Beta - Thanks to JS for her very constructive (and encouraging) feedback.

I'm failing now, and it is a good thing I've lost my pursuers because I don't think I can take another step. A sizeable tree supports my back as I examine the small, crude arrows--darts really. Two of them: one near the knee and one in the top of the thigh, both in the right leg. I dial the phaser to its lowest setting and burn the shafts down to just above the flesh to reduce the chance of disturbing them. The risk of bleeding is too high to remove them. It'll have to wait.

With great care I lower myself to the ground and pull the collar on the field coat up to protect my neck. I hate waiting for rescue. I hate being rescued.

-------

It is much colder now and the wind has picked up. Guess there isn't going to be a rescue. All right, I admit, *not* being rescued is worse than being rescued. My legs are incredibly stiff as I try to stand and my right leg fails to hold any weight. A crutch would help and I look around for something suitable. Although one might call these things "trees", it really isn't an accurate description. They are all rock-hard trunk and fleshy branch, not cane or crutch material.

I hop on my good leg a few trees in the direction I believe is correct. The pain is incredible. Gasping, I'm forced to stop. I don't want to return to waiting. I despise the thought. I am trying to gather enough guts to really try the right leg when I hear footsteps ahead. I lower my phaser when a blessedly familiar figure steps out of the spreading gloom.

"Spock."

=================================

Finally, I have located the captain. Blood mars his uniform and he stands as though in great difficulty. Even so, his face lights up at my appearance.

I move to help him and he willingly accepts assistance. Slipping an arm under his shoulder, I take on the weight of his right side. He shivers, sweating in the cooling air, so I know even before I touch him that the pain is intense.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you," he says.

"I sent the rest of the landing party away from the border, we will use another, fortunately closer, campsite tonight."

We make our way slowly. There are no trails here near the edge of unfriendly territory so the going is difficult, especially for him. I am taking more than half of his weight, but he still tires and we stop to rest less than halfway back. His good leg quivers with fatigue as he lowers himself against a tree.

"Don't suppose you can take these out here?" he asks.

I crouch beside him in the near darkness and reply, "I would prefer to use the full medical kit at the camp and the portable sterile field."

He spends long minutes catching his breath before lifting a hand to me for assistance in standing up. I raise him to his feet and move to support him as he almost falls. Breathless from the pain, his chest heaves against my side. An emotional reaction stretches my control and I hear myself speak his name without volition.

"I'm all right," he insists, but he cannot find the strength to stand away from me.

I make a logical decision at this point and act upon it. Stooping, I lift him behind the knees and settle him into my arms. He catches his breath, partly from surprise and partly from pain, then interlocks his hands behind my neck.

"You going to carry me the whole rest of the way?" he asks as I begin walking.

"It is little effort, Captain."

================================

By the time we reach the campsite, I have almost lived down the embarrassment. In fact, I've nearly fallen asleep on his shoulder. He sets me down on my feet in front of the tent. I wait for him to unseal the shelter, sufficiently recovered to balance on my good leg without help. He holds out a hand to help me inside and I manage a respectable hop without too much loss of dignity.

I remove my boots, the right one with some effort, and settle back thankfully on one of the sleeping sacks. At the sound of the medkit being unpacked I look over at my First. His graceful fingers arrange medical instruments on a sterile sheet.
He shifts over to sit on his feet beside me and reaches for the waistband of my pants. I have to close my eyes and think of requisition orders. I cannot watch this. The brush of his warm hands as he undresses me is resonating with some inappropriate fantasy I must have submerged a long time ago. It yearns to surge to the surface and I hold it back mercilessly. I am succeeding, mostly, until he slides his hands up my abdomen to pull my shirt out of the way.

He has activated a portable heater and the tent is warming up nicely--unfortunate, as I could use a little chill to help the situation. I clench my teeth through the sterilizing process. Fortunately, pain solves what my mind can't as his fingers probe the wound near the knee.

I dare open my eyes and watch as he injects something into my thigh.

"Since I am not qualified to prescribe such medications, I am giving you only a small dose of pain killer. I am, however, giving you a full dose of antibiotic."

I nod that that is okay.

He studies his tricorder a long moment then picks up what looks like a laser scalpel.

