It was almost an hour since Spock had self-administered the shot left for his use. The night was so still that he heard the soft sounds of his doctor sleeping in the next room. Though it was a relief having his bedroom all to himself, at the worst of his illness there had been an undeniable comfort in knowing someone was always near—even when that someone was Lauren Fielding. Feelings of dependency were natural in one crippled by pain and weakness. It did not mean that he had ever really approved of her presence. With his mother back on Vulcan and the nurse dismissed, tonight he was completely alone with the doctor.

Lying in the darkness, he tried to put her out of his mind, along with the lingering effects of her histamine therapy. She was just another symptom to endure. Asthma and congestion, itching, dizziness, nausea…and Lauren Fielding.

There was also the threat of pain—banked like a fire, still smoldering just beneath the surface, always waiting to break forth and consume him again. Would it never leave him completely? Regular injections kept the discomfort in check, but the first minutes of relief threw his mind into complete disarray. Was that the price he must pay? Free of the agony, he could move about now with only a moderate stiffness in his joints. The ulcers in his mouth and stomach were completely healed. He could digest solid food and speak in a clear voice, without pain. Though still very weak, he was going to live—the first Vulcan in history to survive third stage plakir-fee. No, that was not accurate. If he were entirely Vulcan, he would be dead now. The part of himself that he had always considered the weakest—the human part—had proven to be the strongest in this instance. There was some question as to whether histamine therapy would ever work effectively in a fully Vulcan body. For the sake of his people he hoped Doctor Fielding could develop a successful treatment.

His people—a telling choice of word. Because of a human mother, he was alive—yet still thinking of Vulcans as his people. He must remember that humans were also his people. And that should not be so very difficult. After all, his closest friends were human. He had lived most of his life among humans and had even come to acknowledge the value of positive emotions. Out of respect for humanness, he had asked his mother to go home to T'Beth once his recovery was certain. The child had been alone with Sarek for much too long. She would need human warmth, the gentle reassurance only her grandmother could offer.

Spock turned his thoughts to the coming day, and the Enterprise. He was glad the ship was arriving, with its disciplined routine. Though he was not fit for command, he could certainly teach the trainees while trying to recondition himself physically and mentally for the captaincy.

He felt his mind tiring and reached for the lyrette propped against his bent knees. Very, very lightly he touched its strings. They hummed beneath his fingertips, resonant and inviting. He plucked it. The soft music evoked many images, bringing on the misty, timeless state that claimed him so often these days. He imagined Lauren Fielding providing a pleasant harmony on her flute…

His fingers went still.

Blast you, Jim, for sending that woman along!

"Spock." Kirk looked at him, obviously hurt. "She was the best one for the job, you know it's true."

I don't want her here.

"Dammit Spock, she saved your life."

He could not argue with that. "Jim…?"

Spock searched the shadows. The room was empty. He listened for his doctor, fingers trembling over the lyrette. Like a willing woman, the instrument responded to him, murmuring the ancient language of passion. Ashes of a long-ago passion, patient embers burning, waiting, ready to explode…

He found himself standing in his bedroom doorway. A light sweat chilled his skin as he leaned, bare-chested, against the doorframe and struggled to clear his mind. He grit his teeth with the effort to restrain his body, turn aside, sit on the bed. Digging his fingernails into the flesh over his ribs, he hugged himself tightly. Gradually the roar of desire faded to a dull, uneasy throb. What was happening? Snatches of memory taunted him. Golden tendrils curling on a forehead…delicate lashes above blue eyes…the sweet pleasure of his mind entering hers…

No, he protested, it never happened! It could not have happened! It was only a dream…

ooooo

Something roused Lauren. For a long moment she lay on her pallet, listening in the darkness. Had she really heard music? A few faint sounds came from Spock's bedroom, nothing alarming, yet her heart beat a little faster just knowing he was awake. She considered checking on him and decided against it. No doubt he had awakened at the proper time and injected himself. After all, he thought it was only medicine.

She did not feel sleepy anymore—hardly surprising on this last night at St. Vincent's. There was too much on her mind, her conscience. The Enterprise was on its way, and she still hadn't told Spock the truth. Maybe it would be better to consult Doctor McCoy first.

