"Sorry, there, Captain. Ace beats a king."

Scotty chuckled as he added Kirk's poker chips to his own pile. It was growing remarkably large, compared to the captain's dwindling stack, and at present, he was winning. Not that it mattered — they played only for bragging rights, considering true gambling was prohibited and money was no object in deep space. But James Kirk was usually a much more formidable poker player than he seemed tonight. Even First Officer Spock was ahead of him, and they had only finished teaching him to play last week.

McCoy took up their cards and shuffled. Kirk fingered his minuscule supply of chips, hearing but not listening to the dim clink of the plastic pieces knocking against each other. He'd woken up with a headache that morning, and it was coming back again. The pills Dr. McCoy had told him to take only worked for so long; they were little match for the malfunctioning sensors, the downed record banks, the security breach on Starbase 15 which had completely diverted the ship's course. Sure, all that was resolved now, but they were a parsec and a half away from where they needed to be. The Laertes colony needed supplies, and quickly — and of course the Enterprise always happened to be the closest Federation vessel to provide them.

The cards were dealt, and Kirk eyed his hand with a downcast eye, trying to avoid looking up into the lights. Absolutely nothing: the best he had was a queen of spades. He took another glance at the mere handful of chips in his stack — he needed more, of course, to keep playing. On any other evening, he'd have been more than willing to try and bluff his way through this one, if for no other reason than to try and teach Spock the art of it. But when his turn came, he shook his head and laid his cards down, leaning back in his chair.

"Folding, eh, Jim? Must've been a really bad hand." Always working to perfect his proverbial poker face, McCoy tried to conceal the humor in his voice as he put two chips in the center of the table. "I'm in."

"I'll up you one, Doctor." Scotty put three chips on top of McCoy's two, smirking confidently. "Uhura?"

"I'm in." She matched Scotty's bet and cocky grin, resting her cheek on her fist.

It was Spock's turn now. He was stone-faced as usual, naturally possessing the best poker face of all of their group. Though Kirk normally prided himself on being able to see through his First Officer, he found himself unsuccessful tonight — granted, he was watching Spock with eyes only half-open, but there was no indication on whether the commander's present hand was good or bad. As Spock scanned his cards, he and Kirk met eyes. The captain did his best to offer a reassuring smile — for a newbie, Spock was certainly holding his own tonight. But Spock, too, shook his head and laid down his cards.

"I will fold," he murmured. "That is the correct terminology, yes?"

"Yeah, Spock, that's right." McCoy sighed and set down his cards. "Lemme see your hand." Spock gathered his hand in a neat stack and passed it to the doctor — he had been his main instructor, and delighted in the opportunity to teach Spock something for once. "Ah, geez, Spock. You should've kept on with this," he grumbled. "Too late for that, I guess."

"I will keep that in mind for the next time, Doctor." Spock retrieved his cards and set them aside. "Thank you."

As play amongst the other three resumed, Kirk sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. The headache had settled right between his eyes and his brain was nothing but mush. When had he taken those pills, anyway? 1400 hours? That sounded right. McCoy had said he could take them every six hours, and it was 1945 hours now.

Close enough.

"Excuse me." Kirk scooted away from the table and stood. He hoped the others didn't notice the extra second he kept his hand on the arm of his chair to keep himself from weaving. "I've got to run and grab something in my cabin."

"Make it quick, Jim," McCoy muttered, clearly failing at not showing displeasure with his cards. "I think we're almost done with this hand."

"Oh, I'll be quick, Bones. Don't worry." Kirk offered a cocky smile of his own as he left the rec room; the movement of his facial muscles only added to the steady twinge of pain in his head. "I won't keep you waiting."

He left the card game behind, sighing gratefully as he stepped out of the rec room and into the corridor. In an effort to recreate some semblance of night and day, the corridor lights were dimmed, and he could at last open his eyes all the way. But the change in lighting didn't help the pain much. It remained, a tightness in his forehead and a constant pressure behind his eyes and nose. His shoulders sagged, his back slumped, and his knees and ankles creaked with each step.

Damn, how his headaches came on so fast.

By the time he reached the turbolift and sank against the wall, he had realized just how much he yearned to exchange his uniform for his bedclothes. Take a hot shower, drink something warm, sleep for an entire night for the first time in weeks. He leaned in to the receiver, a wave of nausea shooting through him at the sudden movement of his head. "Captain's quarters."

Kirk held a hand over his stomach as the turbolift whirred into action. Normally, he hardly noticed the feeling of his insides dropping as the lift accelerated upwards, but tonight…

He allowed himself a quiet groan in the solitude of the lift.

