"Red alert."

His order is a reflex as the lift doors open but there's no-one to hear. No-one but Chapel and she's already well aware of their alert status.

On autopilot he heads for the centre chair, then realises there's little point in taking the command position when there's no one to command. He scoots over to the weapons console - scans the screen read-outs.

"Shields holding at 80 percent. Thank God he'd left the bridge on yellow alert. It had all been so calm when he left he'd wondered if it was necessary.

"Sensors showing no vessels, Captain. But there's an energy pulse to starboard. Possible cloaking device – range 6, no... 5 thousand kilometres – bearing 2327 mark 56."

He glances over his shoulder. Chapel's gone straight to the science station - looks as at home there as she did at the diagnostics computer. Since when did she get so comfortable on the bridge? She's sent the figures direct to his console.

He reorientates the central viewing screen to centre on the co-ordinates. Magnifies. Nothing. Not even a ripple in the star field.

He senses the danger before it hits even though there's nothing on his screen. Seems more in tune with his ship than ever before. The blast almost rocks him off his feet - forces him to cling to the edges of the console. Not for the first time he wonders why Star Fleet engineers didn't think to install seat belts on the bridge of a starship.

"Shields at 50 percent. Arm photon torpedoes. Spread pattern, distance detonation." He's talking to himself again. A timed torpedo blast might just shed some light on this.

Fingers flying over the console, he's thankful he's never had a hands-off approach to command. It's the little things that earn you your crew's respect. Little things like making sure you can do their job better than they can.

But damn - this is tricky. Weapons systems on a starship aren't designed to be operated by a one-man band. To get the distance rather than an impact detonation he'll have to route targeting via the science station. Override the safety controls. Scotty wouldn't be happy. But then Scotty's never happy.

He punches in the necessary code. Glances over at Chapel who's still scanning.

"Targeting online, sir."

She's good. He's not even told her what he's doing and she's ahead of the game. She raises her head - meets his eyes with a level gaze. If he didn't know better, he'd swear she's enjoying this.

"Captain. Energy pulse now closing. 4 thousand kilometres. Targeted."

He leans across the console, double checks he's got the right combination of switches engaged. Then hits bombs away. "Fire!"

Two explosions. The first is immediate - directly across the bridge and behind him on his right.

The second is delayed - the white-blue blur from the exploding torpedoes outlining a shape he doesn't recognise - it's not Klingon, not Romulan shape. A bird's nest of tubes and tangles, it's barely ship shaped. Then suddenly it's gone. Winking out as if someone hit delete on the view screen.

The silence is only broken by a fizzing noise from overloaded circuits. An acrid smell of melting plastic... and something else.

Silence.

Chapel. She's slumped in her chair. Not moving.

"Chris..." He's by her side in an instant. She's not groaning. He knows that's a bad sign. Snaps into field medic mode. ABC. Airway, breathing, c… What's c? He always forgets c.

"Chris, it's ok. You'll be fine. Just hang in there"

Excellent - platitudes. Just what she needs after experiencing the wrong end of another great Kirk decision. He can hear Scotty's voice now - "The engineers put those safety controls in for a reason, Captain."

The feedback has singed one side of her hair but the burn doesn't look too bad. She's unconscious but she's breathing. He has to get her to sickbay. "Bones," he mutters, "This would be a really good time to make a reappearance."

The turbolift takes forever. It's no easy task carrying her dead weight. She's nearly as tall as he is. And she's spent a lot more time at the gym.

She's moving in his arms. Coughing. "Sir, put me down."

"Nearly there, Chris. Just a few more minutes."

"Jim... Put. Me. Down."

Startled he obeys, gently lowering her to her feet just as the doors open. She's wobbly so he slings her arm round his shoulders as they start down the corridor to...

Sickbay. Where's sickbay?

It's so unexpected he can't take it in at first. The corridor just... ends. No sign of blast damage. No forcefield blocking a gaping hole into space. Just a bland blank wall in regulation Star Fleet grey. And no sickbay.

-oOo-

She can feel his shoulders slump in shock. Lifts her head. Her vision is still blurry but she can make out the wall ahead. What the...? He's brought them to the wrong deck. Or maybe the turbolift...