Maybe? Face it, Laurie, you're scared silly. You know Spock's going to tear into you when he learns how you've messed him up. Never mind that he messed around some with you, too. His Highness the Captain would never equate his precious self with—

Lauren stopped herself. She disliked the bitterness growing inside her, did not understand why it was taking root. After all, she had campaigned for this duty—it was all her idea. She had known enough about Vulcans to realize the emotional risks. She had seen Captain Spock in action enough times to know that he did not operate like a human. Nothing he said or did should have surprised her in terms of coldness. Of course he would not acknowledge that she had saved his life. In Vulcan thinking, she had only done her work efficiently, and one did not thank efficiency. One expected it. Nor would one apologize for a seduction one pretended not to remember. That would be most illogical. Illogical in the extreme!

Smacking her pillow a few times, she turned over. He had no reason to thank her. When he found out what she'd done—what she'd secretly been doing to him six times a day, he'd really have reason to hate her. Oh, yes. Somehow she felt sure that hate was one emotion her dispassionate captain could muster. Spock knew a think or two about dark feelings. In moments of pain and delirium she had sometimes glimpsed that raging man and he was still there somewhere, deep down beneath that Vulcan mask. Along with that other man who reached out and touched her, overwhelmed her with a powerful yet tender sexuality.

But why should it matter? Why should anything that man thought or felt or pretended not to feel matter to her? Captain Spock was her commanding officer, her patient, her job—a job she had done well by any human standards. So, she had accidentally turned him into a drug addict. So, for awhile he would be shooting stardust into his arm just to keep from clawing his way through the bulkheads, just to feel normal for a couple of hours. So, for a while he wouldn't be commanding anything bigger than a hypo. At least he would be commanding something, at least he would be alive—living from one hit to the next, living for the next hit… Oh, but did matter! It did!

ooooo

The hiss of a sprayhypo brought Spock fully awake. His arm stung as he sat up. Blinking in the pink morning light, he protested, "Really, Doctor, could you not have waited for—"

Fielding moved aside and Spock saw the white-clad figure standing in the doorway. It was her brother the priest. Not only had she disturbed his rest, she had also brought along a gawking relative.

"Reverend Fielding," he said with forced politeness.

"Captain Spock," the cleric responded with deep pity in his eyes.

Spock did not like pity, did not like him, but the medication was finding its way through his veins, relaxing away the objections. A warm, pleasant flush raced through his body and he could not help but welcome the now-familiar feeling. His heart beat faster. His breathing quickened. The good heat sidled into his brain and he lay back on the pillows and began to drift. Voices followed him through the intoxicating layers of sensation…

"I don't like it, Laurie. What if he—" "Modern Vulcans aren't a violent people. And besides that, there's the discipline of the service." "Right, but how viable is that discipline now? Look at the man, will you?" "Don't you think I have? It's tearing me apart, I can't go on lying to him." "…Just a few hours more. What's the difference?" "The difference is, it's my responsibility, not McCoy's. I've evaded it too long already." "Then at least let me be there. I'll rearrange my schedule…" "Thanks Larry, but no thanks. I have to do this on my own, like a real grown-up doctor." "You're being stubborn, Laurie. I don't see any sense in—" "Bye, Larry. See you tonight at beam-up." "Damn right you will. And you better be in one piece, or else."

ooooo

Being back in uniform felt strange to Spock—perhaps because it hung so loosely on his rail-thin frame. Doctor Fielding filled out every inch of her uniform as she sat beside him in the skimmer. The afternoon was warm and clear, perfect for a drive. Spock had not been at the controls since the day he argued with Fielding and walked out on her.

That time, he had barely been able to handle the vehicle. Despite the vast improvement in his condition, the doctor had not wanted him to drive today. But he knew his capabilities. He may not be able to command a starship, but he was certainly fit enough to pilot a skimmer in a quiet rural area.

After a few minutes of silent flying, he veered off the main route and started up a long grassy incline. The tree-studded knoll was one of his favorite spots. He had brought Doctor Fielding here, away from the cottage and its unpleasant memories, hoping to express an apology that was long overdue. The conversation must not degenerate into another argument.

