Title: Rhinovirus
Rating: K
Author: Singing Violin
Series: Star Trek: Voyager
Summary: The captain is on duty while sick. What's the first officer going to do about it?
Disclaimer: These characters and this universe are not mine. I thank TPTB for letting me borrow them without a lawsuit.
Author's note: This is a little something that came to me in a fever dream when I was sick a few weeks ago. I know it's been done before, but you can never have too many sickfics to comfort you when you're ill, right? Also, I must credit my dear husband with the soup recipe. Unfortunately, this last time he was sick too, so neither of us had the energy to make it. I didn't have the energy to write, either: had to wait until I felt better.
She sniffles, suppresses a cough, and subtly sips from a coffee mug surreptitiously filled with herbal tea.
She cannot show weakness in front of her crew.
She is the captain, and must be invincible.
Besides, this is the twenty-fourth century: modern medicine has prevented and treated a multitude of illnesses...
...just not the common cold.
Her throat burns and her head feels like it might explode.
Still, she soldiers on.
One faltered step as she approaches the viewscreen, and her first officer is instantly at her side.
He knows not to question her command ability in front of her crew. She's thrown him in the brig for less.
But it's clear... he knows.
He purses his lips, carefully considering his words. "May I see you in your ready room, Captain?"
She nods curtly. Speaking would be too painful, and besides, she has no viable objection.
She is acutely aware of his hand on her back, his body a little closer than usual, his presence far too possessive and protective than his position would demand under ordinary circumstances.
She allows it only because she wishes not to draw further attention to her precarious state.
Almost before the doors close, she croaks out her familiar dismissal, "I'm fine, Chakotay."
And then, belying her words, she erupts into a coughing fit and nearly bends double as she struggles to recover.
The gap that has opened between them is closed instantly, and he grabs her mug with one hand and rubs her back with the other.
Then, after a moment, he steps away once again, allowing her a full view of his shaking head.
She sinks onto the couch, and he places her tea on the table in front of her.
"Take the rest of the day off, Kathryn. Please."
She glares up at him, but does not attempt to speak again.
He turns away, walks a few steps to her desk, comes back with a box of tissues, and hands her one.
Loudly, she blows her nose, then callously places the crumpled-up ball on the table beside her cup.
He tries a different tactic. "You're going to get the rest of the bridge crew sick."
She sighs, then sips her tea, a precaution to avoid another fit as she prepares to speak again. "It's too late; I've already exposed them. Besides, I'm pretty sure I got it from one of them."
"Yes, because they came to work sick. And you sent them back to their quarters. Shouldn't you hold yourself to the same standards?"
She sips again, and the liquid stings as it flows through her raw throat. "There were crewmen available to relieve them," she retorts. "But I'm..."
"...the captain," he finishes for her. "I know. And I'm your first officer, and I can handle things for a while. Or, if you prefer, I can hand the bridge to Tuvok, who is also perfectly capable of serving as acting captain, leaving me free to personally escort you to your quarters and nurse you back to health."
That earns him another glare. "That's not necessary," she shoots out before dissolving into coughs once again.
He makes a motion towards her, and she holds up her hand to ward him off.
He hesitates, then moves forward again, grabs a tissue from the box, and uses it to wipe an errant tear from the corner of her eye.
She glares once again, but it is weaker. He knows he is making headway.
Boldly, he sits beside her on the couch, ignoring her expected protest.
"Look, Kathryn," he tells her quietly, "you're setting a very bad example for the crew. You couldn't be more obviously ill if you had brought the box of tissues with you onto the bridge. They see you working through it, and they feel pressured to do so as well, despite the fact that you've dismissed some of them. It's a small ship, and viruses spread quickly. We can't afford to have half the crew half-dead when an enemy attacks. Get some rest. You'll recover quicker, and you'll be leading by example; quarantining yourself to avoid further exposure."
She sighs, more exhausted than she has been in recent memory. "You make a valid point," she mumbles tiredly.
He knows he is right when she gives up this easily.
Timidly, she looks up and into his eyes. "Are you sure you'll be all right without me for a bit?"
He nods confidently. "Yes."
"And you're sure the crew won't...miss me?"
He chuckles. "It's more disconcerting for them to see you practically falling over on the bridge, than to not see you at all."
She nods. He snakes an arm around her shoulder, and she leans into him.
"God, I'm tired," she admits, her eyes drooping.
"I can see that." He chuckles lightly, realizing that she is making an excuse for not getting up and leaving right away. "Do you need me to carry you to your quarters?"
She rolls her eyes. "I'll make it. I just have to get up."
"Here," he offers, standing and offering her a hand.
Gladly, she takes it, then nods and smiles weakly as she follows him out of the ready room and onto the bridge.
She makes no lengthy explanation, both because she is too exhausted, and because she does not want to have an attack in front of the crew.
"Chakotay, you have the bridge," is all she says before disappearing into the turbolift. She thinks she can hear a collective sigh of relief behind her, and briefly wonders whether to be touched or mortified.
She is not aware that silent looks are passing between her first officer and her security chief in the moments after she has departed, nor that Chakotay has made a silent deal with the Vulcan to pass off command duties to him at the first opportunity that doesn't look too suspicious.
