I sent down to you, the fracture is repaired; we took a bone graft from his hip for the replacement, did some recombinant juggling, and it worked just fine. I stopped the bleeding as best I could, cleaned up the mess that had blown into his…well, I cleaned it all up."

"That sounds good."

"I thought it was! I thought there was a good chance that he’d go spontaneously into the healing trance, that res’sanin thing he’s done before, that he’d be up and giving me the eyebrow in a day or two. With you or me, with surgery like that, it’d be a few weeks at least before we’re up and about, but with Vulcans, and the control they have over their bodies and minds, it’s possible he could have healed even all that damage in almost no time."

"But?"

McCoy moved up to the other side of the bed and looked down at the motionless figure between them. Frustrated, he said, "There must be more damage than is obvious. I don’t know what’s keeping him from the res’sanin, it’s a natural reflex for them to initiate the trance when there’s trauma this extensive. Something must have been fundamentally damaged."

Kirk swallowed hard, the tidal wave was threatening again. "Damaged? As in brain damage? Spock?"

The physician ran a restless hand through his hair. "I don’t know! Yes, I think it’s possible. Maybe—likely."

"Irreversible? If he regained consciousness, would…." Kirk couldn’t even finish the sentence, didn’t know how to find the words.

McCoy’s shoulders slumped. "I just don’t know enough to say. There’ve been four spontaneous hemorrhages in just the past twelve hours. I don’t know where they’re coming from, I don’t know why they’re occurring, and each one has been worse than the one before. The edema’s getting critical. There’s just so much the VCS can do," he glanced down at an instrument on one of the tables, "and then it’s got to be more open surgery. And with the hemorrhaging, that will likely kill him."

"I thought just beaming would kill him," Kirk said quietly. "And you, too. So we’ve beaten the odds once already. You’re a good surgeon, Bones, and nobody knows—"

But McCoy was shaking his head. "Not this time. I just don’t know enough about the Vulcan brain. I can’t fix what I don’t even understand."

"No doctor knows Spock the way you do," Kirk began, but McCoy cut him off again.

"I might be an expert on his damned hybrid physiology, but his brain is almost purely Vulcan. It would be like expecting Scotty to operate on him."

"But…." With an effort Kirk bit down on the emotion coloring his voice. "What do you propose to do?"

McCoy worried his lower lip. "Stasis is out of the question. Vulcans don’t do well in it, period. I was thinking an emergency medical shuttle, get a Starfleet healer here and then transport them both to a starbase with a Vulcan staff, but his condition is so unstable, I’m not sure we’ve got the time. But it’s our only option."

"Bones," Kirk objected, "Nobel is at the far end of Federation space. Do you know how long it will take an EMS to get here?"

"Yeah, I had your bridge crew check for me just an hour ago, after the last hemorrhage. Four and a half days from ’base Twenty-eight."

"Does he have that long?"

"I don’t know. But we’ve got to try."

Kirk lifted his hand from Spock’s, gripped the rail with tight fingers, looked straight into his CMO’s craggy face. He tried not to sound accusing. "That’s not a good option."

Adamantly, McCoy shook his head. "There’s nothing else we can do. I don’t have the knowledge to operate, but if Spock can just hold on, a healer might be able to diagnose what’s wrong and then do something about it."

"If he can hold on. A healer might be able to help him. Not good enough, McCoy." Kirk was conscious of his temper flaring, knew he was taking out his emotions on the physician who was trying desperately to save Spock’s life, but he couldn’t stop his words or tone.

"Come up with something better!" McCoy punched the air with one clenched fist.

"You’re the doctor, I don’t know the options!"

"I’ve just given them to you. Unless you can materialize a healer out of thin air, we’ve got to put that call in to Twenty-eight."

Kirk stared at McCoy, noted the deep lines etched under the physician’s eyes, the pallor that almost matched his patient’s. If time really had run out for Spock, it wouldn’t be McCoy’s fault.

Kirk nodded once. "All right. I’ll do it."

"Do it? Do what?"

"I’ll find another healer. In the meantime, you put in the call for the EMS." He turned to go.

"Jim," McCoy spoke behind his back. "This is the hind end of space. You’re not going to find anyone closer."

Kirk pivoted, backed through the door. "I’ve got to try, don’t I?"