Halfway to the summit, the skimmer began to miss badly. Adjusting the fuel mix brought on a heavy shudder, and Spock was forced into a dead-stick landing. The skimmer jolted to the ground and there was a silence undisturbed but for the lazy drone of insects.

The doctor's blue eyes questioned him, but he did not know what to tell her. The power level was too low for the dashboard gauges to register properly. Stepping outside, he raised the hood. By the time Fielding joined him, he had isolated the problem.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He shut the hood with more force than necessary. Folding his arms, he stared out at the pink horizon. "I'm afraid…it is out of fuel."

She laughed. He looked at her, surprised by the note of hysteria in her voice. "Oh, how rich!" she cried. "How utterly perfect! Now I suppose you're going to—" Abruptly she sobered. No—froze as if frightened to death. "Sorry, sir. I…I meant no offense."

"None taken."

She looked aside, obviously tense and miserable. At first Spock did not understand her reaction, then with a rush of embarrassment the answer came to him. She had been comparing their situation to "running out of gas", that age-old ploy of sexually frustrated human males. Once stranded, such a male would attempt to seduce his female companion in the customary backseat, or on a green hillside such as—

But he was not a human male. And he was not—

The circumstances were indeed awkward and Spock had only himself to blame. Checking the fuel supply had completely slipped his mind, like so many things these days. Then he remembered that during his illness the doctor had been using the skimmer, not him. Shouldn't she have had enough foresight to keep it fueled? It had all the makings of a fresh argument.

Firmly choosing against it, he eased down on the thick grass and said, "This place will do just as well. Please sit down, Doctor."

She settled beside the grounded skimmer and hugged her knees to her chest, a contortion still quite impossible for Spock. The doctor assumed an attitude of such rapt attentiveness that he found it distracting. Why did her eyes trouble him so? It was a relief when she looked aside and began toying with a blade of grass.

"Doctor," he began, selecting his words very carefully, "in the course of our stay here, I may have spoken…or acted…in ways that—" He watched her uproot an entire clump of grass. Her face went from pasty white to a disconcerting shade of red as he tried to go on. "In ways that were not entirely respectful. I have given the matter considerable thought. These past months you have proven that you are a capable…compassionate doctor. If at times I did not accord you the proper consideration—"

Abruptly she leapt up and loosed a baffling outburst. "Oh Captain, don't! You'll only regret it when you hear what I have to say, so just—" The words choked off. She turned her back to him.

Spock struggled to his feet. Somehow his wounded dignity no longer seemed very important. There was an inexplicable urge to come up behind the doctor and enfold her in his arms—a need to comfort her and draw comfort from her touch. By long habit he searched inward for the lost disciplines, but found only emptiness inside. And fear.

Keeping his place he said, "Explain, then."

A shiver passed through her body. Squaring her shoulders she faced him, eyes overly bright. "Alright, sir. You really want to know? Thanks to your 'capable, compassionate' doctor, you are hooked on an illegal drug."

Her words scarcely registered at first. It was too much for Spock's convalescing mind to absorb, so it simply refused the information. He stared at her dumbly.

"Don't you get it? You were in such terrible pain. You were crying out in agony, so I gave you the only thing that would work. Saurian strardus. Six jolts a day. You even did it to yourself last night. Why haven't you guessed? Can't you feel what it does to you?"

Six jolts a day. Can't you feel what it does to you? Now Spock found it all starting to make a horrible kind of sense. The inviting warmth of the injections…the sensually engrossing flights of consciousness…the doctor's subtle evasiveness…Six jolts a day. You were crying out. Saurian strardus…

Now he was the one trembling, hands clenched at his sides. "Leave me," he demanded very quietly. There was no controlling the brutal onslaught of emotion. As he turned aside it burst from him in a painful roar. "Leave me, I say! Go!"

She moved. He heard her boots in the grass, then the soft impact of something hitting the ground.

"You'll be needing these," she said.