"I will need to widen the entrance wounds to remove the hooked arrowheads with the least additional damage."

I nod again. I just want this finished. The laser burns with more agony than I expect and I grunt through clenched teeth in surprise.

He stops cutting and places his hand on the very sensitive flesh at the crux of my thigh. "I can curtail some of the remaining pain, Captain."

"I'd appreciate that," I manage to say.

I almost sigh with the cessation of the agony, except that he is now working one-handed. I decide it is best not to watch, so I close my eyes and try to ignore everything.

I feel the first arrow being removed as though it is happening through thick fabric. Eventually the second is free as well. He is dabbing both wounds with antiseptic when I finally open my eyes again. He finishes with that and attempts to open a bandage with one hand.

"It's okay, you can let go now," I say.

He raises a doubtful eyebrow at me. "The pain is still quite intense."

"I can take it." I am wrong of course. I can't control the gasp when he lets go. My leg is burning up; it must be the antiseptic. I wave him off as he reaches for me again. "No, just finish," I say curtly and then hope I don't sound ungrateful.

============================

After I finish bandaging the newly-lengthened wounds on Captain Kirk's leg, I sit back and study the tricorder. The simplified medical program I grudgingly allow to take up precious memory on the device shows an infection growing essentially unchecked. The antiseptic and antibiotics I have given him are having no appreciable effect. As well, proteins from the bone composing the arrow shafts have paralyzed the major muscles of his leg. I cannot tell how permanent the effect will be.

His good leg shifts as he relaxes: the pain must be easing. I run a scan on the rest of his body, no other injuries are revealed. As I do so, I note the captain's soiled tunic, which should be removed and washed. He doesn't stir when I reach for the shoulder seal and open it. I move to kneel above his head. He has fallen deeply asleep and merely mumbles something incoherent as I lift his shoulders to slide the tunic off completely.

I toss the tunic aside and start to reach for the other thermal sleep sack. I pause. I have never seen him in this state from this vantage point. His chest and abdominal muscles stand out in the low angled light. His penis lies half-curled in a nest of brown hair. He exemplifies the ideal human male. I shake away this observation and unseal the sack and place it over him.

As the fourteen-point-seven hour night passes, I have nothing to do except monitor his condition, and although I am perfectly capable of handling nearly any level of stress, I find my thoughts traveling in a restless circle. His fever is rising. Soon I will be forced to administer medication that I am only incidentally knowledgeable of. I cross my legs and attempt light meditation.

--------

He is becoming restless now as the fever distorts his thoughts. His temperature is surpassing forty degrees and have no choice but to dose him with an antipyretic. I bathe his face with a corner of a camp towel dipped in drinking water. He feels like a Vulcan to the touch, his temperature is so close to my own. This unnatural sensation of him unnerves me.

I call his name to rouse him. I wish to confirm, purely for logical reasons, that he is still lucid.

===================================

Spock is speaking to me, I realize. It is not a voice I can ignore. Even as I wake up I wish I were still asleep; I feel like hell.

He is bending over me, eyes full of concern. This is not a good sign.

"The wounds are infected, I assume," I say, rubbing my eyes. My brain is sluggish and I want to go back to sleep.

"Yes."

His hand rests on my chest and it actually feels cool. I cover it lightly with my left. "Security can bring Bones in the morning and the ship will return at nineteen-hundred. I'll be all right."

"Indeed."

His voice is tainted with unchecked emotion, which scares me. I pat his hand. "Why don't you get some rest?" I swallow against a raw throat.

I feel like I am drifting on a warm lake as I fall back into sleep.

--------

He is there again before me when I next open my eyes. I am wracked with chills and I try to curl up for warmth, which leads to a painful seizing of my right leg. As the agony eases, I become aware of his hand stroking the back of my neck. This sets me off for some reason.

"Don't, please," I plead.

His hand retracts.

"I don't want to do this to you," I say, suddenly desperately concerned about him.

"Do what to me, Captain?"

I try to sit up and manage to prop myself on one elbow. "Make you . . ." But I can't say it. Saying it is in itself a violation of him.

The tent seems to spin but I stubbornly sit up farther rather than succumb to the dizziness. I look at him, acknowledge the fear darkening his eyes.

"Don't," I insist.

