Chapter Text
“Captain!”
Jim hears the shout, then nothing. One second, he’s standing, and the next, he’s on his hands and knees in the dirt, ears ringing over the sound of frantic phaser blasts.
Someone nearby groans, “Oh, shit. Shit...shit...shit…”
He looks around, only to realize the voice is his own. Well, that’s probably not a good sign. Staggering to his feet and into formation, he fires on the attackers, but their trailing after-images make it difficult to aim, and none of his shots hit home.
“Bones!” he shouts, his voice still oddly far-away. “Need you over here.”
Spock glances Jim’s direction, and side-steps to bring his shoulder against his back, supporting him, then gestures to Uhura and the security officers to close ranks around him. McCoy sprints over behind the cover of Spock’s phaser-fire and ducks into the circle.
“Where’d you get hit?” he asks, as he eases Jim back to the ground, crouching next to him and pulling the medical tricorder from his belt.
“Head.”
“Lean forward,” he says, checking through Jim’s hair for bleeding, then scanning his head and neck. “Did you lose consciousness?”
“I- I don’t know…” Jim slurs. “Yeah, I think. For a second.”
“Okay, looks like--”
Jim never hears the end of McCoy’s sentence, because the vertigo builds up all at once, twisting his stomach, and he pitches forward and vomits into the dirt.
Things get really fuzzy from there, until he’s crouched on the edge of the transporter platform aboard the Enterprise, leaning heavily on the hazmat bucket tucked between his knees. As soon as the vomiting slows down enough to move him, McCoy and two nurses have him in a wheelchair, eyes closed against the dizzying way the corridors rush past on the way to medbay. He thinks, I need to get back to the bridge.
A few hours after the Captain’s injury, the situation on the ground is under control, the Enterprise on its way to Starbase 82, and, on the bridge, Spock is wrestling with indecision. A brief call to medbay would be more than sufficient to determine the Captain’s condition, and would be the best course of action considering the bridge is already short one senior officer. However, Lieutenant Sulu had proven himself a satisfactory commander on more than one occasion, and it was highly unlikely that any situation beyond the lieutenant’s capabilities would arise in the amount of time it would take Spock to personally check in on the Captain. The gesture had little practical purpose, but it would likely be appreciated nonetheless. In fact, it could prove better than calling down. If the Captain’s condition had indeed worsened, a call might distract Dr. McCoy from his duties, whereas going to medical in person would allow Spock to observe without interrupting if necessary. All things considered, going to medbay himself would be the reasonable choice.
“Lieutenant Sulu,” he says, standing decisively. “You have the conn.”
Medbay is quiet when Spock arrives. The Captain was the only one injured in the incident, aside from a few minor scrapes and bruises. Dr. McCoy is seated at his workstation, and the Captain on the edge of nearest biobed, bronze film over his eyes to dim the harsh lights.
“Spock, hey,” he says with a lopsided grin.
“Captain. I thought I might check on your condition in person.”
The Captain gives a shrug and what might be best described as a giggle. “It sucks!”
“You seem in unusually good spirits in spite of that.”
“Euphoria,” Dr. McCoy offers, turning in his chair. “Enjoy it while it lasts. After a day or so, the irritability’ll set in.”
“I take that to mean the injury was fairly severe?” Spock asks.
Pulling up one of the Captain’s scans, Dr. McCoy says, “Not as bad as it could’ve been, but look here,” he points to a small dark blotch toward the bottom of the image.
“A bleed?”
The doctor nods. “Yeah. So far, it’s stable. I’ve been doing a new set of scans every hour, and it hasn’t gotten any bigger, but that could change any time. With this type of injury, you can’t really tell how bad it is right away. I’m gonna keep him under observation for seventy-two hours, but even after that, he’ll have to be on bedrest.”
“Oh, bullshit,” the Captain pipes up. “I’ll be ready to get back to work tomorrow.”
The look on Dr. McCoy’s face seems somewhere between amusement and frustration. “Jim, I hate to break it to you, but you’re gonna be out of commission a lot longer than a day. You need cognitive rest, and you’re not going to get that staring at a bunch of screens and flashing lights all day. You know I don’t want this pointy bastard in the captain’s chair anymore than you do, but you can’t be on that bridge with this injury.”
“Although I fail to understand the need to insult me to make a point,” Spock says, “the doctor is correct. Until you are fully recovered, you cannot resume your usual activities without risk of further damage.”
The Captain laughs. “Okay, so what are you going to do? Confine me to quarters? For how long?”
“I don’t even want you on a starship,” says Dr. McCoy. “One little bout of turbulence, and you hit your head again? Do you know what secondary impact syndrome is? It could kill you.”