Long after she was gone, he turned around. Two objects lay on the grassy hillside. A fuel capsule…and a sprayhypo.

ooooo

"You what?" McCoy's shout backed Lauren against the woven cottage wall, but Admiral Kirk pulled him away before the irate doctor could say anything more.

"Thank you, Admiral," she said, smoothing down her uniform. Maybe there was something to that legendary Kirk charm, after all. Drawing a deep breath, she faced down McCoy. "I left him back on the hill because that's what he wanted. He was having trouble dealing with some unpleasant news and ordered me to leave. Believe me, sir, I would have preferred riding home in his skimmer to gathering blisters on that hot road."

"Never mind your blisters," Kirk said most uncharmingly. "What do you mean by 'unpleasant news'? What exactly has been going on here?"

Lauren cast a worried glance out the window. It was pitch dark outside. Spock should have been back by now; he knew when the Enterprise was due. And more importantly, it was well past time for his next shot. Either he had injected himself or…"It's a difficult situation, sir. The captain has a residual health problem that requires…" Her resolve gave out, her voice trailed away.

"What problem?" demanded McCoy. "Your messages haven't mentioned any problems."

Lauren looked from McCoy to Kirk and wished the ground would open up and swallow her. Oh, why had she left him on that hill! Her mind filled with a vision of Spock writhing in agony beside a shattered hypo, a big stubborn fool refusing to face the facts, willing to die instead…

"Answer," Kirk snapped.

"It's…all in my log, sir." Lauren swallowed hard. "A form of…drug dependency resulting from therapy I deemed advisable when…he was dying."

Kirk looked openly relieved. Unfortunately McCoy was not so easy to appease. "What drug?" asked the chief surgeon.

Lauren strained to hear beyond the outer walls of the cottage. The evening traffic noise had tapered down to an occasional road car. Most of the locals were already home for dinner. It should have been easy to make out the sound of— Was that the wind or the distant whine of a skimmer?

Kirk's head tilted as he, too, heard the approaching sound. "Spock?" he wondered.

Lauren nodded, relief flooding her. "That's him." So he had done it—he couldn't possibly be driving, otherwise.

The skimmer landed. Spock's friends hurried out the front door to greet him under the porch light. Lauren watched at the window as Spock climbed out and inconspicuously steadied himself against the skimmer, facing Kirk and McCoy. Kirk grasped him by the shoulders and said something. Spock stood as rigid as a stone pillar, but Kirk's arms went around the Vulcan anyway.

Lauren was blinking back tears when Larry walked in the back door. A roguish smile stirred his lips as he looked her over. "You're okay, then."

"Yeah." She managed a weak grin. "Hardly bruised. But you should see the other guy."

It was easier to joke than say goodbye. The word sounded too permanent; it made for the kind of weepy scenes she despised. Admit it, Laurie. You've always been afraid that your emotions will crack wide open and spill all over the floor. It happened on the hill. Spock was being nice, actually trying to apologize. And you were so full of guilt, so scared, that you lost control of yourself and took it out on him.

But he lost control, too-royally. He actually shouted. So maybe you should just consider things even for now...

That was not so hard to do when Spock entered the cottage with Kirk and McCoy. They had both met Larry at the initial beamdown. After polite greetings, conversation flowed so naturally that no one but Lauren seemed to notice she had ceased to exist. But it was true. She knew it. Captain Spock knew it. His icy disregard made it quite clear that she was no longer a part of his universe, not even an annoying part.

Lauren experienced a chill, barren feeling that sent shivers down her spine. So that's how it was going to be. First the cold shoulder, then he'd probably find some excuse to transfer her off the ship. Well, so be it then…do us both a favor…

"Doctor Fielding."

She snapped out of it and found Admiral Kirk reaching for the com badge on his uniform jacket. Beam-up time. Their belongings were already aboard ship. Even the skimmer had been lifted from the front yard. But suddenly she realized they were forgetting something important. "Wait a minute. Where's Windsong?"