But no, this is deck 5. After almost five years she knows her short walk to work better than any other part of the ship. It doesn't make any kind of sense.

She feels sick. Cold. Makes a rapid medical assessment. She's in shock. And so is the man beside her judging by his uncharacteristic freeze.

"Jim."

He turns his head. He hasn't told her to drop the sir but she figures it's the best way to get through to him.

"My quarters. There's a field medic kit..." She's coughing. Bile in her throat. Great, she may be about to throw up all over her commanding officer. Impressive.

She watches him snap back into command mode. Can see him reprioritise…deal with the urgent, the impossible can wait.

" Right." Then he hesitates. Of course, he doesn't know where her quarters are. Why should he? It's not like he was a regular visitor or anything.

"5-F, 235 - down there on the left."

He turns. Lifts her arm more firmly across his shoulders and she's glad of the support. Black dots across her vision. She just manages to palm the door and the dots join up. One big black dot.

-oOo-

Wetness. On her face - now on her lips. She struggles to focus. His face is inches away - there's concern in his eyes… hazel - her favourite colour, as of about 30 seconds ago.

"Sir?"

"Shhh... Chris. Just drink."

She's on her bed. He's on her bed. Holding up her head so she can swallow. The anti-shock meds from the field kit - the liquid's sweet. He's sweet.

Tries to tell him. Lifts her hand to his cheek. "You're sweet, sir."

That smile. Gentle this time. "I nearly killed you, Chris. Think you can call me Jim."

"No." He mustn't think... Her voice is croaky. She coughs.

"No - you had to..." It's all coming back to her. The weird clarity at the science station. The energy pulse...

"Did it work? Did you get it? Is the ship safe?"

A strange look comes into his eyes. He frowns.

"That's odd. I haven't really thought about the ship since... Yes, the ship's safe. We got it... Whatever 'it' was."

Then he's gone. Where's he gone? He mustn't go. She struggles to sit up. But he's just bent down to the field kit. A whirring noise she recognises as the hand-held regenerator.

He holds it up to the side of her head. He's careful. It takes a while.

"Does this thing work on hair?"

She manages a weak grin. "Don't think so, no."

She raises her hand to touch the frizz on one side of her head. An attractive bald patch. Lovely. She touches the skin. Strange…

"Jim, pass me that mirror."

He's stern. "Chris, this is no time to be touching up your make up. Anyway, you look fine. You look great actually."

"Liar. Just pass it over."

Reluctantly he hands her the compact from the side of the bed. Yes, as she suspected. Second-degree burns already starting to disappear thanks to her own private nurse. It should hurt like hell. But there's nothing.

"What have you given me? Pain meds?"

He looks down at the field kit, seems embarrassed.

"I didn't think I should until you were conscious. Just the anti-shock stuff. What do you need?"

"It doesn't hurt."

He looks sceptical.

"No, really sir. I'm not being heroic about this. It doesn't hurt."

She pats herself down. Everything seems fine, no other damage. Nerves in perfect working order. In fact some of them are working better than others and she suspects she knows why. There's a tingle factor sitting just inches away. And the anti-shock meds are doing their stuff. She's feeling better by the minute.

"Thank you, sir. You ever want to think about switching to a career in medical when this mission's over, I'll give you a recommendation."

"I told you, call me Jim…" He stops. A sharp change in tone. "What did you say?"

"I said you'd make a fine physician, Captain…"

"…when this mission's over," he finishes. He's suddenly far away. "Chris, the memory loss…the mission…something's just come back to me."

It's coming back to her too. The five-year mission. The month-long countdown. The night-long party. How could she have forgotten? The life she's known for so many years ending. A new life beginning.

She'd decided…. What had she decided? To change her hair… to get fit… but what about the important stuff? Why can't she remember?

"Jim…"

He's not looking at her. His shoulders are sagging. He looks bereft.

She leans forward. Touches his arm. Her captain, but not for much longer. What had he decided?

"Jim."

He looks up. She's never seen such sadness. An emptiness in his eyes.

"Chris… I'd forgotten. How did I forget?"

She remembers now: he's losing everything - everything that matters to him. His ship -his crew - his purpose. Wasn't there talk of a desk job at Star Fleet? She can't see him behind a desk.

