In Bones’s view, it was a good thing Jim Kirk was pretty, because it allowed him to get away with so much.  Right now, it allowed him to walk onto the bridge despite the fact he should be in bed for at least another week, because he’d wheedled permission out of Bones with a few pleas, a few stolen kisses, and – though Jim would deny it – batted eyelashes.

Jim made his way down the corridors of the Enterprise with a small limp, favoring his right side, the side the Artraxians had done most of their parting handiwork upon.  Bones knew he was in much more pain than he was showing, the bastard was like that, but also knew he thought he needed to show his face after being away from the bridge for one week.

Just beyond the automatic sensors that would open the doors, Jim stopped.  He bent slightly at the waist and took a deep, shuddering breath.  Bones moved parallel to him, but didn’t touch him.

“I’m fine,” Jim growled, though Bones had said nothing.  Bones crossed his arms, a hypospray full of sedative in one hand.  “Just need to rest a minute.”

“You need to be in bed,” Bones answered, noting the paleness of Jim’s skin.  He was still recovering from severe blood loss, despite the transfusions he’d had.

Jim looked up at him through those eyelashes that might have been feminine on any other face.  The look in his eye was wicked.  “Alone?”

“You’re incorrigible,” Bones said softly, with much more warmth than before.

Jim just grinned, then winced as the grin pulled on some of his new skin.  Shaking his head, Bones grabbed Jim’s chin and tipped his head from side to side slowly.  The Artraxians had made an art of the attempt at flaying Jim alive, bleeding him slowly from dozens of wounds, several of which marched down his neck on both sides.  The grafted skin was holding, but still wasn’t healed fully due to resistance in bonding with his natural skin.

“Will I live?” Jim asked, straightening.  A thin sheen of sweat coated his forehead belying his nonchalant words.

“You’re too stubborn to die.”  Bones ran his thumb quickly over Jim’s lips, then pulled his hand away.  “Ten minutes.”  He paused.  “Unless you start bleeding.”

“Aye aye.”  Bones rolled his eyes at Jim’s smirk, but wasn’t surprised by it.  Jim tugged his uniform straight, hissing as it dragged over the over-sensitive nerve endings belonging to the new skin on his chest and shoulders.

As he walked to the doors of the bridge of the Enterprise, Captain James T. Kirk appeared every inch the captain of the flagship of the Federation fleet.  Unless one could see the signs of strain – the ever-so-slight tremble in his left hand, the measured steps rather than confident stride – one wouldn’t know he was in pain.  Or unless that person were also his lover and doctor and could see all the signs Jim fought to suppress.  Doctor Leonard McCoy kept his sedating hypospray handy.

Spock was the first to notice the captain and doctor after the doors opened with a soft whoosh.  Spock stood, turning to face Bones and Jim.  There was a gleam in Spock’s eye that, for anyone else, might have been a maniacal grin.  He brought his arm up and, with regimental preciseness, saluted his captain.  One by one, the remainder of the crew stood and echoed Spock’s salute.

Bones met Spock’s eyes over Jim’s shoulder and gave Spock a brief nod.  The Vulcan inclined his head a fraction of a degree in acknowledgment.

“At ease, gentlemen,” Jim said.  Spock fell to parade-rest beside the Captain’s Chair while the remainder of the crew returned to work.

Jim moved slowly toward the chair, though he disguised the length of time with a thorough examination of the bridge, including random quips to his crew.

“Captain, are you certain you should be here?” Spock asked quietly.

Before Jim could reply, Bones cut in, “He shouldn’t and the bastard looks like he’s going to keel over any minute now.”

Jim glared at Bones, but didn’t dispute the observation.  The fine sheen of sweat that had dotted his forehead in the corridor had become a near-flood.  His jaw was tightly clenched, which he masked well enough from a distance with a half-smile.

“It would not do for the captain to collapse on the bridge,” Spock murmured.  “Are you able to make it back to the corridor?”

With a ferocious glare more suited to a rabid bear, Jim snarled, “Yes.”

Spock quirked an eyebrow upward.  Raising his voice, he said, “Mr. Sulu, you have the conn.”

“Aye, sir,” Sulu acknowledged.

Bones took a firmer grip on the hypospray, ready to administer it as soon as they were off the bridge.  He understood that this trip had been about image, but his twin concerns were that neither his patient nor his lover killed himself with overexertion.  It would be a long while before Bones himself got over the trauma of seeing Jim nearly exsanguinated.

