Chapter Text
Captain Kirk awakens suddenly, feeling as though his head hardly touched the pillow. Surely it isn’t already morning—he couldn’t have been sleeping more than twenty minutes. A quick glance at the chronometer disproves his estimate, however, and he groans as he props himself upright.
He has some time before his shift on the bridge is scheduled to start. Idly, his thoughts drift to Spock. Perhaps he should ask if he wants to join him for breakfast. It would also give him a chance to determine if he did actually end up sleeping… or if he needs to take his first officer off duty for the day. Vulcans are not meant to lie, but they are capable of telling half-truths. Even though Spock seemed exhausted the night before, God knows he’s much too good at ignoring his body’s needs.
Decision made, he pulls his uniform shirt over his blacks, makes his hair presentable, and steps into the hall. In no time, he reaches Spock’s door and activates the chime.
No response. Odd.
He waits a minute and then activates the chime again, thinking that if there’s still no response, Spock must have already exited his quarters.
But no, a second later, the door slides open. Spock isn’t visible, but Kirk steps inside anyway.
“Morning, Spock. Would you like to join me for breakfast—?”
His breath catches on the end of his sentence as he rounds the corner and catches sight of his first officer.
Spock is several shades too pale aside from the green flush tinting his cheeks, nose, and ears. His eyes are glazed and overly shiny, and though he does his best to draw himself up to his usual posture, Jim’s gaze snags on the whitened knuckles of his hand on the control panel on the wall. Spock folds his free hand behind him. “My apologies, but I must decline.”
“Spock!“
“Do not be alarmed, Jim. This illness cannot be transferred to humans.”
A stab of irritation sharpens Kirk’s voice. “If you think that’s what I’m alarmed by, you must have a low opinion of me.”
Spock considers this. “…I have offended you.”
“No—yes—it doesn’t matter—sit down. That’s an order.”
Spock, ever the dutiful officer, takes a seat on the bed, though the angle of his eyebrows makes it clear he's only humoring Jim.
Jim takes a deep breath to douse the frustration burning in his ribs. He’s aware that he isn’t actually angry—if he looks at the base of the flames, he’ll find that the wood is made up of concern—but that doesn’t stop the ever-present spark in his throat from igniting.
“How long have you known you were ill?”
“Approximately 2.34 days, Captain.”
Something inside Jim balks at the use of his title. He hadn’t wanted this to turn into a professional dressing down, but to prevent that metamorphosis now, he would have to trample the barrier of formality Spock has put up. That one word is a strategically drawn line; one that, if crossed, would give Kirk a clear advantage in the conversation. It’s an opportunity. A request. A challenge.
At another time, Jim would have admired how easily Spock can direct the flow of a conversation. Now, he simply submits to his first officer’s wishes and allows himself to slip into his role as Commander Spock’s captain.
“I would expect this sort of behavior from an ensign, but you, Mr. Spock? Surely you of all people know better than to hide an ailment. It’s foolish at best and fatal at worst. I daresay it’s illogical.”
“On the contrary, Captain. There was an emergency that needed attending, and Vulcans are quite capable of suppressing any signs of illness that might impede function.” Spock’s voice, usually smooth and full as fine silk, is hoarse, cracking, catching in his lungs. He turns away to cough. Jim’s fingers twitch as he resists the urge to insist he stop talking. “My presence was required. I did what was necessary to ensure it.”
The flames in Jim’s chest climb up his throat. “Vulcan capabilities be damned! Despite what Bones says, you’re no robot. You’re no more invulnerable than anyone else in this crew and there’s no less risk in toying with your health!”
Spock’s response is as infuriatingly calm as ever. “I do not regret my actions, Captain. I made the logical decision.”
“Yes, yes, I can accept your choice as logical, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Jim snaps. He activates the comm panel on the wall with a sharp smack. “I’m alerting Dr. McCoy that you’ll be arriving in his office shortly. You will report to sickbay immediately for a complete physical, and you will obey all of the doctor’s orders.”
Spock dips his head. “As you wish.”
McCoy scolds Spock over the comm panel nearly as much as Kirk already did. Spock, to his credit, does not retaliate, only responding with quiet acquiescence when McCoy demands to see him in his office right now, dammit. Jim’s official responsibilities have concluded, and yet, as he watches his first officer—his friend—waver slightly as he hauls himself to his feet, he finds himself reluctant to leave.