***************

Two days into his leave on Starbase Sixteen, Kirk had been quietly sitting on a park bench, watching an old man feed squirrels and feeling the weight of an uncaring universe, when his communicator beeped.

He’d answered it without spirit and been surprised when it was Spock who responded. Spock had declined shore leave, had declined the chance to spend time with his captain. Kirk had understood. There had been a deadline, Spock had carefully explained. A rewrite of a journal article on the modified Anderson vaccine for the top publication in the field, and he had only three days to accomplish it. Shore leave, unfortunately, was out of the question.

Then why, Kirk wondered, had Spock called? Against the hard wooden slats of the bench, his spine straightened. Was something wrong with the ship?

All systems were normal, his second-in-command reported. However, Spock wondered if the captain was available for dinner.

Any opportunity to share time with his exec was welcomed by Kirk, though he was puzzled by the offer, so rare for Spock to initiate. Was the article completed so soon?

A slight hesitation. No, his honest Vulcan replied, but there is no need for me to focus on it exclusively.

Then come on down, Kirk said.

Five minutes later Spock materialized twenty feet in front of him, scaring off a small flock of cooing birds. He walked over to the bench and quietly sat down next to his captain.

Kirk didn’t say a word. He tilted his head back and regarded the azure sky. Thought about friendship and how easily it could slip away. He was glad Spock was with him.

After a while the pigeons resettled, the squirrels came down from the trees, and the old man who had been curiously regarding them walked away.

"You didn’t have to come," Kirk said, addressing the wispy clouds.

"I wished to do so."

"How did you find out? I thought you were working on your paper."

"The daily dispatch contained news of Commander Areel Shaw’s death. She was well known among her peers."

Kirk finally looked at him. "I didn’t even know she was sick. Why didn’t she tell me?"

"To spare you pain. Perhaps she harbored the illusion that she would recover."

"No one recovers from Peterson’s disease." He ran his hand over his face, then stared at the dirt between his feet. "I got a letter from her sister. Communications sent it down to me an hour ago."

"I grieve with thee." The words could have been uttered over the communicator, or they could have been rote, without meaning. But instead Spock was here with him, offering his presence, meaning what he said.

Kirk looked up, turned to face his friend with one knee propped on the bench. He looked into Spock’s eyes. For once he didn’t ask himself what he saw, if any trace of his own emotions was reflected there, whether the word "love" could define what was between the two of them. It was enough to know that Spock cared, was here with him.

"Come on," he said, and he stood abruptly because he couldn’t afford to drown in Spock’s steadfast gaze a minute longer, not while his bruised heart trembled with emotion. What he wouldn’t give for a hug, some physical contact to tell him the universe did indeed have some purpose. But not today.

"Do you happen to know a good restaurant nearby?" he queried in a normal tone.

Spock nodded towards the park entrance. "One-half kilometer in that direction."

Kirk offered a small smile that was nevertheless genuine. "I knew you’d research it before you even called me."

A brow quirked. "But of course. It was efficient to do so."

They walked in companionable silence across the grass, and it wasn’t until they reached the iron gates that Kirk said, "Thanks for coming. She was a good friend."

"They are difficult to find."

They turned onto the sidewalk. "I know."

***************

An hour after his visit to sickbay, Kirk strode briskly from his own cabin. He’d showered, shaved, composed a report for Starfleet Command while eating the turkey sandwich and fruit salad his yeoman had brought him, and consulted with Scotty. Though the bridge beckoned to him, he knew that was an emotional need that didn’t require fulfillment. He had good people who could be trusted. Sleep was more important.

But first, he had a small task to perform.

The first officer’s quarters were also on deck five, but around the curve of the disk on the opposite side of the ship. In case of an incident that violated the integrity of the hull, that made it less likely that both senior officers would be lost in an accident or attack.

Kirk palmed the lock—knowing a melancholy pride that it had been keyed to his print not just because he was the captain, but because he was Spock’s friend—the door opened, and he stepped in.

He would not spend long there, he had already decided. What comfort could he derive from being among Spock’s belongings when Spock himself fought for his life three decks below? As his friend would say, such an action would be illogical. Kirk walked briskly through the militarily-correct, neat confines of the office.

