You're Not Allowed To Be Ill
A/N: I borrowed this plot from Merthur, who was kind enough to let me turn it into a ball of TOS cuteness, so thanks! I still don't own Star Trek, and I still love reviews. Some things never change...
Having handed The Chair over to Sulu for gamma shift, retired to his quarters and played – and won – six consecutive games of virtual chess, Jim was bored. Pulling his feet up onto the bed, he allowed his mind to wander. Not unexpectedly, it drifted to his First Officer. His First Officer who, for the first time since the start of their five-year mission, had been taken ill and forced to report to sick bay. It was, Bones had assured him, nothing serious, but Jim worried all the same.
As he drifted off to sleep, his mind replayed the strange incidents that afternoon.
Jim sat at the centre of the bridge, toying with the cuff of his sleeve in ill-concealed boredom. To his right, an unfamiliar rasping sound caused him to turn toward the science station to catch Spock trying to suppress a grating cough. He watched his First Officer return his attention to the scanner, and his hazel eyes widened in surprise. He was sure he had just seen Spock... swaying? Surely that couldn't be right?
Keeping his gaze trained on his friend, Jim saw Spock surreptitiously taking account of his temperature with a hand to his forehead. Eyes narrowed suspiciously, Jim noticed for the first time how flushed his friend's skin seemed, the tips of his ears a verdant olive that complimented the paler shade of his cheeks. He coughed again, this time apparently taken by surprise as he failed to quash the dry sound. Hands clutched at the edge of the science station, the only indication of what was about to happen. Darting forward and over the rail, Jim only just managed to put his arms between his First Officer and the floor in time.
Lowering him carefully to the ground, Jim took a moment to comm. for Bones before hurrying back to his friend's side. Spock's eyelids flickered open and rich, brown eyes met golden hazel in barely-veiled confusion.
"I am... on the floor," observed Spock, his voice hesitant. Resting the half-Vulcan upright against his raised knee, Jim placed an ineffectual hand on his shoulder as his body was wracked by a more violent bout of coughing.
"You... passed out," Jim explained softly. "I already called for Bones; he's on his way up now."
Right on cue, McCoy burst onto the bridge and bustled over to the science station, grumbling under his breath out of habit. Jim moved back to give him space to work, feeling helpless as he watched his two friends from the sidelines.
"Fuss over nothing," was the doctor's verdict, putting away his tricorder more forcefully than was strictly necessary. "He just picked up a virus from the planet we were investigating last week."
"Sirius IV," Spock supplied weakly, drawing a smile to Jim's face.
His words were accompanied by an attempt to stand, which was thwarted by McCoy's firm hand on his shoulder and another fierce coughing fit.
"I am... sufficient," he insisted, but was ignored by both doctor and captain as they discussed the appropriate course of action over his head.
"Spock," Jim addressed him gently, "I agree with Bones that a period of rest would speed your recovery, and I want you to take the rest of beta shift off... and don't think of sneaking back for your alpha shift, either! I want you in full health for the conference on Satellite XI next week."
He helped Spock to his feet and Bones followed him closely to the turbolift, doubtless bent on following him all the way to his quarters to make sure he actually went there. It would be just like Spock to lie low in the science labs until he was allowed to return to bridge duty.
Jim turned over, trying to get to sleep, but the image of Spock's sickly green face seemed burned into his mind's eye. As he finally began to drift into unconsciousness, it was to thoughts of his First Officer.
Jim buzzed for entry to Spock's quarters, and when he received no response, let himself in using the override code. He bypassed the meditation area which usually fascinated him and made a beeline for Spock's bedside. His vision seemed to narrow until his entire world consisted of that prone form, lying still in the semi-darkness.
Spock peered up at him, his eyes unfocussed and skin a decidedly unhealthy hue. A rattling cough shook him, and Jim knelt down beside his friend, horror seizing him as a thin, emerald line trickled from the corner of his mouth. Grasping Spock's nearest hand – and to Hell with crazy Vulcan taboos – he was shocked to feel the usual inferno cooled to a temperature well below the average for a human. As the coughing subsided, he placed his other hand to Spock's forehead. It was blazing hot.
Jim screamed for Bones, hitting the dead intercom over and over, but the doctor never heard his pleas, never came to help him. Jim felt the raw screams tearing at his throat as Spock spluttered, more vibrant green blood flecking his sallow skin. Tears washed down his cheeks as the coughing subsided, Spock falling back onto his pillows, his whole body perfectly motionless. Jim cried out for McCoy once more, even though he knew that it was too late. He held his friend's limp body and wept.
A violent scream tore Jim from his sleep. It was only once he was awake that he realised it had come from his own sore, worry-bitten lips.
Slipping shakily out of bed, he had just enough presence of mind to don his uniform and boots before running from the room, hair a neglected tangle that stuck to his forehead. With as much composure as he could muster, he hurried through the corridors of his ship, pausing outside of Spock's chambers to enter the override code. Darting inside, he was immediately struck by the gravelly coughs issuing from the corner of the room.
