He was terrified. So very, very terrified of what was happening to him. He could feel his limbs failing him, heart slowing and lungs feeling as though they were being constricted.

Still, he pushed on, hauling himself up over the mess of tangled cords that stood twice his height and even further around. He could feel the prickling across his skin, and as he reared back over the disconnected mechanics of the ship, he felt his resolve falter only for a moment before he kicked heavily at the bottom piece of the reactor. Again and again, he swung back, and each time his boots connected with the metal, he felt a heavy jolt sink into him. It was cloying, disgusting, and it roiled across his skin in a poisonous dance as the radiation sunk into his skin.

Gritting his teeth against the steadily worsening pain that was spreading out from his chest, he snarled out a final curse and threw all of his weight behind the blow. As he connected, it jarred every bone in his body as the reactor flicked on in a blinding beam of light, and he was thrown back against the solid and unforgiving metal of the wall, causing what little oxygen he had left in his lungs to leave in a wheeze.

Coughing, he rolled onto all fours and weakly shoved himself to his feet. Now that the reactor was back online, he could feel himself growing weaker with each passing second. But he couldn't die yet. There was still one last thing that he needed to do before he allowed himself to lay down and die like he'd always been told to. He was James Tiberius Kirk, and he was a stubborn bastard if nothing else.

The journey back to the exit seemed to take forever. His limbs were growing heavier and heavier with each shaky step he was taking, and his head was spinning. He barely knew where he was anymore. Who was he? What was- oh. Right. He was James Kirk. James Tiberius Kirk. He was from Earth. Currently the Captain of the U.S.S Enterprise.

He was dying from radiation poisoning.

Stumbling, he fell into the glass window, panting. Christ, when did it get so hard to breathe?

"Jim? Jim!"

"Hey, Scotty." He murmured, shifting so that he was in somewhat of a sitting position.

"-You'd better get down here. Better hurry."

He wasn't ready to die yet. Fear pierced through everything else for a split second, followed by shock and then anger. He was still young. Jesus, he wanted to get married someday, have kids. Raise them the way that he'd never been raised as a child. He could remember that one day, so long ago, that he'd stolen his uncle's car and gone out on a joy-ride. Back then, it had been one of a few things that had kept him sane, but now? Look where he was now. In a radiation filled chamber with the inability to even breathe correctly. And fuck, if Bones were here now; he could only imagine was the Doctor would say to his face if he could see the situation he'd gotten himself into this time.

Footsteps. They broke the silence and his thoughts slowly, like rain, or perhaps fog.

"Open it."

"The decontamination process is not complete- you'll flood the whole compartment. The door's locked, sir."

That was Scotty, of course. Good old Scotty. He remembered the day he'd met the Scotsman in that barren wasteland on God knew what planet. Same planet he'd met future Spock on, too.

He shifted, moving an arm up to close the compartment door behind him. Maybe that would keep Scotty from bitching too much. Who knew, though? It was Scotty. Same Scotty who had been right all along about those damn weapons on the ship.

"How's the ship?" he asked breathlessly, eyes flickering open to meet those of Spock's.

"Out of danger." Spock replied, eyes searching his own for some kind of sign that he was going to be okay. Ironic, really, considering just hours ago they'd been ready to kill one another. "You saved the crew."

"You used what he wanted against him….that's a nice move." He said instead, trying to get a full breath in. It hurt, but he managed to get one in before he was forced to go back to panting shallowly.

"It is what you would have done."

"And this…this is what you would've done. It was only logical." He replied in vague amusement, though he was sure that it wouldn't show through all of the panting that he was doing. His chest was growing ever tighter, and black spots danced across his vision. Against his will, he felt hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. This was the good-bye that he was going to make?

"I'm scared, Spock. Help me not be." He choked out, the tears falling. He'd failed himself. He was supposed to be the support beam to the others. To be the Captain that they could all look towards. But in the end, all he'd done was kill the bad guys and act like an irresponsible teenager with no rules put down to restrict him.

"How do you choose not to feel?" he wondered idly, noting that Spock appeared to be crying now as well. It was so strange to see this emotion- grief- showing so clearly on the Vulcan's face.

"I do not know." Came the soft reply. Spock looked so broken in that moment, so alone, that he almost though that he was imagining it. "Right now I'm feeling…"

There was silence. His jaw tightened as the tears continued to build up in his eyes.

"I want you to know why I couldn't let you die." He gasped out finally. "Why we went back for you."

Tears on both their parts. God, why did it have to be one of those dramatic moments that he'd always said that he wouldn't be a part of? He blinked back the tears, willing them not to fall. But at the same time, he instinctually knew. It was because he was never going to see them again. Bones, Scotty, Ahura…everyone he needed and depended on would be left behind.

"Because you are my friend." Spock stated, breaking him from his thoughts.

Fuck, that was the last thing he would have expected to come from the Vulcan. It was true that they'd come to an unspoken understanding, but now that he was actually hearing the words be spoken, and by said Vulcan himself…

The tears fell.

Slowly, he raised his hand to touch the pane of glass or whatever the hell it was that separated them, fingers moving apart on their own to mimic the signature hand sign that Spock always utilized. Glancing up at Spock himself, he couldn't find it in himself to even care anymore. He just didn't care that they had once been enemies. That he'd been left on a deserted planet until it was convenient. He'd had it coming, really. And looking back on it, even as he felt his body shutting down on him, he knew that he'd come a long way. He was no longer the child that he'd been when he'd first enlisted in Starfleet. Cocky, full of himself, and unwilling to sacrifice himself in a lose-lose situation. He would have laughed, if he could.

Spock stared down at his hand as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing before bringing up his own hand, fingers splitting instinctively into the ever familiar 'live long and prosper' sign that he'd come to know all too well before looking back to him, tears falling down his face.

This was it, he thought to himself as air suddenly disappeared from his grasp. Meeting Spock's gaze, he refused to break contact, refused to allow himself to think on the negative. He'd saved his crew. He'd done his duty as Captain. And yet…

Had it been enough? There was still Khan to consider. Having been in the man's presence, he couldn't help but feel that maybe he wasn't gone just yet.

Lips parted, but words refused to come to him. Instead, all he could do was offer one of his trademark smirks; the one that had always managed to get him into trouble in a thousand different lives. Lives that seemed so far away, now. Who would he be remembered as when he died? The irresponsible man who took everything for granted and wouldn't even take orders? Womanizer? Tragic son from the great Captain that his father had been, now following in his father's footsteps? There were still so many things that he wanted to do, wanted to see. He wanted to explore the galaxy.

Good-bye, Spock. He thought as he felt his heart stutter once- then twice. The heaviness in his limbs and the pain in his veins swallowed him, darkness enclosing his vision, and the last thing that he could possibly think of was that his hand was falling from the glass.

He simply…stopped.