He paused at the dividing grillwork for just a moment to take in the red hangings, the ancient and deadly weapons displayed. The faintest trace of Vulcan flavored the air, a remnant from the last time Spock had burned incense in the Watcher’s bulging belly. The bed was neatly made with its ugly orange-red coverlet that Spock claimed was handsome; undoubtedly it reminded him of home.

Home: Vulcan. Kirk did not like Spock’s home planet. Any amateur psychologist would understand his antipathy towards the red sands where he’d almost lost his life at Spock’s hands, but Kirk’s dislike had been born before T’Pring’s mind had ever called her bondmate-to-be home. Vulcan had rejected Spock, did not value him. Apparently, the rigid rules laid down by Surak did not allow for deviation too far from the norm. The people of the blazing sun espoused Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations, but only among the other members of the Federation—not among their own kind. Vulcans, especially the highly visible offspring of prominent citizens, must be Surak’s kind of Vulcan.

And yet, Spock was a son of his planet. How could Kirk not see value in that which had produced what he loved?

He shook his head. He was too tired to even think straight. Best to get what he needed and then succumb to sleep.

The first officer’s safe was tucked in a corner behind the desk. Kirk opened it and pulled out the command packet. If Spock was going to be incapacitated for a while—he refused to think beyond that—then the essential codes to operate the ship had to be passed on to Scotty. This was the fourth time in the four years he’d been on the Enterprise that he’d had to perform this duty. It was never easy.

Before he could leave, the distinctive intercom whistle for the captain sounded. With the packet tucked under one arm, Kirk punched the button on his first officer’s compulsively neat desk.

"Kirk here."

"Captain," Uhura’s voice sounded, "I might have found what we’re looking for."

Sudden weight lifted from his shoulders. "Penda. Thank God. I knew you would do it." He eased into the chair, keyed the command for visual, addressed the image of his top communications officer on the screen. Penda was wearing some sort of flowing purple tunic; she’d been off-duty when he’d contacted her forty-five minutes previously. "Tell me."

"There’s a healer named S’cahli on Shannon’s World. It’s not a Federation member, but it is just thirty-six hours away at warp four. But there are complications."

"What are they? Whatever they are, let’s solve them."

"For one thing, how do we get him here? I know you wouldn’t divert one of the shuttles, we’re in the middle of a military operation."

"Hire a transport," Kirk said promptly.

"Do you know how expensive civilian transport is?" she queried. "I checked. A warp shuttle that’s fast enough will cost us forty thousand credits for a week. That’s more than we have in the ship’s discretionary budget."

Kirk looked down at the desk surface, thinking. "Hold on a minute." He split the screen, said, "Computer, display Kirk funds." Numbers flashed, but he was only interested in the total displayed at the bottom.

"Access this account. Computer, relay code for Kirk funds."

Uhura didn’t look surprised, but she did object. "Sir, you can’t do that! What if ’fleet doesn’t reimburse? Especially since they’re sending an EMS from Twenty-eight. They’ll argue duplication of effort. It will wipe you out."

He didn’t have time or energy. "Penda, it’s for Spock."

The comm officer wanted to argue with him. "The other officers, sir, we’d all be happy to contrib—"

"Fine," Kirk cut in, "we can settle the details later. I don’t care how the healer gets here or who helps pay for it, I just want him here."

"That’s the second half of our problem, Captain. S’cahli isn’t very enthusiastic about making the trip."

"What? He’s a healer, isn’t he? Did you tell him about Spock’s condition? Maybe we should relay the records, then—"

"Already done, sir, and they didn’t seem to make much of an impression."

"Get in touch with him," Kirk demanded, suddenly full of energy. "I’ll talk to him."

"I knew you’d want to," Uhura said demurely. "I have him waiting. Good luck, Captain."

Her image dissolved and another one took its place. The reception was imperfect, blurred and flecked with static, but the resolution was good enough to pick out gross details. Kirk examined a surprisingly young man with luxuriant brown hair flowing over his shoulders; his head was down as he apparently was reading something while waiting.

"Healer S’cahli?"

Another ten seconds passed before the healer raised his eyes to establish contact. His features were delicate, almost feminine. "To whom am I speaking?" he asked levelly.

"James T. Kirk, captain of the USS Enterprise. I understand my communications officer has explained our problem to you?"

