For rating, disclaimer and general ramblings please see Chapter One.

Author's Note: This is officially my thirtieth published and completed story under this pen name. Quite an achievement for me, considering my muse rarely likes to publish more than a story every few months. I would like to thank everyone for their kind support-- from reviewing to adding this to their favorites. Now, please enjoy part two!

He dreams. This time, it wasn't diplomacy or mechanical skill. It was something more subtle than all of that. They had a rough few months and every face, including Spock's in his own way, wore an expression of pure exhaustion. Three war torn planets, four new discoveries, one unfortunate incident with an escaped animal on the ship and two dozen dead with over one hundred injured; no one could deny they needed rest. After checking on those wounded in their most recent expedition on a planet filled with mice, he found himself in his quarters, contacting Starfleet. Two things were undeniable for him: first, they all deserved a few weeks of shore leave and second, the Enterprise was in severe need of maintenance. Scotty could keep things running on toothpicks and spit but in the long run, parts were a necessity.

That's why his famous temper came through when he was informed that they were expected to be on Berona II in three standard days. At first, he thought it was a joke. Then, when it was obvious to him that it wasn't, he thought that his reports were not clear and attempted to explain what all had occurred in the past few months and that their last chance for shore leave, after finding a place that was literally a party planet, was denied. None of this struck home for the Commander in front of him and he was told that his orders were not changing and that he was expected to carry them out. He cut the transmission without giving an answer and spent an hour taking his frustrations out on a pillow.

He knew they could not take another mission, even a simple one. His crew, well-tempered for extreme conditions, had already given everything they could. Two of his best officers, Sulu and Uhura, were on medical leave for at least another two weeks. He had lost twenty four talented men and women and those who had survived the various skirmishes were strung out. They were all walking powder kegs, himself included, waiting for the right spark to set them off. Even a routine check up on a primitive planet could lead to spontaneous combustion and tragedy; he wasn't willing to risk it.

So, he called Starfleet Command once again and demanded to speak to the person who gave the orders. After hours of being passed from one higher up to another, he finally was placed in the hands of Admiral Pike who was informed, as he appeared on the screen, that he'd better get control over his goddamn prodigy before someone took official action for the kid's attitude.

"What is it, Kirk?" Pike asked. "You look like hell."

"Thanks, sir," he replied, through gritted teeth. "Been a tough couple of months."

Pike nodded. "I know. I keep tabs on your reports."

"So, you understand why my ship and my crew needs a break."

"Yes, I understand why," Pike answered, "and that's the reason you all will have shore leave the moment you finish the check on Berona II."

His stomach dropped a bit. "Sir, we need--"

"Kirk, listen," Pike interrupted him. "We have been spread thin ever since the incident." Because while everyone had gotten commendation awards for their actions against Nero, speaking about it had somehow become a social taboo. It was merely an incident and when someone referenced 'the incident' everyone knew what it meant. "There's nothing more to be done. You have your orders. If this is part of your need to rebel--"

"This is not my 'need to rebel'," he snarled. "This is the third time I've requested leave and the third time its been denied. If this mission is so damned important then send someone else. My ship is being held together by string and toothpaste and even my Vulcan first officer has been worked into a stupor. I am done asking for leave, sir. I am demanding it for the sake of four hundred lives and an important fleet vessel." He was trembling, something he never did no matter how terrible the situation. What did he have to say to make them listen?

His mentor stared at him for a moment before saying, "Kirk, this decision isn't mine to make."

"Then bring me whoever has the power," he snapped. "I'll wait right here."

He ended up waiting for seven hours. During that time, he ordered the ship move to the nearest approved planet for leave that had the appropriate facilities for repair and restock. Chekov had just sent him an update when a new face appeared on the view screen. It did not look happy.

"Sir, I would respectfully," he emphasized the last word, "like to inform you that my crew will be on leave for two weeks and that during this time, my ship will be receiving necessary repairs."

The man had a deep frown on his face which wrinkled his entire visage. "From ranting demands to telling me what you intend on doing. Strange, Captain Kirk, I thought that a year of service had taught you that you are part of the military now. This isn't a democracy. This is you listening to what we have to say and then obeying."