The trio made it just outside the sensor range of the doors before Jim’s legs gave way.  Spock caught him before he fell to the ground, making Jim groan in pain.  As a doctor, Bones knew keeping Jim off the ground was best, but he had to force himself to repress the urge to yell at Spock for causing Jim further pain.

“Should I carry him, Doctor McCoy?” Spock asked, shifting Jim in his arms.  Jim was now unconscious.

Tucking the hypospray into his belt, Bones tapped his communicator.  “This is McCoy.  Three to beam to sickbay.”  He wasn’t sure if the sick sensation in his stomach was worry or the disintegration of the transporter.

The next hour passed in something of a blur for Bones.  In retrospect, the things that he could be grateful for were Spock and that Jim had passed out before they arrived.  The trip to the bridge had reopened several of the wounds on Jim’s torso, leaving him bleeding under his uniform.  Spock had been able to tear the uniform from him much faster than any of the medical personnel could cut it free.  Having Spock there as a silent observer allowed Bones a certain detachment he had been finding more and more difficult to obtain.

When Jim was once again bandaged and out of danger, Bones dropped into the chair in his office.  He was just pulling the bourbon from the bottom drawer of his desk as Spock entered.

“May I, Doctor?” he asked, gesturing to one of the empty chairs.

Bones waved a hand indifferently, pulling out a glass.  He glanced up at Spock over the edge of his desk.  Reluctantly, he asked, “Do you want some?”

Spock’s eyebrow rose.  “No, thank you.”  Spock watched impassively as Bones poured three fingers into the glass, then tossed it all back in one long swallow.  “I fail to see how alcohol will help the situation.”

Gripping the glass tightly, Bones set it atop his desk.  He didn’t answer Spock immediately, though he felt those dark Vulcan eyes assessing him, measuring him.

Jim was one of two patients currently in sickbay, the other being a young ensign burned in an engineering accident earlier in the day.  The ensign would be discharged the next day.  Bones wondered sometimes if Jim had known he’d be spending nearly equal amounts of time in sickbay as patient and as friend – and more.  Jim’s vitals were finally stable, though it had been touch-and-go for several minutes upon first arrival.

“The alcohol is to stop me from killing him,” Bones muttered.

Sometimes Bones wondered if Jim really knew how much he meant to him.  Oh, Jim knew how much he meant as a symbol – evidenced by the asinine stunt he’d just pulled – but as a friend, a partner?  Too often he felt he was taken for granted.

Spock turned slightly, enough to follow Bones’s line-of-sight to where Jim lay swathed in bright-white bandages.  Quietly, he said, “He trusts you.”  Bones made a noise and poured more bourbon.  “He would not have done what he did had he not trusted you not to catch him.”

Bones froze with the glass at his lips.  Maybe he was looking at it all wrong.  He lowered the glass, setting it on his desk with a soft thump.

“You caught him,” Bones said.

“And you saved him.  Again.”  Spock turned to Bones, his dark eyes oddly gleaming in the half-darkness of the office.  “And you will continue to save him from himself, Doctor.”  On that note, before Bones could say anything, Spock rose and exited sickbay.

Unsettled, Bones checked first on the injured ensign.  Satisfied he was sleeping soundly, Bones moved to Jim’s bedside.  He spent too much time staring at an injured Jim.

He didn’t know how much time passed – it could have been minutes or hours – but eventually Jim stirred.  Bones automatically checked the monitors, adjusting pain medications until Jim’s heart rate fell to a more acceptable level.

“Did it work?” Jim rasped.

Bones sighed.  Now was not the time to chide him for his stupidity.  He did what he needed to do for morale, not for his own health.  In that regard, it had worked marvelously, increasing the mystique of the Enterprise’s young captain.  Maybe he was growing up.  Bones barely resisted the urge to say it was about time, though he would never have wished such an experience like what Jim went through on anyone.

“Yes, it worked,” Bones replied.

Jim smiled, eyes still closed.  “Then kiss me and tell me you forgive me.”  Bones rolled his eyes.  “Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

“You’re insane, Jim.”

Jim opened his eyes, the blue of them almost preternatural in contrast to his pale skin and dark lashes.  Bones sighed and succumbed.

“Fine, you’re forgiven, you bastard,” he hissed, before leaning down and kissing him.  Jim’s lips were dry and chapped, but the taste and feel were familiar, welcoming and so very missed.  When Bones pulled back, he said, “Please try not to get yourself nearly killed again this month.”

Jim sighed.  “I’ll try.”