As it slowed to a stop and the doors began to part, Kirk forced himself into composure. It wasn't a long walk down the corridor to his quarters, but it seemed like miles when every step sent the beginnings of a Charlie horse up his legs. He couldn't remember what that medicine was, the one Dr. McCoy had prescribed him, but he hoped it had something of a sedative in it. Something that might relax him, or at least soothe the pain enough that he could relax himself.

No, the medicine would have to relax him. There was no way he'd be able to do it on his own.

The urgency of Captain's Bakirtzis' voice over the radio frequency from Laertes was fresh in his ears. "There was an attack," he'd said. "Our arsenals are destroyed. We need phasers, weapons…and fast. Whatever attacked us, they're going to come back." The echo of his colleague's voice only adding to the pounding in his head, Kirk hardly heard his cabin door open. "Sensors show their ships are still nearby. They're just waiting…waiting until they feel like it, I guess. I don't know what to do, Jim. Yours is the closest ship…you've got to do something…"

"How come my ship's always the closest?" Kirk grumbled, to no one in particular. Not bothering to turn on the lights in his quarters, he felt his way past his desk, past the divider that separated his living from sleeping quarters, and eventually to the bathroom door.

The headache was even worse now that he was alone with it.

Leaning against the cold counter, he turned on the lights above the bathroom mirror just enough to make out the shape of a pill bottle and cup next to the sink. He filled the cup halfway with water, and poured two of the oblong capsules into the palm of his hand. Another wave of nausea washed over him, and he shivered. He hated taking medicine — and somehow, he hated it even more when he knew good and well he needed it. Even so, he forced himself to put the pills on his tongue and swallow them down with a gulp of water.

One of the pills went down the wrong way. He sputtered, and hastily drank the rest of the water — the capsule found the right path this time. Lucky pill; it found his stomach far more quickly than the Enterprise could ever hope of finding the Laertes colony.

Breathing deeply, Kirk faltered a moment above the sink — the others were waiting for him in the rec room. Probably sitting around, chatting, drumming fingers and tapping toes as the seconds ticked by and their captain hadn't returned. Kirk normally looked forward to a good, old-fashioned card game; even if he didn't win, he got a chance to sit around with his closest friends and be equal to them rather than above. He didn't have to worry about ordering anyone around or wondering whether those orders would be considered justified. There were no reports, no demands… That was what he needed right now, he knew. But as he stepped out of the bathroom, the fuzzy silhouette of his couch looked far more inviting than a card game. There was a blanket on the back of his couch, too — an afghan, and a warm one at that.

He could indulge himself, just this once. The others would be alright.

"Lights to ten percent." As the lights adjusted, the leather couch accepted him with its cool, plush embrace. Kirk tugged off his boots and tossed them under his desk across the living area, propping up his feet and letting his throbbing head loll back into the cushions. With heavy arms, he dragged the afghan off the back of his couch and let it fall into his lap. The crocheted yarn smelled musty, just like the suitcase he'd brought it in — the suitcase from home, which had lasted him from his first day of the Academy until now.

The afghan was from home, too; his grandmother had made it. He sat up long enough to unfold it and drape it around his shoulders, laying down again before his headache had the chance to disturb his brief moment of homesick peace.

At the rate they were going, it would take another three days to arrive at the Laertes colony. And once they got there, either they would be able to transfer some of their weapons or, if Bakirtzis had been right about the orbiting vessel, they would wind up in direct confrontation with the attacking aliens themselves. Until they arrived, Kirk knew, there was nothing they could do. But also, until they arrived, Laertes was at risk for attack at best and annihilation at worst. It would be a sight for sore eyes if the Enterprise's records showed she was unable to assist a colony in need — and it would be an even sorer sight if Kirk's own record copied the message. A starship herself could not be punished, but a captain could. And though Kirk was not afraid of punishment, he was afraid to lose control, the position and command he had worked so hard to achieve. Not that he had much of all that at the moment; his headache had stripped most of it away.

He laid a hand over his eyes and prayed for sleep to take him, if only for a minute or two.

"Jim?"

Kirk opened his eyes to the sound of boots shuffling against the carpet. In the low light, he could just barely see the outline of someone standing over him — a tall, almost lanky frame of a person, with hands clasped behind their back. "Spock?"

"He's awake, Dr. McCoy." The monotone voice answered Kirk's question for him. "Not fully coherent, but awake."

