Author's Note: Okay, guys. It's a little over 24 hours but here's the next chapter as promised! Thank you for the reviews. User gkell, you made me laugh with your heartfelt, two-word review. I've got to be sleeping soon, but before I go, I need to warn y'all about what's coming. In this chapter a character is extremely delirious, vomits pretty graphically, and there's a lot of emotional angst/panic.

Kay, enjoy, review. Imma sleep.


Jim woke slowly.

Shivering.

His stomach was on fire, all the way up his esophagus into the back of his throat. It was acid on his tongue.

And he was so, so cold.

But there was warmth. Behind him, pressed against his back. It was so hot against his bare skin. Even though it was scratching uncomfortably at his skin - prickly, painful, itchy - he still wanted to just roll over and bury himself in that warmth. He would tuck his arms - he hated it, how shaky and sickeningly weak his arms were - between his chest and the warmth.

He didn't want to be cold and weak again.

With a smacking of his lips, he disturbed his tongue, glued to the roof of his mouth with dried saliva. His whole mouth felt like...not-sandpaper but similar. Like he'd eaten sand and it had taken all the moisture with it. His tongue was parched leather and his throat was the desert.

Some cool liquid trickled over his lips, leaking past them to his desperate tongue and dribbling down his chin. He shuddered when some of it splashed onto his chest - shock of cold against warm skin. But that didn't matter as he tried to gulp down as much of the water as he could. It hurt, the chill twisting his stomach, but it was so, so very good. His tongue felt like a tongue again. A bit too sticky-slick though.

And then it was gone. Something damp and cool was wiped over his chest. He shuddered again.

What the fuck was going on? Where was his blanket? If he could just get his blanket he would be warmer. He wanted to curl up under his blanket. His toes were cold. He hated when his toes were cold. They were always cold there and since he hated when they never felt warm.

Jim tried to open his eyes and found no matter how hard he struggled, how he tried to prize them up or squint them open, he couldn't even get the lids to raise a millimeter.

He was trapped.

Like this!? What if he would never wake up? Could never wake up? Was he stuck unconscious? Drugged? Could he move?

Oh god! He was going to die like this, wasn't he?!

His breathing sped up, he was panting and he was very aware of how it began to dry out his mouth. No, no, nononono. Adrenaline was making his heart beat faster now. He was going to slowly die too-hot and too-cold and without water. Precious, delicious, clean water. Where was the water? The snow would be, should...be...enough….

Where was he again? He needed to know. There were… People… Who relied on him. And he couldn't let them down. He had to be strong. He had to save them. They were his family. His only family left. Most of them were just kids! Too young! Too small! Too thin! They needed him.

He couldn't die! Not like this! Not when they weren't safe! They needed him!

He had to wake up!

"Calm, Jim," a deep voice whispered near his ear and something cold - tooicecold - touched his forehead. His whole body shivered tightly.

He tried to knock away the cold thing. His hand spasmed and twitched slightly upward before flopping to the side. Already, he was exhausted.

But he needed to get the cold thing away.

He wanted warm. He was always cold. Nobody was ever warm. He wanted to just be warm. He was so thirsty and so cold and so hungry.

He whimpered, terrified that he had no control over his own body. How was he supposed to fight? Protect? Eat? Survive? He was helpless. He was never going to be helpless. He was a fighter! He wouldn't let anyone ever make him helpless. He vowed it. To himself. Everything was his decision. He was nobody's victim.

But he couldn't fucking move!

And he hadn't decided this!

"Hush, Jim, hush. Everything is fine. I will not let any harm come to you and no one is in danger. You are safe."

There was that voice again, and though it was soft against his ear, it seemed to echo and reverberate within him. Truth rang pure in it, in his core self. A loosening in his chest told him he could trust the voice. If this voice said they were safe then they were. It couldn't lie. Wouldn't lie.

Not to him. They were special when together.

The cold-wet was removed from his forehead and he felt a hard edge pressed against his bottom lip, then the touch of soothing, cool liquid. It tasted weird. It wasn't water? It was water? It didn't taste like anything, and it didn't taste like water. Was it poisoned? Oh god, what if it was contaminated!? He tried to turn away from it and spit.

"Hush, Jim. It is not poisoned. Neither is it contaminated," the voice shushed him. The cup followed him. Should he drink it? He was still so thirsty… But what if… He had learned his lesson. Twice over. It was one he needed no more practical experience with.

