Chapter Text
Spock paced the length of the small room in which he’d been confined for the past three days. Four strides. The room was pleasant enough, sterile by design, protected from the noise and bustle of the rest of the ship, but after so much time it was beginning to feel like a prison cell.
He stopped in front of the floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the far wall. There was no item of furniture on the Enterprise that was purely for decoration but the contents of the shelves held little interest for him. He turned his head at the sound of a prolonged snore nearby. At least the captain was sleeping peacefully for now.
Spock moved away to retrieve his PADD from the tiny workdesk in the corner. He could review the duty roster while he had a quiet moment. He sank into one of the chairs near the bed but put his PADD to the side as the figure on the nearby bed stirred.
“Captain,” he said. “You are awake.”
Kirk lifted his head from the pillow, blinking his eyes blearily. One hand emerged from under the pile of blankets and he scrubbed at his face. “Am I?” he asked in a hoarse rasp.
Spock stood and poured a glass of water and brought it to the bedside. Kirk accepted it with a nod of thanks and took a hesitant sip, then a larger gulp.
“Slowly, captain,” Spock warned.
Kirk made an impatient noise as he finished the glass.
Although he already knew the answer to his question, Spock felt compelled to ask. “Do you feel able to take any nourishment today?”
Kirk peered at him with a questioning look on his face. “Are you asking me if I’m hungry?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. I couldn’t quite figure out what you meant,” he said. “I’m not, by the way. Hungry, I mean.”
Spock sighed. He was under instructions from Dr. McCoy to “get some food in him” but he would not force him to eat if he did not desire to do so.
The matter already forgotten, Kirk sat quietly, turning the glass in his hands, his mind elsewhere as he puzzled something out. He set the glass on the bedside table and blurted out a question.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Certainly, you are--”
“Wait, don’t tell me. I think I remember. I’m …” He closed his eyes, the better to concentrate. “I’m James T. Kirk,” he said with a snap of his fingers, his face brightening. “And I have a ship, did you know that? What am I saying? Of course you know. Everyone in Starfleet knows her.” Kirk tried to wave a hand dismissively but the gesture ended in more of a flailing movement. “It’s the Enterprise. You’ve probably heard of her?”
“I have a...passing familiarity.”
He beamed at Spock’s words and settled back into the bedclothes, drawing the covers up under his chin. “Am I on the Enterprise right now?”
“Yes, you are.”
“But these aren’t my quarters. The bed is too comfortable.”
“You are in sickbay, captain.”
“This looks nothing like sickbay,” he said. “Where are all the beeping things and nice nurses?”
“It is a private room in the medical wing. You have been quite unwell.”
“I’ve been sick?”
‘For a number of days, yes.”
“Do I have a cold? The flu?”
Spock was unsure how much information to share with him or how much he would understand in his altered state.
“You are ill with a disease heretofore unknown to us, caused by an alien virus contracted during a recent planetside survey. The most likely source was contaminated groundwater.”
Kirk stared at him for a long moment, mouth hanging open, and then he scoffed.
“Are you saying I drank dirty water? Impossible. I know better than that.”
“Not at all, captain.” Spock wasn’t sure the actual explanation would be more reassuring. “A member of the away team was in distress. During rescue efforts, you became submerged, at which time you either inhaled or consumed a small amount of the contaminated water.”
He probably did not need to know he’d tripped while attempting to help and had fallen face first into a murky pond and Spock had to pull him out.
“But I feel fine now,” Kirk said in a challenging tone. “I don’t even need to be in this bed. I should be...I should be on the bridge.” He flipped the blanket away with a flourish. “Where did you put my boots?”
“Captain, please. You are under orders from your personal physician to remain in bed.”
Kirk scowled as he swung his legs over the side of the mattress and tried without success to push himself into a sitting position.
“Then my doctor can come here and tell me that himself. Or herself.” He fell back awkwardly, chest heaving from the effort. “Wait. You’re here all the time,” he said. “Every time I wake up, you’re standing over me. Are you my doctor?”
Spock frowned. The captain’s memory lapse did not seem to be improving. “I am not. Your physician is Dr. Leonard McCoy.”
“Dr. McCoy.” He pursed his lips while he thought, rolling his head to one side to concentrate. ‘Wait. I know him. That’s Bones. Where is he?” He peered around the room with one eye squinted shut. “Bones!” he yelled suddenly, and then winced. “Ow, my head.”
“Captain, please do not try to move again. And do not raise your voice. You are still recovering.”
He ignored this and narrowed his eyes at Spock. “You keep calling me captain. Why? Am I your captain or is it just your nickname for me?”
He was acting as moody as a small child and Spock found himself hoping this stage of his illness would soon pass.
“It is not a nickname. You are captain of the starship Enterprise and I am Spock, your first officer. ”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am...not?”
“You’re not Spock. I know for a fact that Spock is Vulcan.”
“I can assure you, captain, I am both. I am your first officer and I am a Vulcan.”
“Prove it then.”
Spock straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. Although uncomfortable, there was only one way to prove his identity that had a chance of reaching through Kirk’s confusion. But before Spock could make a move, Kirk blurted out a request.
“Let me see your ears.”
And there it was. Spock nodded and turned his head, remaining as still as possible so he could focus. Kirk frowned at him.
“I can’t see that far,” he complained. “My eyes are blurry and my head hurts.”
Spock moved closer and leaned over Kirk’s bed, pressing a hand behind an ear to better display the pointed pinna. Kirk studied them for a moment without speaking.
“I like them,” Kirk finally said. He lifted one hand and extended it towards him. “Are they real? Can I touch them?”
Spock sighed quietly. As soon as he could get away, he would contact Dr. McCoy. This level of confusion was becoming quite worrisome. He crouched at Kirk’s bedside and inclined his head toward him.