At the sound of his First Officer's voice, Kirk forced himself to sit up, groaning as the change in position jolted his every organ. No doubt Spock would accuse him of being undignified, and McCoy would call him overdramatic — but that didn't matter to him at the moment. "What's going on?" he managed, holding one hand to his stomach and the other to his forehead. "What happened?"

"What happened is that you left the rec room and never came back." This was McCoy's voice. Judging by the slight echo surrounding it, he was in the bathroom, probably sifting through the medicine cabinet. "You know, Jim, if you had such a headache, you could've just said so."

"Oh, I'm alright, Bones." It was a lie. Spock met Kirk's eyes and raised a knowing eyebrow.

"Don't give me that, Jim. I'm a doctor, dammit." McCoy stepped out of the bathroom and joined Spock in front of the sofa. He scanned Kirk with scrutinizing medical eyes — he didn't need a tricorder to pinpoint what was wrong this time. "Ever heard of stress, Jim?" he asked. It was a rhetorical question, Kirk knew. "It's an epidemic 'round these parts."

Kirk sighed, defeated, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. Although he was the highest ranking officer present, McCoy had the superior authority when it came to medical matters. And though Kirk prided himself on staying humble, it always made him feel so dreadfully small when his CMO pulled that rank on him.

McCoy let his expression fall somber and took a seat next to his captain on the sofa, laying a gentle hand on his back. "I'm serious, Jim," he whispered, "you look like hell."

"More specifically," Spock added frankly, "your skin looks increasingly pale, your reaction times are down, you are increasingly agitated, your energy significantly decreased. Not to mention the unmistakeable expression of pain on your face."

"You don't have to remind me." It came out far harsher than Kirk intended, and he sank his head even further into his hands.

"Aww, Jim…"

McCoy extended his arm across Kirk's back, hooking his hand around the captain's opposite shoulder and squeezing tightly. Kirk stiffened at the sudden display of affection. "Bones," he breathed, "what are you doing?"

"You wouldn't need to ask that if you'd just take your meds like I prescribed." McCoy squeezed harder, pulling Kirk closer so that his head rested on the doctor's shoulder. "I gave you those headache pills for a reason."

Again Kirk tried to resist McCoy's comforts, and again he failed. "I did take them," he insisted. "They didn't do anything."

"...No?" McCoy shared a worried glance with Spock. The room was eerily quiet as the two hesitated, and Kirk could almost hear McCoy's heartbeat as he rested on his shoulder. In the silence, Captain Bakirtzis' voice came back into his ears. The only word he heard: hurry. Hurry to Laertes, hurry to help us. We may not have much time, we don't have much time, so hurry. Yours is the closest ship, Jim. You've got to do something. Hurry…

"No, they didn't do anything!" Mustering every ounce of strength he had left, Kirk pulled himself away from McCoy's gentle but firm grip, nearly stumbling as he stood from the couch. "And at the rate we're going, we're not going to be able to do anything for the poor souls on Laertes!" His own voice sent sparks through his head but nonetheless increased in volume as he continued to speak. "They're sitting there just waiting to be attacked, completely unarmed, and we're three days out, assuming nothing else on this damned ship breaks before then!"

"You are, in fact, stressed, then," Spock remarked, far calmer than his captain.

"Yes, I'm stressed, Mr. Spock!" Kirk barked. "I've got a splitting headache that won't go away and a whole colony of men and women and children that need my help, and nothing I can do about any of it!"

Dizzy from shouting, Kirk staggered back toward the door. His companions rushed to catch him, managing to right their captain before the automatic door whooshed open and knocked him out into the hallway. Kirk dodged their eyes; he hadn't intended for them to see him like this. He hadn't intended to raise his voice, or to let McCoy wrap an arm around him. He hadn't intended to be so vulnerable, so volatile.

"Damn if the world doesn't seem to hate me sometimes." He cursed under his breath through gritted teeth, partly at the world but mostly at himself.

"Do you think you could make it to Medbay, Jim? We'll walk with you." McCoy squeezed Kirk's shoulder, desperately trying to make eye contact. "I'll get you some hydrocortilene; that should do the trick. It's stronger than the stuff in those pills."

Kirk shook his head. Medbay wasn't too far from his quarters, but it pained him to no end to think of walking there at this point. Besides, others would be about. The Gamma shift was at work, and there were doctors and nurses on call in Medbay at all times. He couldn't have anyone else see him like this; just imagine the laughs and the sly remarks that would result! He swallowed hard, painfully thirsty — probably dehydrated, given the way he was feeling. "No, Bones," he finally managed, his voice surprisingly small. "I just want to stay here, alright?"