"Chris…" His voice cracks. And then she's leaning into him. Desperate to comfort. She's never seen a man more in need of a hug.

And then the hug turns into something else. His hands are round her face. His lips are on hers. And she's lost in the best kiss of her life.

"Jim." She clutching his back, running her hands down his spine, her fingers through his hair. He groans, pushes her back into the pillow. Deepens the kiss until she thinks she might pass out. His hands are gentle. God - is this man good at everything? She has a feeling she's about to find out. Now she's the one groaning.

He pulls away. His eyes worried.

"Chris, I'm sorry. You're hurt. I shouldn't…. we shouldn't..."

"I'm fine, Jim. You're fine. I told you – no pain. See."

She's pulling his hands back onto her face. But the moment's gone. She might not be in pain but his pain is in plain sight. He's withdrawn and hurting and there's not a damn thing she can do about it. He runs a finger down her cheek, as if trying to take the sting away. He smiles. A smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"You should sleep. And I need to… check on a few things. Will you be okay for a while? It shouldn't take long."

She nods. And the truth is she does need to close her eyes. If she could just rest, maybe things would become clearer. Her memory feels like a patchwork quilt and the moths have got in. Big holes. The trouble is she's not sure she wants to patch the gaps.

-oOo-

He has to get back to the bridge. Needs to get home, sit for a while.

Home. He should stop thinking of the bridge as home. Bad habit. It was only ever temporary. He knew it was temporary. A five-year mission - he's explained it to others often enough. So why did he kid himself he'd found his life's work?

The lift doors open and he's walking through the way he's done a thousand times before. Checks the view screen - nothing. Wanders past the engineering consoles all blinking benignly. Then back past the useless comms desk to the science station. He needs a damage report after that last attack. Odd how he hadn't thought of that before.

The ship's fine - no hull breaches, no intruders, no casualties - well, one casualty. He smiles. Chris. She's one tough cookie. He's not sure why he feels so protective of her. She seems plenty able to take care of herself.

He goes back to scanning. Time to start investigating the impossible. Where the hell is sickbay? Surreal question - surreal situation. He wants to go back through the timeline, look at the archive but the library tape's offline - greyed out. He slams his hand on the console in frustration.

He heads over to the centre seat. His centre seat - but not for much longer.

He knows he should be focused on their current predicament. Not sure why he assumes there'll be some sort of resolution, except things always do seem to work out in the end.

But once this is over, it really will be the end. No more strange new worlds - no more waking up to a new crisis in a new star system - if this is Tuesday it must be Corinth IV. No more banter on the bridge. It's taken five years to build the finest crew in Star Fleet - it will take just one homecoming to scatter them to the stars.

He listens. The hum seems muted. Even the Enterprise has gone quiet on him. There's a suspicious lump in his throat. Good thing starship captains don't cry. Groaning, he puts his head in his hands. He's never felt more alone.

-oOo-

She's starving. Can't remember the last time she had a solid meal. And Jim's still not back. Gingerly she sits up and checks her head. Runs through the post concussion checklist. Blurred vision? Nope. Headache? Nope. Memory loss?

The patchwork quilt is still looking pretty threadbare. But some things are coming back into focus.

The party - the 'mission accomplished' party. She didn't want to go. She remembers that much. Remembers Nyota almost dragging her into a dress and down the corridor to the rec room.

But despite their best efforts, despite the large quantity of cocktails themed around their favourite shore leave planets, it still felt more like a wake than a celebration.

And Kirk was the worst. It would have been better if he'd sat in the corner and sulked. They all knew that's what he wanted to do. But instead he seemed determined to be the life and soul of the party. That brittle laugh, the alien anecdotes getting wilder and wilder - insincerity in their captain was slightly terrifying.

She wanted to help - they all did. Some of them feared for his sanity. And she was his nurse. That's why later she'd agreed to... What? Something...she remembers some sort of dire warning. Long discussions with Spock and McCoy. There was paperwork... Nope - she's still drawn a blank. And she's still starving.

She jumps off the bed and rummages around her bedside cupboard. Recently she's got in the habit of keeping a few energy bars handy for those early morning workouts when she can't quite face breakfast. She frowns. The cupboard is bare.