The man nodded slowly. "Yes."

"We can hire a transport to bring you to Nobel; we’re in orbit around the planet."

"But we have not discussed my fee."

For a moment Kirk was taken aback. He’d served in the military all his adult life, and there wasn’t much he’d had to pay for himself except when he was on shore leave. But he should have considered that. For this, he would have to depend on Uhura’s offer, the assumed generosity of the other officers, or a loan. Kirk didn’t have anything left to give.

"What would you charge?"

"I have been contemplating that subject. I have no desire to leave this planet. The community of Vulcans here, of which I am a member, is small, but we are attempting to follow in the ways of Surak as he originally taught. The effort requires peace and lack of interaction with other, more volatile beings. If I go to examine your first officer, I will be subjected to influences that will neutralize some of the progress I personally have made. Therefore, I am not certain there is any figure you could name that would be worth more to me than what I am hoping to achieve here."

Faced with the calm voice and steadfast figure on the screen mouthing words while Spock was dying, Kirk thought furiously. Vulcans as a whole placed much emphasis on the community. "Your group, you must have material needs. Whatever you make helping us could be contributed to the well-being of all."

"I have considered that," S’cahli said. "Funds to purchase new drilling and pumping equipment would be welcome. We will require a new well shortly."

"Then you can donate—"

The healer raised a small hand. "Peace, Captain Kirk. Do not be hasty. There is also the question of leaving my own people without my services while I tend to the needs of just one individual. The needs of one must not be raised above those of many."

"But…." The healer’s calm was infuriating, but he wasn’t emotionally involved, Kirk reminded himself. He didn’t know Spock, care about him, even care about the contributions Spock made to Starfleet, to the scientific community. What he cared about, it seemed, was his people’s way of life and philosophy.

Kirk took a deep breath. "Healer, I agree with you. The needs of the one cannot take precedence. However, did you know how Commander Spock came to be injured? A civil conflict is taking place on Nobel, primarily in its capital city, and many civilians have been injured during the bombings, even in hand-to-hand fighting. The transportation system has been damaged, and there aren’t enough medical personnel to help those who are in desperate need of medical care. These people aren’t Vulcan, but they are in need of your expertise. If you agree to take a warp shuttle to Nobel, once you’ve helped Commander Spock you could contribute on the planet. For as long or as short a time as you chose."

The Vulcan regarded him without blinking for a long moment. "That is a possibility."

"And," Kirk added, "five thousand credits for the equipment you need."

"Eight thousand," S’cahli said flatly.

"Eight thousand is acceptable," Kirk agreed. "Will you come?"

"Yes. However, my fee must not be contingent upon my success in healing your first officer."

A chill lifted the hair on the back of Kirk’s neck. "Do you think you can help him?" he asked bluntly.

"Unknown at this time. I will meld with him and diagnose his condition more accurately than your machines can. However, I tell you now that his condition is very serious. He may not survive."

Bones had already said it so many times that the words no longer shocked him. Kirk cast the healer a level glance. "I know you will do your best for him. That’s why we’ve asked you to come. He needs one of his own people to help him."

"Agreed. Where shall I go to board the shuttle?"

"I’ll turn you back to my communications officer. She’ll make the arrangements. Just one moment."

He keyed in Uhura and greeted her with a tired smile. "Got him, Penda, he’s waiting to get details on the trip. Would you—"

"All arranged, Captain," she warmly assured him. "I knew you’d do it."

Signing off left a bluish glow on the screen that slowly faded. Kirk looked around him, feeling drained and slightly disoriented. Had he just bargained for Spock’s life with mere credits? Had some strait-laced Vulcan from the back end of nowhere actually almost refused to help? Suddenly none of it seemed real.

Fatigue overcame him, and with a groan Kirk lowered his head to the desk, straight into his clasped hands, and massaged his temples. This wasn’t happening. Spock was whole and healthy, and any minute now he’d walk into his cabin. He’d ask with a raised brow what Kirk was doing, sitting there, and Kirk wouldn’t say: breathing in your essence, living in the same space you inhabit because I love you and want to share everything with you. Instead he’d laugh and walk over to Spock’s small collection of bound books—most of which were gifts from his captain—and say: I wanted to borrow a book.