Larry went to the back door where she had shyly waited all that time, unnoticed. Windsong edged in, her silvery eyes gleaming with unshed tears as they settled on Spock. She signed a farewell to the Vulcan and received a very restrained {Goodbye}. In retaliation, Lauren gave Windsong a doubly affectionate hug. Then she put her arms around Larry and kissed his cheek before taking her place beside Doctor McCoy.

"Take care now, " she said aloud, signing. "See you both next time."

Two tears slid down Windsong's face. Larry slipped an arm around the child. "Till next time," he promised.

Lauren was swallowing the lump in her throat when the transporter beam took her.

ooooo

McCoy could not decide whether to cuss or shout for joy. Spock was cured—as thin as a two dollar post, but according to Doctor Fielding and a preliminary sweep of a medscanner, the Vulcan's body was free of plakir-fee. If only there weren't this drug business. In all the commotion Fielding still hadn't named the exact trouble.

He stepped off the transporter platform trying to decide what to tackle first. Examine Spock? Debrief Fielding? Go over her log? He wanted to do everything at once. He was turning toward Fielding when something disturbing happened, making the choice simpler.

Spock stumbled. Perhaps he was dizzy or misjudged the step down. His right leg gave way and as he began to fall, Fielding reached out and caught hold of his arm. Any normal person would have used the help to restore his balance. But Spock didn't do that. The Vulcan deliberately yanked away from Doctor Fielding and dropped to the deck.

As McCoy went to Spock's side, Kirk flashed him a look that meant he had seen it, too. Right then and there McCoy decided to take examine Spock without Fielding present. He was not in the mood for any personal drama. The doctor and her log could wait until he questioned Spock and drew his own medical conclusions.

"I'll see you later," he told her.

Cut to the quick, Lauren watched Spock limp out the door with Doctor McCoy. Rebuffed by the captain and the chief surgeon. Off to a wonderful start. Steadying herself with a deep breath, she told Kirk, "He might have seriously hurt himself. It's the—" She remembered the technicians at the transport console. "It's the nature of his condition, Admiral. A certain loss of equilibrium is to be expected. And the histamine treatments also had an effect on his inner ears."

Kirk gave her a searching look before drawing her into the corridor. McCoy and Spock were just boarding the lift. Kirk waited to speak until the doors shut after them. Very low, he said, "It's the drug, isn't it?"

She resisted the urge to squirm as Kirk's eyes probed her. "His balance is a little off, " she hedged. "Drugs have been known to produce that side-effect, but then so have transporters." That's why she had moved within reach of Spock—just in case.

Kirk let the matter drop. Unexpectedly he asked, "Are you hungry? It'll be awhile before McCoy's finished. You can fill me in over dinner."

The prospect of a brass level dinner debriefing made Lauren's stomach turn over. But there was no graceful way out of it, and there was a slim chance of gaining Kirk's support before the impending confrontation with Doctor McCoy. She nodded.

"Twenty minutes," he said with a heart-melting smile. "My quarters."

ooooo

"Cough," repeated McCoy, pressing the soniscope to Spock's bared chest. A faintly asthmatic rumble vibrated the doctor's ear receptor. Listening intently, McCoy repositioned the scope over some bony ribs. "Again."

Spock sighed. "Doctor, I have already coughed for you eleven times. You have listened to me breathe and peered into my eyes and ears. You have probed my throat with uncomfortably long instruments—"

"And for an encore I'm going to strike your knees with little mallets and stick needles in your arms." McCoy tossed the soniscope and 'ceptor onto a tray of instruments. "Bear with me, Spock. It's just that I distrust miracles. You beamed off this ship a dying man, and now…"

McCoy suspected a Vulcan eyebrow was climbing somewhere beneath that shaggy hair. With a sardonic look Spock said, "Are you disappointed, Doctor?"

McCoy considered knocking him off the table, but he was in the business of healing bruises, not inflicting them. "Lie down," he snapped.

Spock settled on the diagnostic table with more than his usual measure of reluctance. To McCoy he looked tense, almost jumpy. Keeping a peripheral watch on the Vulcan, he engaged the body scanner. At first the systemic analysis on the wall monitor looked good. Then the chemical evaluations flashed in.