Rushing to Spock's side, relief threatened to overwhelm Jim as he took in the sight of his friend sleeping, his customary Vulcan mask dislodged by an expression of discomfort. Leaning in closer, he placed a trembling hand to Spock's face. His skin was flushed and warm, and the half-Vulcan unconsciously nuzzled into Jim's cooler palm in a gesture that took his breath away. The captain continued to run his hands over Spock's face and through his hair until the troubled expression cleared and he let out a soft sigh of contentment.
Still shaken by his nightmare, Jim was unwilling to leave his friend's side, so he tucked his knees under his chin and sat at Spock's bedside, head resting on the edge of the mattress. The floor was hard and uncomfortable, but Jim swore to himself that he could – and would – remain sitting there forever if that was what it took to keep Spock in his sights. He watched his friend intently, rising to rub his chest soothingly whenever he was stuck by another bout of coughing.
When Spock awoke, even he had to admit that he felt... terrible. His chest ached, his throat was raw and his head was pounding as the blood rushed about his skull. There was a gentle weight across his stomach, and he was surprised to observe Jim's arm draped across his midriff. His friend was asleep, slumped against the side of the bed with his head resting on his hand. His hand, which was also entwined very... intimately with Spock's own as it lay at his side.
Spock watch the captain's shoulders rise and fall in an unfamiliar rhythm, fascinated by the cool, human breaths tickled his fingers. It was... not unpleasant. He was not aware of why the captain was sleeping on his floor. He was, however, startled to notice the stark vulnerability of his open expression. His eyes were screwed tightly shut and his brow creased slightly as he murmured something unintelligible under his breath.
Feeling the itching at the back of his throat that meant a cough was immanent, he tried to suppress it, unwilling to awaken his friend. But soon the rattling coughs sent convulsions through his body, in spite of his best efforts. Jim's head shot up with a quiet scream of "Spock!" and a panic-stricken expression flying across his face. His hands flew upwards, one rubbing circles on his chest and the other attempting to provide some relief to his burning forehead.
When the coughing had subsided, Spock looked into Jim's red-rimmed eyes and was surprised to see the fear and sadness that lurked in their depths.
"Spock," he rasped softly, "You're not allowed to be ill, I... don't like it." A single tear leaked out from between his golden lashes. Spock was unsure how to respond. He wanted to provide comfort for his captain – no, his friend – but at the same time, he knew that Jim would not want anyone to be aware of his weakness. So he tried to ignore the tear, choosing instead to make light of the situation. It was, he thought, what Jim would have done, in his place.
"Is... Is that an order, captain?" he asked. His voice was quieter than usual, and hoarse from a night spent plagued with coughing, but his usual tone of long-suffering indulgence of his human friend was there, and Jim smiled.
"Yes," he replied, his tone almost returned to its usual, self-assured arrogance. "Now get better. Please." The last word was so quiet that Spock almost missed it, and spoken in a sad, almost desperate voice that he had never heard from his captain before.
Spock allowed the corners of his lips to curl up into the closest a Vulcan would ever come to a full-blown grin, and tentatively laid his free hand on top of Jim's, which was still resting on his chest. Jim looked at his hand, then at Spock's, and carefully interlocked their fingers, incredibly aware of the implications of the gesture. He pulled himself up off the floor and perched on the edge of his friend's bed. Spock slid his aching legs to the side to allow him more space, which he settled into with a grateful smile. Spock could feel his lower body temperature through the sheets and allowed himself to be drawn to the comfort in his feverish state.
Jim ran the fingers of his free hand through Spock's normally-immaculate black hair, brushing the damp strands back from his slightly clammy forehead. Then, sliding his hand down the back of Spock's neck, he levered his head forward and up... He leaned in closer, until all Spock could see in the dimly-lit room were Jim's bright, hazel-gold eyes and his chapped lips. Then the lips were gently applying pressure to his own, bestowing upon them a tentative kiss. Spock's eyes slid closed, moving in toward Jim and wrapping his deceptively wiry arms around his friend's waist. Jim's hand slip free to venture beneath his black sleep t-shirt, tracing patterns on his back that would, in a more coherent state, reminded Spock of the beauty of Brownian motion. Running his tongue expertly over his companion's sealed lips, Jim smirked as his actions caused a gasp of pleasure to escape Spock's now-gaping mouth. He slipped his tongue inside, making Spock groan deliciously beneath him.
When Jim pulled back, Spock was panting breathlessly, a tiny whimper following his friend as he broke away for air. Jim chuckled at this, planting an affectionate kiss on the tip of his half-Vulcan's nose.
"Now," he chided tenderly, "you have to rest." He kissed Spock again, unable to resist his slightly swollen lips that glistened in the half-light. "I'll come back and check on you after alpha shift," he promised, turning back at the door with an unabashed grin on his face.
Later that day, during beta shift, Spock was pleased to be able to return to his work. Sitting as acting-captain in the central chair on the bridge, he was able to see the human irony of the situation as McCoy reported that Jim would be unable to return to duty for at least two days.
"Nothing serious," buzzed the comm. unit, and Spock could almost hear the smirk in the doctor's voice as he added, "Fuss over nothing, really!"