"It will not harm you, ashayam," the voice whispered soothingly and he believed it. He eagerly swallowed the liquid instead as it was poured over his hot tongue.

It, too, was pulled away before he was done with it. Again. He whined and tried to chase after it. It was a struggle to lift his head and when he couldn't he unhappily let it loll to the side.

His brow pressed into something warm and smelling of spices — burning spices and strong tea. Incense-y. Thick. Like burning wood. He nuzzled closer into that familiar scent and the heat it provided. His nose mashed into it and his lips brushed over smooth-soft-skin (?) as he found a hollow where he could breathe deeply.

It was comfort. It was familiar— new.

Fingers so hot they felt like brands around his wrists lifted his arms and crossed them over his bare chest, holding them there, holding them tight. And he felt safe. Uncomfortable, with his stomach still burning and the rest of him still too-cold and the itchy and the ache of hunger, but safe. And the others were safe. They were saved… right? No more hunger, no more cold, no more damp, no more hiding, no more… He shuddered deeply and let the thought die.

The voice said he wouldn't be hurt anymore. And the arms around him felt so sure.

But he did hurt still. His whole body ached, the uncontrollable shivering emphasizing every creak of every joint and the lethargy of his muscles. His gut twisted painfully.

He shot up, adrenaline hitting his system like a spike of ice.

He fought against the hot hands groping at him, pulling at him, trying to restrain him. Until he realized they weren't. They were cradling him steady as he bent almost in half over the bucket he suddenly found between his legs, his shaky hands gripping the sides. He forced his eyes to open just barely enough to see that the top of the bucket was under his face. There was an extra pair of legs in black pants outside his, and he didn't recognize his blurry surroundings.

(Where was he? Nothing was familiar. Except that voice, the way it smelled…)

His mouth flooded with thick saliva seconds before he felt his abdomen clench painfully. He fought it off with a sob. He didn't want to puke. He couldn't. Wasn't allowed to. There wasn't enough food for that. Or, wait… They had food now, didn't they? This was something else? A doctor had said this would happen. Because they weren't there anymore.

But it felt like he'd been puking forever. He wanted to be able to finally eat and keep it down. He just wanted to not be hungry anymore. It was so unfair. He'd survived this long. He deserved food. He deserved to eat. He didn't want to go back to that. This.

He cried, hot tears on his cheeks as his whole middle seized, rolling up from hips to ribs like a squeezed tube, and liquid gushed from his mouth. He was all-too-aware of the hot hands on his back and ribs, holding him steady against the rebellion of his own body. More burning liquid spilled from his mouth with a splutter, excess pouring down his chin into the bucket. He gagged on the emptiness of his stomach four times, his own throat choking him as he sobbed and retched. He was spitting excessive saliva and mucus each time he coughed into the bucket. His mouth tasted acidic and metallic.

A scratchy tissue was dragged over his chin and lips to mop up the mess there, and the bucket was taken from him, those scalding hands back on him to drag him back into the warmth behind him. His mouth was gently wiped down again with a wet cloth - dabbed at with a sort of care he wasn't used to. He was urged to drink more water (thank god, it washed out some of the taste of bile in his mouth), and with a bit of jostling, he was turned onto his side to recline that way into the body behind him.

There was a methodic fumble and that deep, familiar voice said, "Spock to Doctor McCoy."

" 'pock," Jim mumbled into the steady shoulder beneath his cheek. That's what that smell was. He nuzzled around until he could press his face into that warm, spiced place again. Spock. Relief.

"McCoy here, what do you need Spock?"

McCoy. Bones. Sweet, Southern Bones. Jim was safe. Bones always saved him. Bones brought him back from being dead. Bones wouldn't hurt him. Ever. Bones would never let Jim suffer. Not like that. Not like then. Bones was his brother. Bones would let him eat. Always.

"You are needed in the Captain's quarters," the Spock said. He had such a nice voice. But right then it wasn't so calm but instead so tense. Jim thought it sounded scared. Scared of what? They were safe now.

"I believe the Captain has just vomited up blood." His deep voice rumbled underneath his shoulder, against his face, and Jim sighed. That could be bad for the captain. Jim was puking blood once. It was crap. It hurt a lot. And he was stuck in the hospital.

He sighed heavily and pressed further into the warm body, so too-warm. Perfect. His hand fisted itchy fabric and he again wished for his soft blanket before drifting off.

" 'pock..."