"Don't what, Captain?"

"Don't--" I grasp the bedding around me tightly, needing to be covered. "Don't care so much about me." I feel my control breaking and gasp with the effort of capturing it again.

My errant gaze eventually falls on his face; he appears slightly shocked.

"Just don't," I insist. This is extremely important to me. I must convince him of the wisdom of it. I try to find a more comfortable sitting position but I feel dragged down. "Is the gravity higher here?" I gripe.

"It is point nine seven one of Earth norm."

"So the answer to that question, Science Officer, is 'no'. It sure feels like it."

"You are quite feverish, Jim."

I look sharply up at him, wanting to reprimand him for slipping into the familiar. He still looks so goddamn vulnerable. I want him to knock it off and at least pretend to have no emotions.

"Are you hungry?" he asks in an even, unaffected voice.

My stomach complains bitterly, so I nod.

He dissolves a ration bar in hot water and hands me the mug taking care that I will be able to hold it steady. Halfway through I am exhausted. I cannot set the mug down steadily. He rescues it at the last moment before it spills, covers it without comment, and sets it aside.

Still too stubborn to lie back down and admit defeat, I slouch into the blanket. A black emotion settles into my brain.

Always the brave knight, he approaches with a damp towel and bathes my face. I feel instantly better as my skin rapidly cools. I take the towel from him and press it hard against my face, into my aching, burning eyes. I relinquish the towel which he refreshes and then wraps around the back of my neck. He then does the unlikely and brushes the wet bangs off of my face.

I choke. "Why did you do that?"

He doesn't respond.

My eyes burn unbearably. "You don't understand," I whisper harshly.

"No, Jim. I do not."

"You don't understand," I repeat. "I can't bear to hurt you." I give him a pleading look, wishing he would just cut himself off. "You don't deserve to be hurt. You are . . ." My eyes are about to overflow and I press the cool towel against my eyes to stifle the liquid trying to escape. I regain some control and look at him. His gaze is intense. His eyebrows are not so much raised as they are reshaped into deep curves by his expression. I am enraptured by his marvelous, pure brown eyes. I feel a hot tear on the edge of my jawbone and realize my burning eyes have overflowed.

His hands are on my face, long thumbs clearing the moisture with hard swipes. He doesn't let go of the sides of my head with his strangely cool hands. "Jim," he says, leaning his face close to mine, "do not concern yourself with me. Your only concern is surviving until first light."

Just gazing at him nearly prevents me from regaining my tenuous control. He is so close. "I can't help it," I explain. "I love you too much."

Both of his eyebrows shoot up and he does not manage to hide a renewed look of surprise. His lips part then close. Internally I am a maelstrom of pain with a stab of fear now added to the mix. "Please don't despise me for that," I barely manage through my closed throat.

He releases my face and slides his hands down to my shoulders. He is shaking his head. "I could not possibly despise you, Captain." He looks as though he is going to add something, then purses his lips and studies me. Eventually he releases me. He refreshes the towel again and bathes my face and chest then makes me lie down.

"You aren't angry?" I ask as I settle in, shivering with a surge of chills.

He is straightening out the covers. "Hardly."

"I don't want to force you to be . . . something you aren't," I say, still concerned that he does not understand. Sleep is tugging at me; I resist it. "I can't bear the thought that you would feel anything but . . . total acceptance on the Enterprise. I want you to feel it is your true home."

His hand falls on my shoulder, on top of the covers. I want his warm hand on my flesh. I yearn for a touch to draw this pain out of me. His hand slips under the fabric to grasp my shoulder. His hand is just barely warm and it caresses me before grasping firmly on my upper arm. I panic with the realization that he is sensing my thoughts. I turn on my back to confront him.

"Your mind isn't closed," I say.

He looks down at me matter-of-factly. "It has not been for most of the night."

===============================

"I confess that I have been concerned enough about your emotional state to make use of my telepathy in my efforts to assist you," I explain calmly. "I apologize for distressing you additionally. Your difficulty has far exceeded my abilities."

His flushed face shifts from a mix of shock and anger to wary acceptance. My attempts to calm him have repeatedly had the opposite effect, so I sit quietly and watch as he relaxes. I fall back on the only thing I am certain of: logic. "You are wasting energy best used for survival, Captain. Do you require anything at this time, or may I induce you to sleep?"

