The (Dis)Comfort of a Single Person

by Yumestar

Summary:

James T. Kirk is too sick to conduct negotiations with Durama 78, a planet that will be the catalyst for an unfavourable three-front war if it does not rejoin the Federation in time. Unexpected circumstances force Starfleet Command to send Kirk back on duty – with a highly infectious disease that endangers the entire ship's crew. In the course of perhaps his toughest mission, Kirk receives help from various people, foremost his friends... But will it ultimately be enough to save the entire universe?

|| Regular Updates Every Monday.

Chapter 1: Drama

His personal intercom buzzed insistently.

Who wants what from me now? Jim put his shirt back on after just taking it off, before walking into the office space to his computer and calling up the information.

Visual request from Starfleet High Command. Priority level 7.

Jim pressed his lips tightly as he ran his fingers through his straw-like hair and looked down at his sweaty, wrinkled uniform. At least he wasn't already in his sleep wear.

With a prolonged sigh, Jim settled into his office chair. Why am I even showing myself? he asked his reflection on the dark screen saver. The flickering red light in the right corner answered him. Priority level 7, he recalled. He confirmed the request by pressing a button.

“I'm off duty,” Jim croaked, even before the image of the fleet admiral manifested itself on the screen. “If you have any urgent requests, please contact Commander Spock, who – ” He coughed off to the side.

“You are officially back on duty. We need you, James T. Kirk. The situation on Durama 78 – Well, catch your breath first.”

How considerate, Jim thought sarcastically as he looked at the half-portrait in front of him. Age had made the admiral's face hard and serious, but his features showed gentle kindness. Countless shiny gold insignia adorned the front of his wine-red uniform.

Jim could not bring his chesty cough under control. He gave the admiral a hand signal, then hurried to his sleeping area and fetched his water bottle, half-emptying it on the way back. With a metallic clonk, he set it down on the desk and crackled a lozenge out a nearby blister. If the conversation stretched over three sentences, he would need both. Water and lozenges – that’s how he had managed to command the bridge throughout the day despite being on sick leave. His voice, throat and airways have not been very grateful to him lately.

“I'm not fit,” Jim rasped. The lozenge hardly helped to keep the brittleness from his voice, and it helped even less with the pain.

“I am very sorry,” the admiral said honestly. “But the situation on Durama 78 has changed – worsened, to be precise. The Federation is on the brink of a disadvantageous three-front war unless Durama 78 can be persuaded to be part of it again.”

“I’m aware. As far as I'm informed, we'll reach the outer circle of the planet tomorrow at about zero nine hundred. It'll only be a few minutes to” – he coughed – “orbit then. We'll be on time.” He breathed the last words before clearing his throat vigorously.

“The same was stated in your First Officer's reports, but that is not the issue.” Jim wished the admiral would finally get to the point, because he wanted to go to bed. A dull headache, a slight feeling of discomfort and a wave of exhaustion announced a rise in his temperature. “Durama 78 refuses to get into contact with the Federation and its representatives – with the exception of you, James T. Kirk.”

“Why me?”

“Your reputation. You are known as a fair diplomat who not only represents the interests of the Federation, but always has the interests of both it and the other party in mind.”

“Spock or Scott would be just as good.”

“No, Captain Kirk. In our current situation, we cannot risk alienating Durama 78 further. It was their express wish that you conduct the negotiations with their representative.”

So, you'd rather bow to the opponent’s Queen and send your pawn forward instead of making a clever, tactical move? But Jim knew better than to waste what little voice he had left on a loud comment. “Sorry, I can't,” he politely declined instead.

“I am afraid you have no choice. We have already sent the confirmation, and you have been called back to duty so that you can lead the conversation with Durama 78 at ten hundred sharp tomorrow. My task is merely to inform you about the change, not to discuss it with you.”

This is unbelievable. Jim sniffled instead of responding. He wished he hadn't left his tissues on the dresser in the sleeping area. Out of necessity, he held his sleeve under his runny nose.

“It is just a cold, right? Surely it will not prevent you from caring out your duties.”

Jim gave a vague shrug to both statements. “How will the whole thing work? And where?” he asked hoarsely.

“We are about to send you a list of points that the Federation wants enforced regarding the re-entry of Durama 78. Act in its best interests, but feel free to take certain liberties if something else turns out to be more favourable during the talks.”

Jim nodded. It was a sign of the Federation’s confidence in him and he would do his best – or at least try – to live up to its expectations.

“As for where the conversation takes places, the representative from Durama 78 requested a visual contact from outside, so no planetary visit. In fact, he is expressly against any member of the Federation setting foot on the surface of Durama 78.”

Thanks goodness, Jim thought. Having the transporter take his sick cells apart and put them back together was the last thing he wished for. “I'll make the call from my quarters – ”

“I strongly advise you to call from the bridge. Considering all we have gathered so far, there is the possibility of a war at any time. Your ship could easily become a target; you may want to be present to react accordingly to the situation.” The want sounded like a should and the whole sentence like a direct order.

“I'm contagious,” Jim rasped. He coughed roughly into his fist.

“I guess your bridge crew will have to deal with that.”

“The Infection Protection Act on board a Starfleet spaceship states that – ”

“Captain Kirk, if you do not conduct this negotiation according to our guidelines, an epidemic on board your ship will be the least of your problems – much less that of the entire world. Besides, you are hardly going to infect your crew on purpose, right?”

With a nasal sigh, Jim leant back in his chair, folding his arms. His nose itched. He pressed against the tickle with the back of his hand so as not to give the admiral the pleasure of sneezing directly into his pixel face. Instead, he let out a low growl.

“Listen, Captain Kirk. If the situation would not be that urgent, we would have gladly given you the few days off. But there are hundreds of planets, thousands of civilisations, millions of artefacts, billions of goods and trillions of lives at stake here. And you're probably the only one who has the ability to – ”

“I got it,” Jim interrupted the exaggerated speech. “Send me the list and expect a detailed report from my First Officer on how I did at tomorrow's negotiations.” At the end, he even managed a tiny smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

The admiral smiled broadly back, his wrinkles stretching like those of a kindly grandfather. “Thank you very much, Captain Kirk.”

“Not for that,” Jim muttered, stifling a yawn. “If you now excuse me, I’d like to – ”

The admiral raised a hand as if he understood. “Get some rest. Tomorrow will not be easy for you. Get well soon.”

Jim did not know how to respond, so he kept smiling until his finger found the right button. The image of the admiral disappeared with a flicker and the screen saver switched on. Jim leaned his head back and let out the sneeze that had been pestering him all along. “Achkschuh!”

He rubbed the viscous liquid away with his sleeve, barked wetly into the fabric and prepared to raise when the intercom buzzed again. Jim called up the information.

Visual request from Leonard McCoy. No priority level.

What a great timing, Bones. Jim's gaze fell on the chronometer. Twenty hundred. Jim vaguely remembered having made an appointment with his ship's doctor at that hour, but he had expected McCoy to be at least five minutes late – and himself to be in bed with some comfortable clothes on by then.  

Jim didn't bother to correct anything about himself – neither his appearance, nor his reclined posture, nor the hint of despair in his expression – as he accepted the request.

***

“Jesus Christ, I told you not to work – not even from your quarters. Now look at you! Why are you still in your uncomfortable uniform and not tucked up all nicely in bed?”

Jim was almost inclined to smile at McCoy's fatherly complaint if the situation hadn't weighed hopelessly heavy on the corners of his mouth. “Bones, the admiral just informed me that I'm to conduct tomorrow's negotiations.”

“What?”

At least someone here has the energy to get angry. Jim acknowledged McCoy's disbelief with a nod, then rubbed the spot between his eyebrows. The pain had moved on, now pulsing from his temples to his cheeks through both of his eye sockets. An unpleasant warmth was building up underneath. He reached for his water bottle and took a few sips while McCoy tried to control his anger – unsuccessfully.

“But Spock and Scotty have already prepared for this. Even I could have done it! What is Starfleet Command thinking? They know you're sick, I sent them my medical assessment and the sick note, for crying out loud!”

“They put me back on duty,” Jim said with a big sniffle.

“They've... what?! I can understand if you don't follow my instructions, but my goodness, have they lost their mind, or what? I have my reasons for pulling you out of commission and I consider their action a personal affront to me as a doctor. Jim, if you want me to stand up for you and fill out a complaint – ”

Jim waved him off. “It’s too late for that, I already agreed.”

McCoy's eyes fluttered upwards as if he were about to faint. However, he quickly recovered from his utter bewilderment. “Jim, why – why in the name of the devil did you do that?”

“People’s lives,” Jim said with a dry cough. “And because – Ackschuh!” The sneeze pushed violently into his sinuses, adding a dull throb to the cluster headache. He pressed his hand to his face and felt the warmth spreading underneath it. His voice took on a muffled, nasal tone. “And because I cannot – must not – go against Starfleet Command.”

McCoy's angry expression melted away as he sympathised. “Jim, how are you feeling right now?”

“Honestly? Like shit warmed over both from the inside and outside.” He hesitated for just a moment. “I think I'm getting a fever.”

“Jim, do you want – ”

Jim overheard McCoy as his computer chirped. A notification popped up in the corner. “Sorry, Bones, I just got the list. I have to...” He cleared his throat. “Computer: open the file.”

“What list, Jim?”

“The list of...” Jim's tongue stopped as a document with twenty-two items and twice as many notes unfolded on the screen. McCoy's face was just a small tile in the corner, reflecting his own horror.

McCoy caught himself a few seconds earlier, however. “Jim, whatever you got there, pass it on to Spock, he'll take care of it. What I wanted to ask: Do you want me to come over and check on you?”

“Huh?” Jim closed the document and turned his attention to McCoy's image, which was growing large again. “No, I’m fine.”

“Then let me rephrase my question: Can I come over and check on you?”

“Why? You've already examined me thoroughly and made a diagnosis.”

“That was three days ago! I didn't ask as a doctor, I asked as a friend. Do you need me, Jim?”

“Bones, no. I... ” He coughed roughly into his palm. “I don't want to get anyone sick, especially not you. The Enterprise will still need its doctor in full health.”

“Why does that sound like we're willingly throwing ourselves into a giant hole full of snakes?”

Jim allowed himself a weary grin, expressing ironic amusement. “Because that's exactly what we're doing.” His expression fell again with fatigue. “But no, seriously, I'll be fine. Thanks for offering, though.”

“Jim, really, if you need me – I mean, I don't mind a bit of coughing and sniffling if it means I can make sure you're – ”

“Bones, we both know it's not just ‘a bit of a cough and sniffling’. I... I'm just incredibly tired. I don't think I can do this.“

“Jim – ” McCoy swallowed whatever reassuring thing he wanted to say and instead switched to a cool, professional tone. “All right, as your doctor, I suggest you forget everything for now, get changed and get into bed – and take your temperature! I need to know how bad it is. Can I – Ah, I’ll just call you back later. Is half an hour enough for you?”

Jim shrugged his aching shoulders. “I don't know. I've still got a lot to do.”

“Forget your duties for now and take care of yourself – otherwise you'll collapse. And if that happens, I'll be with you immediately, drag you to sickbay myself and keep you there for at least a week.”

Jim almost laughed, it sounded so ridiculously absurd – if McCoy's expression hadn't been deadly serious. “Doctor's orders received. I'm going to lie down.”

“I fairly hope so! See you in a while, Jim.”

“Yeah. Kirk out.”

Jim switched off the transmission, grabbed his water bottle and... didn’t make it out of his chair first. His body seemed to have gained a lot of weight in the last few minutes – or something was wrong with the gravity in his room. He held onto the edge of the desk and fought a hard battle to push himself to his feet. The dizziness almost overwhelmed him, nausea hanging in his throat. He waited until the rushing in his head subsided and he was no longer on the verge of vomiting before shuffling to the sleeping area.

The sweaty shirt barely parted from his skin when he lifted it. He'd had a slight fever earlier this afternoon – a slightly elevated temperature, then a low-grade fever, but he hadn't reported it to McCoy. After a few hours he had broken out in a hot sweat and the fever had gone away. This, however, felt a lot more intense – like a spaceship crashing into him at warp 8.

Jim threw his shirt carelessly into the corner and was tempted to lie in bed just like that –  half-naked, just wearing a pair of tight-fitting trousers. But the usual eighteen degrees in his room triggered the most violent chills. Goose bumps covered his arms as his muscles cramped. He staggered to his wardrobe, pulled out a thin jumper, loose trousers and thick socks – thicker ones than he was already wearing – and stuck a clinical thermometer in his mouth. It was an old-fashioned one from the digital era, because he would never be able to use a medical scanner as well as McCoy.

When he had changed his clothes and dropped down heavily on the edge of his bed, the thermometer beeped. He took it out and squinted against the glassy haze – his eyes had suddenly started to water – to decipher the reading. Once the numbers became clear, he let out a curse unbecoming of his century and let himself fall backwards on his mattress.

Although the temptation to simply surrender to exhaustion was immense, the adrenaline was pumping through his veins too violently to give in to sleep. His heart beat fast and convulsively, and his pulse pounded in his ears. His breathing quickened so much that it kept chasing him into violent coughing fits – the kind that left him with a slight wheeze. He took a dose of his regular medication, but it didn’t help much.

After that, Jim turned the intercom towards him, but then changed his mind and reached for his communicator instead. He slowly flipped it open and set the frequency. “Kirk to McCoy. Bones, come in.”

“Goodness, that was under ten minutes. Did you finally wrap up warm? And why the communicator?”

Jim pulled the blanket over himself and made sure the rustling sound got through to McCoy. “I've got a fever of thirty-eight-six and I'm still cold.” As if on cue, he shuddered.

“What? Jim, that makes you unfit for duty! For Heaven's sake, you should be in sickbay right now!”

“Don't shout like that, Bones,” he croaked, before coughing into his blanket away from the communicator. The fabric barely muffled the loud, barking sound.

“Is it just the communicator or why do you sound really sick all of a sudden?”

“I am really sick. I even had to take a dose.” Jim swallowed the build-up of phlegm and spit in his mouth, retching from it.

“Jim?”

“I'll probably survive,” he breathed. He plucked a few tissues from the box to blow his nose before it would be completely blocked and he could no longer breathe through it.

Over the trumpeting noise, he almost missed McCoy's audible hesitation. “I'll... I'll be right over with you. With everything you need.”

“Bones, no. We don’t know anything about this virus yet, so – “

“That's exactly why I want to reassess your condition. We barely know what you caught from the last planetary visit, except that it's some kind of cross between a cold and the flu and could possibly kill you.”

“Three days ago, you sounded more optimistic.”

“Three days ago you just had mild symptoms and no fever! I'm on my way now.”

Before Jim could say anything to stop him, the connection died. He tried to reach McCoy several times, but no call went through. Swallowing his frustration, Jim snapped the communicator shut and threw it next to him. This was exactly the kind of scene he had wanted to avoid. But there wasn't much he could do about it now.

***

Jim waited tensely for McCoy's arrival. When the door to his room slid open, a figure entered that was too tall and too thin to be McCoy. Their posture was bolt upright and their every movement stiff with restraint. In the fifteen per cent night lighting, the shadows gave the person's face a devilish countenance – not least because of the pointed ears.