McCoy's heart lurched. "Sweet Lord," he said under his breath. No wonder the Vulcan seemed jittery! It was right there on the screen, damning levels of a drug so addictive that it was illegal throughout the Federation. Fielding must have been out of her mind!

But that wasn't exactly fair, and McCoy knew it. The impaired areas of Spock's brain were textbook typical of plakir-fee. There was no healing mode left to engage, no Vulcan center of pain control. To a man dying in agony Saurian strardus could be a blessing. But to a living man…

Not for the first time, McCoy wished he had beamed down in Fielding's place. But who's to say that he wouldn't have done the same thing? After all, Spock was dying.

But strardus! What could be worse? Spock dead and buried, that's what!

McCoy switched off the scanner and desperately tried to sound matter-of-fact. "Well. You're really healed, then, all thanks to a tickle in your nose…and Doctor Lauren Fielding. Not that you thanked her, of course. That wouldn't be logical, considering."

He might as well have been talking to his medscanner. As Spock silently raised himself up and began dressing, McCoy's throat tightened with compassion. "No wonder you're mad at her."

"Doctor, please." Spock stood and stiffly pulled his shirt into place. "My recovery is apt to be a very slow process. The sooner I enter a treatment facility, the sooner it will be done with."

McCoy just looked at him and nodded. Whatever else he might think about Spock, the man had guts.

ooooo

Some debriefing this had turned out to be. Dinner was simple but elegant; the company, surprisingly agreeable. When would Kirk serve up the tough questions—with the after-dinner mints?

As Lauren toyed with another bite of Italian lasagna, she could almost forget that her dinner companion was Chief of Starfleet Operations. How had he been managing that job from the Enterprise? Lots of conference calls, she supposed, on coded channels.

"Wine?" Kirk offered for the second time.

She shook her head and pushed aside her plate. "Sir, can we just get on with it? What I have to report won't sit well on a full stomach." She was uncertain about the ethics of divulging Spock's situation to Kirk, even if he was top brass. But this was clearly more than a medical matter. Starfleet regulations made it a legal matter.

The smile had left Kirk's face, and now Lauren realized how tenuous a smile it had been. He definitely had a case of nerves. Well, welcome to the club.

"Alright," he said. "Give it to me straight."

Lauren's pulse raced out of control. "Admiral…I can give it to you in one word." One ugly little word that made her palms sweat, her throat tighten. "Stardust."

Kirk frowned. In the depths of his hazel eyes she could almost see his brain twisting the word inside out, recoiling from the more obscene possibilities. "Stardust. You don't mean…strardus. Saurian strardus."

She nodded, expecting to collect bloody hell, but instead of exploding, Kirk settled back in his chair and stared numbly into space. At last he said, "It was that bad?"

Lauren had come prepared for a fight, not calm acceptance. "Yes," she recalled, "it was that bad. He had no Vulcan resources to fall back on when the medications became ineffective."

"So you…helped him out."

"Yes, sir."

More silence, then, "But why strardus? Couldn't you have used some other drug? Something less…less addictive?"

"Believe me, I considered them all. He was right on the edge. Anything powerful enough to ease his pain would have finished him off. The pain alone was doing it. Under those circumstances, addiction doesn't really matter."

Though obviously shaken, Kirk seemed satisfied with Lauren's explanation. "Well," he said with a touch of irony, "at least now I know why he brushed you off in the transporter room. Spock must be blaming you. And he's probably still sore at me for sending you along in the first place."

Lauren stared at her plate and said nothing. She still felt guilty about the ugly scene on the hill.

"Next question," Kirk said. "How soon can he be freed of the drug?"

Lauren sighed. Her hands met on the tabletop and interlaced as she faced Admiral Kirk again. "Normally…the detox period for a man of Spock's relative age, and his physiology, would be fairly short. Say, two or three weeks. Unfortunately, the captain is convalescing from a major illness. In his present condition the strain of detoxification would likely kill him." At the look of distress on Kirk's face she quickly added, "Once his health is completely restored, he should have no problem withstanding the typical detox procedure."

"And meanwhile?"

