"Mr. Chekov?" Kirk rapped three times on the door to the ensign's cabin. "Mr. Chekov?"
No response. Kirk sighed; he hated to resort to the command override code. Especially when he knew the person he was looking for probably wanted to be left alone. But as a captain, it was his duty to take care of his crew in times of need. And Mr. Chekov was on his primary staff: a young officer with great potential, great promises for the Enterprise and for Starfleet. Except, for the past two days he'd been out of sorts, and this evening Kirk had received a notification from Dr. McCoy that the ensign was unfit for duty.
Kirk sighed and keyed in the code. He had to know Chekov was alright.
The door slid open, revealing a dark cabin that smelled heavily of vapor-salve, which Kirk could only tolerate after months and months of going in and out of Commander Spock's incense-scented quarters. Chekov's bunkmate, Ensign Rothschild, was scheduled for Gamma Shift, so he was not there, and thus the room was totally silent, save for the whir of what Kirk recognized as a humidifier — a borrowing from Sickbay, no doubt, likely planted here by Dr. McCoy himself. The heat was turned up — unusual for someone like Chekov, who came from a land of blistering cold — and as Kirk's eyes adjusted and he approached the sleeping quarters of the room, he identified the silhouette of a blanket-wrapped someone lying in the first bed.
"Mr. Chekov?" Kirk tried again, making himself known by tapping gently on the room divider. "Mr. Chekov?"
"Keptin?" Finally, a response.
But Kirk winced nonetheless; Chekov's voice was weak, his accent intensified tenfold, and there was no doubt that the captain's intrusion had woken him from sleep. "At ease, Ensign. Yes, it's me," Kirk whispered. "Mind if I turn on the lights a little?"
"Go ahead." Chekov's words were punctuated by a cough.
Kirk didn't order the lights up far — just to fifteen percent. Just enough that he could see Chekov's face in his bed and study it, take note of his half-closed eyes and red-tipped nose and disheveled hair and pale cheeks. He could see that the ensign was shivering beneath the blankets, trembling almost. And though Chekov was, of course, built slightly, he looked smaller than ever now, and fragile.
"How are you feeling, Mr. Chekov?" Kirk knelt down by the side of the bed, ignoring his back's protests as he did so. "Be honest with me, Ensign."
Chekov sighed shakily. He started to speak, but the English words came difficult now, and he grappled for the right ones to say. "Aches and pains," he finally settled on, his voice strained and breathy. "A lot of them."
Kirk nodded; he had no doubt that was true. Dr. McCoy hadn't disclosed exactly what Chekov had other than the fact that it was self-limiting and would go away shortly, but anything powerful enough to land Chekov in bed was powerful indeed. Normally, the ensign was bounding with energy and enthusiasm, a ferocious eagerness for success carrying him on through day shifts and night shifts alike — that was why Kirk saw so much promise in him. Sure, he had a lot to learn, but he wanted more than anything to help, to do what was right to correct the wrongs in the world.
Even now. "Keptin," he coughed, pressing himself up on a clumsy elbow, "Keptin, please don't be mad at me."
"Why…" Kirk's heart gave a sudden wrench; was that why Chekov thought he was in here? To berate him? "Why would I be…"
"Duty. Dr. McCoy says I'll be out for at least a week." Chekov managed to right himself before a sudden surge of coughs came on and racked him from deep within his chest. The rest of his words came out sputtered, and Kirk wondered why he was even trying to talk. "He said you'd be upset and…I don't want…I don't want you to be upset, Keptin."
His words affirmed Kirk's fears; now it was the captain's turn to sigh shakily. "No, no," he urged, "I'm not mad, Mr. Chekov. I just came to check on you." As an afterthought, he added, "That's my duty."
The words went unheard — or, at least, not understood. "A keptin's duty," Chekov rasped, as he coughs gradually began to subside, "is to his ship."
"His officers are a part of that ship, Mr. Chekov." Kirk pressed himself up from the floor and wrapped his arms around the quaking ensign, easing him into a fully upright position in the bed. He pulled him to his chest for support, something sturdy to brace himself against the coughs that threatened to knock him down even in a seated position. It was the captain's turn to sigh shakily now. "And you are my officer, on my ship. Do I make myself clear?"
"Aye, Keptin." Gradually, Chekov's coughing slowed to a stop, and he at last managed a decent breath. He held a hand to his chest, and Kirk met it there with his own hand and rubbed gingerly; Chekov practically melted into the gesture.
"That's quite a cough you have, Ensign," Kirk whispered.
Chekov nodded and whimpered. "That's why everything hurts so much."
No kidding, Kirk thought; his own lungs ached from listening to Chekov cough so hard. He shifted his hand from the ensign's chest to his forehead, where he used his sleeve to wipe away the sheen of sweat that had formed beneath Chekov's tousled bangs. His skin was warm to the touch — too warm. "My God," Kirk whispered. "And a fever to boot."
Chekov nodded again, and a sudden chill ran up his spine in a single violent, feverish lurch.
Kirk remembered hearing somewhere that, when someone had a fever, they weren't to get too warm or they risked overheating themselves. But as he felt Chekov tremble erratically against him, he couldn't help but reach for the clasp on his wrap shirt and take it off one arm at a time.
It was so warm in the room, he felt more comfortable in just his undershirt, anyway.
"Here, Chekov," he offered, moving his arms just long enough to drape his shirt over the young officer's shoulders and help get his arms into the sleeves. "You've got to get warmed up."
"Yes, sir," Chekov breathed, drawing the extra fabric of the shirt around himself. Another spell of coughs bubbled up from his chest. "I'm doing all I can, sir."
"I know you are, Ensign. That's all I ask."
Kirk offered an arm and helped Chekov lie back into the pillows. He fastened the clasp on his shirt, though it already swallowed the young ensign so much it would probably fall off anyway, and stood back to admire his handiwork — High Command green suited Chekov quite well, and Kirk very nearly grinned at the sight. Ensign Chekov would get his own green shirt one day, Kirk knew. A day when he wasn't pale-faced and shivering under a mound of blankets, but one day, for sure.
"Mr. Chekov?"
"Aye, sir?"
"If you need me, I'm just a comm call away," Kirk murmured. "Captain's duty, you remember that; I'll do my job, and you do yours. And yours is to get better. Do I make myself clear?"
"Aye, sir."
"Good." Kirk ordered the lights down to zero. "At ease, Mr. Chekov."