Chapter Text
The similarities between Romulan and Vulcan biology have often proved inconvenient.
Oh, they have allowed for easier camouflage and subterfuge in the few instances a Vulcan has been sent to infiltrate Romulan ranks, but that is rarely ever called for. Vulcans are a peaceful race. The same cannot be said of the Romulans, who take full advantage of their shared ancestry to aide them in their rather pointless military assault.
The Enterprise had to deal with one such false Vulcan recently, during a transport mission gone south. It was meant to be a simple assignment: shuttle a delegation of Vulcans from one starbase to the next to facilitate a conference. Unfortunately, all of the Vulcans were strangers to each other, and thanks to their unfamiliarity and the use of some sophisticated prosthetics, a Romulan spy managed to sneak her way onboard, bringing several inconveniences along with her.
One of which, Spock is discovering, was a rather nasty virus.
Vulcans have excellent control over their own bodies. A well trained Vulcan can even stop their own heart mid-beat. However, this does not mean that they can simply will a disease out of existence.
The symptoms of an illness are not, for the most part, caused directly by the virus itself; rather, they are created by the immune response to the virus. it would be highly illogical to suppress one’s immune response purely to escape discomfort. The only logical option is to submit oneself to treatment and meditate to alleviate any ill effects.
Except in cases of emergency.
Which, if the alarms blaring in every corner of the ship are to be believed, the present situation certainly is.
Spock rises from his chair in the laboratory with his typical swiftness, taking note of but not submitting to the ache that shivers through his muscles. He’s already at the comm by the time his captain is requesting his presence at the bridge, and is able to acknowledge the order without losing any time. Which is especially important because he has precious little time to halt his immune system’s assault on his senses and restore his mental abilities to their fullest capacity. He is fortunate enough to find the turbolift empty when the doors slide open—most crewmen are confined to general quarters.
“Main bridge,” he commands, and immediately closes his eyes, bringing a hand up to his face.
The ails of the body are experienced in the mind. The mind can be controlled.
The feverish aches, the fatigue, the mounting pressure around his eyes, and the subtle lightheadedness that have plagued him for the past 1.27 days are folded up and shelved for later. They become nothing but a dim awareness in the back of his mind.
The body is subject to the mind. The mind is subject to one’s will.
He focuses inward, deeper, halting the production of congestion which might muddle his words, separating himself from the dull thrum of fever. His heart rate slows to its usual steady beat against the side of his ribs.
As the turbolift slows to a halt, he feels his head clear. His internal temperature creeps closer to normal. He takes an experimental breath, easily quelling the urge to cough against the crackle in his lungs. Yes, he confirms, he is functioning adequately.
The doors slide open, and Commander Spock joins his crewmates on the bridge.
———————
Captain Kirk pushes his fingertips into his temples like he’s aiming to grab his headache by the scruff. The adrenaline crashes have been hitting him harder than he’d like to admit recently. A product of exhaustion, no doubt. His whole crew has been burning the candle at both ends.
Uhura’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “Casualty report. All decks, minor to moderate injuries. No fatalities.”
A relief. A miracle, really, considering the beating his ship has just taken at the hands of the Romulans. He acknowledges the report with a wave of his hand. “Forward the report to Dr. McCoy.”
“Already done, sir.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“Captain,” Spock interjects. “Sensors are detecting a trail of ionized calendenium particles.”
Kirk raises his head. “That’s a typical trace left behind by certain frequencies of phasers, Mr. Spock. What’s your point?”
His first officer turns to face him, sharp eyebrows raised ever so slightly. Jim knows that look all too well—it means he’s jabbed at the Vulcan pride Spock claims not to have. “Directional analysis indicates it was produced by the Romulan ship.”
Ah. He should have guessed. “Disrupters don’t have that byproduct, do they, Spock.”
“They do not.”
Jim suppresses the urge to sigh. “Uhura, send a message to Starfleet Command. Notify them of our discovery. Use code three.”
“Aye, sir.”
Kirk hits the comm button on the side of his chair with a clumsy fist. “Bridge to sickbay. Bones, report.”
”We’re swamped, Jim. Every dermal regenerator is in use. I'm surprised no one cracked their skull open, what with the way the ship was rattlin’.”
“The Romulans aren’t exactly known for being gentle in battle. What's the status of the crew?”