He raised his head from his hands and regarded the shelf with a sharp pang that tightened his throat. Bones had said brain damage was possible. Even likely. If the healer were able to revive Spock, in what condition would he be? How damaged? Would he even be able to read? Would he recognize his shipmates…his captain?

No. He would not give in to these self-defeating thoughts. Kirk hauled himself to his feet and swayed. Negativism often accompanied fatigue, and he wouldn’t succumb to it. Time for bed.

Thirty-six hours to go.

***************

It was deep into ship’s night, and the lights even in sickbay had been turned low. Only Ensign Shah remained as a patient in the main ward while his leg graft healed. Medical technician Morten staffed the nurse’s station, and she acknowledged her captain with a nod as he made his silent way to the isolation room.

Thirty-six hours had come and gone, and the healer had not yet arrived. While Kirk had waited, manning the bridge and tending to his ship and crew, sending security details to the surface as needed—though he did so reluctantly—he had also counted the minutes and every imagined breath taken in sickbay. Then word had come from the capital city of Christi, where they had fought. The situation on Nobel had changed. The rebels had expressed a desire for negotiation. They still held hostages, more elected members of the government as well as civilians, and so the remaining cabinet members were willing to talk, especially if a cease-fire were a prerequisite. They had sent a message to the Enterprise: would Kirk attend to serve as official Federation observer?

Until the Federation crisis management team arrived, Kirk had no choice. He had very little knowledge of the political quagmire that had precipitated the conflict and would have to supplement his grasp of the military situation with a study of the planet’s recent history, but he agreed to return to Nobel and contribute what he could. That would be in another two hours. Even if S’cahli hadn’t arrived by then, the captain would have to leave.

The decontamination rays spread their fingers over him, and he found himself wishing Spock could be healed so easily. There’d been very little change in Spock’s condition over the past day, and McCoy considered the cessation of the spontaneous bleeding a positive sign; the edema hovered just this side of critical. But as Kirk entered the overheated room, he was still shocked at the sight of the motionless figure on the bed. So different from Spock’s controlled vitality. There was always so much life in his eyes, so much curiosity, so much muted grace in his limbs.

Kirk nodded at the nurse on duty. "I’ll take over for a while," he said. "Go take a break. About an hour or two." And though Holmstrom looked at him doubtfully, she obeyed a direct order from her captain and left. Kirk had no doubt that she would call McCoy to get authorization, and equally no doubt that the CMO would allow this deviation in routine. McCoy had no idea of the flavor of Kirk’s feelings for his first officer, but their intense friendship had been apparent for anyone to see. He would understand Kirk’s need.

The captain pulled the chair in which the nurse had been sitting to the other side of the bed so that he would be better able to see Spock’s face, and then he placed the portable viewer with the files on Nobel’s political woes on it. He’d decided he could study the words anywhere; sickbay was where he wanted to be, and where his duties finally allowed him to go. Then he straightened and took the three steps to where he belonged, standing next to the biobed, caressing the closed, expressionless features with his gaze.

"Hello, First Officer," he whispered.

There was no response even though he searched the sharply masculine features for one. Nothing, just slow, even breathing. No flickering eyelids, no movement of a finger or twitch of a muscle signaling any awareness at all. Where was Spock? Lost in what combination of damaged synapses? Drowned in dreams of life with his prospective bondmate on Vulcan? Even that would be better than no awareness at all.

He leaned down on the bedrail with both forearms, getting as close to Spock as he could, and without realizing it, he matched his breathing to the one who was so lost to him. Lost in so many ways. His thoughts dizzied him: the shadowy image of a Vulcan woman, Bones’ bravery in beaming back to the ship with Spock—I haven’t even thanked him—all his hopes riding on the skills of one unknown healer. S’cahli.

"He’ll help you," Kirk breathed. "He’ll be here soon. Hold on." Maybe somewhere there was a part of Spock that was listening, that would be encouraged by the sound of his captain’s voice. Stranger things had happened to patients in coma, and no one really knew the full capabilities of the Vulcan mind. Of Spock’s mind. That beautiful, dazzling mind he’d been privileged to share in their few melds, that he’d fantasized about joining in the most profound manner, in the way of bonded lovers.