"Then let me rephrase: I'm going to Medbay to get you some hydrocortilene," McCoy asserted. He exchanged a glance with Spock, the two nodding curtly at each other in an unspoken but mutual understanding. "Spock'll stay here with you until I get back, okay? Hang tight."

McCoy left before Kirk had a chance to protest.

"He's going to come back with a hypo, isn't he?" The captain groaned a sigh and fell back into the wall. He tried to pry Spock's arm from his shoulder, but he was too weak and his First Officer was too strong.

"That is the method typically used to administer hydrocortilene, yes," Spock confirmed, with an emotionless nod. "However, in the interest of your present mental state, I might suggest you try not to think about it."

Great advice, Kirk thought. He shivered in fearful anticipation, the mere prospect of being hyposprayed in the neck generating a mighty wave of nausea. Doctors had invented hyposprays in an attempt to reduce the pain associated with injection and yet, Kirk still dreaded them every time.

Spock raised an eyebrow at the sight of Kirk shuddering. "Are you cold, Jim?"

"A little." He cursed himself again. He was from Iowa, dammit; standard room temperature wasn't cold.

"Temperature to seventy-five degrees." The heating system kicked on at Spock's command as he let go of Kirk's shoulder and retrieved his blanket from the couch. As he straightened it out, Kirk whimpered and massaged his forehead with the heel of his hand. Spock was quite familiar with that blanket; he often used it himself while they were playing chess, since the captain normally preferred his quarters so cool. He should've been offering the blanket to Spock, not the other way around.

But Kirk knew good and well how stubborn his First Officer could be, and didn't even try to resist as Spock pulled the blanket tight around his shoulder and gently led him back to the sofa.

"Don't you have somewhere better to be?" Kirk asked, returning his throbbing head to his hands as the sofa offered him a warm return. "The lab, the bridge…hell, even the card game has got to be more worth your while than standing here with my sorry ass."

Spock shook his head thoughtfully, returning his hands to their usual clasped position behind his back. "Jim," he replied, "I assumed you would have figured out by now that I find your wellbeing more important than a game. If I had wanted to stay, I wouldn't have folded my cards."

Kirk's breath quivered in disbelief as he felt the couch sag, where Spock was taking a seat beside him. It wasn't that they hadn't sat next to each other before, but Spock wasn't generally one to adjust his own position to the eye level of others — and certainly not for comfort's sake. He smelled of tea and incense, and Kirk both tensed and relaxed at the familiar scent. "You left that game," he started, "just to come take care of me?"

"I left the game because it was the most logical option."

Kirk took in another shaky breath, pressing his hands harder into his head. That, he knew, was Spock's way of saying yes.

"Doing alright in here, you two?" The cabin doors whooshed open and McCoy's slender silhouette appeared in the door frame. Kirk groaned, the light from the corridor churning his stomach as the doctor stepped inside. "Don't worry, Jim. We'll get you all taken care of here shortly."

"I know, I know…" Kirk tried not to watch as McCoy produced a hypospray and a bottle of liquid from his pocket and drew the medication into the syringe. He felt Spock stiffen beside him — as nauseous as Human medications made him, he flinched at even the sight of a hypospray. Kirk wanted to apologize, but thought better of it; Spock would rather he not mention it. Besides, even if he did apologize, Spock would just go on about how it wasn't his fault, how it was illogical to apologize for such a thing, how Humans said the word sorry far more often than they needed to…

Kirk prayed he wouldn't have to say sorry for any incidents on the Laertes colony.

"Alright, Jim, here we go." McCoy sat down on Kirk's other side, his gloved hands eerily impersonal compared to the friendly face Kirk recognized. "The faster we get this over with, the sooner you'll feel better."

It was a cliche thing to say, but Kirk had to admit it was true. Swallowing hard, he shifted the blanket and tugged down his collar so McCoy could inject him properly around the carotid.

But he hardly felt the sharp pinch of the syringe activating, didn't even notice the sickly metallic smell of the syringe. All he felt were two gentle, albeit stiff, arms wrapping around him as the medication went in, and all he smelled was the aroma of earthy tea and spiced incense.

He didn't have to look up to know who it was. "Since when did you learn how to hug, Spock?"

Kirk looked up just enough to see Spock raise a frank eyebrow. "I have learned more from Dr. McCoy than just card games, Jim."

For the first time in what seemed like days, Kirk managed a smile and a chuckle. He anticipated there was more to it, but he could ask about the logicality and scientific purpose of the gesture later. For now, his headache was already starting to go away. The medicine was helping — or, something was, anyway.