Jim breathed the person's name, but a harsh bark prevented him from saying it. Spock stepped to his bedside. The lights above the headboard erased the shadows from his face, revealing a cool, emotionless expression – at least that was the first impression, but Jim knew the Vulcan well enough to interpret the subtle changes; the tiny curve of his eyebrows, the twitch in his cheek muscles, the slight bite on his lips. A hint of curiosity, pure fascination, and – so fleeting that it was perhaps an illusion – a spark of worry that softened the stoic countenance.

Jim was hit by a new wave of fever and he wrapped the blanket tighter around him. Nose deep, he buried himself in the warmed fabric until his flushed cheeks were hopefully no longer visible.

Spock straightened his posture, which hadn't deviated an inch from perfect, and clasped his hands behind his back. “I walked into McCoy in the corridor and convinced him that it was not logical for him to expose himself to unnecessary risk. I, on the other hand, with my natural resistance, can perform a few medical tests on you with minimal risk, if you will allow me to.”

Jim blinked. His brain was still stuck on the image of Spock and McCoy meeting in the corridor and having a lively discussion – one side highly emotional, the other completely logical – and so he merely nodded absentmindedly. Spock first ran the science tricorder over him before pulling out a handheld medical scanner and sitting down at the edge of his bed to circle it over him. The device made various beeping, whirring and whistling noises as Spock kept changing the settings.

Jim watched Spock and occasionally let out a cough or sniffle. Spock finished his analysis and looked at the recordings with patience. “You are showing clear signs of a worsening fever that is affecting your entire body,” he finally said. “All your values have deteriorated significantly compared to the last measurement.”

I could have told you that without a tricorder - if you'd asked. Jim swallowed the remark. He appreciated Spock taking the time to be here, and most of all, he was grateful that Spock had kept McCoy away from him.

Spock looked up from the science tricorder and at him. “You must be in a fairly poor state due to your failing health.”

“Yeah, that's one way to put it.”

“McCoy has asked me to run some additional tests because we're dealing with an unknown virus. May I?” Spock reached out his hands to his face. What Jim initially thought was a comforting gesture turned out to be one of the announced examinations. As he nodded, warm fingers felt the skin behind his jaw – along the thick lobes. “Your lymph nodes are swollen to an abnormal degree,” Spock remarked. He applied light pressure to them. “Does that hurt?”

“Yeah.”

Spock withdrew his hands. “Do you have a sore throat?”

“It’s pretty bad.”

“Nasal and respiratory irritation,” Spock listed the obvious symptom. “Headache?”

“Very severe. Cluster-like.”

“Light sensitivity?”

Jim glanced at the light and if that wasn't a clear answer, he shook his head.

“Sound sensitivity?”

Again, he shook his head.

“McCoy mentioned that you reacted strangely to his voice and did not use the intercom's visuals.”

“That was because...” Jim didn't have the energy or breath to explain a circumstance that was too puzzling even for him. “You also do flinch when he gets loud.”

Spock looked almost offended, but his voice betrayed no such reaction. “I have sensitive ears,” he said neutrally.

“Screens and shouting make my headache worse,” Jim gave the simple explanation. In reality, various factors had led to his strange behaviour towards McCoy, but fatigue made him forget.

“That is understandable,” Spock said with a slight hint of gentleness. “Have you noticed any form of rash?”

Jim shook his head.

“Would you mind if I checked?” Spock reached for his blanket.

Jim held onto it protectively. “I'm pretty sure I haven't discovered a rash on myself. What exactly do you two suspect I have?”

“An unknown illness,” Spock replied as if it were – it was the most logical answer. He put his hands back on his lap. “I do not know what McCoy suspects but my guess is a rare mutation or a fusion of two types of virus, even if it is not the most obvious possibility. In any case, you should stay in quarantine until we can say for sure.”

“About that, well…” Jim let out an uncertain laugh, which turned into a heavy coughing fit. When his breathing stopped wheezing, he continued seriously but hoarsely. “Starfleet Command has assigned me to conduct the conversation with Durama 78 – from the bridge.”

Both of Spock's eyebrows shot up. If he hadn't been Vulcan, Jim would have interpreted it as an expression of Are they still in their right minds? Instead, Spock said, “That is a rather illogical course of action. Did they not read McCoy's medical assessment?”

Jim shrugged. “I guess not, they think I just have a cold. Anyway, it's about keeping peace and saving lives and, you know…”

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few’,” Spock quoted an unknown source. “In this case, the wellbeing of all Enterprise crew members is weighed against that of the entire world. A conflicting situation, indeed, but it seems we have no choice but to take the risk, unless you plan to actively refuse the order.” An unspoken question resonated in Spock's words.

“Can I really do that?”

“Well, if McCoy declares you unfit for duty and pleads your case, which I am sure he will, then – ”

“I know the situation with Durama 78. Ever since the planet declared independence from it, they've been plotting against the Federation. If I don't do something now...” His words ended in a coughing attack.

“Why do you have to be the one?”

Jim took a deep breath after his fit ended and expelled it with a lengthy sigh. “Because I've been declared the only martyr in this matter.”

Spock raised an eyebrow at his perhaps clumsy choice of words. “If making this sacrifice is of any importance to you – ”

“ – it isn't, but someone has to do it.”

“ – Anyway, if you are that someone, why do you not do it from your bed?”

“Because Starfleet Command has made it pretty clear that I'm supposed to be on the bridge.”

“Oh.” Apparently the dilemma was beginning to dawn on Spock.

“What do you suggest me to do, Spock?”

“Well, first of all, the Starfleet Command is behaving very illogically and, to me, completely inconsequentially and – how do you humans call it? – very lousy” – Spock had never insulted anyone so much in one sentence – “and secondly, if you do not want to make yourself liable to prosecution for direct insubordination and, to put it colloquially, have an entire world on your conscience, then I suggest that you comply with the order – and thus take any risk for yourself and the Enterprise.”

Jim let out a long breath. “Well, thank you too, Spock.”

Fortunately, the Vulcan didn't take his sarcasm personally. “What did McCoy say about it?”

“I didn't mention it to him,” Jim admitted.

Spock blinked – exactly three times. “You did... Am I under any obligation to understand that?”

“No.” Jim barked into the blanket. “And maybe I'll listen to your suggestion and just go through with it. I – ” The coughing returned with exhausting ferocity. As the adrenaline slowly wore off and the chills stopped, there wasn't much holding him by the thin thread of wakefulness anymore. He rolled onto his side and pulled the blanket up over his head. “I'll probably feel better tomorrow – once I've slept the worst off,” he mumbled, voice muffled. “But there's still so much to prepare, especially the talk with the representative... and I have to talk to the bridge crew and McCoy and...”

A hand rested on his shoulder. Even through the blanket and with his fever, he could feel that it was pleasantly warm. “Get some rest, Jim. I'll make all the arrangements.”

“I'm sorry to shift so much responsibility on you.”

“You do not need to apologise. I am your first officer, and it is my duty to cover for you when you cannot fulfil your duty.” Spock began rubbing his shoulder and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Come on, try to get some sleep. We will see what state you are in tomorrow.”

“Not a logical plan, because I have to be there,” Jim croaked.

“Then let me reassure you otherwise: All you have to do is wake up five minutes before the arranged meeting and make it into your uniform. I will take care of the rest.”

“Do you want me to get to the bridge as well?”

“I will carry you there if I have to.”

Jim was almost inclined to peek over the edge of his blanket to see if Spock had responded to his humorous question with a joke, but he was already too lost in a sleepy daze to move. Spock’s words had sounded so serious that Jim almost believed him, and it reassured him.

Because as it was, he was firmly convinced that he wouldn't make it anywhere in his condition, not even to the nearest intercom.

The mattress rustled and bulged as Spock rose. “McCoy gave me some medication for you. Do you know how to use a hypospray?”

Jim made a vague sound of confirmation. Something plastic-like clinked against his wooden bedside table and a few packets of medication rustled – probably some classic painkillers, more lozenges and cough syrup. “There is an antipyretic in the hypo. You should only take it if your temperature rises above thirty-nine-five. Please make sure to take your temperature before that. Do you understand?”

Jim nodded until he realised that the gesture was perhaps too weak to be seen. “Yeah, I know that,” he mumbled as if in a trance.

“I will fill up your water bottle and put it next to the bed. Make an effort to drink enough.” The Vulcan's footsteps faded into the distance.

“Spock?” Jim called out like a child left alone in the dark.

The footsteps stopped abruptly. “What is it, Jim?”

“You're pretty good at looking after someone, you know that?”

“Unfortunately, it is something I picked up from McCoy and Miss Chapel.” Spock returned briefly to set the water bottle down beside his bed with an audible clonk and then moved away again. “I assume you have received a document with all the important points from Starfleet Command. I am going to send it to my PADD and then leave.”

“Spock, can you maybe stay? Until you're sure I've fallen asleep?”

“If you can sleep with me present, of course.”

“I'll probably sleep even better then. Thank you, Spock.”

“As I said, you do not have to thank me. It is my duty – as your first officer and as your friend. I will work on your computer then. Good night, Jim.”

“Good...” Jim searched for the right word. “...work, Spock.”

Jim heard Spock walk across his room, sit down at his desk and open the document with a low voice command. There was silence for a few seconds, then a rhythmic typing filled the room. The engines of the Enterprise, which was still in warp, hummed in the background. It was heading straight for Durama 78.

As Jim drifted deeper into sleep, an amusing thought occurred to him. The pronunciation of Durama sounded a lot like the word drama.

And a drama it would probably turn out to be.

Chapter 2: Villain

Two kinds of nightmares existed. Those that brought back the past in the most hideous way; unfortunate accidents, painful break-ups, irreversible losses, fears that broke to the surface in distorted images.

And then there were those that placed you in front of the digital blackboard like you’ve time-travelled back to elementary school. A socially awkward, nine-year-old boy trying to solve a highly complicated math problem for which no university teacher would have found a solution, it seemed. But unlike in reality, it didn't end with the teacher sending you back to your seat and your classmates laughing at your bright red face. The numbers kept repeating themselves, their illogical sequences stringing together into a dense web that weaved into your brain. It squeezed your nerves, pressing the pain into every nook and cranny. It chased the ache through your body, making it twitch like in a seizure. It was like a pulse throbbing everywhere at once and nowhere to stop it.

Although in the back of his mind he was aware of the risk of walking further into a spider’s trap unprepared, Jim nevertheless approached the problem. He was left with no choice; even if he tried with all his might, he doubted he could drag his hyper-focused mind away. The deeper he delved, the more it closed in around him how fundamentally incomprehensible the problem turned out to be. Ever-changing variables. No fixed pattern. Even the basics failed.

Sheer panic urged him to back off, but he was already too caught up. The spider's web spun around him, wrapping itself tightly around his body. He struggled against it. It finally engulfed him, his muscles paralysed and his lungs unable to fill with air. Noises broke through the loud buzz of his thoughts. A rustling of a blanket and a squeaking mattress. It became unbearable.

With a desperate gasp, Jim woke up. The tangle of numbers painted itself in the darkness like pictures that lacked a certain something to become concrete. Out of reflex, he reached for them, but then recoiled. If they showed him his past, he would be better off not seeing them. It was just a nightmare, he told himself, a stupid, illogical nightmare. Now, stop thinking about it or you'll be pulled back in.

Jim focused on the shivering. His whole body trembled and ached. With a shuddering breath, he looked for the chronometer, its display glowing an ominous green. It wasn’t even past earthly midnight. He had barely slept three hours. Groaning, Jim rolled onto his other side. When the shaking stopped, he was exhausted enough to fall back asleep, but restlessness kept him on the edge of consciousness. The tangled numbers returned, threatening to become the most horrific terrors of his night.

It's okay, his inner voice told him, shrinking thin from panic. Let them go. Don’t –

Nausea crept up his throat like a leaping monster, making him retch. He didn’t bring up anything: he had skipped pretty much every meal that had been on his schedule for days. An empty hole gaped in his stomach, contributing to his discomfort. Jim retched again and this time it sent him into a barking fit. His coughs sounded as sharp and fiery as they came out his throat. Sweet phlegm and bitter liquid filled his mouth. He swallowed them down against the sandpaper-grinding roughness.

When Jim recovered somewhat from the attack, his face was burning hot, but his body remained icy-cold under the blanket. It had half-slipped away, so he pulled it back up to his chin. All his movements felt sluggish and hinted at weakness.

God, I've never been so awful. Images of past events flickered before his eyes, trying to convince him otherwise, but he ignored them to spare his aching brain – he tried to, anyway. By now, awareness dawned on him that he was losing that battle slowly.

Absentmindedly, Jim felt around for the thermometer, waited for another barking fit to end, and then put it in his mouth. He closed his eyes and sniffled through thickly swollen nostrils.

He must have dozed off for a few seconds, because the insistent beeping of the thermometer alerted him to drowsy wakefulness. Was that the critical fever alarm? Jim didn't bother to check. He wouldn't have been able to read the display in the dark anyway and the manual switch for the bedside lights seemed too far away. He didn't trust his voice enough to command the lights on.

However, his bedside table didn't seem too far away, so he reached for the hypo. He fiddled with the settings, and found they were already set correctly, so he pressed the syringe into his upper arm with a trembling hand. When he pressed the button, the contents released with a low hiss, flowing into his bloodstream, but at best it just calmed his nerves. The nightmarish web over his brain remained, as did the pain, and the fever raged on for a while longer.

At some point Jim must have fallen asleep from the effects of the antipyretic, because the next time he looked at the chronometer it was four hundred-something and he was strangely lucid. Not lucid enough to decipher blurred numbers, but conscious enough to understand that he wasn't going back to sleep for quite a while. The congestion was pressing against his sinuses and thick mucus was stuck in his chest. It didn’t clear even after several heavy coughing fits – in fact, it seemed to be only moving further down. His airways were constricted and burned sharply whenever he took too deep a breath.

If he had been just a little less dazed, he might have panicked about suffocating. But he was frighteningly calm. Perhaps he had finally come to terms with his condition. It would at least make things easier.

Jim pushed himself up with his arms, an agonising cough escaping him. He swallowed half a cup of cough syrup and took another dose of his regular medication, before noticing the outline of his PADD, carefully placed in the middle of his bedside table. Spock must have put it there for him. A tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he reached for it. The abrupt brightness almost killed his eyes.

Squinting his lids, Jim switched the brightness down to almost zero before looking at the darkened display. Admittedly, he couldn’t make out much of what he saw at first, but it was enough to tell that Spock had done a great job. The argumentation structure was coherent and thoroughly logical; all twenty-two demands of the Federation had been worked into it and explained in a way that even a sick person could easily follow.

The more he read, the more he understood. Jim had no objections. He would have done the same if the illness hadn’t reduced his mental capacity to that of an idiot. Thank you, Spock. The thought that the negotiations with Durama 78 might not turn into such a disaster after all gave him enough peace of mind to fall asleep again.

A horrible bang tore him from another nightmare, the tangled shreds of which immediately faded. Alerted, Jim looked around his room, recognising nothing but dubious shadows. A break in the deflector shields? An explosion of the warp core? Are we under attack? Jim pushed himself up, the spinning dizziness adding to the nausea. As he put his feet on the cold floor, his eyes fell on the PADD, sadly glowing in abandonment. A fine crack ran from its bottom corner over half of the screen. Jim got an idea what happened.

Shouldn’t have hugged that thing when I’m such a restless sleeper. With an exhausted sigh, Jim let himself drop back on the bed, his back aching in response. He curled up on his side, as he muffled a cough with his sleeve, glancing over the fabric at the chronometer. Six-hundred-and-late-enough-for-the-alpha-shift-to-be-on-duty. Jim set an alarm for half past ten hundred and went back to sleep.