He would never touch that mind in intimacy, he knew that, but suddenly it became impossible not to touch some part of his friend who might even now be slipping away from him. So Kirk allowed himself something he’d never done before. He reached forward over the rail and threaded his fingers through the fringe of Spock’s bangs, slowly, taking his time to slip the texture of the strands against his fingers, to slide his fingertips against the heated skin.

He shuddered. Too much. Not enough. Not ever enough unless he could have it all. All of Spock.

Shaking, Kirk withdrew his hand. Even now, even here, he couldn’t say what he wanted to say, couldn’t afford to have any of his words misinterpreted, if—when—Spock regained consciousness. Couldn’t say: Come back to me. Couldn’t say: I love you. Couldn’t say: I am afraid to think of my pain if I lose you.

Air was hard to draw into his lungs, composure even more difficult to find, but within a minute he had control of himself again. There was nothing he could do to help, so undoubtedly his presence here was illogical except in terms of one human’s emotional needs. Much better to turn to his study of the planet Nobel; he was sure he could hear Spock’s voice in his head telling him exactly that.

For more than an hour Kirk concentrated on his duty, indulging his heart by getting up and checking on Spock every fifteen minutes or so. The minutes ticked down to when he’d have to leave, and it was just as he was rising, with some vague thought of touching Spock again before he left, that the unmistakable sound of the decontamination rays activating came from the door.

Kirk’s heart skipped a beat as all his hope surged into his chest. It was a fresh-faced McCoy, emerged from eight hours of sleep, and a short, slightly-built figure dressed in rumpled, dull gray Vulcan traveling clothes. S’cahli at last.

The healer trailed McCoy into the room; he seemed distracted and did not acknowledge McCoy’s introduction and Kirk’s greeting. The Vulcan stepped to the foot of the bed and surveyed the equipment that clustered around it, then he bent his head over the glowing digital displays. He spared not a glance for his patient.

Kirk exchanged glances with the doctor but they both remained silent. He took the opportunity of examining the being on whom he was depending so heavily. S’cahli was not very imposing physically. He seemed frail, with thin wrists protruding from the too-short sleeves of his tunic and jacket. He couldn’t have come up to Kirk’s chin, and he appeared more like a Vulcan youth than a mature man. Could he have the knowledge they’d need? Uneasily, Kirk wondered if they would, after all, have to wait for the Starfleet Emergency Medical Shuttle which at the least would bring an experienced Vulcan healer from the elite Starfleet active-duty medical corps. Kirk switched his gaze to the figure on the bed. Spock might not have that long, probably didn’t; it had to be S’cahli.

He looked back to the healer, irritation growing. Wasn’t he at least going to look at the one who needed him so desperately? Much less examine him.

Suddenly S’cahli straightened and gazed directly into Kirk’s eyes. In that moment Kirk had the uncomfortable feeling he’d been examined and thoroughly understood, his impatient thoughts exposed. Encountered face to face, the healer didn’t seem young at all. His eyes, a light gray with a hint of blue, were wise beyond his years, infinitely sad and infinitely aloof. It was as if S’cahli had seen the future, his own death, and did not care. Kirk drew in a deep, troubled breath. He did not want to expose Spock’s gentle spirit to this hardened soul grown old before its time.

S’cahli held up a hand, palm out, in the face of Kirk’s audible distress. "Moderate the intensity of your emotion. It is painful to me."

Kirk blinked, suddenly realizing how sudden his appraisal had been and on what little evidence it was based. This was the man who must help Spock; Kirk’s own negative impressions, or undermining the healer’s control or confidence, could only hurt.

"I ask forgiveness," he murmured, not realizing until the words were out of his mouth that he spoke in the traditional Vulcan way.

McCoy looked at him sharply, but S’cahli said mildly, "Forgiveness is easy to extend; control on your part will be more difficult. You must not be here when I examine the subject."

"The subject’s name is Spock," McCoy said pointedly.

"So I am aware, Doctor McCoy. Spock Xtmprsqzntwlfb, the half-breed son of the prominent politician Sarek and the human whom he has taken as his wife. I do not know her name."

"It doesn’t matter," Kirk put in aggressively. "Why shouldn’t I be here when you meld with Spock? I’m his captain."

"No human may be here when I perform the healer’s arts," S’cahli said flatly.