Slowly standing, she takes in her surroundings properly for the first time. They're her quarters all right, but things are subtly different. That picture of her and her mom - it doesn't live on the bottom shelf. The pile of padds is on the wrong side of the desk. And it's all a bit too tidy - suspiciously tidy.

Thinking hard she goes out into the corridor. Along to Nyota's room. Uses her medical override to palm open the door.

Yup, now she knows something's up. Nyota would never have left it like this. It's a standing joke that if an alien horde invaded the communications officer's quarters, she'd probably never notice... In fact it usually looks like the horde just left. Now it's pristine - even her lute is set at a jaunty angle.

She's got to tell the captain.

She heads out of the door at such speed she almost knocks him flying. Still manages to stand on his foot.

"Ouch, Chris. Twice in one day. Flattening your captain's a court martial offence, you know."

He's trying to make jokes but she can tell his heart's not really in it.

"Jim. You've got to see this."

"Hmmm...You look better. You hungry? I've suddenly realised I'm really hungry"

"Starved. But..."

"Tell me when we've got some food in front of us. The replicators should still be working in the mess hall. I've a hankering for something really fattening. Care to join me for dinner, Nurse Chapel?"

He makes a mock bow and offers his arm. She takes it, smiling in spite of herself.

"How can I resist, mon capitaine?"

She's glad to see he's attempting to regain some of his former good mood as they set off down the corridor.

"But Jim. It's the staff quarters - they've been tampered with. You should see..."

He's stopped. Not listening. She follows his gaze - his eyes are suddenly grim.

There's no mess hall. No replicators. Just a grey wall where the double doors should be. It's as if another entire section of the ship has just blinked out of existence.

-oOo-

Right. He's had enough of this. Spins on his heel and heads back along the corridor bringing a still protesting Chris with him.

"I don't understand. Jim, the mess - where did it...?

"I'm still hungry, Chris. We need to eat. No-one ever made a good decision on an empty stomach." His words are bright but his voice is sharp.

"But where…?"

"I've just remembered. There's a replicator in my quarters. Installed just in time for the next lucky guy. And there's a darned good bottle of Scotch. I need a drink."

She stops protesting. Stays silent as he almost frogmarches her through the doors. He doesn't usually allow his female staff into his inner sanctum. The ship's already a hotbed of gossip and it makes life... complicated. But who's to see? And anyway Chris isn't staff. She's medical. And a friend.

He feels like he needs a friend right now. He sloshes as he pours triple shots of Glenfiddich into glasses and pushes one over to her. She still hasn't said anything.

He raises his glass. Says loudly to the ceiling, "Here's to unsolved mysteries!" Drinks. The single malt is good. As it warms its way down his throat, he wonders briefly what effect it will have on his empty stomach.

She's not drinking. She's looking at him appraisingly - as if she's doing a medical assessment.

"Jim...don't you think…?"

He doesn't want to hear her diagnosis. Talks over her.

"Right, dinner." He slaps his hands together. The gesture feels like play-acting. He suspects she's not fooled by the fake bonhomie. "What's on the menu tonight? I'm in the mood for Italian, I think."

She looks down. Nods. "Whatever. You choose."

She says nothing more as he orders up lasagne, salad and two portions of tiramisu and brings them over to the table.

"Sorry. No flowers - no candles. Just can't get the staff." He laughs and can hear in his head how thin it sounds.

She doesn't react. Just starts eating. He joins her. God, he's ravenous. And so's she, judging by the way she's tucking into her plateful.

The food helps. So does the scotch. The knot in his stomach starts to loosen. He looks across at his dinner companion as she absently scratches the healing skin on her forehead. So brave…

Suddenly he wants to talk. To connect with this extraordinary woman he barely knows. They've spent the best part of five years together. She's seen him at his most vulnerable, probably seen him naked – she is his nurse after all. He reddens slightly at the thought. So why hasn't he really noticed her?

"You were quite something up there. On the bridge. Have you been doing some extra training? I didn't think there was much call for long range scanning in medical."

She frowns. "There isn't. And I haven't."

She takes a swallow of her scotch. Makes a face. He should have ordered up red wine with lasagne.

"I just seemed to know what to do. It all fell into place. Like I was channelling Spock or something." She smiles.