***

At exactly seven hundred and forty-eight Jim had reached the point where he was sure he couldn't sleep anymore even if he desperately tried to. He rolled over to the intercom and called the first person he could think of. Then he lay back down, pulled the covers up to his face and closed his eyes to fight off the piercing headache.

“Are you dead, Jim?” McCoy's voice boomed out of the intercom. His face was probably on screen, but Jim didn't bother to open his eyes to check.

“Maybe,” he croaked. His voice sounded like gravel and scratched against his sore throat.

“Oh lord, I can barely hear you! Wait, let me just quickly adjust…” While McCoy fiddled with the settings, Jim blindly did the same on his side – only he turned the volume down. McCoy's voice now came like a whisper. “How do you feel, Jim?”

Jim barked into his blanket. “Like shit,” he breathed.

“Why did I even ask? It's obvious!” Even when McCoy shouted, his voice still sounded pleasantly quiet. “You know what? I'm coming over now, and no Vulcan is going to stop me this time.”

“Bones...”

“Your quarantine has been lifted since six-hundred, Spock and I have decided. There's no more reason for me not to come and check on my patient who’s hiding from his doctor like a five-year-old.”

As Jim rolled his eyes, he wondered if McCoy only had agreed with Spock for the very reason to pester him outside of the digital frame. But Spock? There must have been some logic behind his decision – their decision, Jim couldn’t believe he corrected himself.

“I'll be there in ten minutes. Don't get any ideas about sending your Vulcan friend as fortress, because he knows I’ll be unstoppably stubborn this time. McCoy out.”

Good morning to you as well, Bones. With a deep sigh, Jim wondered if he would have to accept Spock’s offer to be carried to the bridge after all – and what McCoy would have to say about that.

Because, in all honesty, he didn’t feel like leaving the warmth of his blanket for a cold work day at all.

***

In the end, he did fight his way out of his warm blanket, even got his stiff and heavy body moving, when someone – a stubborn someone – entered his quarters. Jim pushed himself to the edge of his bed and doubled right over into a heavy coughing fit which he caught with a cross of his wrists.

“What a welcome,” McCoy said in his usual grumpy manner, screwing up his own attempt to appear like he was on a professional house-call. “Sounds like the textbook example of a dry cough that’s just itching to become productive.”

“Have we met, Doc?” Jim tried a breathless joke, which only made him cough harder. His muscles cramped as he leant forwards even more, his arms trembling under the strain.

McCoy grabbed him by the shoulder, steading his posture. “Maybe we have, Jim. Careful now, I’m gonna jab a hypo into you that will loosen up all that nasty phlegm. Do yourself and me a favour and spit it out – preferably into the bag for the lab.”

As McCoy pulled the emptied hypo out of his upper arm, his bronchial tubes widened and the inflammation subsided gradually. The phlegm thinned, rattling in his airways. Jim took a deep breath and brought it up with a few savoury coughs, then spat it into the plastic bag McCoy held out for him.

When he was finally done, Jim leaned back on his exhausted arms. With a floppy move, he reached for the tissue McCoy held out to him, wiped his mouth and blew his nose. The amount of mucus a human body could produce astonished Jim: the bottom of the bag was covered in a pulpy, yellow-greenish liquid and his tissue contained another half of that.

McCoy put both the bag and the tissue away with the indifferent shrug of a doctor, before tapping Jim on the shoulder. “Lie down again. I’ll check you through.”

“Why are you here, Bones?” he asked as he lowered his back onto the mattress.

McCoy sat down on the edge of the bed where Jim had been sitting earlier and ran the medical science tricorder over him without answering his question with more than a frown.

“I mean, this close, without any form of protect–  ”A cough surprised him. He hastily threw his arm in front of his face, turning away.

“Based on the data Spock gathered yesterday, I've figured out that you're probably not that contagious anymore.” McCoy glanced down at the tricorder display and his features slipped. “I may have miscalculated. For God’s sake, you're even more contagious than before. But well, that at least tells us that it's probably two viruses each triggering a delayed immune response that intensify the effect of – ”

“Damn, Bones.”

McCoy blinked out of his marvellous murmur and brought his features under control. “I’m sorry. The curious scientist in me must have come out...”

“When I get through today, I promise you that you can do as many experiments with me as you want. I demand a cure.”

“If you'd agreed to do this a few days earlier – ”

“I am aware.” Jim made it clear with his tone that he didn't want to start a debate. He buried his nose in his shoulder for a hearty sneeze. “Ackschuh!” He sniffled pathetically. “What’s the great plan?”

“I'm gonna use the hand scanner to get some more precise data and – ”

“I mean regarding the situation with Durama 78,” Jim croaked. “Came up with a solution?”

“All but two bridge members assigned for today’s duty have agreed that they have no issue with you being on the bridge in your less-than-ideal condition.”

“Who are those two?”

“Uhura… and Chekov,” McCoy said as he circled the hand scanner over him. Spock had made the use of it look easy the evening before, but McCoy was visibly concentrating on interpreting the various sounds. His reply came delayed. “Don't worry, their shifts start later and they’re still sleeping, so we haven't contacted them yet. Neither of them has any pre-existing conditions and they're pretty nice people, as you know, so I don't think there'll be any issues.” McCoy changed the setting with an audible click that echoed in the silence. “Jim?”

“Don’t tell me I’m going to infect them all!” Raising his voice triggered a cough, which he caught with his sleeve. The pain in his throat matched the one in his heart.

“We're… trying to prevent that,” McCoy said after a moment of focusing on the tricorder’s output. “Unfortunately, we haven't come up with an ideal solution yet. The individual shields don't work with the virus and we can hardly put you in a protective suit.”

Jim threw him a glance. You very well can.

McCoy stopped the tricorder to meet his gaze with the same firm determination. “No, Jim, that would be extremely inhumane and we all – and by that I mean myself, Spock and all members of the bridge crew – have agreed that we want you to be comfortable.”

“Just put me in a damn suit, no need to be considerate of me or something,” Jim scoffed. McCoy looked at him as if he had lost his mind. Jim blew out his breath softly, but his nerves didn't calm. “It's not going to work, making me comfortable, so why put everyone at risk?”

“The risk is there one way or another, so why choose the inconvenient one? Why keep being so stubborn?”

Because I won’t feel comfortable until you give me the sure guaranty that I haven’t infected anyone. Jim pressed his lips tightly together as a cough threatened to erupt, preventing him from voicing his thought.

“You’re very lucky to have us, you know that, Jim? You won't be standing on an empty bridge, you won't be facing this alone. You've got all the people you trust behind your back.”

The coughing subsided and with it the fiery passion inside him. Jim kept quiet now, knowing full well how damn lucky he was to be the captain of this crew. If he wasn’t, things would have been so much easier. For him. For them. For all of us. He blew out a faint sigh that caught McCoy's attention.

McCoy gave him an encouraging smile and Jim at least considered lifting the corners of his mouth, so I guess you got me there. Then, McCoy focused back on the scan and Jim didn't bother him as he analysed the data.

A few minutes later, McCoy looked up. “You're still running a moderate fever, I can't assess the condition of your lungs because of the medication, and would you care to explain why your circulation has reached lower deck?”

Jim let out an indistinct grumble. McCoy grabbed the water bottle from the floor and shook it until it revealed to be full to the brim, before pressing it into Jim's arms. “Was your last meal just as long ago?” McCoy was audibly upset.

Jim pressed his lips together so as not to give the wrong answer and pretended that opening the water bottle required all his attention. McCoy unscrewed it for him, not giving him a chance to avoid his challenging gaze. “I wasn't hungry,” Jim admitted quietly.

“I wasn't asking for a reason, I was asking how long.”

Jim got the wheels rattling in his head, but couldn't for the life of him remember the last time he'd had a meal that didn't consist of a small coffee and an even smaller sandwich. When was the last time he'd had something warm? Or a proper lunch? God, don't tell, it was last week...

McCoy sighed out loud as the answer took him weeks. “Tell me, do you still remember what the inside of the canteen looks like?”

Jim grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, Bones. I think it's been a while.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, drink something!”

“I did drink a lot,” Jim muttered defensively and lifted the bottle to his mouth. He hadn't realised how thirsty he was until he drank half of the water in one go – and he would probably have finished the whole thing if he hadn't fallen victim to a coughing fit right in the middle. When he got his breath back, however, he took a few more sips to keep McCoy happy.

McCoy looked anything but satisfied and set a hypo to extra sharp. “I'm going to inject you with a nutrient preparation. Do you think you'll still be able to swallow anything real?”

“Don’t know,” Jim croaked, “I feel pretty sick.”

“Probably from hunger!” McCoy muttered a curse under his breath and jabbed the hypo into a vein in his forearm. Jim winced, that had been unexpectedly painful. He resisted the temptation to rub the spot as McCoy pulled the syringe away. Even as McCoy turned his back to him to stow the equipment in his med-kit, Jim sensed that McCoy was angry with him.

“I'm sorry, Bones. I'm not exactly making your job easy.”

“You never did.” McCoy turned back to him, the anger washing from his face. “Jim, you haven't been taking enough care of yourself. And I don't understand why you've spent the last few days in your quarters, instead of… “ He rolled out his tongue and licked the remaining words from his lips. His tone softened. “I realise you didn't want to infect me, but I'm totally willing to go through the same hell as you if it means being able to be with you. I was very worried about you the entire time and now I'm just annoyed that my concern was justified. Your condition has gone downhill very quickly and that was the case even before Starfleet Command sent you to the bridge. When exactly were you going to tell me about that specific of the order?”

Towards the end, the anger crept back into his voice. Jim didn't know what to reply other than, “I'm truly sorry, Bones.”

“Actually, I shouldn't be angry with you, but with our pointy-eared friend who obviously talked you into it. Jim, I'm totally against you conducting the negotiations – whether from your room or from the bridge.”

Gradually, Jim felt the effects of the nutrient supplement and the water: he felt a little stronger. “Bones –  “

McCoy raised his hand to not let it turn into an argument. “But I also know that you are left with no other choice. You have to be the one to speak to the representative, Spock told me that as well. I, on the other hand, shouldn't be mad at you, I'm not mad at you, and I should support you in any way I can – both as your CMO and as a friend – so that's what I'm going to do. I'll follow all your orders, Captain, and you'll listen to my doctor's orders in return. Is that clear?”

Jim nodded gratefully. McCoy was very rarely that obliging with his patients. Jim assumed, it was only because of his special status that McCoy wasn't setting the whole universe against him to prevent him from saving this very universe. In chess, this situation would perhaps be regarded as a stalemate – a fair draw.

“Good.” McCoy patted his knee and rose from the bed with a smug expression. “I suggest you get some more rest, let your circulation stabilise first. We'll come round at half past ten hundred and help you with everything you need.”

“‘We?’”

“Spock and me. He insisted on accompanying you to the bridge. I am almost inclined to believe you've inspired in him a rare feeling of compassion.” McCoy rounded off his words with a small grin.

Jim didn't return it. “I hope not.”

McCoy's expression returned to gentleness. “Jim, it's okay. Everything's going to be fine. You've got Spock and me and a whole crew behind you. Either we conquer the universe together or we go down with it – it doesn't matter what the end result is, as long as we reach it together.”

“Thanks, Bones.” Jim hated to admit it, but the words reassured him. He snuggled into a warm spot on his mattress and closed his eyes.

McCoy filled his water bottle, placed it by his bed with a metal clink and then left the room.

It was only when the doors slid shut with a mechanical hiss that his worries chased the peace out of his mind. No words of reassurance could change the fact that he held the lives of countless people in one hand and in any case, the lives of four hundred people in the other. At best, he would infect a few members of the bridge crew; at worst, he would trigger a ship-wide epidemic with a virus they hardly knew anything about. They only knew it could bring a strong, grown man to his knees within days. And who could guarantee that it wouldn't kill him by the end of the week?

As he had done so many times in his life, James T. Kirk regretted the fact that it was harder for him to make decisions about other people's lives than his own.

He could die at any time. He was prepared for that.

But please without dragging other people into the same grim fate.

At the same time, he hated himself for not wanting to die alone. He wanted to believe in the together McCoy had mentioned. And then again, he despised himself even more for thinking like that.

Was it really okay for him to save the world if it meant being a hero to the many and becoming a villain to the few he cared about?

The thought didn't let him rest for the next hour.

Chapter 3: Breakdown

Jim sat silently in the chair and ate the yoghurt McCoy had brought him. It tasted like less than nothing and left a sour burn in his mouth, but at least it didn't scratch his throat too much. Jim coughed into his arm and watched McCoy make his bed while Spock rummaged through his wardrobe a few feet away.

“Hallelujah!” The exclamation made Spock turn to the doctor who was pulling off the sheets, but McCoy's attention was not on the Vulcan. “They're soaking wet! How much did you sweat during the night, Jim? No wonder you were completely dehydrated this morning! How high was your temperature?”

Jim shrugged. He didn't remember.

“Jim!” As McCoy turned towards him, he noticed the empty hypo on the bedside table. The anger melted from his face. “Damn,” he muttered. “How high exactly?”

“Test me,” Jim pressed through his lips. The yoghurt was starting to take on a bitter flavour and was definitely not helping his nausea. He put the cup down on the side table and hesitated to take another lozenge and the dose of his cough syrup. Just staring at his medication made him sick...

“Did you take it?” McCoy's words drew his attention. Jim nodded. McCoy picked up the thermometer and tapped the button several times. “Forty-point-two! Damn it, Jim, you should have called me!”

“I was too out for that,” Jim muttered.

“More reason to have called me somehow!” McCoy took a deep breath and turned instead to Spock, who had finished his search for clothes and was standing stiffly in front of the wardrobe. “And why didn't you stay with him, green-blooded hobgoblin? It should have occurred to you that his fever could be dangerous! What if he had a seizure? What if he hadn't given himself the injection? What if he had been unable to? What if – !”

“Doctor,” Spock interrupted him. “You are imagining the worst possible scenarios. I took his temperature before I left and, in my personal opinion, his condition was stable enough to leave him alone. Besides, he only asked me to stay until he fell asleep.”

“And it didn't occur to your logical mind that it could suddenly get worse? That he might have needed someone by his side? You argued me away before I even had a chance to take a look at him, and your data arrived far too late!”

“I sent it to the lab immediately.”

“And the lab only sent it to me at six hundred in the morning!”

“Then the fault is not mine, but – ”

“Shut up, Spock. After our conversation, I wanted to add. You rang me out of bed five hundred something just to work out a detailed quarantine plan and give me the additional information about the order, and you didn't say a damn word about how bad Jim was!”

“A misunderstanding. I thought you already had the data.”

“No, and maybe you should have asked – ”

Jim cleared his throat loudly enough to attract their attention – or it was the followed-up coughing fit that ended their argument.

“Sorry, Jim, I lost my temper a bit,” McCoy admitted, staring at the tips of his shoes. “I just wish I'd known all this a lot sooner. Then I could have helped. Then I could have been with you in your worst hours.”

“I know, Bones.”

“Maybe I could have prevented things to turn so badly on us...”

“The past cannot be changed, McCoy,” Spock said, “but the present can. Let us just do our best now to turn it more favourable.” Jim swore he heard a trace of sadness in Spock's voice. Did Spock regret leaving him alone for the night? McCoy also seemed to notice, but neither of them said anything to avoid embarrassing Spock.