Not that anyone in the crew isn't already suspicious. After all, if any of them had tried what the commander had just accomplished, they'd probably be in the brig already.
It isn't long before he finds her in her bed, on top of the covers, still in uniform, hugging a box of tissues. Dirties are strewn about the floor. He grins at the pathetic sight; he doesn't know why, exactly, but it amuses him.
He doesn't have time to wonder whether she is asleep before she mutters, "I'll clean up later."
His cheeks redden slightly at the implication that she has been watching him watch her.
"No need," he responds. "I'll get it."
She watches, astonished, too stunned to object, while he replicates a waste paper basket, collects the dirty tissues, and places the half-full bin beside the bed where she can easily reach.
"Thanks," is all she can say, as gratitude washes over her in waves.
It occurs to him that she's made no accusation as to his presence in her quarters, unannounced and uninvited. Apparently she was expecting him.
He surveys her state as she coughs weakly into a tissue. Carefully, he collects all the pillows from the bed and places them beside her. Then, he reaches around behind her, helps her into a sitting position, and replaces the pillows under her, propping her up against them. "Lying down flat will make you cough more," he admonishes.
"I guess I noticed that," she admits, and again, he is astonished at how easy she is making this.
"Have you eaten?" he asks cautiously.
She shakes her head. "Ugh," is all she can manage. He understands.
"You should eat," he suggests, "even if you don't feel like it. You'll feel better."
Her eyelids droop. "Just so tired," she mutters. "No energy to think about food, let alone eat it."
He smiles lightly, knowing this is as close as he'll get to a request for assistance. He reaches out, squeezes her shoulder. "I'll be right back."
And return shortly he does, with a lap tray and a bowl of steaming soup.
Somehow, the inviting aroma penetrates her clogged nose. She looks up at him with gratitude and wonder.
He anticipates her question. "Napa - that's a kind of cabbage, spinach, and watercress, with soft bean curd and cellophane noodles, in a chicken broth. Mushrooms for flavoring. Try it."
She does, and it soothes her throat, trickles into her waiting stomach, and infuses her with warmth. "Oh!" she exclaims gratefully, then takes another bite.
He sits with her while she finishes the whole bowl, and tells her about what she missed on the bridge during the rest of her shift. There isn't much to tell. Some minor issue with the warp coil, a dispute between ensigns as to whose shift it was at ops. Two M-class planets with pre-warp civilizations, that they dutifully passed by. He also knows she isn't paying much attention, but is afraid to venture into more personal territory. Not without an invitation. Still, he watches her eat, gratified at every bite, and relieved to see the color returning to her cheeks, if only slightly.
Towards the end, she is struggling to stay awake, and he imagines her falling face-first into the bowl, asleep, and tries not to giggle at the thought. Not that she would notice in her half-awake state.
Then she is done, and he removes the tray as she mumbles, "Thank you, that was delicious," before collapsing back onto the pillows.
He recycles the items and returns to find her fidgeting in the bed.
"Can't get comfortable?" he asks.
"Mmm," she replies, her eyes half-lidded.
"Here," he offers, then pulls the covers down under her, replacing them on top. He would prefer if she were undressed, but not for the usual reason, and it would be impertinent to suggest it, let alone assist her with that task.
As he tucks her in, she relaxes considerably, but is still not asleep.
"Would you like me to go?" he asks softly.
She does not answer, but opens her eyes to affix him with a meaningful gaze. No, I would not like you to go, but I can't ask you to stay, either. And you probably should go, but I don't have the heart to kick you out.
He understands her dilemma, and reaches out to brush back a lock of hair that has fallen in front of her eyes. Then, boldly, he bends down and kisses her forehead.
It's alarmingly warm.
"You've got a fever, Kathryn," he tells her. "It's no wonder that you're having trouble sleeping. I'll be right back with an analgesic."
And, true to his word, he returns with a hypospray, and she turns her head to expose her neck so he can administer it.
I don't think I've ever seen her this complacent, he realizes. I bet I could get into the bed with her, and she wouldn't object. But, while he entertains the thought, he knows it would be inadvisable and inappropriate. He suppresses a sigh, realizing how much more he could do for her if he weren't her subordinate, weren't bound by protocol to respect certain rules of decorum. But then he thinks of her compromised state, and how, even if she were not his captain, he would not wish to take advantage of her like this.
Unless we were already in a relationship, he realizes. Then I could impose upon her personal space; I'd have standing permission. But, he laments, that can never be, not while we're on this ship, on this mission. He shakes the melancholy thoughts from his mind and replaces them with new ones. At least I can take care of her now, make her a little more comfortable, and hopefully we'll have our captain back in no time.
He realizes then that she is asleep, finally, and takes the opportunity to touch her lightly on the shoulder, one last time, relishing the feel of her breathing as her chest rises and falls against his hand.
Knowing she'd be alarmed if she awoke to find him in her quarters, and confident that she will be okay alone, he slips out and returns to his own room.
Curiously exhausted, he nearly falls directly into bed, only barely remembering to brush his teeth first.
He awakens to a cool hand on his forehead followed by a hypospray to his neck. He opens his eyes to see a much healthier-looking captain staring down at him.
"You're taking the day off, Chakotay, and I'm staying with you," she orders firmly. "Turnabout is fair play."
He doesn't think he's ever looked forward more to being sick.