He remembers she had quite a thing for his first officer. McCoy was pretty relentless with his teasing.

"Spock. I know you liked him. Did you two ever...?"

"No, Jim. Like that was ever going to happen. He's very driven you know. Anyway, he only has eyes for you."

He smiles uncertainly. Unsure if she's joking. He knows there were rumours...

He pours some more scotch. Looks round his quarters then back at the bottle.

"This was one of my better ideas anyway. You can't get this stuff in the mess."

She looks at him and he knows what she's thinking. There is no mess. No sickbay. It feels as if the walls of the Enterprise are closing in, bit by bit.

He pulls over dessert and starts eating.

"I don't like being manipulated, Chris."

She looks at him. "Is that what you think is going on?"

"I do. It's some sort of sick game. And I've decided to stop playing."

The dessert tastes bitter in his mouth. He pushes back his chair. Takes his glass over to the bookcase. He still likes to thumb through the old fashioned hardbacks, Shackleton, Churchill, Sun Tzu. Finds it comforting to connect to generations of long-dead readers.

The books are all in the wrong order. Somehow it doesn't surprise him. He sits on the couch with a sigh.

"Okay, so what were you saying about the crew quarters?"

She walks over and sits beside him, cradling her glass.

"They're too tidy. This isn't a ship where everybody's just up and left in a hurry. It feels like a stage set."

He nods in agreement. "So if this is a stage," he asks glancing upward, "where's the audience?"

-oOo-

The bottle's almost empty. She's sure she shouldn't be drinking only a few hours after she was rendered unconscious. But she's feeling reckless. He makes her feel reckless. She stretches out lazily and sneaks a peek at the man beside her staring into space.

They've both kicked off their shoes. Curled up on the couch like a couple of college roomies working through a particularly tough assignment.

They're no closer to solving the mystery. They've got theories - a ton of theories - but none of them quite match the facts.

"The thing is, Chris... She feels real."

"She?"

He seems surprised. "The ship, of course. The Enterprise. And if this is a set they've spared no expense. Before you got here, I did a complete ship-wide survey. Top to bottom. Nothing missing. Open all areas."

He turns - he has an expression she can't quite identify. A yearning.

"She's stopped talking to me, Chris."

It's back - that loneliness in his eyes. She's not used to seeing her captain look this defenceless. He's invincible, isn't he? The man who snatches victory from the jaws of defeat in a hundred crises – who always pulls the ship back from the brink - goes toe to toe with an entire dictionary of alien species and doesn't blink.

She sees him makes a mental shift. Pulls himself back from an abyss she can't see.

"They've offered me a desk job, you know. Admiral - Chief of Star Fleet Operations. Quite a step up from just one starship. Bones says I'm mad to be considering it."

She has to agree with her boss.

"So will you take it?"

"Not sure." His hand moves over hers, squeezes. It's a friendly gesture. So why does she feel it across her whole body? She's shocked by the sense of connection. He feels it too - she can tell by the way he's looking at her. "What do you think I should do?"

She looks down at their hands joined on the couch. He's asking her opinion. Captain James T. Kirk wants careers advice. From his nurse.

"I suppose you can't go haring across the universe for ever. And it might be a different sort of challenge." She doesn't believe the words even as she's saying them.

"Yeah." He runs his thumb across her palm and it feels astonishingly intimate. "So what about you? What have you got planned once homecoming's over?"

"I'm thinking of going back to medical school. Becoming a doctor. I want to specialise in post-traumatic stress."

She's suddenly getting a strong sense of deja vu. PTS therapies? Haven't they had this conversation before? She continues more slowly. "There are some exciting new therapies coming down the pipeline - Doctor McCoy is working on..." What? It was on the tip of her tongue but it's gone. She frowns but he doesn't seem to notice.

"That's great, Chris. Doctor Chapel, eh? If you need it, I'm happy to write you a recommendation." He leans his head on her shoulder and looks up at her, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I can certainly vouch first hand for your bedside manner."

He's so close she's shaking. He seems to realise - pulls away - his gaze troubled.

"Sorry, Chris, I didn't mean...I just get so..." He looks lost again. He's hurting.

Her mouth is dry. She's never wanted anyone this much.