“By the way, I have chosen an appropriate outfit for you,” Spock continued. He stepped towards Jim, but McCoy held him by the arm. The Vulcan barely reacted to the gesture, except to stop and look at McCoy.

“Do you really think his uniform – especially that scratchy, tight gala one – is ‘an appropriate outfit’?”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Of course, I am aware that it is not particularly comfortable, but – ”

“If you’re aware, don’t ‘but’ me!” McCoy grabbed Spock by the shoulders, turned him around and pushed him back towards the wardrobe. “Thin jumper or shirt, trousers, socks and underwear.”

“May I remind you that he is showing up as a representative of the Federation and the Enterprise?”

“Then don't make him wear a cat jumper or an ‘I love space’ T-shirt. Or do I have to choose something?”

“I can just wear my uniform,” Jim breathed. Either they hadn't heard him or decided not to.

“Doctor, you lack expertise when it comes to formal dress style.”

“I'm a doctor, not a fashion expert! But you claim to be one? You only know uniform or bathrobe!”

Spock looked mildly offended that his traditional Vulcan robe had been labelled a bathrobe, but it was so subtle that it could be mistaken for his usual raise of eyebrow. Of course, you couldn't hear any of that in his calm, logical voice. “I am quite familiar with the dress code for formal occasions. Therefore, I propose to decide on the captain's choice of dress alone.”

“Jesus, you almost put him in the most uncomfortable uniform in the whole fleet!”

“The Starfleet uniform is bearable to wear. I do not encounter any issue with – ”

“’Bearable’, ha! You basically just admitted it being – ”

“It did not admit to anything, it was a logical – ”

“So why in the name of your Vulcan logic are you never wearing the formal uniform, but that Vulcan robe whose name I cannot spell – Don’t even think about telling me, because I won’t remember, it’s basically a bathrobe! So why did you always wear it to formal occasion instead of the uniform?”

“You must be mistaken, I do not wear it ‘always’. It was just – ”

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me, it was just because it got ripped apart in the other meeting, as – ”

“It did,” Spock said coldly. His eyes had taken on a sharp form as he took a step towards McCoy.

But McCoy was none to flinch away from an angered – or challenged was the more appropriate term – Vulcan and stepped closer as well. “You have no proof of this, so your logic doesn't apply. So why – ”

“Why don’t you two just agree on letting me go naked?” Jim croaked, throwing some dripping sarcasm into their argument. The two unequals turned their heads towards him.

“Jim, I didn’t mean to – ”

“Although it is a common practice in some cultures to hold official meetings without clothing, this is probably the worst possible choice for a conversation between two Terran peoples.”

Spock's sober words shocked them into silence.

“And a uniform is definitely the worst possible choice of clothing for a sick person who should be comfortable,” McCoy stressed when he had composed himself. “He won't look any better in sweat.”

“Bones, I can just put on my uniform. I need to radiate confidence and something official helps with that...”

“Jim...” While McCoy started to talk him into something – Jim wasn't really listening – Spock reached into the wardrobe and after a minute came up with another pile of clothes. As far as Jim could tell, it contained a thin, yellow turtleneck jumper, loose trousers of sturdy fabric, thick woolen socks and appropriate underwear – although the latter had hardly been part of the debate. Spock kept the pile in his arms because there was no place to put it – the bed wasn't ready yet and the shelves were too far away. Scornfully huffing, McCoy made his way back to the bed to resume his task of making it.

“The doctor's suggestion,” Spock glanced towards McCoy, who didn't acknowledge him, “has made me reconsider the situation. The people of Durama 78 are not exactly favourably disposed towards the Federation and the official uniform might arouse suspicion. This is a neutral choice of clothing that still gives you an air of authority and is comfortable to wear.”

“Thanks, Spock,” Jim breathed with a faint smile. “Thank you, Bones.”

Spock nodded at him in return, while McCoy grumbled a vague “You’re welcome.”

Jim’s smile faded when he was once again reminded of the agony of his condition. He sniffled and muffled a coughing fit with his arm before running a hand over his exhausted features. Maybe he should at least take a pill for the headache. His hand reached for the classic aspirin, but he lowered it when a rush of nausea reminded him why he had not taken anything for a while.

“Jim? Are you experiencing physical discomfort?”

Jim ignored Spock's observant – and correct – comment and looked past him to McCoy. “Why are you making my bed, Bones?”

“Because you're going straight back into it after the negotiations – a soft, dry and, above all, comfortable bed – or you'll end up in the isolation chamber in sickbay, depending on how funny I am.”

Jim would almost have laughed if he'd felt like it. “I don't think anything can offer me much comfort right now – not even a freshly made bed.”

“You'll thank me for it later – or you'll fall asleep in it immediately. Did you sleep at all last night?”

Jim shrugged. Because McCoy couldn't see that, he said, “I don't know.”

McCoy dropped the mattress he'd finished covering. It hit the grate with a dull thud. He turned abruptly to face him. “What?”

Spock, too, looked at him with one eyebrow raised, as if it was his way of showing deep concern.

Jim felt like a show animal in a circus full of people. “I did sleep,” he emphasised.

“How many hours?” McCoy and Spock asked at the same time. It was almost astonishing how perfectly agreeing they were all of the sudden, when it came to being against him.

“A few more hours than usual,” Jim grumbled, “but I've been waking up from time to time, nightmares and stuff.”

“Must have been the high fever!” McCoy exclaimed annoyed. Spock averted his eyes guiltily.

“It's all right, it wasn't that bad.” It had been one hell of a night, but he didn't have to tell them that – the two of them were already blaming themselves enough. Especially Spock, which worried Jim the most. “It just feels like I didn't get enough sleep,” he continued. Given his level of exhaustion, he was sure that five or hours of sleep or ten would have made little difference. He would probably have felt just as weak and tired if he had slept for an entire week.

“The illness is wearing you out!” McCoy scolded like a worried father. “Are you sure you're going to make it?” His gaze slid to the side table. “You've still hardly eaten anything, you're not taking your medication...”

“It’s not helping, Bones.” Desperation seeped into Jim’s voice, making it sound even more brittle. “I still feel tired and weak and everything just hurts and I don’t know if I can make it, I… I…” A tremor quivered on his lips and soon shook his whole body. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath to keep his composure – even though every nerve in him was snapping. He surrendered to the pain and let the tears flow. “I-I just feel like shit,” he breathed, breaking into sobs. “H-How am I supposed to save the fucking universe like this?”

Neither of them gave him an answer – neither of them was in a position to answer that question. Not even a god would have been able to. McCoy walked to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder. Spock did the same. Jim burst into more sobs, tears and snot streaming down his face. He held his hand over his mouth to retain some dignity and to stifle intermittent coughs.

As a different kind of exhaustion overwhelmed him, he leaned more toward Spock. McCoy didn't seem offended by his choice, rather seemed to understand that he was doing it mostly to avoid infecting him. Spock wrapped his other arm around Jim to hold him. Jim lowered his head until his forehead rested against Spock's chest and wept as he hadn't done in a long time – freely and as a prisoner of his own emotions.

Spock did and said nothing. He stood like the steady mast that supported him who was the swaying ship. Dizziness and nausea washed over Jim. Spasmodic coughing and choking repeatedly interrupted his sobs and left him gasping for breath, like a fish longing for its familiar waters. He kept hearing himself say that he couldn't do it; that he didn't have the strength; that it was just impossible. It didn't sound like his own voice, but that of a strange man who merely claimed to be James T. Kirk. He wasn’t the brave, invincible James T. Kirk, hero of peace, friend of all nations and saviour of all worlds. But then, who was he?

If he wasn't this impressive man, who was he really?

“Jim,” Spock said, kneeling down to meet him at eye-level. Jim didn't realise that he was slipping more and more out of the chair; that he was threatening to fall, until he suddenly found himself in Spock's arms. The Vulcan hugged him so tightly that the gesture was almost human.

McCoy hugged him from behind. Two pairs of arms wrapped around him, embracing him with all their friendship. They gave him the strength he needed when he thought he'd lost it. Jim buried his face in Spock's warm uniform and cried even harder. McCoy rubbed against the vibrations and the pain they brought to his back.

“Jim, it's going to be all right,” McCoy whispered. “We can do this. We're going to help you. You're not alone.”

“You can count on us,” Spock said. “If you fall, we will hold you...”

“... and bring you up again.”

I can see that, Jim wanted to joke. But instead, he cried some more. He cried until he was out of tears and completely exhausted. He could have fallen asleep on the spot, but a power that could only be described as mystical kept him awake and even gave him back some strength. He remained sitting on the floor even after Spock and McCoy let go of him.

“Jim?” McCoy asked cautiously.

Jim wiped the last of the moisture from his face, sniffled, but didn't look up. “Sorry, I... I've got myself again. Thank you. It just overwhelmed me. I– ” He coughed violently into his sleeves. “I’m fine now,” he breathed.

“No, Jim, you are not.” It surprised him that it was Spock speaking. “You had a neurological failure – ”

“ – mental breakdown – ” McCoy corrected him, clearing his throat.

Spock barely acknowledged it. “Anyway, it would give enough reason to relieve you from your duties and of your command – at least temporarily.”

Jim understood Spock's subtle hint and, frankly, he would have liked nothing more than to do just that; resign from duty and lie back in bed – his freshly made, soft and comfortable bed – but his sense of duty was too strong. “I have to be there,” he croaked. “I can't give up so close to the finish line.”

“That is why I suggest I stay in command of the ship and help you with the negotiations from the background. I will send you what you need to say to your PADD and all you have to do is read it out loud. You might just have to cover it up with a bit of acting.”

“That sounds way easier than making complicated stuff up on the spot,” Jim said with a sniffle. McCoy handed him a tissue. Jim took it, wiped his face and blew into it. “It definitely sounds like a plan,” he croaked. He looked over to McCoy, who drew a sharp breath through his nostrils. His pace of speech surpassed Spock's when the Vulcan rattled off his usual, long explanation, without pausing for a breath.

“I've probably spent the last few hours working on a stimulant that will get you fit for a few hours – minus the actual cold symptoms. I haven't had time to send the mixture to the lab, so it has not been tested yet. At best it's harmless, at worst there's a severe rebound effect.”

“Rebound?” Jim asked. He wasn't particularly well versed in medical terminology.

“Well,” Spock began to explain, as McCoy was busy catching his breath, “the rebound phenomenon describes a drastic reaction of the body when the effects of a drug wear off abruptly, in short: your exhaustion, fever and pain will come back much worse after a few hours – as far as I understand it correctly.” Spock cast a confirmation-seeking glance at McCoy, who had regained his composure.

“Just the exhaustion will come back,” McCoy said. “The drug stimulates the brain, dulls pain and feigns wakefulness, which is why it's so treacherous. I'd have to keep you under constant medical surveillance, Jim. I'm even afraid that the drug will knock you out completely at the end of its effective period.”

“But will it get me through the negotiations?” Jim asked with a small glimmer of hope.

“It won't help with your cough and the congestion, but it'll make you ache less, you'll be more alert, for God’s sake, yes, it'll definitely get you through the negotiations, but you still won't be well. I can't perform miracles.”

“But it still sounds like one,” Jim breathed in a faint joke, coughing dryly into his arm. He'd give anything to get rid of the burning pain in his chest.

“It will also affect your emotions a bit,” McCoy warned. “You may react a little more irritably or find it difficult to enjoy things, but it won't flip your whole personality.” Spock and Jim both arched their eyebrows in his direction. “What? Why are you looking at me like I'm a mad scientist? It's based on a 21st century psychostimulant, I've just modified and enhanced it to the best of today's technology and yes, it may fall under illegal substances, so don't tell on me. By that I mean, Spock, don't you dare pass that information on to Starfleet Command.”

“I am not very fond of Starfleet Command right now,” Spock said coldly. “It is unlikely that I will contact them unless it is absolutely necessary.”

“I take this as: You're just as pissed off at them as we are and you're siding with us, so you won’t share secrets with them.”

Spock looked ready to protest, but surprisingly held back, so McCoy must have hit the mark. “I am always on the captain's side,” he said instead.

“Anyway,” McCoy rose from his crouch, “I'll get the drug ready, unless you have any objections, Jim?”

“None,” Jim breathed, “it may be my only chance.”

“Don't trust my witchcraft too much,” McCoy said as he walked to his medbag.

“What you are doing is not witchcraft, Dr. McCoy.”

“Spock, if you have no scientific contribution to make, how about you try refraining from addressing me so formally? We're not on the bridge.”

“I understand, Len.”

McCoy froze on the spot. “Where did you pick that up?”

“The woman recently called you that – Len.”

McCoy fell victim to a full-body shudder. “My admirers call me that, so please, Spock, not you. It’s Leonard or just Leo.” He slowly turned back to his work. He drew up a hypo with a colourless liquid from a suspiciously looking bottle.

“I think I am going to stick with ‘doctor’ after all,” Spock said.

Jim chuckled until a mild coughing fit reminded him that he had nothing to laugh about – especially not after suffering a mental breakdown because he was completely exhausted, both physically and mentally drained. Or maybe his brain just needed some stress relief right now. He wasn't the doctor here.

“Look, Spock, aren't we a great comedy duo?” McCoy said with a grin in Jim's direction. “We've cured our captain of his depression.”

“Depression? I do not think that is an appropriate term for – ”

“You know exactly what I meant for humanity’s sake!”

Spock tilted his head. “I am not human, doctor.”

“Spock, please, for God's sake, don't take everything I say so literally!”

Jim burst out laughing without really meaning to. He threw his arm in front of his face to soften the coughing fit that followed. Spock rubbed his back until he had caught his breath. But even then, a grin remained on his lips.

“Spock, I think you're killing him,” McCoy said as he joined them with the filled hypo.

Spock looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. “No, I suspect the fever is triggering an unusual reaction in his brain.”

McCoy knelt down next to Jim and patted him on the shoulder. “Did you hear the Vulcan's theory? It's a real shame that he still doesn't understand our humour after spending so many years around us.” With these words, McCoy pressed the hypo into his upper arm. The liquid flowed out of the flask and into his bloodstream with a magical hiss.

Jim felt nothing. No change.

“It needs a few minutes to take effect,” McCoy explained. He stood up and offered Jim a hand to help him stand. Spock put an arm around him for support. With the help of his friends, Jim heaved himself to his feet with straining effort, leaning heavily against Spock.

“You know, you can count on me too,” McCoy said, supporting him from the other side. “I do a few exercises now and then, though I probably can’t keep up with Vulcan strength.”

“I do not think any human does, doctor.”

“Spock, stop it already!”

“Stop what exactly?”

“Calling me ‘doctor’. I told you, it’s Leonard.”

“I understand, Leonard.”  

Silence.

“Are you both finished arguing over my head now?” Jim asked hoarsely. “I'd like to sit down on my bed.”

They marched to the bed in pleasant silence, until Jim was able to lower himself to its edge. He succumbed to a violent coughing fit and then fired three rapid sneezes into the crook of his arm. “Acksch! Acksch! Ackschhhh!” The last one pressed particularly hard into his sinuses and reminded him of his headache, which was not letting up. “When's the drug going to kick in, Bones?” he asked with a big sniffle.

McCoy handed him a couple of tissues. “Be patient. It doesn’t work that fast.”