Spock, sensing Jim’s hesitation, turns his gaze to him in a silent query. Jim clears his throat. “...I think I’ll, er, accompany you to sickbay. If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” And so, as usual, Spock takes his place at Jim’s side. If their stride is slower and more heavy-footed than usual, neither comments on it.
McCoy’s scowling face greets them just inside sickbay. “About damn time. Alright, Spock, get your pointy-eared behind on a biobed.”
“A most illogical and anatomically inaccurate comment, Doctor,” Spock says. Still, he allows himself to be maneuvered onto a biobed without protest. Almost immediately, the alarms go off.
“Yes, yes, I know,” McCoy grumbles as he fiddles with the controls. “Crazy Vulcan readings always screw with—Good God, man, how were you standing???”
Jim leans over to peer at the readings. “What is it?”
McCoy gestures angrily at the biometrics. “His temperature’s through the roof, even for a Vulcan. Heart rate is beyond elevated, respiration is obstructed, K3 at intolerable levels—frankly, he shouldn’t be conscious, let alone coherent!”
Jim rounds on Spock. His first officer lays placidly on the biobed, hands folded and eyebrows raised as if to say and yet, I am.
“Nurse, prepare 20ccs acetaminophen and 10ccs guaifenesin. Don’t give me that look, Spock,” Bones snaps, “I know hyposprays turn your stomach, but I’m tryna stop your stubborn Vulcan brain from cookin’ in your thick Vulcan skull.”
“I assure you, Doctor, I will be quite alright without your potions.”
Bones’ eyes bug out. “‘Quite alright’ my ass! You’re lucky Jim was th’ one to find you out, ‘cause I tell ya, if it were me, you’d be halfway to Hell by now!”
Jim can tell by the thickening of McCoy’s accent that he’s gearing up for a lecture and preemptively tunes him out. His eyes drift up to watch Spock’s reactions. A twitch of the eyebrows, a slight shift of the eyes— on Spock’s face, minute movements become precise communications of reactions, responses, opinions, beliefs. It’s hard for him to believe that he once thought Vulcans expressionless.
His reverie is interrupted when Spock turns away yet again to cough. Jim itches to press his hand to his forehead, but stops himself. Vulcans are touch telepaths, he reminds himself. It would be an invasion.
Nurse Chapel hands off the requested hyposprays to McCoy, who presses them to Spock’s neck with even less gentleness than usual. Spock takes a sharp breath in and squeezes his eyes shut. If possible, he goes paler.
“Breathe, Spock. It’ll pass. Jim, watch him for a minute, will you?”
“I do not need to be monitored."
McCoy ignores his patient in favor of picking up his PADD. He turns away, muttering something to himself about cross-referencing Vulcan medical practices.
Spock allows a long-suffering sigh to escape him, looking as dignified as someone can when they’re laid flat on their back with a high fever, before he lets his eyes drift shut again. It’s as clear a sign of discomfort as if he’d openly winced. Kirk’s hand stutters up again. He forces it to rest on the edge of the biobed instead.
“Jim,” Spock murmurs. “Your concern is appreciated, but misplaced. It is a simple case of Romulan influenza. I will have returned to duty within three days.”
“Like hell you will!” calls Doctor McCoy.
Spock cracks an eye open. “...I will return to duty whenever I am permitted. However, I will have recovered in three days.”
Kirk smiles. “Your advice is appreciated, but misplaced, Mr. Spock. Humans as a species are predisposed to worry when their friends are ill, no matter how temporary the ailment.”
“So I have observed. A most illogical use of energy.”
“Perhaps so,” he chuckles. “But I see no reason to change.”
“If you two’re done yapping at each other, I’d like to see to my patient. And you’d better get going Jim. Alpha shift starts in half ‘n hour.”
Jim taps his knuckles against the biobed and pushes off. “Right. I’ll see you later, Spock.”
“I believe I will see you for chess later, if the offer still stands.”
“Oh, but there’s no glory in besting a sick man, Mr. Spock.”
Spock cocks an eyebrow. “I believe you will find my capabilities… unaffected.”
Kirk grins. “We’ll see.”