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The air in Sickbay tastes of sterile bio-filter hum and the sharp, metallic tang of Vulcan healing salves.
Jim stands over the primary bio-bed, his arms crossed so tightly his knuckles bleed white against his gold tunic. His heart hammers an erratic rhythm against his ribs as the vital monitors above Spock’s head finally shift from a frantic, amber warning to a steady, emerald pulse. Spock’s dark eyelashes flutter, parting to reveal dark, intense eyes that take a moment to focus on the Enterprise’s ceiling before tracking directly to Jim.
"You absolute idiot," Jim snaps, his voice dropping into a harsh, ragged whisper that carries zero actual heat, only the raw tail-end of terror. "You took a neurotoxic dart meant for me. You jumped right into the line of fire without a single second of tactical evaluation, Spock. You could have died."
Spock shifts slightly, the bio-bed humming as he adjusts his posture. His expression remains placid, yet the subtle tension around his eyes betrays his awareness of the bond humming between their minds—a warm, golden tether pulsing with relief. "My actions were entirely logical, Captain. The probability of your survival following direct exposure to that specific compound was less than twelve percent. Mine was sixty-eight."
Jim lets out a harsh, breathless laugh, rubbing a hand over his face to hide the tremor in his fingers. He steps closer, leaning over the bed so only Spock can hear. "I don't care about the math. Don't ever do that again." He pauses, his blue eyes softening as he reaches out, brushing his thumb over the warm, green-tinted skin of Spock's cheekbone. "But... thanks. Truly."
Spock catches Jim's wrist, his long fingers pressing precisely against the psi-points at Jim's pulse. Instead of answering verbally, Spock leans upward, drawing Jim down into a deep, deliberate kiss that tastes of herbal stimulants and shared devotion. Through their link, the Vulcan word *t'hy'la* resonates—brother, friend, lover, bound across time and space.
"My place is to ensure your safety, Jim," Spock murmurs against his lips, his voice low and resonant. "Always."
"Alright, break it up, you two!" McCoy’s gruff voice shatters the moment as he marches over, brandishing a medical tricorder like a weapon. He glares at them, though the corners of his mouth twitch with suppressed relief. "Spock, your green blood is still half-poison, and Jim, you're raising his blood pressure. Save the mushy stuff for your quarters after I clear him, or I’m banning the Captain from Sickbay permanently."