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It’s his fault, really, getting sucked in by Jim’s charming smile and Spock’s beckoning look, letting himself be suckered into an away mission on some random alien planet. Death and disease, that’s all the galaxy is, really. Every time Leonard puts foot on non-Earth soil, he fully expects to get a terminal alien illness and fall over dead. The fact that it’s taken so long is more surprising than the fact that it happened at all. He should never let himself near that godforsaken deathray they call a transporter.
And now he’s got Tigelian fever or at least some relative strain of it. It’s something he recognizes but can’t do anything about. His medical team’s gone over him, diagnosed him and offered treatment, and now the only thing there is to do is wait it out. It’s not contagious. But it is a pain in the ass, leaving his legs numb and his head prickling and his skin cold.
He should be in sickbay, really. There’s nothing more they can do for him there, and he’s not a danger to anyone else, but it still makes more sense than his quarters. He’s grumbling about it all down the hall, with Jim under one arm and Spock under the other, holding him up and helping him walk. Jim keeps chuckling like this is some goddamn joke, and Spock’s stoic response to that gives Leonard the uncanny feeling that Spock thinks it’s Leonard’s own fault.
Then they’re in his quarters, everyone off shift, and he knows that they’re going to be in here for a while. As soon as he’s crossed the threshold, he barks, “Alright, get off.” Because he’s sick and should be alone.
Jim says, “Almost there, Bones,” and he pats Leonard’s back affectionately. The two of them maneuver him through the open doors to his bedroom, and then they’re awkwardly disentangling. He’s pushed gently onto the mattress, where he’s unable to do anything but bounce once and lie there. Jim’s worked up a bit of a sweat. He puts his hands on his hips and looks over at Spock, who remains completely unaffected. “Should we put him in pajamas or just get him naked?”
“What?” Leonard barks, trying to lift up on his elbows but finding them too weak. And then his head stings, so he cringes and just holds it.
“The medical staff recommended he be kept warm; it would be illogical to leave him bare.”
“What if he gets a hot flash?”
“I’m right here,” Leonard grumbles loudly. “And it’s not a goddamn Earth fever—who said anything about hot flashes?”
Jim shrugs. He doesn’t know anything about medicine, and Leonard just rolls his eyes. Then they’re back to looking at one another, talking about him like he isn’t even there. “I will retrieve his nightwear, Captain.”
“Thank you, Mr. Spock.”
Jim’s all grins while Spock trails over to the dresser. Leonard glares over; he doesn’t like people—even his lovers—fishing through his things. But there’s not a lot he can do about it. Jim sits down next to him, pushing his arms up above his head. “I am totally enjoying you being helpless like this, by the way.”
“Brat,” Leonard grumbles. He already knew that. He can see the amusement in Spock’s eyes too, even if Spock is doing a better job of covering it up. Jim starts to tug at the grey medical shirt Leonard’s been draped in, pulling it up and over his head. Leonard just lies there and lets it happen, because it feels like iced spikes are scraping at the walls of his head, and his skin feels particularly sickly. Spock’s got a hypospray in his back pocket to reinforce the inhibitors in Leonard’s system if need be, but they can only mask so much of the pain. The acute pricks are all gone, but the general ache is still in place. Jim starts undoing Leonard’s pants, and the best Leonard can do is lightly swat at his hands.
“Be good,” Jim says, more in his private, loving voice than his captain-giving-an-order one. He leans over to peck Leonard on the forehead, and Leonard has the irrational and ridiculous feeling that the area hurts less than other places.
It’s a bit strange, being spread out in bed, naked and numb, while foreign fingers tug everything off. He hasn’t been dressed since... well, he can’t really remember that ever happening. He always puts his own pants on. But he trusts Jim and Spock, and the glares he sends them are mostly out of habit and pretense. They good-naturedly ignore his attitude, like they always do. Spock brings over a blue, silk set of pajamas, and Jim lifts Leonard’s legs up to help. Together they manage to get him re-dressed in something a lot more comfortable than a uniform.
He doesn’t say thank you, like he probably should, but when Spock looks at him, those dark eyes and thin lips seem to say, ‘you’re welcome.’
“Okay, let’s tuck him in.” Jim makes it sound like they’re parents with a child. Which is ridiculous, because they’re the kids and he’s much older. Spock leans over the bed, his long arms slipping under Leonard’s back and knees.
Leonard groans, “Oh, for the love of...” But Spock’s already picking him up.
It’s always surprising just how strong Spock is. Leonard falls against Spock’s strong chest, fighting the urge to cuddle into the warmth. This is so undignified. He’s much too old and much too big to be carried. But Spock holds him tenderly while Jim lifts the blankets back, and then they place him down again. Jim pulls the blankets back up, tucking him in. Leonard’s trying not to let his cheeks flush. He feels like a two year old.
“Do you require anything?” Spock asks.
Jim’s hand presses against Leonard’s cheek, palm brushing the light stubble and thumb stroking Leonard’s face. Leonard doesn’t want to admit that’s as comforting as it is. He grunts, “I’ve got a fever, not a goddamn death warrant.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. Then he turns on the spot, strolling into the adjacent bathroom.
Jim, sitting back on the bed, retracts his hand to pull off his boots. He’s pulling the gold shirt off his head when Spock comes back with a glass of water to place on the bedside table.
“Now wait just a minute,” Leonard cuts in, watching the curve of Jim’s back flex as his shoulders shift. “You two aren’t sleeping here.”
Now Spock’s pulling off his shirt, and Jim asks, “Is it contagious?”
“No, but—”
“Then it would be more reasonable for us to stay with you,” Spock says matter-of-factly. “You may require assistance at any point in the night, and it is our duty to see that you are well taken care of in your time of need.”
“He means we’re awesome boyfriends, and we’re going to be here for you,” Jim translates with a laugh.
Leonard just rolls his eyes. The two of them lift up the blankets on either side of him, slipping underneath. He can feel the bed dipping with their weight, and then they’re settling in. They don’t give him any space, even though the bed would allow for it. They snuggle up close, Jim fondly cuddling him and Spock languidly stretching out across him. Their different styles mesh oddly well together. When they both have a head on his shoulder, arms draped over his chest and legs entangled with his, Jim orders, “Lights.”
And they’re plunged into darkness. They’re all down to underwear, but Leonard’s too weak to feel aroused, as beautiful as they are. He does feel warm, very warm. His clammy skin is greedily sucking up their body heat. Spock says quietly, “Please inform us if our close proximity is disruptive.”
“And then we’ll still love on you,” Jim adds, “just from a few centimeters back.”
They both lean in and tilt their heads—he can feel their noses brushing through his sweat-slicked hair—and they each plant a soft, closed-mouth kiss on the side of his face. Leonard exhales as grumpily as possible. It’s strange to be on the other end. The patient.
It’s nice to be taken care of, even if he doesn’t want to say it. He feels overwhelmingly loved.
He finally grumbles, “Thanks,” into the darkness.