Chapter Text
Captain James T. Kirk cracked open an eye as his alarm blared, unforgivingly loud in the silent darkness of his quarters. He rolled over in his king sized bed, taking sweat soaked sheets with him, as he reached a shaky hand out to silence the alarm located on his bedside table.
“Lights 50 percent,” he called out, his hoarse voice scratching the back of his throat uncomfortably. Light pierced his skull, reverberating through his brain and leaving a resounding ringing in its wake.
He rolled up, and out of bed. Forgoing his decision to drop the sheets from his shoulders, as he was all at once overcome with shivers from an imperceptible draught.
He sneezed, rocked forward with the force, and blink sheepishly through tired eyes.
‘This was going to be one hell of a shift,’ he thought. If he could make it through it, that was.
—————-
He got up and dressed slowly, painfully slowly, wincing as he turned his head too suddenly, and shivering - even decked out in his double layered, long sleeved Captain’s uniform.
By the time he was ready to venture out past the doors of the Captain’s chambers, Alpha shift was very nearly already underway - leaving no time for breakfast. He thought this for the best though, thinking he would probably just throw it up anyway, and waste the food.
He headed sluggishly toward the bridge, eyes forcefully focused on the floor as he walked.
‘Is the ship moving,’ he questioned queasily, as he moved unhurriedly to his chair at the bridge, ‘Or is that just my imagination, or, maybe, I am just swaying on his feet.’ He pondered further, promptly sitting as he realised the latter may be closest to the truth.
The Captain was the first to his post, the other posts vacant, the previous shift having already left. The bridge was barren. Silent. Dark.
God, he was so tired.
He could just close his eyes, just a moment of respite, perhaps, to quell the swirl of sickness in his stomach, and the reverberating ringing behind his eyes.
He leaned heavily back against his chair, suddenly far more comfortable than it had ever felt previously, eyes squeezed shut.
“Captain?”
Spock. Of course the first officer was early.
Jim struggled against a wince as the bright bridge lights abruptly engulfed his vision. “Mr. Spock,” he responded, nodding (and immediately regretting the action as he was suddenly thrown to the depths of a headache, and reintroduced to the roiling sea in his stomach) at the Vulcan as he entered his periphery. “Captain. You are more than five minutes early. In all my time as your first officer you have never once arrived at your post even a minute early. Are you well?” ‘That can’t be true. Never been at the bridge early?’ Jim queried sluggishly to himself. “That’s funny, Spock.” He replied sarcastically, forgoing an eye roll at the last minute though, for the sake of not worsening the pounding behind his eyes. “Yes, I’m fine,” he finished definitively, turning in his chair to once more face the vastness of space contained behind the window, as the bridge personnel began filtering through the automatic doors, chatting animatedly in their twos and threes. Time to get to work. ——————— The reports were beginning to blur, words bleeding down the PADD, as Jim rubbed at his tired eyes, urging them to focus. Only a two hours left. God. Two hours, that was no longer the reassuring thought it had been. He didn't know if he could last two more minutes like this, let alone one hundred and twenty (Hell, it sounds so much longer when he thinks of it like that). He was struggling to keep his eyes open, every second fighting against the urge to succumb to sleep, or ease the burn held beneath every inch of his skull, bolstered by the far-too-bright lights of the bridge. He was sweating under his uniform, but shivering against a nonexistent chill, all at once. His jaw was latched shut, whole body tense under the effort that was attempting to keep his stomach contents in his stomach. Lunch had come and gone, with excuses of false busyness (reports up to his eyeballs that had to be seen to, he’d explained to Uhura, Spock eavesdropping not-so-subtly). He’d waived Spock’s offer to stay and help off, saying he didn’t want to keep him from his lunch. “I had a big breakfast, so I’ll be good til later. You should go have your lunch, though. I’ll get through them fast enough on my own, don’t you worry.” He explained to Spock after receiving further insistence on his part. Though Spock gave Jim somewhat of a dubious look after that, he did go, leaving the Captain to his work.
——————
After lunch Spock kept looking up towards his Captain, a near-imperceptible concern appeared etched to his features.
Jim, for his part, kept his eyes down on his PADD, attempting to at least appear like he was actually doing work, even if he had long since lost the ability to distinguish letter from letter. He could feel the eyes of his first officer boring through the back of his skull though.
God, he just wanted this shift to be over, so he could go back to his chambers alone, and figure out whatever this goddamn thing affecting him was. Then, he’d be good as new tomorrow, yeah, it’d be fine.