The words spilled out of him without any damper to soften them. "Sir, I frankly don't give a shit. I tried following protocol and all it's done is brought suffering to my people and to my ship. My first duty is to them, not you."

The expression on the man's face went from perturbed to angry in a matter of seconds. He waited to hear he was being court marshaled, or taken away from the ship, or being thrown out. "I have approved leave for your people, Kirk, and repairs to be made on your ship. However, during that period, you will be coming here to have a personal chat with me about your attitude. Under--"

He gave the commander a grin and ended the conversation there and then. Somewhere, in a file folder, he knew that a little black spot was being added to his list. In real life, he jolts awake as something snuffles near his ear. His cellmate's fuzzy face is inches away from his own, invading his personal space. Its eyes are squinty as if its trying to see him and having difficulty. He wants to get away from it, wants to crawl over to a corner as he has so many times before this, but his body is beyond his control. It forces him to deal with this creature as it examines him with long intakes of breath. Then, with no explanation whatsoever, it drops him, stands up and walks away. The warmth of its presence leaves with it and his whole frame is suddenly wracked with chills. The wall is visible to him again, the giant view screen of his life, and he wanders into memories.

There was a bomb on the ship. A bomb; oh God, a bomb and it went off. What was he supposed to do first? He could not remember because his head was spinning around and around, drifting like a piece of flotsam on the ocean. If only he could nail it to his shoulders so it would hold still for just a second. Everyone on the bridge was unconscious. Was there a leak? No, no leaks; it was still habitable. He needed to call Bones. Bones could fix things. He had to call Bones so that medical could get up there and put everyone back together but communications were down. He stood and staggered his way to the ladder system. Grip the rungs and move! But he did not remember going down them. Only that he found level after level of destruction until he reached medical. They were already on alert so he told them how many floors he'd passed and continued through destruction, chaos, throwing orders, taking names and would someone get this damned thing moving again. Find out who planted the damn device and why and how, he snarled at any lowly ensign who passed. Send security around. This ship is in code red, pull yourself together, Lieutenant! He pointedly ignored any discussion of how he felt and tried desperately not to fall over every time he stopped moving.

Tenacity rewarded him. He was the one who found the perpetrator in the bowels of the ship with another bomb in hand. He stepped in at the nick of time and listened to the ranting, raving, and threats. This man had been chosen to fulfill this duty. This man could not fail. But this man was unlucky because Kirk had a very strong driving force behind him. So, when it came down to the fight, he was prepared, he was chosen, and there was no doubt who was going to win. That didn't mean it was an easy battle. He was told, when they found him, he was nearly dead and the man was barely discernable as a person anymore. They were fished out of space like a sad, sorry toy and towed to a station where everyone huddled for weeks. He recovered, barely, thanks to Bones and his hardy staff and then was sent off to have some one on one time with a different sort of medical official. This person drew up a full psych evaluation in which he made his position clear. He would do anything to protect his crew and his ship and no, he didn't feel an inch of fuckin' guilt over killing the bastard. Yes, he would do it again and again and again. And for some reason, the psychiatrist didn't suspend him for further inquiry. She merely marked it down and sent him on his way.

The grate leading down into his chamber lifts up and one of his captors, Garren, pokes his head in. This is a familiar past time as he has shown a proficiency for escaping without being noticed. Twice a day, someone would make certain he hadn't made another break for it. One panda-- in for its masterful crimes (yes, he's given the panda a past where it cunningly took over a city composed completely of cheese but was overthrown by a rat with two heads and no tail) against the universe-- check. One Starfleet Captain-- in for the Federation's infuriating meddling until some sort of treaty was reached-- check. He likes it when Garren comes because Garren gives him news when possible. But judging by his face, that is not the reason he is here now.

