Chapter Text
"Good morning, Y/N."
Ah. Morning meditation finished, then. You raised a hand and waved in Spock's general direction, your eyes focused only on your medkit. You hoped you'd synthesized enough vertazine during your last shift and could avoid the tedious requisition process for additional vials. Your day was going to be long enough without adding that particular burden to it. With your count completed, you looked up with a smile that changed quickly to a concerned frown.
Had Spock staggered slightly as he crossed the room toward you? And did he trail a hand against the wall to steady himself before he straightened into his usual posture? You couldn’t be certain. It happened so quickly, glimpsed only out of the corner of your eye, and he appeared his normal self as he stood in front of you now.
“What are your duties today?” He sounded like himself, too.
“Uh...” It took you a few moments to shift back into conversational mode after an hour of silence. “I'm making rounds first. We’ve had an unusual number of crew members confined to quarters due to illness in the past few days.”
"Communicable?"
"We're working on that assumption, yes. We’ve ruled out a foodborne etiology.”
“And you are taking all the necessary precautions?”
He didn't ask the question out of any concern for you. Spock didn't worry, he'd always been perfectly clear on that point. His question was grounded in the instincts of the first officer, ensuring proper protocol was followed in all matters concerning the ship and its crew.
“Yes." You ticked off the points on your fingers as you replied. "Biofilters have been installed at the entrance of all quarantined sections. We’re utilizing enhanced infection control when interacting with affected crew members and medical personnel undergo Level 2 decon before entering or leaving sickbay each shift. Standard procedure.”
“And you are well?”
You shrugged. “So far. If I develop any symptoms, I plan to quarantine myself out of an abundance of caution. We've set up a temporary ward in one of the science labs. Hopefully, we won’t need it.”
You served as a physician’s assistant on board the Enterprise and your daily duties required close contact with patients. Your hope of avoiding infection would likely be a futile one but you would cross that uncomfortable bridge when you came to it. You stood, shouldering your kit, ensuring you’d left nothing behind. Your schedule was packed and you wouldn’t be returning to your shared quarters until much later. Spock gestured for you to exit the room ahead of him and as you entered the corridor, you paused.
You’d learned never to say ‘have a good day’ because, of course, a day was neither good nor bad, it was only judged to be so based on the subjective and flawed perception of events. And ‘see you later’ guaranteed a lecture on the brevity of a human life and the inherent danger of space exploration. Instead, you’d taken to a private leaving ritual. You touched your hand to your chest and thought the words, in my heart. A small and rather silly gesture but it made you feel better as you went about your day and he left for his own duties.
You were still trying to wrap your mind around how the trajectory of your life had changed in such a short time. You hadn’t been living together for long. Only a few months earlier, you'd been assigned to a routine survey mission that ended with the two of you sheltered in the consuming blackness of a damp cave, all contact with the Enterprise lost as a thick, toxic pollen filled the valley below. By the time the air cleared the next morning and contact was reestablished, Spock was in your arms, drifting in and out of consciousness.
You remained close by for the next week while he recovered, ostensibly to work with Dr. McCoy on preparing an anti-toxin but, in reality, Spock seemed less agitated in your presence. After his discharge he continued to seek you out in sickbay, sometimes for assessment of minor symptoms and sometimes to sit with you while you finished your reports. He spoke little and gave no hint as to why he wanted to spend time with you, but you enjoyed his company. His visits grew from sporadic to regular and you often shared a meal since you sometimes forgot to eat, as did he. And one night after a particularly tense day, most of it spent in alert status, Spock appeared in sickbay with a haunted look in his eyes, took you gently by the wrist, raised you to your feet and led you to his quarters. There was no agreement spoken, only an implicit understanding that you would stay with him, and you'd remained there ever since.
Dr. McCoy cleared your new living arrangement, such as it was. Regulation 1138 was officially suspended due to the “beneficial effect on his ability to command” or so the CMO’s report read. There was no romantic intent on his part. Spock remained cordial and distant, seemingly interested only in platonic companionship. You did not share a bed, nor did you share a telepathic bond and your relationship was overlooked by the crew. Or if not overlooked, at least it was tolerated without mention. The future was not spoken of and you accepted your small role in his life, pushing it to the back of your mind most of the time.
Your shift ended as it always did, perched on an uncomfortable stool and hunched over your tiny corner desk up to your eyeballs in reports, more reports, and when those were done, a few more damned reports. While you worked, you glanced up at random noises or stray shadows, expecting to see Spock in the doorway, but when you finalized your last record and stored the disk away, he still hadn’t shown up. You sighed and sat back. Just as well. What you really wanted was a hug. A hug and reassurance that you'd done your best under stressful conditions and the worst would soon be over, but you could no more ask Spock for that type of comfort than you could flap your arms and enter warp.
He never checked in with you concerning his off-duty activities nor did he expect an accounting of your plans. Irritating sometimes and often lonely, but tonight you felt a certain measure of freedom. He would not comment on your absence if you decided to stop by the Xenobotany lab before your return. The decon process had removed the physical evidence of your messy and difficult day but the memories remained. And even if they could spare only a minute or two of warm water, you craved the physical and psychological comfort of an old-fashioned shower.
When you arrived to the lab, you were grateful to find Lieutenant Parson on duty, a good friend who looked the other way when you shrugged out of your uniform and entered the stall. You didn’t linger under the water for long, the brief sluice of warmth enough to banish the tension of the day. You shivered as you stepped out and after you’d finished dressing, they tossed you a towel. You took a seat in the small dressing area to dry off your hair.
"Thanks for letting me sneak in a quick shower, El."
"Any time, Y/N. Rough day?"
"Yeah,” you agreed. “Over now, though."
"Hope so."
You considered the ominous words. “Know something I don’t?”