“If you must.”
Kirk used a gentle finger to trace the auricle and helix, his face rapt. He was so close, Spock could feel his breath against his skin and he controlled a small shiver. Being a touch telepath was a particularly hard burden to bear in the presence of humans. Kirk finally let his hand drop and his eyes drifted shut.
“Spock,” he whispered. “It is you.”
“Yes, captain.”
Kirk scissored his legs in the blankets, trying to free them and pulled one of the pillows out from under his head, tossing it to the floor. “This bed isn’t comfortable now,” he complained. “It’s hot and itchy.”
“Nevertheless, you need to rest.”
Kirk blew out a soft raspberry sound. “Resting is boring.”
“But still necessary for your recovery.”
“Borrrrring,” he said under his breath in a singsong cadence.
“Perhaps you would like to read something?”
“Mnnnh, no. Head hurts.”
“Shall I read to you?”
“You’d do that? I…” His words were cut short at the sound of the door to the room sliding open.
Dr. McCoy strode to Kirk’s bedside, hypospray at the ready.
“Right on time, I see,” the doctor said. He perched on the edge of the bed, supported Kirk around the shoulders with one arm and helped him sit forward. “How are you feeling today, Jim?”
Kirk pursed his lips and tilted his head to one side. Then he shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t remember how I felt before.”
“Fair enough. Anything at all starting to come back to you?”
“A few things? I don’t know if I dreamed them or if it actually happened that way, but I was...I can remember sitting in the officer’s mess,trying to eat and I started feeling hot and dizzy and then…” He rubbed his forehead with one hand and gave a quavering sigh. “Then it’s all blurry,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, that’s all I remember.”
“That’s okay. You’re doing fine, don’t worry. It’ll come back to you.”
McCoy used gentle fingers to pull aside the neck of Kirk’s pajama top. “Now hold still,” he warned, as he positioned the hypospray.
Kirk screwed up his face and gave a small yelp at the hiss of the spray against his skin.
“I know that didn’t hurt,” McCoy scolded.
“No, it felt cold.” Kirk shivered in a dramatic fashion, as if to illustrate his point, then flopped back to the bed and rolled to his side.
“That’s because you’re running a fever again.”
"Okay."
Kirk's eyes were beginning to drift shut as the medication took effect. McCoy gathered the tangled blanket and drew it up over Kirk’s shoulder. His only response to the doctor's attention was a loud, jaw-cracking yawn.
Spock had busied himself across the room during their exchange, arranging and rearranging the shelf of various medical journals and reference discs. When McCoy began packing up his medkit, Spock called to him.
“Doctor, may I speak with you?”
McCoy strode across the room and stood shoulder to shoulder with Spock.
“Something on your mind?”
“An interesting choice of words," Spock said. "The captain’s memory loss continues to be excessive. When he wakes after sleeping, he seems to have forgotten who I am and wishes to ascertain my identity. He’s asked to touch my ears three different times now.”
McCoy pressed a knuckle to his upper lip and tried to assume a grave expression but snorted out a quick laugh instead. At Spock’s disapproving look, he composed himself.
“Sorry. I’m not laughing at you, really.” The doctor crossed his arms and bounced slightly on his toes as he continued. “The confusion is all part of the disease process, or what we know of it, at least. The virus seems to exploit a physiologic weakness in the host. For the captain, it’s his predisposition toward headaches. Between that and the fever, he’s a little scrambled. Then the side effects of the antiviral treatment we’ve synthesized makes him loopy and confused.”
“Who's loopy and confused?” Kirk called, his voice carrying across the room.
“You are,” McCoy said over his shoulder. “Now close your eyes and go to sleep.”
The doctor’s usually-stern expression softened for a moment before he returned his attention to Spock.
"He’s going to be fine, don’t worry.”
“I do not worry, doctor.”
“If you say so.”
McCoy rested a hand briefly on Spock’s arm in commiseration.
“I know it’s getting old, Spock. I just need to keep an eye on you for another forty-eight hours. If you develop any nausea or start vomiting…”
“...then we will know that I have been infected as well, since that is my particular physiologic weakness.”
McCoy nodded. “Indeed it is.”
“I would remind you that in the case of the captain’s illness, the incubation period between initial exposure to the virus and development of symptoms was less than twelve hours.”
“Yes, well, he doesn’t have the advantage of a supercharged Vulcan immune system, either.”
Spock’s shoulders sagged slightly at the logic of the answer and McCoy gave him a wry grin.
“I’m sorry, Spock. So far we know the virus isn’t transmissible by direct transfer but there’s still too much we don’t know about it. Can’t let you traipse all over the ship just yet.”
Dr. McCoy clapped Spock on the back as he moved past him to finish packing up his medkit.
“Doctor, I assume you are aware when Captain Kirk is conscious, he seems almost childlike in behavior and temperament. He is petulant, argumentative and stubborn.”
“Oh, believe me, I’ve noticed.” The doctor fastened the snaps and pulled the strap of the kit over his head as he straightened. “It’s the component of the virus affecting the neurological system. As the viral load decreases, his orientation and recall of events will increase. Give it until the end of the week. He’ll be back to himself, you’ll be cleared for duty and then we can put this whole hare-brained incident behind us.”
Spock nodded, a slight frown on his face. “If I were to become infected, would the virus have a similar effect on my behavior?”
“That I don’t know, Spock, but I doubt it. You’d probably be miserable and throw up for a few days but you’d retain your charming personality.”
Spock raised an eyebrow at the obvious barb but did not respond in kind. He did not have the patience nor the energy for it at the moment.
“I admit I do not relish the prospect of either possibility.”
“I have another private room set aside for you, just in case,” McCoy said. “So you can suffer in peace and quiet.”
“It is appreciated, doctor.”