"Meanwhile he'll need regular doses of strardus and close medical supervision to keep him stable." She leaned forward. "Admiral, I sincerely hope he won't be discharged from the service. I know Starfleet has no use for addicts—" she inwardly cringed at the term. "But the captain didn't get himself into this mess…and the drug can be properly dispensed."

Kirk nodded bleakly.

"Admiral, I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "If I'd only discovered the histamine connection a few days sooner."

"Or if Jonas Hobbs had never lured Spock to Minora." Kirk's voice was bitter.

"Hobbs?"

"The man responsible for all this." Kirk went on to identify Jonas Hobbs as the informant Sarek had mentioned when he contacted Lauren. "Sarek had the authorities pick him up on criminal charges. They say he actually boasted about infecting Spock. I'd like to—" A door chime interrupted him. Dragged from his dark reverie, Kirk called out, "Come."

McCoy entered the impromptu dining area, helped himself to a chair and a glass of wine. Lauren's back stiffened as his weary eyes settled on her. "Well," he said after a generous swallow, "you certainly did your job, Doctor. Spock is certifiably on the road to recovery. What's a little dishonorable discharge?"

To Lauren the words seemed downright sarcastic and she bristled with the unfairness of it. She was on the verge of a defensive retort when Kirk spoke.

"There will be no discharge," he said in a firm voice, "or rehab center. I am not sending Spock off this ship a second time."

McCoy grinned at the admiral. "I was hoping you'd say that. Laurie here brought Spock back from the dead. I should be able to handle the small stuff." Incredibly, he winked at her. Lauren managed a weak smile as he continued, "I took a few minutes to scan your log. I'm convinced you did the right thing, Doctor. Strardus gave Spock the extra time you both needed. Good work."

Lauren found the approval of Spock's friends almost as hard to bear as the imagined criticism. If she had done things right, she would have saved Spock without addicting him to drugs, without making him hate her. But for now Kirk and McCoy seemed content with less-than-perfect results, and who was she to argue? At least the captain was alive.

A little dazed, she watched McCoy lift his wine glass in salute. "To miracles."

Lauren raised her goblet of ice water. They all touched glasses and smiled.

ooooo

A steward was clearing away the dinner dishes when Kirk tucked a thick printout under his arm, slipped out into the quiet evening corridor and began walking. The captain's quarters had stood empty for so long. What would he find there tonight? Fielding and McCoy had briefed him on Spock's regimen of drug injections and their anticipated effect on the half-Vulcan's mind and body. The information had not been particularly encouraging.

He paused at Spock's door, nervous. They had not parted on the best of terms when Spock beamed down to Gamma Vertas. What if Spock refused to see him? What if he walked in while the Vulcan was "shooting up"? But no, McCoy had said that medical staff would administer all but the late night dosage, that someone dependant on strardus could not be left to regulate himself—not even someone like Spock.

The thought saddened Kirk. But even if Spock couldn't be trusted to care for himself, he would still be in the best of care, right here aboard the Enterprise. After everything Spock had been through, and had yet to face, he could use the company of friends. If Spock still considered him a friend…

Kirk pressed the door chime. No one answered. On the second chime a faint voice came from somewhere inside. "Who is there?"

"Jim."

There was an unsettling moment of silence, then, "Come in."

As Kirk reached for the switch pad, the muted click of the lock release startled him. His heart thudding, he entered the dark cabin and waited just inside for his human eyes to adjust. The eerie red flickering of Spock's attunement flame showed an empty room. Steeling himself, he followed a faint trail of light into the bed area and found Spock on his bunk in pajamas, reading from the library viewer. Aside from his unshorn hair and wasted appearance, the Vulcan looked entirely normal—until he glanced up. In the shadows his eye were chillingly black, the pupils unnaturally dilated.

Kirk experienced a surge of revulsion and struggled to repress it. Now that he knew of Spock's addiction, how could he think of anything else when they were together? Would the Vulcan sense his preoccupation? He did not touch Spock, as he had at the mission. He did not want to risk having the Vulcan go stiff again. Feeling miserably awkward, he kept his distance.

