The Struggle to Feel Alive
Oh please -- handle me
neverfacedeath
The thing about having been dead, and waking up to find out you'd been in a coma for two weeks was that the absolute last thing that Kirk wanted was to stay in that hospital bed. It had been about a day and a half since he'd first woken up, and after eating as if he'd never seen food a day before in his life, and getting a full night's rest, Kirk was getting antsy. He needed to get out of the med ward, away from the feeling of hospital sheets, and he needed to do something. No matter how many times he flexed his fingers and rotated his ankles, there was this vague disbelief in the fact that he was really okay, no matter what Bones said.

He'd needed to get up, stand on his own two feet, despite his doctor's recommendation of at least another two days before physical exertion. The problem, of course, was that Kirk couldn't just leave it there. No sooner was he on his feet, then he was changing out of his hospital whites underneath Bones' exceptionally vocal protests. He needed to get out. He needed something, needed to feel alive, it was an itch he couldn't quite put a name to, but he couldn't stay here. It felt suffocating, as if he could slip away, disappear and never open his eyes again.

It didn't feel real. This. Being alive.

He'd thought when he'd watched Spock though the glass, tried to tell him how he felt with the last breaths of a dying man that it was real. The end. It's hard to reconcile with every breath he takes, the heartbeat that pounds in his chest and he's topless, agitated as he refuses to listen. He insists that he's fine, that he's done more than enough laying around the past two weeks. He just needs to get out.

Given his blatant refusal to listen to reason, Bones finally resorts to asking for reinforcements.

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