He shakes his head. "No. I'll sleep now." His red-rimmed eyes close.

He is quiet for twenty-three point six minutes and I believe he is dozing until his eyes open again.

"Are you sure you aren't disturbed?" he asks in a soft voice.

I have not allowed his revelations to produce any reaction in me. I am currently holding them away from the deeper parts of my mind. I do not know what will result from their introduction and I cannot afford to be hampered at all until this mission is completed. It is possible that I will be disturbed. I have no honest answer to his question.

His eyes entreat me for a response, so I allow the smallest part of what he has said into the emotional part of my mind. A core of warm affection flares deep in me. Closing my eyes and swallowing hard, I bank the heat from it. Despite this, it suffuses all of me directly through the walls I have erected hastily around it.

He is still waiting, eyes heavy-lidded and fearful, for an answer. Without consciously planning to, I bend down and touch my lips to his forehead. His skin feels cool and damp now, much more human. As I pull up I glimpse his relieved and perhaps joyful expression before he curls up on his side.

I shake my head and marvel at the utter ruination of my control. He does not wish to change me, but that has not prevented the change from happening. I hear myself sigh with chagrin. Quite the opposite has resulted, in fact.

I gather some control around my thoughts and clear them. His skin had felt cool, I remember. Curious if this implies that the fever has broken I retrieve the tricorder. Indeed, his temperature is now less than a degree high. I let relief calm deeper emotions that I dare not examine more closely.

I stare down at him, at the tousle of hair framing his broad forehead. Imperfect, yet perfectly fitting him. His hand reaches out from under the covers to rest on my thigh. I comprehend the gesture for what it is: a combination of outward expression of emotion and offer of understanding. I should not understand it--it is not logical. Such understanding should serve no purpose, but clearly it does in this situation.

I study his hand on my leg. As always, he is the one to reach out. I cover his hand with my own in an attempt to convey my own understanding.

I am accepting this change in myself already, I realize. Perhaps it is not so much a change as an awakening. I shall have to meditate on that.

Through the contact of his hand I feel his emotions burrowing into my mind. I pick them apart and examine them: affection, relief, fear, and perhaps love--I do not know how to identify that emotion. Other emotions as well, more primitive, less refined: a reflexive determination to live, anger over his incapacity, and . . . desire. I examine that one more closely. It is a reaction to my close proximity. I long to pull that emotion closer.

"Jim, may I have your thoughts?" I ask.

From the side view of his face I see his mouth crook into a half-smile. "More of my thoughts?"

No appropriate words come to me so I do not respond.

"You can have my thoughts anytime, you know," he says with that caressing voice of his. It heals parts of me I had not known were injured.

I lay my fingers against his temple and for a moment am struck rigid by the utter illogic of my actions. I allow instinct to rule me and our minds slip together with ease. I am not shielded and as usual I underestimate him: his mind rules the meld, his emotion washing before his thoughts which flood my own. His mind is so amazingly complex yet disciplined; it will never cease to amaze me.

Despite his injuries, his concern is for me, what I am feeling. He desires to make me feel positive emotion; it drives him in fact. These past years of patient friendship are aimed at this end: to make me happy. Whatever gave him this mission I cannot imagine.

His thoughts pull me in. I do not resist. I tell myself that it is because I do not wish to risk causing him pain. In his thoughts he is touching me: a long-resisted expression of his feelings. He touches me everywhere and not just with his hands, also with his mouth. He wishes me to feel intense pleasure and this desire is projected into me, no barrier can diminish it. The intensity of it vibrates through my thoughts causing resonations in the most primitive parts of me.

In his mind he is kissing me, stroking me, though the fantasy is breaking down since he cannot supply the proper taste and texture to his imaginings.

"Jim," I manage.

The maelstrom ceases and my mind is left alone. He should not know how to do that. I lift my fingertips from his face. I evaluate my mind: I am completely unharmed; I am strangely cold. I have to consciously close my fist rather than placing it back on his head and re-opening the contact. If nothing else, he must have rest.

He sighs and snuggles down into the covers. "Later," he says with certainty.

I suppose I will survive until "later".