Garren has in his hand a weapon which, with one dispersal of energy, paralyzes the target for a solid thirty minutes. He shoots the panda immediately, without question and without any aggression on the panda's part. Kirk braces himself for similar treatment, wondering if this means cell transfer. He knows that they prefer to keep humanoids with humanoids here and that his only reason for being paired with the panda is that they have no extra space. Up until now, he would not have minded a person to speak with but the panda's sudden change in disposition has made him less eager. He's not up to fighting for dominance right now. He and the panda have a workable relationship so being left alone is fine by him. Of course, this could just be a closer examination of the cell's integrity or, and this is laughable, they could want to take him to the primitive sick ward upstairs. He prays it's not the latter.

Garren swings down from the opening and creeps over to where the shivering, mess of a prisoner lays. He watches Garren with glassy eyes and only the vaguest amount of interest. The bits of his life on the wall have once again become more interesting for his easily distracted mind. Garren nudges him with the tip of a shoe and when that elicits no response, he calls upstairs in a foreign language.

Minutes later, he's grabbed under the arms and dragged out of the cell. As he's moved, he can see the panda lying on its side, its blue tongue lolling out of its lips, its eyes staring into nothingness. He wishes he could've spoken to it, thanked it for its one minute of kindness and then cussed at it for its abusive ways. But it's far too late for such actions and he has no strength to fulfill anything more than basic necessities such as breathing. Even that seems difficult as someone drops him on the wooden floor next to the grating. Each rattling breath takes more energy than the last and he's starting to wonder if this is the end of the line after all. Not that he doesn't think he can still win. He just needs to ascertain if his body's giving up because that means he needs to kick it into gear.

They get him upright and try to make him walk. He cannot even keep his back straight or raise his head to help them as they move his body forward. Someone is cursing in the language, and the one of his left, not Garren, slaps him across the face. His vision grays out almost immediately and he knows he's a dead weight in their arms. His body's drifted away from him and he's following his memories again, this time seeing them on the back of his eyelids.

It was a drunken poker game. He was three sheets to the wind when he sat down with the other Starfleet Captains, so pissed he couldn't see straight. He'd been informed, when they were docking, that he would be trading assignments with one Captain Cornelius Umbrage for a few months in order to broaden both their horizons. Cornelius headed a smaller ship whose main purpose was archaeological expeditions and he'd not seen much of battle or frontier exploration. When Kirk had said he preferred his own ship, he'd been told that it wasn't his decision and that he would return to it in a few months. So, in retaliation, he'd gone off and seen just how many shots he could do without passing out. He believed then that he did his best work when he was drunk as well, so he convinced himself it would help him get back his ship. Cornelius, having consumed six bottles of Budweiser Classic and enough hard liquor to kill a small army, was playing across from him. Mostly, people were betting orders-- not particularly uncommon-- and Kirk's fuzzy mind had decided that he could weasel Cornelius into trading assignments with him. Bluffing his way through three hands and then losing two, he let his fellow Captain's confidence rise. Then, making certain to slur his words extra thick, he'd mumbled, "I bet, on this game, your ship against mine." And he'd won with a royal flush.

Really, it did not matter because everyone still did the duties assigned. It was a gag, for fun, relieving the officers momentarily from the harsh reality of not having control over their own existences. Kirk had staggered home to his ship for his last night before transfer and Cornelius to his. The next morning, Kirk awoke to the news that the man had left in the night for no explicable reason and, while en route to the next assignment, the ship had exploded. While he had no proof of whose fault it was, he always suspected that it had something to do with Cornelius. To this day, he still thinks that if he had not played that game, it would have been everyone he cared about instead of a ship full of archaeologists.

He comes to as they step outside and into the light of two suns. The guard has been replaced by Garren's partner Shadra and he hangs between them. They hold him gently-- Garren has generally been very kind to him and Shadra has followed Garren's example-- his arms draped across their shoulders. Even so, he has difficulty breathing, cannot focus and most definitely, cannot comprehend what is going on. He has not been allowed outside since the time he scaled the prison wall using a couple of eating utensils and a cup. The fresh air feels good, the perfect mixture of heat with a breeze, and he savors it. Maybe they think he's dying from whatever he has-- silly, because he knows he isn't-- and they are giving him his last moments outside. His eyes aren't focusing well in the brightness of the day but as they drift about, he catches sight of a group standing in the distance. It's over the dusty earth and across a bridge but he cannot mistake the Starfleet uniforms. They are blurry figures molded out of blue, yellow and red but he doesn't have to see their faces to know that these people are his people. His body still is useless and heavy but the rest of him soars.

