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The faint tang of ozone. Sparks flying at the periphery of vision. Nerves, the very atoms of his body tingling as the transporter beams him back to his ship, his home, his Enterprise.
None of this is new. None of this should even register, for it is nothing they hadn't done a million times over. Yet, the body he held in his arms made him all too aware of the minutest disturbance. His senses were on fire, scanning and cataloguing every single scrape and bruise on the battered form draped across his arms, catching the tell-tale whiff of singed hair, skin and uniform, feeling every droplet of crimson blood drying on his hands. His precise time-sense was sharpened to the point that every millisecond of a delay set his teeth on edge.
Materialization was instantaneous, and yet it felt too slow. His mind was rushing at light-speed, the usually orderly and unforgivingly logical thought processes in tatters. All around him was a flurry of bodies as Doctor McCoy and his medical team surrounded him the moment he felt his feet touch the transporter pad. It was only when his arms were relieved of their burden that he dropped to his knees, all his jumbled thoughts converging to one damning realization. I could have been too late.
***
The Enterprise was finally out of orbit, leaving the disastrous Coruscea II in its wake as it hurtled through the depths of space towards its next destination. Despite being under no immediate threat, the atmosphere in the bridge was palpably tense: the empty science station was a grim reminder of what had just occurred in the seemingly idyllic planet that was now becoming harder and harder to spot on their view-screen. Spock resisted the urge to turn towards the comms station. What will happen will happen in due course. It is illogical to wish otherwise.
"Sickbay to Captain Spock, Dr. McCoy requests your presence immediately, sir."
Spock laid down the padd he was studying and rose from the captain’s chair. Uhura's message did little to abate the undercurrent of anxiety that had prevailed, despite all efforts to quell it, in his mind.
"Mr. Sulu, you have the conn," he intoned as he turned and strode towards the turbo-lift, glimpsing the concerned, yet vaguely hopeful faces of the bridge crew.
***
It has been 6.327 hours since our return. This is the longest that Dr. McCoy has ever treated Jim continuously following a planet-side incident. Statistically...
His chain of thought was broken by the sight of McCoy wielding a medical tricorder, muttering wearily under his breath over the insistent humming of the sickbay med-scanners. He quickly studied the overhead displays. Elevated body temperature. Normal blood pressure. The quick pulse of the heart monitor, soothing him with its life-affirming steadiness.
It wasn't too late, then.
"....don't know what he's thinking, coming back in a million pieces and expecting me to stitch him back up every damn time, and still he doesn't...well, if it isn't Captain Charming." McCoy stopped and glared at Spock, as if his patient's persistent stubbornness was directly the captain's fault. Spock closed the distance to the bed in three hasty strides, barely glancing at the doctor.
Jim!
Kirk lay unconscious, his face scrunched in an expression of distress. The extent of the damage that had been dealt by the Coruscean laser-rifles was on full display. His uncovered torso was swathed in bandages, with angry bruises mottled in red-purple along his ribs and shoulders. Myriad cuts and scrapes were scattered along his arms. McCoy was attending these with a dermal regenerator, keeping up a reproachful tirade that belied his concern for his friend and commanding officer.
Spock paid no heed to the good doctor's griping and assessed the unconscious figure lying in front of him. Kirk’s pale face bore no signs of his recent brush with death, having already been tended to by the regenerator. The pain reflected in his face, so much in contrast to the joy and liveliness that radiated from his usually flushed cheeks, tugged at Spock’s heart, letting free the fierce protectiveness, the overwhelming concern and affection he had barely reigned in before assuming command upon return to his ship.
Despite his incessant jibes claiming to the contrary, McCoy knew well that his commander was not the logical, unemotional Vulcan he strived to be. The captain wore his usual stoic face, but his eyes, softened with the altogether too human emotion that he so stringently suppressed, betrayed him. The doctor's expression mellowed in response.
"He's going to be alright, Spock. God knows how he does it, but he always gets through, though this one was as close a call as it gets."
"Indeed, doctor. He does have a remarkable propensity for surviving against all odds."
