A weary Spock glances upwards, his dark eyes meeting the ceiling above, shadows swirling about across the blank space. It had been an interesting week for him, beginning with a display of rather uncharacteristic symptoms: muscle pain, headaches, fatigue, fever, a dry cough. He had, of course, disregarded it all, ignoring the symptoms, concentrating more on his work. Of course, other members of the bridge crew had noticed these signs, and his newfound lack of concentration, prompting from them queries and voiced concerns. Again, as per his stubbornness, he had still dismissed them, stating that this affliction was a temporary one and that it will soon ease. As time passed by, however, the symptoms intensified in their severity, and became near impossible to block or ignore.
One who had paid the utmost heed to these signs was none other than Doctor McCoy, who had berated the Vulcan, demanding from him a visitation to the Medbay. It was not until the symptoms had begun to impede the Commander's ability to perform his duties to the proper levels of efficiency that he finally submitted, staggering through the doors of the ward.
A brief scan of a medical tricorder, and the doctor had determined that his friend is suffering from the Vulcan flu, and had instantly ordered isolation in his quarters and bedrest. And so, the First Officer was forced to comply, and proceeded to make a slow journey to his personal living space, then placed himself onto his bed after a quick bathe and change of clothing. This, to the grouchy physician's secretly mild pleasure and the stoic Vulcan's hidden disgruntlement, was to be where he would remain for the following week or so, until the illness had properly dissipated.
Within several days, and after a few additional scans from the doctor, it is found that the risk of infection is greatly lowered, yet the Vulcan is still aching and fatigued and feverish. This development prompts a visitation from the Communications Officer, who enters the Commander's quarters with an air of sympathy.
"Are you feeling better?", the query flows from a tender voice and a gentle touch of a slender hand upon his face.
"Mildly. I am currently feeling rather fatigued.", the response is raspy in its delivery, with a slight croak.
"I can get you something if you're hungry.".
"Grateful as I am, Nyota, that would not be necessary...".
The petite figure next to his bed begins to speak again, when he halts her. In such a brief moment, it seems he has altered his decision.
"On second consideration...", he begins, "I would...like a bowl of plomeek soup...".
A lone eyebrow upturns on the woman's face, as within her mind, she possesses some knowledge of a few Vulcan customs. A knowledge obtained from the couple's New Vulcan sabbatical.
"Plomeek soup is usually a morning meal, right? It's early evening.".
"Of that I am aware...The meal itself is generally quite...small. In my current state, I may not...stomach much more than that.".
"Okay, I'll get some for you.", she offers a soft peck at his forehead.
As she begins to depart from him, she halts again, this time from the light pull at her arm.
"I would like the meal...of my mother's recipe. During my childhood, it always...seemed to offer comfort to me whilst I was ill.".
Her facial muscles soften before she gifts him another gentle kiss, and a loving glance at his drowsy eyes. Then, slowly, she slips away from the bed, crossing the soft flooring towards the tiny cooking area. Orderly, she proceeds to prepare the broth.
The motherly, comforting broth of one Amanda Grayson.
THE END