“Tell that to my head,” Jim grumbled, rubbing the tense spot between his eyebrows while he blew his nose. “How much longer do we have anyway?”

“Almost exactly thirty minutes,” Spock replied. As if on cue, the alarm clock Jim had set for half ten hundred rang. He switched it off with a limp gesture. Spock ignored it and continued, “We decided to wake you up at nine hundred to give you more time to prepare. You did not appear to have slept very deeply anyway.”

“I was sleeping?”

“Let's say you were napping with your mouth wide open,” McCoy said. “But yes, I didn't get any rest anyway and my little miracle drug was ready, so I agreed. It turned out to be the right decision, because you've now got another thirty minutes to prepare for the full catastrophe.”

“Oh, Bones, why do you remind me?”

“Because I have a sadistic streak,” McCoy said with a grin before his expression turned serious. “Let's use the time we have left to make you a bit more decent.”

“Do I look that bad?” Jim deliberately looked not at McCoy, but at Spock.

Spock pressed his lips tightly together, making his words sound pressed. “Well, let me put it this way, you do not look your usual self and – ”

“What the Vulcan is gently trying to tell you is that you wouldn't win a beauty contest, Jim.”

“What I actually wanted to say,” Spock began again – this time with loosened lips, “is that you have lost some of your usual charm.”

While Jim tilted his head in mild surprise, McCoy burst out in utter horror. “Spock, do you have any tendencies I'm not aware of – ”

“Tendencies, Leonard? No, I was just phrasing it from a woman's point of view.”

“My goodness, that sentence sounded wrong on several levels!”

Spock raised an eyebrow in McCoy's direction. “Why is that?”

“Because a man can also look at another man in – Goodness, Spock, we’re in the 23rd century, why do I even have to explain this to you?”

“You said ‘on several levels’.”

“That part bothered you?” McCoy rolled his eyes in bewilderment. “I only meant that one thing, actually.”

“Leonard, I cannot follow your illogical non-sense.”

“Our bisexual friend was deeply offended by your comment, Spock,” Jim explained to his confused Vulcan friend with a grin in McCoy’s direction.

“Oh, shut up, Mr. Straight,” McCoy retorted, but made it known with his voice that he wasn't seriously offended by them.

Spock raised both eyebrows – one to each. “I still do not understand you humans and your strange labels.”

McCoy clapped his hands together as if praying. “Spock, may I ask you with genuine interest, do you feel more attracted towards men or women or both or all? – Or none of the above, that would be just as fine.”

“I do not understand what relevance my choice of a bonding partner has to our conversation about the captain's appearance.”

“I just want to know if you… Do you think Jim is…” McCoy threw his hands up as if in defeat. “I give up. Maybe I don't want to know.”

Slowly, Jim realised where the whole conversation was going, and his cheeks grew even hotter than they already were from the fever. “Bones! I...”

“Shh,” McCoy silenced him. “I know about you, but...”

“To partly answer your question, Leonard,” Spock said, “I have not made up my mind yet. My entire interest at the moment is in science and my mission here on board.”

“Hell, he's as married to his job as you are to the Enterprise, Jim.”

What was Bones hoping for? A romance between me and Spock? God, he must be so lonely... Jim gave his partnerless friend an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

Then Jim slowly felt it. The drug was taking effect. Wakefulness drove away the cobwebs over his brain and allowed him to think more clearly. His muscles relaxed as the pain faded. His throat and lungs still burned, but the sensation was much more bearable. In fact, he felt almost as energised as he was after a five hours' sleep and no coffee.

“I think your little miracle cure is working, Bones.”

“Oh, really?”

Jim opened his mouth to agree but a cough knocked the breath out of him. That, in turn, hasn’t improved, he thought bitterly. However, he could deal with a bit of discomfort if it meant comfort for the rest of the world.

Only the risk of infection still worried him... and that there might be some unexpected incident that would throw them off course.

Hopefully not another mental breakdown.

Chapter 4: Owning

Jim had regained some of his strength. He even managed to wash himself – McCoy hadn't allowed him to take a shower because of his fever – and get dressed. He sat in the middle of his bed, blowing his nose and hacking the mucus out of his airways. Spock sat behind him and patiently combed the moisture out of his hair. McCoy was rummaging around in his wardrobe for something, but Jim was too distracted by his own discomfort to question it.

“Ackschuh! Ackschuh! A-A-Ackschuuuuh!” The break from his congestion ended too soon with his nasal mucous membranes swelling up again and his nostrils filling to the brim with mucus. He sniffled and leaned his head back. Spock backed away noticeably. “Sorry, am I being too demanding on the hairdresser?” Jim asked, his congestion muffling the humorous undertone.

“Your hair is too unruly to get it straight.” Spock's voice was as neutral as ever, but Jim swore he could hear a touch of frustration in it. 

“Then just leave it like that. I like to keep my wild look.”

“It would not be appropriate for – ” Spock seemed to reconsider his words. “Perhaps that could actually be an approach. A proper hairstyle would make you look too serious. This one, on the other hand, evokes a certain sympathy. May I try something?”

“Go ahead. I'll leave my hair in your professional hands.” Jim didn't think Spock would take that literally. Warm fingers stroked through his hair, wrapping around his curls. A shiver ran through Jim, and he desperately hoped that it wasn't another fever chill, although a slight heat was already spreading across his cheeks.

Maybe you're no straighter than your hair, Jim told himself. Or the fever makes you believe you strayed off the path.

“Ackschhh!” his nose made itself known. He reached for a tissue and rubbed it.

“Your cold symptoms seem to have worsened,” Spock remarked, still playing with his hair.

“I don't know,” Jim sniffled. “To me, they’ve been bad all along.”

“Then I must accept that my perception was perhaps not right,” Spock said. “While we are at it, you can always tell me if you are not comfortable, especially on the bridge. Then I will put effort into finding a solution.”

Jim initially thought of replying with a joke, but then decided to meet Spock's serious offer with just as much firmness. “Spock, I'm not going to be comfortable. I'm already more than unwell and that's not going to change on the bridge. What’s going to change is that I have to be an authority there; I must at least appear to be fit. And I'm not going to succeed in that with two people constantly fussing over me and reminding me of my sickness.” He glanced towards McCoy, who was too busy delving into the depths of his wardrobe to notice.

“Am I correct in interpreting it as your wish that I remain discreet about helping you?”

“No, Spock, I don’t want you to worry about my well-being at all. Just do your job as you always do.”

“First of all, I do not worry, that is a human emotion, however, it is only natural to be concerned given the circumstances. Second, I do not see logic into acting like ‘always,’ because this is not like always, the situation is an entirely different one and demands unusual consideration. Third, it is my duty to – ”

“Yeah, I got it, Spock. It’s just…” Jim clicked his tongue. “You should understand it better than anyone. I don't want them to see me like this, I just...”

“Want to hide?” Spock completed his sentence with unusual gentleness. “Hide your discomfort and pain, pretend like it is not there, assume that no one notices and if they do let you continue like nothing is unusual.”

“Yeah.”

“You are correct, I understand that better than anyone. However…” Spock removed his hands out of his hair and continued with the comb. “I already pointed out that the situation is different. In this regard, it does not appear logical to hide your discomfort. The bridge crew has already been informed about your condition.”

“What have they been told?”

“They have been told that you are in a state of being unwell, that you most likely will not be in a commanding position and that you are only present on the bridge to talk to the representative. Of course, they were also told that you are infected with an unknown virus that is highly contagious. In that regard, Uhura and Chekov have now confirmed their presence on the bridge as well.”

Jim didn't know whether to be glad or frustrated by the news. All the people he deeply trusted were present on the bridge, but that also meant he was putting highly capable members of his crew at risk. “Will Scotty be there?” he asked.

“No. He will keep in contact with us from Engineering.”

Thank God... Jim didn't know what he would do if his best engineer and third in command got sick as well.

Apparently noticing his interest in the attendance list, Spock continued, “Sulu is also present, as are Yeoman Rand and Miss Chapel. Then, according to protocol, we have a security officer and two ensigns on the bridge to monitor the other stations. We have tried to minimise the number of personnel and have not scheduled any shift changes during your presence.”

“Good,” Jim said. The closer the moment came – and the more real it felt – the bigger the nervous knot in his stomach grew. He still didn't think it had been a good idea to have eaten that yoghurt.

“Ha!” McCoy exclaimed, crawling out of his wardrobe. He came back with a very long, very thick, grey-checked woolen scarf. “I knew you had one!”

Jim couldn't remember where he had got it, but the pattern brought back memories of his home in Iowa and his family – perhaps that was why he had hidden the scarf in the farthest corner of his wardrobe, where only a determined McCoy could have found it.

“Spock, stop it, his hair's perfect now,” McCoy shooed the first officer off the bed. Instead, he took his place, only he moved closer than Spock. Much closer. Too close. Jim tensed up out of instinct, shifting away. McCoy regarded him with a frown, which could be heard in his voice. “Bit late to worry about getting me sick now, eh?”

“You're not sick yet, Bones.”

“Hey, I'm a doctor and a realist. I'm so gonna be sick in the next few days after having given you a voluntary hug and knowing the infection rate. Speaking of which...” He turned his head to the Vulcan, who was standing stiffly in the room with his arms behind his back. “You'd better go and change, Spock. You've caught quite a bit of his mess.”

Spock looked down at his science-blue uniform and at the dark stains that Jim was only now noticing. Heat spread across his cheeks as he realised that those were his tears and snot.

“Just because you’re immune doesn't mean you can't pass on his viruses,” McCoy said. “Come on, Spock, there a still fifteen minutes left. I've got the situation under control.”

“If you say so, Leonard.” With these words, the Vulcan excused himself out of the room.

“You know, when he calls me Leonard, it surely makes him a little attractive,” McCoy whispered as the door closed behind Spock. “If his logical manner didn't get on my nerves so damn much, I might even have considered him – ”

“Bones!”

“You're right, enough daydreaming. I have a patient.” Just as enthusiastically as McCoy had looked after Spock, he set about spreading the scarf over Jim's shoulders. He folded it multiple times, wrapping it around his neck, but not too tightly. If Jim had tried it on his own, he would have without a doubt strangled himself or at least got tangled. But McCoy was a professional, his care relaxing.

“The scarf isn't just for keeping your neck warm,” McCoy said when he had finished. “You can catch your coughs and sneezes with it, a little barrier between you and the others, or well, think of it as something more comfortable to wear than a mask.”

Jim buried his face nose-deep in a fold and shrugged the rest of the fabric into place. Not a second later, he let out a barking fit. He still lifted his arm out of reflex, but he could clearly feel the multiple layers of thick fabric between; not a breath was getting through.

“Come on, I'll rub some eucalyptus balm on you to get rid of that nasty cough.” McCoy stood up, took a container out of his med bag and sat down behind him again. Jim had barely calmed down from his cough and was still choking up what felt like a lung. “To be honest, that sounds a lot like bronchitis,” McCoy said as he lifted his jumper and rubbed the cold balm on his back. “Makes me wonder even more what exactly you've caught. Seems to be a combination of all respiratory diseases – upper and lower ones – but that's pretty unlikely, isn't it?”

“God, are you done speculating now?” Jim said as sharply as he drew his breath through clenched teeth. “All I can tell you is that this cough is really getting on my nerves.” And he started coughing again. In-between his barks, he let out a watery growl that sounded almost animalistic. 

“Relax, Jim.” McCoy rubbed the knots out of his vertebrae with just the right amount of pressure. “I can imagine it's frustrating, especially with my wonder drug lowering your patience. And then there's me, acting like you're nothing more than a research subject, but trust me, you're more than that to me. You're not just any patient. I have enough reasons to worry about you, and they're not all professional.”

“I know and it’s not that. It’s just…” He brought his barking fit under control and took a deep breath. “That’s not me. Needing help and getting angry at you for actually providing it. Why are you still by my side?”

“Because believe me or not, I’m enjoying it.”

“What? Taking care of my grumpy, self-pitying self? I can hardly stand myself.”

McCoy chuckled. “You're not the worst patient I've had to deal with. You're stubborn, reckless and you tend to be awfully dramatic sometimes, but at least you don't shoot me with a phaser or come at me with cold-hearted logic. I’m done with your back, by the way.” McCoy gave him an encouraging pat on his smeared back, pulled down his jumper and moved over to sit in front of him. “Now, let's put some on your chest...”

Jim turned away quickly as an unbearable irritation shot through his nose. He let out a loud, violent sneeze that set off a whole chain. “Igxschuuuh! Ugh… Iggh! Ignxschii! Ignxschi! Igxsch!” His nose was still tickling like crazy afterwards, so he pressed his face into the scarf to stop it.

McCoy's expression slipped. “Jesus, that sounded allergic. Are you allergic?”

“You're my doctor, tell me,” Jim said, his voice drowning in congestion. He sniffled, but that only chased the tickle deeper into his sinuses. “Igxsch! Igxsch! Igxsch!”

“Alright, that's definitely allergic.” McCoy carefully climbed out of the bed, then hurried to his med bag and got a hypo. “Don't worry, with your medical history, I was actually prepared for that. But Jesus, who's allergic to eucalyptus? It’s less than a one-out-of-a-million-chance.” McCoy said as he came back and injected him with the medication – presumably an antihistamine. The persistent tickle disappeared as the contents released with a pneumatic hiss.

“I'm also allergic to a drug that corrects visual impairment,” Jim muttered.

“You’re – what?”

“Forget it, Bones.“

“I think I should run some allergy tests on you soon, they might bring on some unexpected results,” McCoy joked with a roll of his eyes before his expression turned serious. “Are you all right, Jim? It didn't irritate your airways too much, did it?”

“I don't think so.” Jim coughed, but it still sounded and felt the same annoying as before. However, the attack lasted long enough to make him groan in frustration, which chased him into another fit.

“My goodness, that didn't help at all!” McCoy cursed as he rubbed his back. He set the container of balm down on the floor and kicked it back into his open med bag. “I'll leave a note in your medical record so that this won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”

“You couldn't have guessed that I was the one out of billions,” he croaked between coughs. 

“I could at least have tested it on you first, before giving you half of the full dose. Now, you truly have every reason to stab me with a knife and rightly so!”

Jim decided to ignore the last part. He gasped for air, then reminded himself to take long and deep breaths if he ever wanted to stop coughing. After five controlled breaths, he finally recovered. “Do you have anything that might help?”

“I don’t know if I want to try anything else on you now. Guess I already pushed my luck and yours further than what’s good. I'm just glad you didn’t react badly to the drug as well.”

I’m not that allergic… Jim rolled his eyes, before catching another sneeze with his scarf. The fabric turned it so quietly that he could barely hear it – or his ears were just starting to get stuffed up because his nose was completely blocked by now. He breathed through his mouth.

“Jim, once again, I’m very sorry,” McCoy said honestly.

Jim waved away his concern, then grabbed a couple of tissues. He blew into them vigorously until his ears popped loudly and his nose opened up again. Only then did he dare to speak again. “You got me reasonably fit again, for that I'm very grateful.”

“Yeah, but instead I gave you an allergic reaction! And you certainly won't be grateful to me once the rebound effect kicks in.”

“That's why I'm grateful to you now.”

Before McCoy could say anything in reply, the door buzzed. “Spock here. Permission to enter?”

“Permission granted,” McCoy called out, because Jim could hardly raise his voice above average, most of the time not even above a whisper.

Spock stepped through the parting doors. McCoy pressed his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing loudly, while Jim displayed a self-control worthy of a Vulcan.