"I’m afraid I’ll have to be a witness," McCoy insisted, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Starfleet regulations require—"

"If you wish to follow your regulations and disrupt the process of diagnosis and possible repair with your too-apparent emotions, then you may do so. That is your choice. I had assumed, however, that you would prefer to optimize the benefits of my skills."

"Of course, we want the best you can do, but—"

Kirk caught McCoy’s elbow. The physician was like a bantam rooster prepared to fight. "Bones," he soothed. "Let it go. We can stretch the regs. God knows we have before."

But McCoy stubbornly thrust out his jaw and gestured towards the serenely standing healer. "Leave my patient in his hands? We don’t know anything about him! What these skills of his are, whether he’ll be able to help Spock, or whether he’ll end up making things worse."

"And may I ask, Doctor McCoy, what you would be able to do to detect the results of my actions? I am conversant with the technology that aids healing and have used it in the past, but this case requires the skills of the mind. I will meld with the subject, and you cannot follow me there."

"I can see vital signs as well as the next doctor," McCoy said stubbornly. "At least I can monitor those."

"You may do so from another room. I am sure your machines are capable of that."

McCoy threw a glance at Kirk that he couldn’t interpret. Why was the physician being so suspicious? It wasn’t like Bones to resent another medical expert on his turf.

"That’s how we’ll do it," Kirk decided. "When do we start?"

"Your use of the plural pronoun is inaccurate. ‘We’ do not start at all. I will initiate a diagnostic meld now." S’cahli shrugged out of his coat, draped it over the chair Kirk had been using, then pushed it away with a scrape against the deck. He flexed his fingers. "Please leave now. Do not be alarmed if this procedure takes two or more of your hours; there is much to examine and I must proceed with caution if I am to do no further harm."

"All right," Kirk said. "C’mon, Bones. You’ll need to set up your monitors."

He left without a backwards glance, unwilling to expose himself to the emotion that would bubble up if he looked at Spock one last time, not before these two witnesses. He was Spock’s concerned captain and loyal friend, and that was it. The best he could do was leave. Time to focus on Nobel and its problems. Bones, he was sure, would keep him fully informed.

The weather in the city of Christi on Nobel was foul. A northern cold front had blown in and firmly established itself as a harbinger of winter in the few days Kirk had been gone. A bitter wind blew, and rain occasionally poured from the steel gray clouds overhead. The weather matched his mood exactly. It had been fourteen hours since he’d heard any news from the Enterprise, and that had only been a tersely worded text message from McCoy: "S’cahli will attempt a healing meld soon. I’ll let you know results as soon as they’re available. Don’t fret, Jim, this might take a while."

Kirk’s breath puffed against the pane of glass, then he turned to survey the currently empty, low-ceilinged, darkly paneled negotiating room. One large table with seventeen chairs around it, eight for each side from Nobel, one for himself. An array of seats along the walls to accommodate the aides, the advisors, the essential toadies. Two days of hard work, and this was all he had been able to produce.

Over Kirk’s strong objections, the location of the forthcoming series of meetings was to be kept secret from the populace. Nor was there any provision made for the media. In his opinion, that was a bad decision; the more the negotiations were publicized, the safer all the participants would be.

At least, he considered as he walked along the line of neatly placed cherry-wood chairs, he’d been able to thwart the first suggestion for negotiating venue. Before he’d arrived, the government had almost agreed to the twenty-seventh floor in a high-rise in one of the bombed-out sections of the city, because of the historical significance of the site and the religious importance of the number twenty-seven in the officially-sanctioned state religion. Kirk had quietly pointed out the dangers in such a location; he could just imagine how easy it would be to stage a raid there, or to launch a missile exactly on target. Though the rebel faction was willing to come to the table and begin a discussion, the captain of the Enterprise had too much experience with splinter groups drunk on their own violence, who didn’t agree with talk and thought that force would be much more effective in promoting their goals. Kirk was a student of history, and he’d been pressed into service as a diplomat far too often. It would be impossible to be too careful in this situation.