"Jim." She lifts her hand to his cheek. She doesn't get any further.

Because he's kissing her and she's kissing him right back. Her defences are down – she has no defence against this man, so open, so vulnerable. And suddenly there's nothing but his lips, his tongue, his hands… God, his hands.

"Chris," he groans and it's almost like a prayer.

She's tearing at his uniform – needs to feel his skin on hers. He rolls over her, pulls up her top and then his mouth is on her and she can't think. Can only feel. He's tracing her with his lips, feathery kisses. Using his tongue - she thinks she might explode.

She needs more. Can feel him hard against her. She wants him inside her but he's holding her down, holding her back. Kissing her more gently now, more slowly. His breath soft against her cheek.

"Chris, are you sure you want this?"

For answer she pulls off his remaining clothes. Then hers - can hardly bear to break contact but then he's back, his skin warm against hers.

"Jim, I want…"

"What, Chris, what do you want? Tell me…"

His fingers explore. And she's lost. Every nerve ending on overload. When she comes, it feels like the first time ever.

And it's not enough. She reaches for him, guides him but again he stops. She can't help moaning in frustration.

"Chris, look at me."

She meets his gaze. She's never seen him more intense. His eyes bore into hers.

"You have to let yourself go."

And then he's in her, filling her, moving against her - the connection so concentrated she's not sure where she ends and he begins.

It's a good thing they're on an empty ship.

-oOo-

It's dark and something is right.

He can't immediately say why. For a moment he doesn't remember.

"Lights - low."

In the glow he can make out the dark hair beside him on the pillow. Can feel the warmth of her bare skin curled up against him.

Chris.

He should let her sleep but he can't resist pulling her closer.

"Mmmm." She turns, opens her eyes and her face is soft. Considering how little sleep they've had, she looks incredible.

"G' morning." She's slurring her words.

He plants a kiss on her forehead. The skin is nearly healed. He intends to stop there but she's reaching for him and she's pulling him close, her touch gently demanding. He still wants her. Can't believe how much. This time there's no urgency to the connection, their joining is like coming home.

Later they share a shower and giggle like teenagers. Fight over what to have for breakfast. Talk, share, make love again, and again.

He feels... How does he feel? Liberated. Irresponsible. Not lonely. The opposite of lonely.

He's given up worrying about his future. About the incredible shrinking Enterprise. When he closes his eyes, he can picture the lights going out all over the ship. An ever-increasing circle of darkness centred on his cabin. The hum is so soft he can barely hear it.

There's only this, a bright bubble of life and light and laughter. So when they open the doors to his quarters and find the blank grey wall, they just smile, turn back to each other... and kiss.

-oOo-

It's dark and something is wrong.

"Chris?"

"Jim." The voice is worried. It's not her voice.

"Bones?"

"It's ok." The hiss of a hypo.

Pain. Inside. Chris. Where's Chris?

"Wait, Jim."

Yes, wait. For the dreams to dissolve and reality to crawl down the checklist.

Planet or ship?

Answer. Planet. No hum. But then he lost the hum, didn't he? He lost the Enterprise. She stopped talking to him. He thinks he should care more. Something's changed.

"Chris?"

"Wait, Jim. She's coming."

Then it's dark again.

-oOo-

"Jim?"

"Shhh, Christine. Lie still."

"Doctor? Doctor McCoy."

"Yes. You've had quite a time of it. It's over now. How's the memory?

"Woozy. Coming back. Where's Jim? Your therapy - did it work?"

His voice is gentle.

"Jim's ok. It worked - thanks to you, Christine. He owes you. Starfleet owes you big time."

"But there were walls, Len. Walls on the Enterprise. That wasn't in the plan."

Another voice. His fingers are hot on her face. Not Jim. Spock. She can feel his thoughts. The meld.

Is this all right, Christine? Let me help.

Yessss. Oh God, now she understands. The Enterprise was hijacked. But they were so close to home, in Earth's backyard. On the flagship. They were supposed to be safe.

-oOo-

He's awake and they're arguing. Arguing over his head...which hurts.

"We should never have risked it. It was a damn fool idea from the start. I should have trusted good old fashioned meds rather than relying on a damned Vulcan mind meld."