It's not a bathrobe, it's a honorable, traditional Vulcan robe, Jim reminded himself, but it sure as hell looks like a bathrobe.

The one Spock was wearing appeared to be for formal occasions, as it was made of fine white silk. Sky-blue embroideries, which looked like hieroglyphics but were probably Vulcan symbols, wound around the hems. The sleeves were wide and partly covered Spock's hands. The robe was tied at chest level with an elaborate but complicated-looking knot.

The fabric was so light that it flapped as Spock walked towards them. “Apparently there was an issue with the replicators and so, regrettably, I had to resort to a garment from my personal wardrobe. However, it is officially approved clothing for – ”

McCoy could no longer control himself. He snorted like a drunken Tellian. “A Vulcan pool party?”

God, Bones, you don't have to use exaggerated humour to cover up how damn hot you find him. Jim had to admit that he also felt a certain attraction to Spock's new and unfamiliar appearance. Spock looked so relaxed, so at ease, like a flamingo that had finally learnt to stand not just on one awkward leg, but on both, freely and elegantly... Jim choked on his own spit and sent himself into a terrible coughing fit. Spock rubbed his back.

Without really wanting to, Jim leaned on him. Ah, it’s so soft... Maybe Jim was just a tiny bit jealous because Spock was wearing the very clothes that promised heavenly comfort. However, Spock looked anything but happy about his choice of clothes. “Leonard, could you stop laughing?”

“Sorry, sorry,” McCoy said, wiping a tear from his eye. “But you two make such an adorable duo, you surely will be the centre of attention on the bridge.”

“How about...” Jim glanced at Spock, who picked up his sentence effortlessly.

“...you get changed too, Leonard?”

McCoy's expression suddenly became as rigid as a stone. “Why should I?”

“You were pretty close to me, too,” Jim said.

“And you might not be sick yet but you might carry his viruses,” Spock argued.

“What do you two want? Cowboy hat and leather boots? Want me to be the typical southerner for you? A little farm boy?”

“You can borrow some of my clothes if you don't have anything suitable in your wardrobe.” Jim offered, then grinned. “Maybe the ‘I love space’-shirt, it should be your size.”

That seemed to have strike a nerve in McCoy. He jumped up like a released spring and stomped to the door. “I'll be back in five minutes. Five! Don't even think of leaving the room without me. Is that clear?”

The mechanical door closed particularly fast and loud behind him.

“He was the one to complain about uniforms earlier,” Spock said when McCoy was gone. “Besides, it was only logical.”

“We're a trio – he had to tag along,” Jim agreed, coughing emphatically into his scarf. Spock sat down next to him on the bed without being asked. Only a few inched separated them, which made Jim feel inclined to – No, you shouldn't... But his robe looks so comfortable and soft! Jim controlled himself, but only barely.

Suddenly Spock moved closer and put an arm around him. Jim had no choice but to lean in if he did not want to turn it awkward. He wasn't disappointed, the robe felt so incredibly soft that it was like sinking into a cloud. However, it did not make him blind or inconsiderate. “Is that all right for you, Spock?” he asked carefully.

“As long as you do not cough or sneeze on me, I see no problem.”

“Or crying all over you,” Jim added, his cheeks becoming tender. “I mean, I haven’t forgotten that you’re a touch empath. It must have been…” Jim couldn't find a word, because he couldn't even begin to imagine what the moment had been like for Spock.

“It did surprise me at first, but I was not averse to it,” Spock admitted and hugged him a little closer; almost as if he wanted to envelop him in his Vulcan warmth. “Quite the contrary, actually, it was a very fascinating experience to be the shoulder to cry on, both metaphorically and literally.”

“I see,” said Jim with a soft smile, “I’m just glad you were there.”  

“How do you feel?” Spock asked after a moment of silence between them.

“A little better I guess,” Jim replied with a sniffle. “Even though I probably don't sound like it.”

“Not to disagree with you, just my own perception: You sound sicker.”

“Bones gave me an allergic reaction.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “He... what?”

“He wanted to try a balm on me and it turned out I was the lucky one who is allergic to it. But I'm fine now. He injected me some antihistamine.”

“An allergy to what I assume was eucalyptus is actually rare. Statistically speaking, it only affects one person of 978,534,240, but you have a certain tendency.”

“Tendency to what, Spock?”

“To surprise me with the near impossible.”

Jim's breath caught in his throat and sent him into a barking fit. After he had recovered, he moved closer to bridge the embarrassing silence that followed. When he realised what he was doing, he felt even more ashamed. If he had been in his right mind, it would never have occurred to him to snuggle up to his first officer. He knew what professional distance meant in their job and he had always encouraged himself to maintain it. Always and regardless of the circumstances. But right now he was finding it incredibly difficult. He was still exhausted and affected by the illness and the fever was clouding the part of his brain that was responsible for rational thought.

Hell, he was even thinking about asking Spock if last night's offer still stood; to carry him to the bridge. Even if it was just to beat the embarrassment that would surely follow afterwards.

“Are you nervous about going to the bridge?” Spock seemed to be reading his thoughts.

“Yes, of course I am. I have to show myself weak in front of all the people who respect me deeply. I'll be forced to act strong and diplomatic, even though I rather crawl back under my blanket. I have to conduct a negotiation that I'm barely prepared for, with a party that could declare war on us and the whole universe at any time, and I'm the only one who can stop it, but what if I can’t? Sorry, Spock, I didn't mean to tell you all this.”

“I asked precisely to provoke such a reaction,” Spock said, as if admitting himself guilty – except that Vulcans never feel guilt, or at least that's what they claim. “Why don't you just try to be yourself?”

Jim laughed hoarsely. “Tell me what it means to be myself.” He coughed sharply into his scarf, then gasped for air.

“The personality is quite a complex matter, but I do not think you wanted to start a philosophical discussion with your statement. So, I will instead give you another piece of advice: just let it happen. Trust the people around you, as you always do. Be their strong leader, but do not forget that there is still a human underneath.”

“I'll try, Spock. Everything you said.”

Spock looked like he wanted to say something else, but the chiming of the doorbell stopped him. They made no move to part when McCoy strode into the room without announcing himself.

Jim pulled a wry grimace. “Why a Hawaiian shirt?”

McCoy pointed to the fabric with the tropical blue and green palm trees as if to advertise it. “Doesn't that put you in a holiday mood? Bright, cheerful colours – that's exactly what we need on the bridge. It also makes you two look less out of place.”

“I'm beginning to think that I'm the most normally dressed of us,” Jim croaked.

“You have to present yourself on a screen. We just have to stand there looking stupid for you,” McCoy said.

“I think my clothes are appropriate,” Spock said. “You, Leonard, on the other hand, rattle through every dress code.”

“So what? After business is done, I'm going into voluntary quarantine anyway like all members of the bridge crew. With the exception of you, of course, oh, you biological wonder of nature.”

Spock was about to say something logical, but Jim was a second quicker. “Quarantine?“

Suddenly they both turned serious, forgetting that they hadn't quite finished their argument. “Well,” McCoy began, but Spock took over. “Our primary goal is to prevent a wide and uncontrolled spread on the ship. Therefore, everyone who has come into contact with you will be quarantined in their quarters for at least three days and monitored for symptoms.”

“If Durama 78 doesn't declare war on us and the entire world before then,” McCoy threw in with a laugh that lacked humor.

“I see,” Jim said, “sounds like a pretty good plan.”

“Now that that's been explained...” McCoy heaved a sigh. “Care to explain to me now why you two are cuddling on the bed?”

God, what are you implying again, Bones... Before Jim could voice that comment, however, McCoy stepped up to him and rubbed his shoulder. There was nothing teasing in his tone. “Are you still not feeling well, Jim?”

“I'm not going to get better from being asked the same question over and over again.” Jim ended his statement with a hearty cough. “And yeah, I’m still feeling like shit. How many minutes do we have left?”

“Not many. We'd better get going,” McCoy said. “Do you need a motivational speech? Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Not you, Bones.” Jim nudged Spock's shoulder. “Spock, can you carry me to the bridge?”

Two pairs of eyes looked at him as if he were out of his mind. McCoy whirled the hand scanner over him. The device made a mediocre beeping sound. “You're still running quite a fever,” McCoy remarked.

“I just want to enjoy the last five minutes of my untortured well-being,” Jim assured him. But to be honest, he was just too tired to walk.

“It might be logical for you to save your strength for what comes soon,” Spock mused. “It is no problem for me and I did make that offer to you.”

“You did… what? When?” McCoy looked at them puzzled.

“Last evening when we were alone,” Spock replied as if it was no big deal, although it obviously was to McCoy.

“Is there anything else I should know about you two?”

“Bones! Stop setting me up with him. We're just friends.”

“Tell me that again after he's carried you through half of the Enterprise like a bride, my friend.”

“We are not even going to pass through ten percent of the Enterprise, doctor.”

Jim noticed that whenever Spock said doctor, it sounded like a mild insult. Maybe it was the Vulcan kind.

“Fine, fine. I won’t question it further. In any way, I don't mind what you two do as long as you don't cough on Spock, Jim. On the other hand, it might be good practice because you'll soon be around people who don't have Vulcan immunity status.”

“Like you?” Jim asked with a tired grin.

“I'm still amazed that I've been spared any bodily fluids so far,” McCoy replied with a dry chuckle. “I'll probably still get sick. Let's not talk about that. We've got to get going. Spock?”

The man addressed started to move. Spock slipped his other arm under his bent legs and lifted him effortlessly. Jim wrapped both arms around Spock's neck, even though he doubted that Spock would suddenly drop him. It just gave him more stability. Jim rested his chin on Spock's shoulder and concentrated on his breathing. He was determined to cough and sniffle as little as possible until they arrived.

McCoy gathered his things – water bottle, clean tissues, medication – and stowed them in his med-bag, which he slung over his shoulder. The scientific medical tricorder dangled on his other side. Together with the gaudy Hawaiian shirt, it was a bizarre sight.

God, what will the crew think of us, we’re like a circus... Jim thought, bracing himself for the inevitable.

***

Jim hadn't set foot outside his quarters for three days, so it was weird to finally leave them. The Enterprise looked different; strange and yet familiar. The lights indicated an early time of day, still hours away from noon, and the corridors were shrouded in ghostly emptiness. Spock and McCoy's footsteps echoed in the silence, broken only by the subliminal noise of the engines.

“Why is no one here?” Jim asked. He had lowered his voice to a whisper to match the atmosphere, although it was hardly necessary – he was still hoarse.

“We blocked the fastest route to the bridge,” Spock explained matter-of-factly.

“A medical team will decontaminate the halls afterwards to minimize the risk of infection,” McCoy added.

Jim relaxed in Spock's arms. He had imagined the walk to the bridge to be much worse with lots of curious and strange looks, murmuring crew members and a bubbling rumor mill – but this was like passing through a house of horror.

Without incident, they entered the turbolift. “Bridge,” Spock said. The doors slid shut mechanically and the elevator took them up.

“Jim, I know I don't have to say this to you of all people,” McCoy began, “but it's incredibly important that you are careful from now on. Keep your distance from everyone except Spock and me. You stay in your seat, you touch as little as possible and you follow my instructions. Don't cough or sneeze into the air, don't leave any tissues lying around and so on. But above all, take care of yourself. If you feel like you can't go on, give us a sign, let us know somehow and we'll get you out of the situation immediately. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Bones – I mean, McCoy.” They were approaching the bridge. It was time for them to return to their professionalism. “Commander Spock, you can put me down now.”

“As you wish, Captain.” Spock set him down gently. Jim found his balance on his feet, although he was briefly swaying.

McCoy held him by the arm. “Can we perhaps maintain a familiar tone? All this use of titles and formality is driving me crazy already. Apart from that, you're relieved of your duties as captain. You're basically just a guest on the bridge – a guest of honor, if you will.”

“That is correct,” Spock said, as if remembering a conversation Jim hadn't been a part of. “In that regard, would it be all right if I continued to call you Jim?”

“Of course,” Jim agreed. “Then I'll just call you Spock.”

“That is fine with me. And Leonard – ”

“Please use McCoy,” McCoy said. “I'm sorry, but it’s giving me the creeps when someone goes first name on me on the bridge. In the past, it usually meant trouble. Even Chris, er, Miss Chapel calls me by my last name on the bridge, although we're on a first-name basis in sickbay.”

“I understand, McCoy,” Spock said.

“And I just stick with Bones,” Jim said. It had always been the easiest way.  

The turbolift doors opened before another word could be said about the matter. Jim instinctively straightened his back, lifted his chin and puffed out his chest.

From that moment on, he was James T. Kirk – not Captain James T. Kirk, but Jim. He would go down in history as a proud, courageous and strong representative of peace or perish in the attempt to become one. Either way, he would face his fate with the determination he was known for.

He did not believe in no-win situations. There was always a solution – not always a diplomatic one, but there was always some solution that remained hidden underneath the surface. And Jim would dig with his hands until they bled and search with his eyes until they burned from weariness just to find it.

He owed it to the world and to himself.

Notes:

Little fun note on the side: All the change in honourables near the end had a practical meaning in the original German version. In the German language, there is a polite form of speaking, which was also used in TOS. However, the German translation of the show was a bit sloopy, so they sometimes mixed in some colloquial language, and it is quite confusing. As this story is set in the fourth year of the mission, I decided that they adress each other informally outside the bridge and formally on the bridge. However, McCoy suggested that they go first name basis on the bridge as well, which also changed the way they speak to each other in the German version, giving me a nice excuse to use the informal "you". For example, Spock still addresses McCoy informally in the German version while still using his last name.
In the English version, well... The "you" stays "you." I hope I was still able to carry that vibe over ^-^
Let me know what you think! I'm always happy to hear from my readers!

Chapter 5: Battle

The bridge seemed to Jim like a home that he had stayed away from for too long to recognize it immediately. Only after a few seconds did it take on its familiar contours: a wide, oval-shaped room in which dozens of technically advanced stations were lined up. At its end, the wall screen stretched out, presenting the infinite universe. In the middle of it orbited a sky-blue M-class planet with a white foggy atmosphere – Durama 78.

Not a single person was scurrying around this time. Familiar faces were working so intently at their stations that they weren’t distracted even as Jim stumbled into the room, barking a fit. He held his arm in front of his face and waited until his breathing had calmed down. Only then did he dare to rise from his hunched position.

No one turned to look at him, except Uhura, who met him with a friendly smile. “Welcome to the bridge, Captain.”

Her sweetly purring voice drew the attention of the rest, who joined in on a cordial greeting. Jim cleared his throat. “Morning.” Once again, he became aware that his voice sounded like rough gravel and that his entrance hadn’t helped with looking authoritative. Jim decided to let his tense shoulders drop and sniffle. He remembered Spock's advice: Just be yourself. Just get it over with.

Spock and McCoy accompanied Jim to the chair in the middle. His seat felt warm and cushioned; so incredibly comfortable that he let himself sink into it. He adjusted the scarf on his shoulders, fired sharp coughs into the fabric and sniffled again before blowing his nose with the tissue McCoy handed him. Not knowing what to do with it after using it, he kept it in his hand until McCoy put a bag down for the tissue and any that followed. Jim was sure that he could fill the rather voluminous plastic bag to bursting in less than half an hour.

McCoy remained standing half a distance away from him and Spock leaned against the command chair. “Enter standard orbit, Sulu,” Spock said.