“Probably not. I’m sure Commander Spock is feeling better by now.”
Your hands stilled and you flipped the towel off your head in case you hadn’t heard them correctly.
“Sorry, what?”
“He didn’t say anything to you?”
“We never talk in the morning." You gave a wry smile. "Or any other time, for that matter. Not that he would have mentioned it.”
“I wouldn’t have known either, except he spent most of the day in the desert biome section, sitting right in the middle of the specimens. ‘Research,’ he claimed. Hard to conduct research with your eyes closed, though."
“Trying to warm up, more likely.”
"Seemed like it, yeah. I almost felt bad for him but he ruined a day's worth of experiments."
Your own problems faded from your mind and you scooped up your medkit. You wanted nothing more than to return to your quarters to check on him. You only hoped Spock wasn’t as ill as some of the patients you’d treated during your shift.
“I should get going,” you said. "Sorry about your experiments." You didn't wait for a response as you rushed from the lab.
“Give him my love,” you heard your friend call after you. You laughed despite the worry churning in your stomach.
The door to your quarters slid back slowly. Too slowly for your liking and you shouldered your way in before it fully retracted. You banged your leg on the couch to the right of the door and sat down heavily, rubbing at the painful spot on your shin. You hadn't expected it to be in your path. You didn’t share a bed with Spock and since moving in, you’d made do with a little fold-down bench instead. It was reasonably comfortable and if you were needed in the middle of the night, you wouldn’t disturb him when you left. Not that he spent that much time asleep, but you didn’t like interrupting meditation either. Because of the cramped space, you were careful to always tuck it away after use. But some time during the day the couch had been folded down and locked in place and the surface was piled with pillows and a rumpled blanket. Unusual. Perhaps he’d rested here for a while.
You limped toward the bedroom and peeked in, breathing a quick sigh of relief when you saw him lying on the small bed, lights dimmed.
“Y/N, is that you?”
“A most illogical question,” you said, uncertain if he’d be receptive to gentle teasing. “Yes, it's me. I thought you were asleep.”
He rolled to his side facing you and pillowed his head on one arm. “I cannot sleep,” he said. “Nor can I meditate.” With his other hand, he massaged his forehead, his mouth turned down in a slight grimace of discomfort.
“Headache?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
Ever since his exposure to the neurotoxin on the away mission, headaches had been a common occurrence. And a simple headache wasn't necessarily a harbinger of illness, not in the absence of other symptoms, but you needed to check. You flipped your medkit open, fingers closing automatically on your tricorder, and tapped in the code for a diagnostic scan without having to look down. You’d used it so often today.
“Do you mind if I examine you?” you asked, motioning with the scanner.
“It is unnecessary,” he said. “Other than the headache, I feel quite well.”
“It’s procedure. The gastrointestinal illness we’re dealing with presents with acute cephalgia as the initial symptom in 72.6% of the cases.” It was a bullshit statistic you’d made up, but he didn’t have to know that.
He remained quiet for a moment and then agreed. “You may proceed.”
You stepped close to the bed and activated the tricorder, holding your breath while you waited for the termination signal. At the prolonged beep, you skimmed the display and then thumbed it off.
“At least it’s not the bug that’s been going around,” you said, blowing out a relieved breath.
“As I said.” His voice took on the patient tone he used when dealing with irrational humans. “Worry is particularly useless emotion, Y/N. It can change neither the circumstances nor the outcome. You are wasting your time and energy.”
You’d heard it before, any time you’d expressed even a hint of concern for him.
“And yet we can’t seem to help worrying,” you said. “Especially if those circumstances involve someone we lov-- ” You trailed off. Affection was another misplaced emotion, at least according to him, and you weren’t in the mood to listen to a lecture tonight. “Never mind. Would you like an analgesic?”
“I do not wish any treatment. It will pass.”
You lifted the strap of your medkit over your head and placed it on a nearby shelf before you took a seat on the bed. You scooted as close to his side as you could, keeping one foot on the floor, the other curled underneath you. Spock rolled to his back, one eyebrow raised as he studied you.
You slipped a hand under his head and slid it downward, not surprised to find the area from his upper neck to his shoulders taut and unyielding. You clucked your tongue.
“No wonder your head hurts,” you said. “So much tension.”
You positioned your hands and began a firm but gentle massage, kneading your fingers into the bunched-up muscles. His eyes fluttered closed and he made only one inarticulate sound, something similar to “mmmnngh.”
You smiled and resisted the urge to lean over and plant a kiss on his forehead. His Vulcan sensibilities made him resistant to physical contact of any kind, but occasionally his touch-starved human side came to the fore and it was satisfying when he allowed you this close.
"Better?"
Spock lay loose-limbed and relaxed and he hummed softly in response to your question. You took this as an agreement and stood from the bed to stretch out your lower back. You’d spent too much time bent over the prostrate forms of fellow crew members today and your joints ached.
“Rest will help, too,” you said. “So, if you’re sure you'll be okay, I’m going to spend the night in the quarantine ward.”
He pushed himself up on his elbows in one quick movement. For a Vulcan with his emotions under complete control he seemed almost alarmed.
“Are you feeling ill, Y/N?”
“I’m fine.” You stopped yourself before you could add, don’t worry. “But we could both use some uninterrupted sleep.”
Spock’s shoulders sagged and he nodded. Even if his headache were improved, he appeared exhausted and in no shape to argue.
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“Of course I am.” Your stomach gave a long rumble, and you pressed your hand to your midsection with a sense of foreboding. Maybe you weren’t feeling as fine as you thought. And maybe the exhaustion and achiness were the sign of something more than the remnants of a hard day.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you said, and then when a cramp seized your belly, you swallowed and added under your breath, “I hope.”