“Bones, you’re being paranoid--”
“He is not, Captain,” Spock cuts in. “Even a very mild second concussion before the first is healed would likely result in your death within minutes of impact. Should the ship be fired upon or encounter turbulent phenomena, the risk would be too great even if you were confined to quarters.”
“So what’s your solution, then?”
“I would suggest that you take medical leave on a Federation planet or Starbase at the earliest opportunity.”
“Perfect,” the Captain says, throwing himself back onto the biobed. Dr. McCoy cringes, but doesn’t comment. “You know, this feels really goddamn familiar, Spock. You marooning me all over again...And Bones! Would you look at that, you’re sitting by and just letting him do it. Just like old times.”
“Jim,” says Spock, surprising even himself with his use of the Captain’s given name, but the familiarity of it has the distinct advantage of disarming the Captain. “Your assumption that I wish to take command of this ship from you is in error. In fact, I would prefer that you relieve me as soon as possible. That cannot happen if you are dead, or if you prolong your recovery with inadequate rest.”
The Captain seems to consider Spock’s plea, then sighs. “How long?”
“Six weeks,” Dr. McCoy says.
A grave silence lingers between them for a few moments, until the Captain nods. “Okay,” he says. “I’m assuming you have a plan for where? You’re not just going to jettison me onto the nearest frozen wasteland and hope for the best again, right?”
“That would not be very conducive to your recovery,” says Spock, alarmed.
“It’s a-- never mind. Look, I’m...really tired,” the Captain says. His speech is suddenly slower and more slurred. It was likely that the conversation had taxed his mental endurance well beyond its current capacity. “How about you just figure out a place I can take my medical leave, and I won’t put up a fight as long as you let me sleep until we get there?”
“Agreed,” Spock nods. “In fact, your comparisons to the Delta Vega incident may already have presented a solution. I know of a nearby location that I think will be suitable and willing to host you in your recovery.”
The Captain chuckles to himself, an arm draped over his eyes. “Great,” he says. “Doesn’t sound ominous at all.”
“Commander,” Nyota says from her station. “Receiving a response to your earlier communication. Should I put it on the screen, or would you like to take it in private?”
Spock takes a moment to consider. The matter at hand isn’t particularly personal, so it’s unlikely he’d be uncomfortable if Spock took his call on the bridge, isn’t it? And it’s doubtful that the crew’s inclusion in the conversation would make him feel pressured into yielding to Spock’s request. A possibility nonetheless; however, the chance seems remote enough that it doesn’t justify Spock’s leaving the bridge for a second time in two hours. “On the screen, please, Lieutenant.”
Although he’s spoken to him on several occasions now, upon seeing his own face aged more than a century, Spock always feels a brief shock, no less potent now as the Ambassador appears on the ship’s main screen.
“Ambassador,” he says as the transmission clears. “As always, I am grateful for your time.”
“My apologies for the delay in returning your communication, Commander. What can I help you with?”
Spock takes a breath before replying, “A favor, Ambassador, if you are willing to accommodate it. Captain Kirk was injured this morning on a diplomatic mission to the Tellun system. A group of political dissenters attacked the landing party, and the Captain received a blow to the head from a blunt projectile. His condition is stable, but Dr McCoy recommends that he take medical leave as soon as possible. We were to return to Starbase 82, but even if we increase speed to Warp 8--”
“The journey will take 7.6 days,” the Ambassador finishes. “But diverting to New Vulcan would take only three days, more or less, depending on your present course and location.”
“Precisely, and I wondered if you might be able to arrange lodging and medical care. The Captain’s leave will last approximately six weeks. Of course, if it is too much of an imposition--”
“Not at all,” says the Ambassador. There’s something very odd about his tone, and Spock thinks -- with a momentary sinking feeling that he only just manages to suppress -- that he’s made the wrong decision. He should have contacted his father instead, or at least taken the Ambassador’s communication in private, where he might have been able to more easily decline. As it was, Spock had cornered the Ambassador and made a very inconvenient request with a bridge full of old friends weighing the situation against him. As if he can read the conflict in Spock’s face, he continues, more firmly, “Jim’s counterpart in my own time was more important to me than, I think, you can understand at this point in your life. If he doesn’t prefer something more private, I’d like to host him myself. To have him here while he recovers would be a most welcome reminder of that...importance.”
“You have our gratitude, Ambassador,” Spock says, feeling reassured, if still a little puzzled. “Dr. McCoy will prepare the Captain’s medical files to be transferred to the specialist there. Is there anything else we can do before we arrive?”
“No,” says the Ambassador. His expression changes into something indecipherable -- his lips pressed subtly thinner, his eyes glossy -- and when he speaks again, his voice is heavy with some hidden meaning that disturbs and confounds his younger counterpart. “Commander. Thank you.”