”Worst injuries we’ve seen are a broken wrist and a moderate concussion. Most patients just have cuts and bruises. Everyone should be back on regular duty within a week.”
“Good. Have Nurse Chapel forward your duty recommendations to Spock. Kirk out.”
”Now hold on a minute, Jim, I’m not done yet. When’s the last time you got a full night’s sleep?”
“…We’ve all been busy, Bones.”
“Mhm. That’s what I thought. Soon as alpha shift’s over you’re gonna sleep the full eight hours. Doctor’s orders.”
He doesn’t bother holding back his sigh this time. “Anything else?”
”Yeah, order that green-blooded hobgoblin of yours to get some sleep, too. He’s half human, if he needs remindin’.”
“I am well aware of my heritage, Doctor.”
”Well you don’t act like it. Now leave me alone, I have patients to see to.”
Kirk tips his head minutely towards Spock, weary incredulity written all over his face. As if Bones wasn’t the one to extend their conversation to nag him. Spock’s eyebrows twitch up in agreement before he turns back to face his station.
Sometimes Jim can’t help but marvel at how easily they read each other.
“...Of course, Doctor. Kirk out.” The connection terminates with a click.
He allows himself one indulgent moment of rest, eyes closed, before he resumes command. “All hands, prepare your stations for turnover. Dismissed.”
The relief from the bridge crew is palpable. Not only have they been stretched thin lately, but their run-in with the Romulans held them up several hours past the end of alpha shift.
Kirk's gaze drifts to the side to idly watch Spock, as he has so often caught himself doing these past few years. His first officer always moves in smooth, deliberate motions. If Kirk is lucky (lucky?), he catches the subtle shifting of muscles flexing under Spock’s uniform as he works. It reminds him somewhat of watching his family’s cat stretch—a glimpse at the raw strength hidden under his sleek grace.
Jim considers himself beyond fortunate to have Spock as his first officer. Working alongside him is effortless; they move together like binary stars, pulled into orbit at the guidance of each other’s gravity. It's something like a practiced waltz with a familiar partner.
It's because of that familiarity that Jim catches the stiff way Spock rises from his chair; the way he lets his hand linger on the console for a heartbeat more than usual, as if untrusting of his balance.
Bones was right. The crew needs rest. If their unflappable science officer is showing signs of fatigue, everyone else must be on the verge of collapse.
He hauls himself to his feet and makes his way over to Uhura’s station. He rests his hand on her chair. “Lieutenant, could I ask one more thing of you?”
She blinks. “Of course, sir.”
“Send a message to Starfleet requesting three days of shore leave for the entire crew of the Enterprise. Priority one under regulation 528.9.”
Uhura smiles. “Right away, Captain.”
A pleased murmur rises and falls among the rest of the bridge crew as they wrap up their tasks and prepare to turn in for the night. Kirk offers them a tired smile, then turns to his still-preoccupied first officer.
“Well, Mr. Spock? Are you up for a game of chess?”
(To his side, Chekov grins and mouths chess at Sulu, framing the word in air quotes. Jim pretends not to notice.)
“I believe that would be inadvisable, Captain. As per Dr. McCoy’s orders, you require rest.”
Damn Vulcan logic, he thinks, in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Bones’. Spock always has to be so reasonable when Jim wants to be spontaneous. “Tomorrow, then. And don’t think I forgot that Bones ordered you to sleep, too.”
“It would not be unexpected. Human memory is especially unreliable when under the effects of fatigue.”
Jim doesn’t get the chance to come up with an indignant response as the doors to the turbolift squeak open and his replacement for beta shift comes to take up her position. He delivers a summarized account of his shift, instructs the watchman to report any trace of Romulan activity to him immediately, regardless of the hour, and officially hands off control of his ship. He takes up his usual position by the turbolift as he waits for Spock to finish fine-tuning his observations and activate auto-alarms on the sensors. As usual, Spock breezes past Jim, expecting him to fall into step at his side, and as usual, Jim does so.
As soon as the door slides shut, Jim drops his professional veneer and stretches, careful not to invade Spock’s personal space. “Are you sure about the chess?”
“You require rest,” comes Spock’s predictable response. Then a beat of silence, and a less predictable, “As do I.”
That convinces him to drop it. “Of course. Will I see you tomorrow morning?”
Spock finally meets his eyes. “As always, Jim.”
The turbolift doors slide open again, and they part ways. Only for the night.