They've come for him.

"Looks like they finally want you back, Kirk," Garren says.

His throat doesn't work or he would inform Garren that they've never stopped wanting him. They are his family-- the family he chose because of their unmovable loyalty and love-- and they have been working non-stop to get him released. It's not that they suddenly decided they missed him. No, it just took time to get everything done, the mechanics, diplomacy, sass, violence and pure luck. But his throat's closed up, his voice is broken and all he manages is to let his head drop to his chest. His feet are dirty and bruised in the orangey haze and he cannot imagine the rest of him looks much better. His whole body, previously uncooperative, looses its tension. The comfort of his crew's presence drains his energy just as much as whatever illness he has. Garren squeezes his fingers and uses his free hand to tilt his chin up.

"Listen, Kirk," he states firmly. "Listen to me. This is as far as I can take you. You need to make it across the bridge on your own. It is neutral territory. I cannot enter, they cannot enter, or the treaty is broken and you are back in here. Do you understand?" He blinks and is grateful that Garren takes this as a yes. "I like you, Kirk. And because of that, Shadra is going to give you help that no one can know about. No one. Ever. Or peace is ruined. Can you get there?"

Of course he can; as soon as he can get his carcass to listen to him again. It must reflect in his eyes because Garren gives him a tiny smile and nods to Shadra. He takes Kirk's weight and Shadra draws a hypo from his belt. There's a sharp pain against his neck but suddenly his body's responding to his commands again. He's shaky, hurting and dizzy but he manages to get his knees to lock. Garren pulls away and he's standing on his own, swaying like a drunk, but ready to go. Garren's overly red lips twitch further into a grin.

"Thanks," Kirk rasps.

"You're men love you," Garren tells him. "That is all I need to know. Thank them. They established the treaty on both sides and forced it trough legislation. You may work for dishonorable scoundrels, James Kirk, but you and yours are good men. Go with the wind on your side."

He doesn't say goodbye because he wants all of his energy to be spent on getting himself to everyone across the bridge. His feet trip him up and his arms don't work to stabilize him but he gets to the bridge. From there, he decides foggily, it should be easy business. The bridge has a railing that he clings to for dear life. He uses it to pull his body forward and concentrates on how the faces are starting to become discernable. Spock's pale skin and calm façade contrast with McCoy's nearly frantic worry. It's familiar, it's good and it's a rescue.

He gets halfway there when the shot really starts to fade away. The strange numbness and trembling come back, worse than ever. His stomach throbs nastily, trying to explode out of him like something from a bad horror story. He loosens his one hand from the railing and braces his middle. The world tilts first one way and then another. His vision fades at the edges bringing the colors, beautiful, primary colors, of his crewmates shirts into sharper focus. The fingers on the railing suddenly aren't clenching anymore but he's so close, only ten feet away, so he tells himself it doesn't matter. His feet shuffle across the concrete, covering the first foot, then the second. The third passes him just as his knees start to tremble too violently to carry him. He can't see anymore, can barely breathe. Just a little farther, he coaxes his body, a little farther and then he can rest. But there are some things that simply aren't physically possible. Suddenly, he's falling forward, the energy shot spent.

He expects to hit the ground, to be stuck out in the middle of the neutral territory until his body is reduced to dust. But there are footsteps and hands catch him, pull him close to a heaving chest. He's dragged the last few feet-- he knows it-- and lowered onto luxuriously soft material. The hands brush his face, touch his neck, pull open his eyelids. He catches a quick glimpse of well-loved faces, hears garbled commands and feels a tender kiss pressed against his forehead. The same lips brush his ear and he can almost make out the voice as his mind travels to unconsciousness.

"It's okay, Kirk, we have you."

Another voice. "Just a little longer, Jim. You're almost home. You owe me quality time, even if it's in the sick bay."

"Hang on, Keptin."

And he does. He's saved them more times he can count. He figures he'll hold out to let them do the same.