"Spock," he began, "I hope you realize how glad we all are to have you back. When the news came of your recovery, there was a ship-wide celebration." The memory brought a smile. What a party it had been, what a wild outpouring of affection among the trainees and crew for one dispassionate Vulcan. "You would have hated it."

"It sounds very…human," Spock observed.

With his hair hanging over his eyebrows and ear tips, Spock could easily have passed for human. But he seemed as tautly restrained as ever—perhaps out of resentment, perhaps to compensate for the Vulcan parts of him lost to disease, the dignity and self-reliance lost to drugs.

Kirk forcibly kept the smile in place. "You could use a haircut. Gain back your strength, put on some weight. I can stay aboard ship until you're ready for command."

"Technically," Spock said, "you should arrange for my immediate discharge."

At least the Vulcan sounded normal. Kirk relaxed a bit. "Technically, you didn't do this to yourself. Technically, you're under medical treatment and we have everything you need aboard ship."

Spock's mouth tightened. "Admiral, under the circumstances that is hardly wise."

"I'll be the judge of that." Here we go again...

Predictably Spock's attitude became even more confrontational. "Need I remind you that your choice of medical companion directly resulted in my current condition?"

Kirk chose to ignore the accusation. "Spock, you can recuperate right here, even take on a light schedule if you feel up to it."

Visibly flushing, Spock pushed himself up in bed. "Why must you always oppose me? I would like nothing better than to remain aboard, but it is not practical. This is a starship, not a drug-abuse center." It sounded uncomfortably like something Doctor McCoy would say and even Spock seemed to realize it. He searched for the words to begin anew. "The trainees should not see a commanding officer…the captain of a starship…it is…there are…" He faltered and lost the flow of thought completely.

Kirk had never seen the fluent Vulcan struggling to express himself. It was unnerving. Quietly he said, "You forget that you're among friends. McCoy thinks shipboard treatment is feasible, and so does Doctor Fielding. I trust their opinions."

"Fielding!" Spock uttered the name with scorn. Leaving his bed, he began to pace restlessly.

"Yes, Fielding," said Kirk. "The doctor who saved your life."

The Vulcan came to an abrupt halt.

"Spock, I get the impression you've never liked her. Why?"

Spock whirled on him, his face a mask of fury. "May I assume that she interests you?"

Kirk felt his heart pounding in his throat. Would Spock physically attack him? He had never seen the Vulcan behave so erratically—except in the throes of pon farr. He fell back on the tone of command. "Captain, get hold of yourself!"

It worked.

Spock turned aside. His shoulders slumped and he began to shiver. Kirk switched on the bedroom light. Opening the closet, he selected a black, warm looking robe, its front embroidered with silvery runes. It had been a gift from Spock's family when he made captain. How long ago that now seemed, how different a Spock from this unpredictable stranger. He turned around and found the Vulcan staring at him.

"You're cold," Kirk said. It was enough.

Spock wrapped himself in the thick robe and raised the hood. Shaking hard, he sat down on his bed, head bowed, hands tucked deep into the wide sleeves. Quietly he said, "You see now why I must leave."

Forgetting his own discomfort, Kirk reached out and gripped the Vulcan's shoulder. "I see a friend in trouble. There's only one way I know how to respond to that." He was already learning to deal with the changes in Spock. In time all the strangeness would pass—he had to believe it. After all, Spock had only learned of his addiction today. The Vulcan would adjust, and eventually rid his body of the strardus. He would regain his health, his dignity, and his career. In time everything would get back to normal.

About to leave, Kirk remembered the printout under his arm. Was it a mistake? Drawing it out, he set the bound pages beside Spock. "I thought you might like to read this. It's one of my favorites."

Spock turned his head and saw the title. His lips stirred into a grim ghost of a smile. "Endurance. How very apt."

"That's the name of a ship trapped in Earth's Antarctic ice during an early 20th century expedition."

"Ernest Shackleton commanding," Spock recalled.

"Yes. Their ordeal gave rise to the Science of Failure and the lessons to be learned from it—adaptability, persistence, resilience." Would Spock throw the book at him? Knock him on his ass?

From the depths of his robe, the Vulcan looked at him and said, "Thank you."