"As I told you at the time, Doctor, a mind meld is not a medical tool with exact parameters. You said he needed to relive those last weeks on the Enterprise - to say goodbye, to work through what I believe you called 'his issues.' And a mind meld does have the advantage of few side effects when effecting amnesia."

"Side effects! You said a few hours and they were still out of it the next day… They were attacked, Spock. We could have lost them. Not to mention the fleet's flagship."

"If I remember correctly, Doctor, it was you who talked Starfleet into lending us the real Enterprise for the day. Your paper on the subject was very persuasive. It certainly persuaded Nogura. And Christine. We all talked through the risks. And it was her idea to join him in the amnesia."

"We should have stuck to the simulator. But the results weren't…"

He pushes himself up to a sitting position. His head is swimming.

"Gentlemen, will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?"

-oOo-

"5 million, 492 thousand, 642 to one?"

"Yes, Jim. The odds of the Xante warping in and encountering our therapeutic expedition on the Enterprise at that precise point in space time."

"And it was these... Xante... who fired on us?

"They didn't fire, Jim. A series of particularly aggressive scans. But the ship was under attack. You felt it. They started beaming over as soon as they realised the ship was virtually empty."

"But Chris was injured, Spock. I saw it. I caused it."

"Yes. I'm afraid the feedback loop was the result of your actions. Her burns were real. The Xante just removed the pain. They are not a vindictive species –- apparently they are known more as commercial scrap metal dealers than warriors. And they have some empathic facility... But they did want the Enterprise. Once on board, they started occupying, putting up walls, driving you into a corner, blocking your scans - and ours. We were, of course, shadowing you on the Yorktown. It just took some time for us to realise what was going on. We managed to negotiate. No shots fired. No damage done. Although I am concerned your memory loss continues. Christine is waiting for you. May I suggest we complete this meld now?"

"Just one more thing, Spock. This 'experiment' - this revolutionary McCoy therapy you say I volunteered for. Borrowing the Enterprise from space dock. Who the hell signed the paperwork for all that?"

The eyebrow is up. Way, way up.

"Why Captain, or rather, Admiral. You did, of course."

-oOo-

The sun is warm on his back, the sand is warm between his toes, her hand is warm in his. They have a beach to walk on and no deadline. Nogura's told them to take as much time as they need. It feels odd to spend this long out of uniform, but he's in no hurry to rush back to his desk. Despite McCoy's therapy, he's never going to relish the routine.

She's told him he never will. He'll always hanker after the stars. But it's better.

It had been a dark period those few weeks after homecoming. He was a man obsessed - with losing the Enterprise, with losing his crew, at one point with losing his mind. The youngest starship captain in Federation history, the man with the meteoric career path, Starfleet's 'hero', and he was drowning in paperwork. For the first time in his life he was underperforming. He remembers the disappointment in Nogura's eyes.

No wonder he'd jumped at the chance to go back, back to the Enterprise and back in time. To blank out the pain, even for one day. This time he didn't mind being a medical guinea pig.

And McCoy's research suggested targeted temporary amnesia could be a breakthrough - could help thousands of hurting minds. It was enough to justify borrowing the Enterprise for a few hours. She'd been waiting almost three months for those promised refits. Nogura had waved it through - although Kirk noticed his support didn't extend to actually putting his name on the dotted line.

He grins. Beside him, Chris notices and smiles back. He can't believe they're together – doesn't quite dare to hope that the loneliness will stay away. They're still uncertain of each other, feeling their way.

But he's sleeping, he's laughing, he's said goodbye. He can think of a new captain on the Enterprise without pain. He's not sure how long it will last but for now he can finally contemplate a future away from his ship - perhaps even make plans…

He looks at Chris walking beside him, her face thoughtful. The report should make interesting reading. It hadn't exactly gone to plan. She'd argued for joint amnesia - said without it he'd see through her, and her attempts to counsel, in an instant. But she was supposed to be there to offer a human alternative to inanimate metal, as a sounding board, a friendly face. She wasn't supposed to end up in his bed. And the Xante - well, they weren't supposed to be there at all.

He tightens his hand on hers, lifts her fingers to his lips, and he promises himself he will get round to sending them that thank you message.

END