“Aye, Commander. I'm swinging us into it.” After Sulu tapped the switches on his console, he turned back his head, grinning. “Pretty cool outfit. Reminds me of a traditional kimono.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. Well, at least it hadn't been compared to a bathrobe this time.

“Entered standard orbit,” Sulu reported. The wall screen flickered and now showed the planet in a highly magnified view directly below the Enterprise.

Spock nodded and pressed a button on the armrest panel. “Enterprise log number one. Stardate 3821.1, First Officer Spock, currently in command of the Enterprise.” It was strange to sit by and listen to Spock talk about the events he usually reported on. “We entered orbit around the planet Durama 78 to get within range of their primitive communication devices. The negotiations with the representative regarding the planet's reentry into the Federation is being conducted at the planet’s express request by James T. Kirk, who stands by, but is still in dubious health.”

Thanks for reminding me. With a soundless sigh, Jim leaned back. He suppressed a cough until Spock released the button.

“Good that you made them know what they're doing to our Jim.” McCoy was never one to hold back a comment, though Jim wished he would just shut up. The engines hummed, signals beeped, the stations emitted their individual soundscape, and together they formed a cloud of noise that filled Jim with unease. In addition, there was the swishing of the air filters running stronger than ever, and the whispering of the crew members among themselves. They were only discussing important things, no private conversations, as far as Jim could tell.

An all-too-familiar whistle broke through the noises. “Scott here,” it boomed through the open com channel. “When were ye goin’ tae tell old me ye were slowin’ down the engines? My poor babies weren't prepared for this!”

“Sorry, Scotty,” Jim said, coughing.

Scott mumbled something Scottish before his words became clear. “Captain! Did those wretched bastards chase ye oan the bridge after all?”

All heads turned in the direction of Scott's not exactly polite choice of words. Jim allowed himself a small grin. “I'm afraid so,” he croaked. Before he could make any more jokes, he succumbed to another violent barking fit.

“Captain...” Scott began when Jim had finally recovered.

“I'm relieved of command, Scotty, you can just call me Jim,” Jim said quietly enough that it didn't irritate his throat further, but loud enough for everyone present to hear. It was almost frightening how silent it had suddenly become on the bridge. Even the engines had stopped humming.

“Ye can do it, Jim,” Scott said after a moment's hesitation. “And if our pointy-eared friend needs a replacement later oan sae he can look after ye, tell him tae let me know.”

Spock arched an eyebrow. “Acknowledged,” was all he said.

“Be kind tae him, Commander,” Scott replied jokingly before his voice dropped to seriousness. “Warp drive is switched aff. The rest of the engines are ready for a warm start – in case we need tae get out thare quickly.”

“Thanks, Scotty,” Jim breathed.

“Excellent,” Spock said. “Continue to stand by with your team in Engineering. Bridge out.”

The connection broke before another word could be spoken, the noise returning with painful intensity. Jim rubbed his throbbing temple. McCoy’s miracle drug was working, but he still got a headache when a situation promised to get dicey.

McCoy noticed. “Do you need some additional painkillers?”

Jim nodded. He swallowed the white capsule with a large sip from his water bottle, hoping it would be effective soon. Preferably in the next five minutes, that was how much time he had left – according to the chronometer.

Yeoman Rand handed him his PADD. He noticed that she was trying her best to maintain a distance, so he did her the favour of not coughing in her direction when he took it. There was only one appointment written down: the meeting with the representative at ten hundred.

He swiped through the folder structure. Of course, Spock had also sent the document to his bridge PADD. Jim opened the correctly labelled file and read through all the points again. Spock had his own PADD in his hand, typing at a speed that rivalled light.

I have made some minor corrections, but the initial argumentation structure remains the same. All the points have been incorporated correctly, so we should be able to convince Durama 78 without any difficulty. What do you think, Jim? The message popped up in the margin of Jim's PADD.

Jim stuck his thumb out in Spock's direction, but Spock barely noticed him and continued typing. Answer with the PADD. This is a test to see if everything is working properly.

Everything’s working, Spock, Jim typed back. He wasn't nearly as fast as Spock, especially not with the illness limiting his abilities, but in the end he had to speak more than to write. Jim popped another lozenge into his mouth, hoping that it would prevent his voice from failing him in the middle of the talk.

“We're in range,” Uhura reported from the communications station. The chronometer jumped to ten hundred. With some effort, Jim sat up straight on the edge of his chair, placed his hands on his lap in an open gesture and brought a friendly smile on his lips.

And he waited. For a whole five minutes. Nervous glances travelled around. Curious whispers filled the air until they stopped themselves. Jim's smile faded. He glanced over at Uhura, who was looking just as confused at her station while holding on to her headset. When she noticed his gaze, however, her attention fell not on him, but on Spock. “No connection established on their part, Commander,” she said, “shall we try to contact them instead?”

“Yes,” Spock said. The single word sounded pressed.

Uhura activated a few buttons on her console and lights flickered on. Jim turned his attention to the wall screen. This time he didn't waste his energy on a smile. Nothing happened.

“Our signal's not coming through,” Uhura reported. “Looks like the interference is coming from Durama 78.”

“What does that mean, Jim?” McCoy asked the question that was probably on everyone's mind. When Jim didn't give him an answer, McCoy turned to the person on the other side of the command chair. “Spock?”

“It simply means we have to wait,” Spock replied. “Protocol dictates a minimum wait of fifteen to thirty minutes.”

“I don't have that much time,” Jim muttered. “Uhura, direct line to Starfleet Command.”

“As you wish, sir.” Uhura clicked her switches. Jim ripped a tissue from the packet, blew his nose against the deep-seated blockage and gave up when the mucus wouldn't budge. He stuffed the tissue into the bag. “They refused,” Uhura finally said.

“What?” McCoy's anger sufficed for them all.

“I can't explain it, sir,” Uhura said apologetically.

“Not your fault,” McCoy assured her. “Spock?”

“I am not the computer for all your questions, doctor, but in this case, I am assuming that Starfleet Command is denying our request because they believe we could be – or already are – in conversation with Durama 78.”

“That's ridiculous!”

“For once I agree with you: it is highly illogical.”

If McCoy and Spock openly agreed on the bridge, it meant that something had gone horribly wrong. Spock strode to the communications station and stopped behind Uhura. “Attempt communication with Durama 78 again and request a communication on priority level 7 with Starfleet Command.”

“Very well.” Uhura set to work. She looked almost desperate when she looked up after a minute, as if she feared a tantrum directed at her. “I just can't get through to neither of them.”

Spock licked his lips; a subtle sign that he was holding back an emotion, but it was impossible to tell which one. He turned away from everyone, went to his science station and looked through the scanner for a very long time. The discomfort spread with the duration.

Finally, Spock looked up without sharing what he saw, his face stiff and without emotion. “Chekov, take over my station. What is the weapons status?”

“Our phasers are ready to fire at all times, sir,” the boy said as he took Spock's place at the science station. “But the torpedoes might need a moment.”

“Good, let us keep that up.” Spock could not be accused of mistrust, but at most of extreme diligence, as he called up the weapons status again at the station in question. After he had checked for himself, he returned to his place next to the command chair. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared holes into space, as if waiting for an illuminating realisation – which came as little as a signal.

“Spock, what's wrong?” McCoy asked the question Jim didn't have the courage or energy to ask.

“Nothing,” Spock said, before thinking over his answer. “So far, no war activity has been detected on Durama 78. It appears to be an atmospheric disturbance, and I suspect they are aware of it. They will most likely be waiting for us.”

“That means you're absolutely sure they do,” McCoy interpreted. “Then what makes you hesitate?”

Spock winced. He had either forgotten or not expected that his friends were able to sense his emotional distress, no matter how subtle. A second later, his features slipped even more into absolute coldness. “Under normal circumstances, it would not be a problem to wait, but I am afraid this is going to be a lengthy affair. I am not sure if the Captain, I mean Jim can manage to hold out for so long.”

“Don't worry about me.” Jim coughed into his scarf. “I'm alive and well.”

“Leave the medical assessment to me, thank you,” McCoy called out, for once getting the last word. Neither Jim nor Spock said anything in reply.

After another minute of throbbing tension, Jim raised his voice. “Uhura, send a text message to Starfleet – ” Jim burst into a terrible barking fit that made him unable to continue – or catch his breath. He coughed persistently while McCoy rubbed his back. The entire bridge crew was watching them like death had joined them.

Jim could feel himself turning red in the face, not only from embarrassment but also from exertion. He continued to bark incessantly until the lack of oxygen clouded his vision.

A hiss brought him back to consciousness. Gasping, Jim looked up at McCoy who pulled the emptied hypo away. McCoy shook his shoulder several times, but it took him a moment to gather enough self-awareness, spit, breath and strength to respond. “I’m fine,” he breathed. “I – ” He burst into another coughing fit, which thankfully wasn't as violent as the previous one and subsided quickly. Completely exhausted, he propped his arms on his knees and rested his head on his hands. He felt dizzy and nauseous.

“I knew that wasn't a good idea!” McCoy's voice reached him muffled. “The stress isn't doing him any favours!”

“There is nothing you can do about it, doctor,” Spock said sharp enough that it broke through the haze.

Jim blinked away the last of his daze and looked up. “I'll manage,” he muttered.

“You nearly fainted when you tried to give an order!”

Jim restrained himself from correcting McCoy that he had fainted for a few seconds. Instead, he coughed mildly into his scarf and sniffled. God, his throat and nose were burning like fire.

There was silence for a moment until Uhura seized the moment to speak. “I have informed Starfleet Command of our current situation and I am awaiting their response.”

Jim forced an exhausted smile. Spock was right: even if his voice broke in the middle, his crew was able to pick up the rest of his sentence. They knew him – knew him as well as he knew his own thoughts. Everyone here had decided long ago to follow his command and Jim appreciated their blind trust in his guidance. It gave him stability when he thought he was wavering. It caught him when he feared he might fall off the ship.

McCoy put a hand on his shoulder. “Try taking deep breaths. Sit back and relax. We'll keep you posted.“

Jim followed the doctor's instructions and closed his eyes for a few moments. He didn't open them even when he heard Uhura. She sounded hesitant and a subtle anger quivered in her voice. “A reply has arrived. Starfleet Command is investigating the communication issues and will inform us as soon as they gathered something. Their direct order is that James T. Kirk is to remain on standby on the bridge and continue to follow protocol.”

“That's outrageous!” McCoy uttered the words Uhura hadn’t dared to say aloud.

“Unbelievable,” Chekov growled from the science station.

“I've never had anything against our top department, but this action disgusts me,” Sulu said with an audible grimace.

“This is simply inhumane,” Miss Chapel said quietly.

“Silence,” Spock spoke all of the sudden. Because he rarely raised his voice, everyone immediately turned silent, even the machines. “We are still a dutiful, disciplined group working under Starfleet Command and we should act like it. However, I must say that the behaviour of the authorities is completely unacceptable and stands against our purpose, above all they are giving us an unspeakable insult to our services. One could almost accuse them of absolute disrespect towards us. Nevertheless, there is no point in getting worked up about it. We should focus on our mission.”

“See who’s complaining the logical way now!” McCoy said in an amused, almost proud way. “I must say, Commander, I’m impressed with you for once. Remind me to end my rivalry with you.”

Spock raised an irritated eyebrow in his direction. “I beg your pardon, doctor, such a display of emotion is only natural when they put us off with ‘as soon as they gathered something’; I am convinced that Uhura has reproduced the exact words. Besides, not only is there the health of our captain at stake, but also the well-being of the entire world. We are preventing a war here and they are simply leaning back in their office chairs.”

“Jesus, can someone please record this? It's almost like a public complaint – a Vulcan one even!”

Spock's expression became so hard that any humour bounced off it. “Maybe that is not such an illogical idea, McCoy. Maybe we should file a public complaint.”

“Goodness, you speak Standard for once!”

“I have always spoken your language, McCoy,” Spock said. “I just chose not to drop to your level until I assumed it became necessary. Now I do.”

Before McCoy could shed his newly won amiability towards Spock, Jim spoke up. “I'm grateful that you're all agree on backing me up, but in all honesty? I’m just sick and tired of dealing with Starfleet Command. If they don’t give us an accurate answer within an hour, they’ll have to search for another diplomat to lead their negotiations – and another ship.”

“That's the spirit!” McCoy exclaimed.

“Pressuring Starfleet Command,” Spock said thoughtfully. “In an extreme case, that could be considered insubordination, but in your current situation, they can hardly accuse you of that.”

“Correct, Spock. Now, Uhura – ”

McCoy gestured for him to remain silent so as not to repeat the same mistake from earlier, and Spock took the floor. “Uhura, please tell Starfleet Command exactly what Jim suggested. I fully support his action as the current commanding captain of this vessel, add this.”

“Will be done, Commander,” Uhura reported as she set to work. After she was done, an uncomfortable silence dominated the bridge.

***

That one hour stretched like years and only a quarter of it had passed. The chronometer seemed to be running backwards, or at least the display was changing so slowly that Jim doubted its functionality – and his own. The air on the bridge wasn't stuffy at all; it was cleaner than a country breeze, but his airways were so irritated that he fell victim to a hacking fit every few seconds. It didn't help that he had to breathe through his mouth because his nose was blocked. His throat was throbbing so ungratefully that Jim didn't even dare tell McCoy that he was feeling worse.

He assumed it was obvious. But what should they do about his eternal suffering than just, well, leave him to it?

Jim downed some water in the rare moments he caught his breath, but oddly enough, it dried out his throat even more. He bent over for another spasmodic barking fit and almost succumbed to the temptation to just slump forward and fall asleep in that position – and preferably never wake up again.

McCoy held him by the shoulders and rubbed his back, but even this gesture had lost its comforting character. It was now something of a routine. Jim looked up at McCoy with a desperate gasp, then his eyelids fluttered shut again. McCoy tightened his grip. “Jim,” he said gently. “Do you want to lie down for a few minutes?”

All at once, Jim was awake again. He shook his head, pushed McCoy away and straightened up in the chair. But as his back started to hurt too much, he leant back. And the barking cough started again.

He corrected his previous statement: It was more than obvious that he was feeling like shit.

Spock leant down to him, offering a brief hug, which comforted Jim at least a little. Then he pushed Spock away as well – the Vulcan was far too hot and he was feeling far too hot – and snuggled deeper into his scarf when he felt chilled instead. Jim became aware of the whirling sound of the medical hand scanner. He glanced up at McCoy, who turned away, cursing, to interpret the result. “Your temperature does what it wants! Even the medical science tricorder can’t tell if it wants to go up or down.”

Jim wanted to amuse him by replying that it must be going down, because he felt like breaking out in a hot sweat any second, but he realised the truth quick enough: his head was only burning up from the effort of coughing and his body was in a block of ice. He shuddered so violently that his teeth chattered.

McCoy noticed it in the corner of his eye. “So, it wants up! I'll get a blanket.”

Jim opened his mouth to protest that a blanket really wasn't necessary and would totally degrade him, but a coughing fit stopped him. In all honesty, he didn't have the energy for discussions. And a blanket did sound very tempting to cover his shivering body with.

“McCoy, be careful,” Spock called out as McCoy was heading towards the turbolift.

“I know, Spock! I'll decontaminate myself first and avoid unnecessarily long ways. You'd better make sure Jim doesn't suffocate in my presence!”