Spock did not, could not, break his gaze from the broken body of his friend, his loyal first officer. Theirs was a life of risk, and they had both escaped the jaws of death by a hairsbreadth one too many times in the past. And yet, the sheer soul-numbing terror of losing Jim Kirk never lessened by a fraction. It was not logical. But what aspect of his attachment to this frail human was logical? His friend, his soul-brother, his...
His fingers itched with a sudden, overwhelming need to touch his t'hy’la's face, to caress away the distress of the past few hours that was apparent in his delicate features. Kirk’s golden hair was in disarray, singed and dirtied by the cursed explosion that had very nearly ended his life. Spock wished to remain at his side indefinitely and soothe him – his body, with a tender caress, and his mind, with the lightest of melds. His hand began to move of its own accord when he quickly realized his slip in control and snatched it back discreetly.
The aborted gesture did not get past the keen eyes of the ship's CMO.
"Oh by all means, go ahead, Spock. I know all about your illogical concern for Jim here and it's about damn time you made an honest man out of him," he remarked wryly, shooting a sly grin at his commanding officer as he put away the tricorder.
Spock's eyes hardened, his expression snapping back to that of the stoic Vulcan captain.
"I recommend you devote your ostensible medical expertise towards healing Lt. Kirk instead of providing unsolicited advice, doctor," he intoned and levelled a cool glare at McCoy.
"What do you think I've been doing for the past six hours, Captain? It's a miracle this kid is still in one piece," the doctor snapped back, secretly relishing Spock's obviously emotional response.
Spock hesitated for the minutest fraction of a second to clear his thoughts.
"You have performed remarkably, doctor. I trust you will keep me informed of any change in his status. I must return to the bridge." With one final glance at his first, Spock exited sickbay, leaving behind a bemused McCoy hovering over his friend.
***
Captain’s log, personal. It has been 6.23 days since Coruscea II. My first officer is no longer in critical condition, although he is yet to regain consciousness.
It had become a routine of sorts. Prior to the start of Alpha shift, Spock would head directly to sickbay, obtain a report, interspersed with McCoy’s colourful remarks and feigned irritation, on Kirk’s condition, watch over his first briefly, and leave for the bridge. Once the shift ended, he devoted the few precious hours he normally reserved for chess or a quiet meal with his first officer to meditation, seeking to stabilize himself after the ordeal at Coruscea II.
Now that the immediate danger to Kirk’s life was past, he was able to quell the overpowering guilt and concern that had very nearly crippled him upon return from the doomed planet.
The desire to reach out and comfort his first, however, still burned.
He found his concentration waning, his mind turning inexorably towards James Kirk. The bright smile that greeted him on the bridge every morning. The flush that stained his cheeks every time Spock returned his smile with a subtle Vulcan equivalent that only Jim could discern. The barely contained enthusiasm with which he discussed everything that caught his interest. The shy glances across a chess board. The quiet bravery and selflessness that showed through in his actions, and had nearly destroyed him, the fire of his soul dwindling as he hung limply, bloody and bruised, in Spock’s arms…
His concentration was shattered, and neither the calming scent of the Vulcan incense pervading his quarters nor his redoubled efforts could restore his inner peace. He decided to forego meditation entirely.
***
Spock left his quarters with the intention of heading towards the observation deck. Failing meditation, he hoped the dim, cool solitude of the deck, bathed only in the glow of an endless star field, the one constant in their unpredictable lives, would soothe his mind. He was surprised, therefore, when he found himself moving towards sickbay instead.
The desk at the entrance was unoccupied, and there was a certain calm pervading the usually frantic atmosphere of the sickbay. All casualties of the Coruscea II incident barring Kirk had sustained only minor injuries and had been released from medical one or two days afterwards. Even Kirk’s condition had been steadily improving. All but the most serious damage to his lungs had healed, and the masses of bandage that had covered him from the waist up was reduced to a few small plasters on his ribcage.
“Spock! I didn’t expect to see you this late in the day,” exclaimed Dr. McCoy upon spotting the captain at the entrance to the sickbay’s inner chamber. He was standing next to Kirk’s bed, intently monitoring his patient with a tricorder.