He would just have to avoid the all-too-perceptive gaze of the Vulcan until then.
“Captain,” the familiar voice brought him out of his thoughts, and he snapped his head up, from where it had been - resting against his chest, he realised now.
Shit. Had his eyes been closed?
“Yes, Mr. Spock,” Jim replied, attempting to sound impatient, annoyed, so that the Vulcan would leave him alone. It instead came out as barely more than a whisper, weary and fatigued sounding.
“Are you aright?” Spock asked, somewhat hesitantly, a drop of concern leaking into the question.
Jim was insulted. Of course he was fine. He could still work, and he would continue to do so. He was still the Captain of this ship.
He sat up straighter, opening his eyes further to attempt a menacing look to those of his first officer, ignoring the spike of pain those actions caused.
“Mr. Spock, I am perfectly fine. You may return to your post.”
The Vulcans face remained without expression, as usual, though he did not move.
“Anything else, Mr. Spock,” the Captain asked sharply.
“Yes, Captain. Your presence is required in engineering.” Spock said, levelling his gaze firmly on the wall behind the Captain’s chair, arms crossed stifly behind his back.
‘What could Scotty want now?’ and ‘Why would he contact Spock, instead of me?’- were questions left deep in his subconscious, as a tired Captain Kirk wearily trusted the words of his first officer, wanting to just get this over with.
Spock took a step back to allow Jim to stand up from his chair.
“Mr. Sulu, you have the conn,” Spock turned to say.
Jim’s vision swam, for a frightening moment he was completely blind as light swallowed him whole. He blinked and a blurry bridge floor came into view.
His legs shook beneath his weight, and he hoped Spock couldn’t see the trembling he felt throughout his cold, but somehow warm, body.
He reached an uncoordinated hand up, swiping slowly at the sweat collecting on his forehead and temples.
Spock had moved, he noticed now. He was waiting for Jim a few steps away, arms decidedly behind him, in, what seemed to be, his default stance. He looked confusedly toward his dazed Captain.
“Captain?” Spock spoke hesitantly. It was so opposed to his normal assured tone, that it took Jim by surprise.
How bad must he look?
He willed his leg forward and his foot beneath him, as he took a wobbly step forward, attempting to cast any shake from his voice as he responded.
“Yes, Mr. Spock. Let’s go.”
His periphery remained obscured, blurry outlines of the bridge followed him as he walked - step by unsteady step.
Spock noticeably slowed his pace. Jim loathed him for that, and so he sped up. Endeavouring to walk at his typical pace as he strode through the bridge doors, and came to a much needed halt inside the turbo lift.
His first officer followed him in, with an air of caution. He came to a smooth stop and turned to face the doors, rigid posture remaining. He cast a glance at his Captain, curious eyebrow raised at his erratic, yet sluggish, behaviour.
Jim’s world careened, his head screeching it’s complaints, and an unmistakable fever ached through his frame.
He leaned against the cool wall of the lift, lest his knees buckle below him. He cursed that it had come to that.
Shit.
He let his head drop to be supported by the cold metal of the wall, heavy eyelids falling closed. Just for a moment of respite, he thought.
“Captain,” that voice once again spoke. God, his incessant questioning ‘Captain’s’ and cursory glances, were grating on his nerves.
“What?” he breathed out, eyes remaining firmly shut.
“You don’t look well,” the Vulcan spoke, unusually candid.
Jim’s brain churned slowly, lethargically looking for some cocky joking answer about how insulted he was at the Vulcan’s statement, but found none. He remained silent, focusing on breathing evenly instead.
He heard the doors ping open, but it sounded distant, like the sound itself had been wrapped in bubble wrap.
He tried, then, to opening his eyes, and found he couldn’t. He tried to move, his leg, his foot, and instead only unbalanced himself.
He fell in, what felt like, slow motion. His hand and arms refusing to move, to catch his fall. His body gained momentum, and sped up. He cringed has he waited to thump against the solid floor.
He hit something. Not the floor though. He couldn’t open his eyes. His body had gone completely limp against the strong arms of the other person in the turbo lift. Spock had caught him, he realised.
He felt a cold hand press against his sweaty forehead, as Spock’s other arm carefully cradled him.
“J..Jim?” Stuttered out the, suddenly alien sounding in its disbelief, voice of Spock.
“I’m…..I’m fine,” came Jim’s meek, breathy response.
“Clearly, logically, you are not,” a much more suited tone to the Vulcan voice whispered.