Chapter Text
Captain Pike knows that Lieutenant Spock values his privacy. So when Phil tells him that Spock is sick and confined to quarters, he doesn't press for details. It's not that he's worried. It's just – Sick? Spock?? That man has taken a spear through the femoral artery and still argued about General Order One – and quite convincingly at that –, right up until the point he passed out, halfway through laying out some twenty-year old prior. Good job Phil is keeping whatever this is from spreading around the ship, his mind remarks morbidly.
It's just unsettling to not have him there for their weekly chess night, that's all. With quiet resignation, Pike decides to do what Spock would tell him to do if he was there, which is to tackle some of the endless paperwork that keeps trying to take over his desk. After his mind has gone completely numb from duty rosters and requisition forms, he tries to make it an early night. But by the time he's finally stopped tossing and turning (almost strangling himself with his own sheets at one point), it's gone three in the morning, and then he just sits up alone in the star-speckled darkness of his quarters and stares morosely at the abandoned chess tower. Their latest match keeps replaying in his mind, though he's getting fuzzy on the details. (Admittedly, the last time he was in a situation to play chess at nearly four in the morning, he was... a bit younger.)
He is relieved when the chrono finally chimes at him to get up to the bridge. The morning shift turns out to be one of the worst he's had in a long time. The only good thing is that his crew like him so well, and that nothing much really happens all day. The one time Lieutenant D'Mor at Ops speaks up to inform him that there's been a delay in the scheduled inspection of the aft Jefferies tubes, he honest-to-goodness snaps at her. There is a long, awkward silence after that. He tries out an apology in his mind, but he can't get it to sound right. He fidgets. He stops himself from prowling around the bridge, knowing it'll put his people even more ill at ease. His uniform itches. He tries pulling up crew evaluations to take his mind off things, but he can't focus. Whenever he tries to read, all he hears are Spock's precise tones.
When finally (blessedly!) Commander Perkins shows up to relieve him for beta shift, it's all he can do not to run for the turbolift. A weird, tingly ache has taken hold of his body, and his mind... He feels just about ready to climb the walls. Maybe he's coming down with the same thing Spock has, it occurs to him. He should go see Phil, maybe get himself quarantined as well. He could share with Spock, another part of his brain chimes in, and suddenly the idea that an unkonwn alien pathogen may be spreading on his ship seems strangely unconcerning.
'Snap out of it, Chris!', he tells himself sternly and decides to head to the gym instead. A good workout is sure to put him to sleep tonight. On the treadmill, the steady rhythm of footfalls and breathing lets his mind go blissfully blank while his body burns off some of that nervous energy. But then he moves on to the barbells, and as soon as he slows down to fix his posture, the tingly restlessness comes back with a vengeance. Maybe there really is something wrong with him. He cleans up – momentarily soothed by the pounding spray from the shower, hot enough to scald -, then stalks out of the gym to go find Phil.