So at his insistence, the talks had been moved to a suburb that had been relatively unaffected by the uprising and was far from the center of operations for either side, and at the extreme edge of the range for missile bombardment by the rebels. An unaligned church had donated use of its retreat center, and one long, low building on the outskirts of the grounds was perfect for the task. It was set amidst rolling hills and framed by a riot of low, dull gray bushes whose withered leaves rustled in the wind beneath the many windows, but to Kirk the view those windows provided was essential. Half a kilometer of open space surrounded the retreat hall on all sides; any attack or movement against those inside would be clearly visible.

Kirk shrugged on the utilitarian brown field jacket as he stepped outside and surveyed the gusty mid-afternoon weather. They’d have snow by nightfall if he was any judge, hard icy particles to beat against the windows as the negotiations continued around the clock. He nodded at the two planetary guards posted at the door—useless because they were unarmed at the insistence of both parties, but symbolic of mistrust—and set out one more time to double-check security precautions along the perimeter of the building. He’d operated as security consultant more than anything else since he’d arrived, something his own head of security could have done as well or better than he had. But at least the talks were finally about to begin, and working on Nobel had kept his mind from whatever might be happening in orbit overhead.

The first ground vehicle swung into the specially created parking lot a quarter kilometer away, and Kirk squinted to see which identifying mark was on the door. A squad of four—two regular government soldiers in sky blue uniforms, two representatives from the rebel movement clad in their typical brown and green—marched up to the car and started a scan. Two more vehicles pulled up; time for the talks to begin. Kirk cast another hard look skyward, as if anticipating another round of missiles. The rebels, the reasoning had gone, would not assault their own negotiating representatives, and the location was supposedly being kept secret. That was the official line, but Kirk did not agree. People fought for reasons, but they often got so caught up in the effort that reason no longer held sway.

A line of people began the walk to the retreat house. Kirk squared his shoulders and went forward to meet them.

Long ago Kirk had mastered the art of separating his personal concerns from his duty. A captain was not only the commander of his ship, he was a slave to it and to the crew and the Federation they all served. Neither his personal opinion of the merits of either side of the conflict nor his animosity against the rebels because of what they’d done to Spock could hold weight; his duty was to carry out his orders. And so he did. Kirk would have preferred to melt into the background, but it was quickly apparent that both sides considered him the de facto chair of the talks, and he was drawn willy-nilly into active participation. If he hadn’t started to control the flow of the discussion, there would have been no discussion at all, only acrimony. He nodded, smiled, frowned, agreed, disagreed, and attempted to steer a middle course that maintained the Federation’s basic neutrality in the internal conflicts of its members.

But as he gave almost all his concentration to the emotions and words that swirled about him, a small part of his attention was focused on the communicator hanging from his belt. It remained stubbornly silent.

The hours passed. The sun set and darkness crept across the green space, covering the retreat house with shadows. The two lamps that hung low over the long table glowed brightly. One woman from the government delegation called for a break for food and drink; Kirk summarily vetoed the suggestion and ordered aides to provide food at the table as the talks went on. If he was going to be spending his time on Nobel, away from his ship, away from his first officer, then by God he was going to spend his time intensely and successfully. When the Federation negotiating team finally arrived in five days, he wanted to present them with nothing left to do except the mopping up.

Past midnight it was obvious a break of some sort was needed. Thirty minutes, Kirk announced. He rose, stretched with his palms against the small of his back, and kept his eyes resolutely trained on the fine wood grain of the table as the delegates made their slow way from the room, so no one would be tempted to try to pull him into further discussion.

The only one left in the room, he wandered over to the view outside; from where he’d been sitting, it had been obscured by glare. With small satisfaction, the only satisfaction he’d been granted for many hours, he noted that he’d been right, and it had begun to snow. The part of his mind preoccupied with safety realized that tracks would be easy to follow now, but most of him simply surrendered to the faint swish-swish of the falling flakes, and to the hypnotic sight of the ground slowly turning from dark to ghostly pale white.

He must have been standing there for several minutes, lost in carefully frozen no-thought-at-all, when Lieutenant Shivé, his aide during the talks, approached from behind. He heard her footsteps and recognized the distinctive tapping of Starfleet boots, but he didn’t turn around.

"Sir?" she said, hesitantly.

"Yes, Lieutenant." Kirk followed the course of a snowflake on its journey—so high, highlighted by the outside spotlight, drifting down, down in a slow spiral, finally captured by the ground to merge with all its f