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Spacer flu was non-fatal, non-contagious and a bitch to have because no one ever bothered to make a vaccine for this century's version of the intergalactic common cold.
Space was definitely a diseased and infested place.
If he weren't coughing so much, Bones would have told Jim to forget about the tea and just replicate the damn thing. He would do it himself, but his hacking, the phlegm, and the self-interrupting had ended up confusing the hell out of the replicators in his quarters. He'd asked for tea, he got braised eel. He asked for hot tea, it gave him something Vulcan, green and smelling like Jim's damn socks after a workout. He asked for his favorite English Breakfast...
.…
After the smoke cleared, Scotty disabled his replicator access, shouted a bunch of words too "pissed off Scot" to understand, but the words "beaming", "no clothes" and "deep space" were involved. And the smell. Christ. Whatever the computer thought he was asking for still clung to the walls of his quarters and stunk up the place. Jim declared it unlivable and hustled Bones into his quarters. Not like he'd never spend the night there before, but it wasn't usually declared in front of the goddamn Bridge crew. And why the fuck was Sulu smirking?
"Jim, really—" Bones coughed into a fist. He watched Jim carefully pour hot water into a mug, boiling hot from the replicator (because it gave Jim exactly what he'd asked for, dammit). Jim waved a hand at Bones that read "I know, I know, shut up and let me work" as he fanned the steam with his other hand.
Bones sat cross-legged on Jim's bed, watching with red rimmed and watery eyes as his captain, his best friend, and more recently, his lover pull out a drawer and rummaged around with a frown reminiscence of when they were in the Academy and Jim read something for class he disagreed with.
An eyebrow rose when Jim made a triumphant sound and pulled out a battered tin box.
"Still English Breakfast, right?" Jim asked absently, not looking up as he spooned a small amount of dried leaves into a silver tea ball. What the fuck? A tea ball?
Bones blinked. "Uh...yeah...where did you..."
"That place by the astrophysics labs," Jim muttered as he carefully dipped the ball into the mug and kept an eye on his desk chronometer. "They sell that shit you like loose. Ceylon, too, but they were out the last time I was there." Jim frowned as he peered into the mug, gave the chain the tea ball was connected to a few tentative tugs before pulling it out. He blew at the dark surface, his lips pursed as he held the mug close to him but didn't take a drink. Then, he was pouring milk, putting in two sugars (because Bones hated it too sweet) then carried it gingerly to Bones, still fanning it until he handed it over.
"I might have kept it in too long," Jim murmured in way of warning, his brow furrowed as his eyes tracked Bones taking a sip.
Jim was right. The tea was a bit too bitter now and there was a little too much milk. But Bones looked at Jim sitting on the bed, also cross-legged, his bare right foot brushing Bones's without realizing it, blue eyes cloudy as they considered the tea.
"Well?" Jim asked tentatively.
Bones took another sip, flexed his foot into Jim's and felt Jim's foot quietly press back. Bones smiled.
"It's fucking perfect."