Work Text:
Jim –
Just got word that Spock collapsed during the Nausicaan Astrometrics conference. On my way there – I’ll keep you in the loop.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.4
Spock regained consciousness briefly, had to be sedated. Symptoms include tachycardia, dizziness, confusion, disorientation. I’m in communication with the Nausicaan medics, and on my way there, though with enough Vulcanoid doctors on the case I might only get there in time to keep him company in recovery.
You owe me.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.4
Still six hours out. Tentative verdict is telepathic overload, probably because your damn hobgoblin forgot to sleep or meditate enough or something.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.4
Never thought I’d spend my golden years racing back and forth across the galaxy to take care of you two. Taking care of pointy-ears is supposed to be your job.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.4
Jim – answer your damn communicator! You can’t still be on duty, it’s a publicity cruise!
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.4
Sorry. Just occurred to me that if Spock’s got some sort of telepathic problems, you’re probably flat on your back in your bunk with a migraine because of your bond. Forget the last message – I’ll take care of your favorite hobgoblin until you can get here.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.4
Two hours out, finally got a hold of that Denobulan that’s co-presenting with Spock. It seems that they were just leaving their Q&A on Ion storms and pulsars, or some such thing, when she noticed Spock had stopped walking, and then he fainted dead away, real sudden like. Sounds to me like a telepathic problem, overuse or something. Of course, knowing him, it could be blood sugar, low copper, some new and exciting space virus that decided it likes that icewater blood of his. The doctors don’t have any more information for me, other than that they had to give him a psi-inhibitor.
Don’t worry, I’ll get it all sorted out. I haven’t gotten a hold of your CMO yet, but you follow her orders and drink plenty of water.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.4
What sort of incompetent half-trained children are they letting practice medicine nowadays?
Long story short, Jimbo: found out that the first responders panicked when Spock started slipping into some sort of trance and they shot him up with an adrenalide compound. All the medications since have been the Nausicaan doctors desperately trying to manage the side effects from that, or the resulting extreme heart rate spike.
Bastards didn’t even realize that they needed to throw a thermal blanket on him. Or that letting twenty million different people touch him on his way to the hospital was only going to make things worse.
Anyway, Spock’s definitely dealing with some telepathic shock here, in addition to all the mismanaged hyposprays. Waiting for him to wake up from sedation right now so I can get a better gander at what’s going on in that Vulcan mind.
Get here as soon as you can.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.5
Jim-
Get here now. Spock’s got no blooming idea why he collapsed, not that he’s even coherent with that psi inhibitor in his system. He’s awake, finally.
Finally got in touch with T’Navi, one of those mind healers, who recommended “extended contact with the patient’s bonded,” so get your ass out to Nausicaa. I’m a doctor, not a teddy bear.
And answer your damn comm.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.5
Jim –
Sending you a picture of Spock. He’s drooling on my shoulder. Took me about four hours to get him back to sleep, and now I’m trapped.
Your hobgoblin weighs a ton.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.5
Jim –
Answer your goddamn comm, or I’m going to have to come looking for you. And if you make me leave Spock when he’s this sick to drag your sorry ass back here, I will not be happy, Jimbo.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.5
Jim –
He’s asking for you.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.5
Are you captured by Romulans or something?
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.5
Only you could disappear on a goddamn routine shakedown cruise.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.5
In case you ever bother to pick up your communicator, I’ll give you another update on your green-blooded sweetheart.
Currently, we’re dealing with disorientation from the psi-blocker and Tranquilazol, which is not a Vulcan-safe sedative, but the only thing they could give him that was even slightly compatible with the adrenalide. He can’t trance because his shields are shredded, so he’s spent the past few hours shivering. And asking for you.
The mind healer on Vulcan has checked in more than you. By the way, she asked if Spock and I were bonded and I had to explain that we still have that resonance mumbo-jumbo from the Fal Tor Pan. She also wonders why you’re not here, because me sitting here rubbing Spocks’ back isn’t doing much good since I’m not his bondmate. And if you think Sarek’s going to come and help Spock rebuild his shields you don’t know Vulcans.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.5
I just spoke to Sarek. He’s making arrangements to come to Nausicaa.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.5
Damn it, Jim!
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.5
Spock’s finally awake and coherent. All the drugs besides the psi inhibitor have worn off.
Doctors are taking him in for testing.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.5
Shit.
He had some sort of panic attack because he can’t feel anything telepathically. Except he’s Vulcan, so they’re calling it a “inappropriate adrenal response,” and I hate being listed as the nearest thing to next-of-kin, because I should be working on finding out what’s going wrong, not sitting here watching his heart monitor while I wait for him to wake up again.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.6
We’re taking him off the psi-inhibitor. If you’re reading this, brace yourself.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.6
Damn you.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.6
If you don’t answer me in the next thirty minutes so I can tell your husband that you’re not dead, I’ll…
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.6
He’s in telepathic shock from a broken bond. What the hell did you do?
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.6
I hope this continued silence means that you’ve just hopped a shuttle to get here, because your darlin hobgoblin just threw up his plomeek broth on me. It’s been fifty something hours since he last ate anything, so I’m going to have to try again.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.7
God damn fucking shit when Scotty gets you back I’m going to strangle you myself. And Spock won’t be able to stop me considering that he’s on an IV and waiting for a mind healer to come and guide him into a trance so he can rebuild his shields.
No wonder the hobgoblin carried on so much when we almost lost you to the Tholians. Get back here and get your name off the casualty list, and that’s an order from your CMO.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.7
Sarek is here.
And Amanda.
All I’m saying is that if you don’t want a terrifying elder and a Vulcan ambassador angry at you, you’d better beat feet to become un-“missing, presumed dead.”
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.8
Well, that’s it then.
When the hell did you specify that I was going to get a “regret to inform you” letter in addition to Spock? If you hadn’t gone and done that he wouldn’t have seen it over my shoulder. Fainted away again, because you, James T. Kirk, are terrible for his health.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.8
Jim, I…
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.8
First, fuck you.
You were supposed to be safe. It was a PR cruise, for the love of God. You’re posted on earth. I spent the best years of my life chasing after you and your crew of scallywags on a flying tin can, worried sick whenever you got your fool self stuck on some rock in the middle of nowhere because the transporter cut out again, or you pissed off some master computer, or someone took to poking you with spears. Other CMOs don’t have to put up with their captain getting perforated by fake Andorians or copied onto a robot or bioengineered into some sort of amphibian. And now you boldly go off and get yourself sucked out into some energy beam the minute my back is turned and Spock is halfway across the federation?
I’m not even mad that your grand damn hero ideas finally got you killed. I’m pissed as all hell that you did this without ever thinking that maybe when you up and died, it wouldn’t be any good for your bondmate. You know, Jim, the Vulcan you married and have a telepathic link to that goes both ways?
God, I haven’t seen Spock this sick since two weeks out from Deneva, when his immune system broke down all the dead parasites and they turned out to be toxic as hell.
Second, I was good and hopping mad when I started writing this to you, but damn it. I know you’d never leave him. Not if there was any way out. You’d never spare a thought for your own safety, or for everyone else giving themselves gray hairs over you, but you were always harder to kill than a cockroach. Or just plumb lucky. Guess your luck finally ran out.
Spock’s… well, Spock’s vertical, at least. With some help from Sarek. More help from Amanda, obviously. I stepped out to let them all have a minute.
We’re headed back to Earth, but we might not make it back in time for your funeral.
Sent: Stardate 2293.65.8
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