“Nor I you, doctor. I was under the impression that Dr. M’Benga was assigned Beta shift duties.”
Spock walked over to the bed and stood opposite the doctor. Kirk lay between them, still oblivious to the world in deep slumber.
“Has there been a significant change in Lt. Kirk’s condition?” As he was directing the query, Spock noted the marked improvement in Kirk’s vitals compared to that morning. Even his face, in its peaceful, almost content repose, reflected a turn for the better.
“Well, ever since Jim boy landed himself here, I’ve been monitoring his condition on and off through all shifts. And yes, he’s been showing steadily improving mental activity. I think he’ll come around quite soon, and dammit, it’s been too long already.”
McCoy turned off his tricorder. He picked up a padd lying on the bed and began recording his observations. For a while, nothing but the ever-present pulse of the overhead med-scanners broke the silence. Spock watched the various dials bounce back and forth along red, yellow, green meters, all hovering mercifully in the healthy greens. The motion, accompanied by the steady throbbing of the heart-rate monitor, was almost hypnotic.
Catching a thin whimper, barely audible even to his sharp Vulcan ears, Spock snapped his attention back to the frail form of his first officer. Kirk twisted slightly in his bed, head jerking from side to side and face scrunched up in distress. McCoy retrieved his tricorder and ran it over his patient, softly calling his name.
“Jim! Jim! Wake up!”
Kirk stilled, and slowly began to open his eyes. He blinked a few times dazedly, and looked about with an unfocused gaze, as if attempting to regain his bearings. His eyes flew wide open when he recognized the lithe frame standing next to him, dark eyes rapt with attention.
“Captain! Ca…Captain Spock!
He leaned on his elbows and attempted to sit up, and cried out sharply as pain erupted between his ribs.
“Easy there, Jim. You’ve had a bit of a rough tumble,” McCoy smiled affectionately at his friend, caught him around the arms and leant him carefully against the pillows.
“Bones!” exclaimed Jim, having just noticed the presence of his long-time friend. “But I….I…” he faltered and turned gingerly towards his commanding officer.
“Captain! I thought I’d… I thought… down there on Coruscea... the explosion…”
He found himself looking into Spock’s deep brown eyes, warm with hidden emotion belied by the stern set of his Vulcan features.
“Not logical, lieutenant. You were never alone.”
Spock’s eyes mellowed, and the corners of his mouth turned up the slightest fraction in a Vulcan not-smile. His relief and joy was evident even to one not as well-versed in the subtlety of the captain’s expressions as Kirk.
Kirk reached out with his hand and caught Spock’s arm in a firm grip, relishing the captain’s warmth. His face lit up with a bright smile, and he looked even younger and more carefree than he usually appeared.
Perhaps it was the sudden euphoria of being safely alive, or the heady sensation caused by the strength of McCoy’s pain-reducing hyposprays. Whatever it was, it compelled Kirk into doing something he had never dared to do before.
With the hand on Spock’s arm, Kirk gently pulled himself forward and pressed himself into the captain’s chest, arms encircling Spock’s waist in a tight hug.
“Oh…” Kirk nuzzled further into the embrace, his smile spreading, his expression one of pure bliss.
Spock was left dazed and breathless, his eyebrows shooting up in a bemused, if not entirely displeased, expression. Dr. McCoy’s grin widened. Even he was caught off-guard by Kirk’s complete disregard of the Vulcan’s stringent non-contact policy. A policy which was never quite so stringent with regard to Kirk, thought McCoy with amusement. Nevertheless.
“Jim...” uttered Spock, his voice low and deep with something akin to tenderness. He awkwardly folded his arms around Kirk’s shoulders, one hand resting lightly at the back of Jim’s head. He felt his fingers burn with the need to stroke Kirk’s golden hair, to pull him back and gaze into those warm, hazel eyes, to feel the pulse thrumming at the base of his neck. But now was not the time.
Instead, he simply stood there, motionless, content to feel the warmth of his t’hy’la in his arms.
Maybe that time would come. He was optimistic.