Jim realised that he was still in the middle of a coughing fit. He recalled a few breathing exercises they had been taught him at the academy and used them to calm his breathing. When he succeeded, he reached for a tissue and tried to blow his nose clear – to no avail. The swelling pressed so hard against his sinuses that his forehead throbbed dully despite the painkillers still being in effect.

“Ackschuh! Akschuuuh!” His sneezes were followed by a phlegmy barking fit that resound loudly against the walls despite his attempts to muffle it with his scarf and arm. When he finally caught his breath, he realised how disgusting it must have sounded. “Sorry,” he said. Two or three heads turned to look at him. He doubted they had heard his breathy attempt to speak. Maybe they had sensed it.

“You don't have to apologise, Jim,” Sulu said, looking just a tiny bit nervous about addressing him informally. “Starfleet Command should apologise for sending you to the bridge in this condition – and keeping you here.”

“Oh, those wretched bastards!” Chekov cursed with a thick Russian accent. He, on the other hand, was either too nervous or too angry to address him other than formally. “Captain, you should complain properly as soon as you can.”

“I will,” Jim muttered. “Regardless, I'm still sorry to subject you all to this.”

Uhura turned her whole body to face him. “Jim,” her voice was soft, but firm, “you’re not subjecting us to anything. We chose to be here, by your side. If it's not intrusive to ask, is there anything we can do to ease your discomfort?”

Jim thought about it for a moment and instinctively recalled Spock's words from this morning. The crew always has your back. They care about you and they want you to feel comfortable. Spock stood next to him and although the corners of his mouth did not move much, they seemed to reveal a small smile.

“Tea,” Jim voiced the first thing that came to his mind. Yeoman Rand immediately started moving. Then he shrugged. “I don't know. Just endure me a little longer.”

“There is nothing to ‘endure,’ Captain,” Chekov said with a boyish grin. “It's a great honour to have you with us.”

Jim almost laughed but coughed instead. “I'm certainly not an honour,” he croaked breathlessly.

Sulu offered him a small smile. “You are. I mean, isn't it proof of how much you trust us? You’re here although you're not in a state people usually like to show others. Well, I wouldn't have had the courage.”

“Really, you tough pirate?” Chekov grinned at his comrade before lowering his head, hiding the grim lines his features were slipping into. “In all honest, neither do I. I would have hidden under my blanket like a coward.”

The security officer smiled. The ensigns, who had hardly been noticed so far, giggled in the background, and Uhura chuckled. “I think even Spock would have found it difficult. Right, Commander?”

As the attention centralised on Spock, an unusual reaction appeared on his face. For a moment it seemed as if he was torn between agreeing and disagreeing, then he licked the hesitation from his lips and said roughly, “Possibly. But I am not the one at debate.”

And with that, he gallantly passed the attention back to Jim, who was fighting off another urge to cough. “Who knows what I was thinking when I rolled my sick self out of bed this morning,” he rasped before the barking fit won over him.

Spock leaned down to rub the cramps out of his shoulder blades. “Perhaps we should put the conversation on hold for now.”

Jim, still barking, tapped something on his PADD and held it up. Good Idea. He put it down quickly as his dry cough turned into a chesty, productive one. It made him double over, barking a fit that grew in intensity and nasty loudness. He readjusted his position just in time for all the phlegm to came up and leaned over the bag that Spock, quick to react as always, held open for him. Chocking and retching, he spat into it. He even managed to keep that yoghurt from reappearing as a digested mass between thick globs of yellowish-green mucus. After it had loosened up, his mouth tasted disgustingly bitter and his throat burned like acid. “I'm… still… breathing,” he huffed for all those who were wondering. As the exhaustion overwhelmed him, he dropped back in his seat.

The second his back hit the rest, the turbolift opened with a hiss. “Jesus Christ, what was that? I could hear you hacking three decks below!”

“Bones…”

“Hush, don’t speak.” McCoy hurried to him, unfolding the huge blanket. It was clinical-white and felt strange at touch; its surface was rough and made the kind of fabric hard to tell.  “That’s a so-called ‘temperature adjustment blanket’, the name is rubbish, but it works great,” McCoy explained as he properly covered him. “It does what the awful name – TAB for short – suggests: It either turns warm or cold depending on what’s best for your body.”

“Doctor, I am convinced that such a thing does exist, but you make it sound a little too miraculous.”

“What, Spock? This man needs a miracle, not hard, cold science.”

“I am actually very interested in how it works, I intended to say.”

“Well...” McCoy was clearly not prepared for the honesty. “It's complicated. I'll explain it to you another time.”

“Very well.”

If Jim had been a little less exhausted, he would have questioned the technology behind TAB as well. But for now, he simply accepted the miracle, snuggled into it and let its warmth make him even sleepier. TAB already felt like his own blanket.

Yeoman Rand approached them with a steaming cup. “As requested, I made you some tea – chamomile with a little honey. I hope it helps.”

Spock took the cup from her and passed it on to Jim, while McCoy leaned down, whispering. “You’re not allergic to honey, are you?”

“Bones…” Jim groaned, but for the record: He was not, and everyone knew that (or at least, three people here knew what he was allergic to, Janice Rand being one of them). Instead of humouring his doctor with an answer he already knew, Jim wrapped both his hands around the hot ceramic, letting it warm him further. The steam opened up his nose and he sniffled heavily, before catching a sneeze with his shoulder. “Acksch!” He took a deep breath through his mouth, hoping it would help with the congestion in his airways as well, but that didn’t seem to be the case. You can’t have everything, James T. Kirk.

Still, he put his entire mind on enjoying the moment as long as it would last, which was mere seconds, because McCoy disturbed him with the medical tricorder. It whirled in front of his chest. “Your airways, bronchi, throat – all full of phlegm!” McCoy announced loudly. “No wonder you keep having those fits!”

Jim’s cheeks heated up. “Bones, be quiet,” he hissed through clenched teeth. Jim had done his best to hold back with disgusting descriptions of what was going on inside him, it was enough for the bridge crew to hear it. It didn't need to be described in medical terms. Moreover, he feared that McCoy was about to reveal even more unpleasant aspects of his medical record.

“What, are bodily fluids still such a taboo? Then you shouldn't have brought your doctor onto the bridge.” However, McCoy's tone made it clear that he meant no offence.

Jim sipped his tea so as not to start an argument he had no energy for. The tea tasted like nothing, but not much more bitter than the yoghurt had been, and the warmth was well received by his raw throat. He still had to occasionally stop drinking to cough, though.

“McCoy,” Miss Chapel said as she stepped up to them. She stood frozen when McCoy gestured her to keep her distance. “Perhaps inhaling might help,” she suggested.

McCoy groaned. “If you'd said that five minutes before, I could have brought the inhaler!”

“Don't worry, I'll get it. Stay with him, doctor.”

“Don't forget to decontaminate,” McCoy called after her, which proved to be unnecessary, because Miss Chapel was already undergoing the process. After finishing, she disappeared into the turbolift.

“What fun did I miss out on while being away, anyway?” McCoy asked, leaning casually against the command chair.

Jim turned away from him, coughing into his arm. “Not much.” He set the empty cup down on the floor. When he realised how much his fingers were shaking, he pulled his hands into his sleeves to warm them.

“He went through quite a violent coughing fit,” Spock told him.

“I heard that,” McCoy interjected, turning his attention back to Jim. “Despite that, you seem to have recovered a bit. A few minutes ago, I really thought I have to drag you into sickbay because your condition went downhill fast.”

“Bones, I still feel like shit. What's your point?”

“You have tea. You never had tea before, you always refuse. You didn’t protest when I draped that blanket over you. And do I spy the hint of a relaxed expression on your face?”

“So, what about it?”

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong with that. I was just wondering if it has finally got to stubborn you that this isn’t your own fight. It never has been.”

Jim looked up, curiosity and scepticism piqued alike.

“See, Jim, we’re all here. We’re helping you out. We’re in this together and we’re gonna fight on your side.”

As if on cue, half of the bridge crew turned to the middle, their faces expressing everything on the range between kindness and understanding to sheer determination.

“Our hearts are with you,” Uhura said with a soft smile, her eyes shining with firm belief. “Just make yourself known if you need anything.”

“We’re in this together as the doctor pointed out,” Sulu agreed. “And if we have to stand up to the world, then let it be so. We’re unstoppable.”

“You've led us through many crises,” Chekov said, determination seeping through his Russian accent. “But now you can count on us, Captain.”

“Security has your back,” said Security Officer Thompson, who had spoken for the first time since she'd been on the bridge. Her voice was naturally cold, but not unfriendly. A smile softened her hard, snow-white features. “So, relax, everything is in order.”

“We all chose to be here today,” said one of the ensigns, whose name Jim couldn't think of at the moment. “And so far, I don't regret it one bit.”

Her friend at the station next to hers nodded shyly, but no less convinced. “It's great to serve under you, whatever the circumstances, even if they're not always ideal.”

“It's admirable, simply admirable,” Yeoman Rand said with a smile that showed a diamond spectrum of affection. “I've known you for so long now, but today you inspire me even more than usual to do my best. No matter what happens, I'm sure we can get through it.”

Jim was sure that Miss Chapel would have said something similar if she had been present. A few of the glances now fell on Spock, silently urging him to say something as well. Spock remained in his spot beside him, stiffer than usual, but nothing else in his behaviour indicated that the sudden attention made him nervous. “I do not think I need to give any words of encouragement, the others have already done that in an impressive amount, and I have already agreed with McCoy more times than I care to count today, so...” Spock turned to Jim, his face smiling without visibly changing. “You know my position.”

Jim formed a ‘I do’ with his lips, while the others groaned, McCoy the loudest, or otherwise expressed their disappointment. But apparently today was not the day to hear sentimentality from Commander Spock.

“Just because you don't want to agree with me, you don't utter nice words like ‘I'm by your side’ or ‘I support you wholeheartedly’? How illogical!”

“It is illogical to get upset about it, doctor. You have already said everything that needed to be said. Why repeat it?”

“Because it's nice, because – Goddammit! Now’s not the time to argue. We're ruining the good mood.”

As McCoy rightly pointed out, the mood was good. Better than usual. Friendly words, a compliment, an admiring remark and determined shouts rang out from one corner or another. Confident looks that didn't cower in the face of danger, but threw themselves fully into it with a bright smile. No one showed the slightest bit of discomfort, so Jim had to believe that his presence didn't bother them.

Jim sank more and more into their kindness, into the comfort they offered him without him even asking for it. He became increasingly aware of the moisture in his eyes, and the growing expectations of a reaction from him. He sniffled, wiped his face with his arm and silently blamed the wonder drug that this was happening at all. It was embarrassing and he didn't want them to see this after he'd already revealed so much of his true self.

Jim fought the twitching corners of his mouth, then silenced the chirpy chatter on the bridge with an authoritative clearing of his throat. “Stop it, get back to work.” At the last word, the smile did slip onto his lips, but he didn't allow it to make him look soft. “Let's proceed with the mission, let us wait and hope for the best.”

A united “Aye, Captain,” rang out and everyone turned to their stations as usual, the good mood still hanging in the room. Jim lifted the blanket up to his face in case there was another involuntary reaction, but only a sneeze erupted from him. “Ackuxtsch!” He sniffled, took a deep breath and let out a few phlegmy coughs.

After he had secretively turned himself into enough of a mess, Jim lowered the blanket and immediately met McCoy’s awfully wide I-know-what-you-did-there-grin. Jim put on a hard frown, but it amused McCoy even more. “What?” Jim barked.

“You finally got it.” McCoy’s voice betrayed his honest relief, although he tried to cover it with humour. “This makes my job a lot easier.”

“You told the bridge crew in advance to cheer me up when I'm down.”

McCoy's features fell into place, making room for sheer puzzlement. “How did you know?”

“I know you, Bones.”

“Just for the record, it wasn't my decision, it was all of ours. I know you when you're ill, I just told them what to expect and they planned it all out. No doctor's orders needed. However, I plead guilty to talking Spock into it, but now... Now he's decided to drop out.” McCoy raised his voice so that a certain someone would hear it too, which was unnecessary because he had stepped away, but his eyes remained sharp. “And walk away, leaving us both alone here!”

Without turning round, Spock replied, “The captain has ordered us back to our duties. You are the doctor and I am the one who keeps the ship running.”

McCoy crossed his arms in front of his chest, muttering something under his breath. “Can't he read the room? Can’t he just not take a joke literally for once?” Jim wanted to say something, but McCoy gave him a look. “You really should rest now. Things are going to get tough for you soon.”

You know something I don’t? Nonetheless, Jim agreed with a non-committed hum and leaned back in his chair. He muffled a persistent coughing fit with the blanket, then looked around the bridge, still thinking about the moment. Spock was running from one station to the next, supervising them. Although it usually made the bridge members nervous to have someone looking over their shoulders – especially if that person was the stoic, logical science officer – they were cool with it this time. Perhaps because Jim was there, maybe his presence just had that effect on people. Or because they all knew that everything would be fine as long as they trusted each other and stuck together.

Why hadn't he realised it earlier?

He was the captain, yes, but he was also their friend. Years of working together had formed a bond that no scissors in the world could cut. It was so thick and strong that nothing could tear it apart. It could hold the whole Enterprise if it had to.

Jim felt this bond very strongly right now, even if the moment had turned casual. He noticed how Spock kept glancing in his direction as if to make sure his friend was all right. Uhura gave them a smile when she wasn't trying to connect with Durama 78 for the hundredth time. Only her eyes betrayed that it was utterly in vain.

Chekov and Sulu were talking quietly – even across the distance of their stations – creating a normality that Jim wouldn't have believed had been possible today. Yeoman Rand was watching him, standing ready for his demands as usual. She was as close to his reach as ever, even across the distance. Security Officer Thompsen had gone back to sipping her coffee, casually leaning against the wall next to the turbolift. Her relaxed manner reminded Jim that there was no reason to be worried; the war might only exist in their head, not in their world yet.

Whatever was about to come, it didn’t matter. Only the now counted. This moment.

McCoy looked grumpy with his arms folded and his gaze impatiently darting around as he waited for Miss Chapel to return. However, Jim noticed a certain calm about him too. Occasionally the serious expression melted away to reveal some familiar warmth, but only towards Jim. Most of the time, McCoy was complaining about the smallest things – like the far too loud air filters, Chekov claiming penicillin was invented by a Russian or ‘why the hell does Miss Chapel take so long’ when she was only gone for three minutes. So, everything seemed to be in order.

The words rushed back into Jim’s mind.

Has it finally got to stubborn you that this isn’t your own fight? It never has been.

See, Jim, we’re all here. We’re helping you out. We’re in this together and we’re gonna fight on your side.

Until that moment, Jim had thought that he was – had to be – the hero of the story. But even the greatest heroes of their time and beyond had helpers who supported the hero on their difficult journey. The Supernatural Aid. The Mentor. The people who guided him. The companions that accompanied the hero. The friends he made along the way.

The friends who had always been there.

He was not alone. He wasn’t fighting a lone battle out there.

The infinite space was wide and empty, and at the same time it was filled with so much warmth and kindness, you wouldn’t believe it if you weren’t living it. Living the moment.

But Jim was finally in the moment. The battel was over and had just began…

Notes:

I plead myself guilty in having read Campbells entire "A hero with a thousand faces", also known as the classical hero journey, and shamelessly using it for my fanfics ever since.

Chapter 6: Darkness

Jim looked at the handy device that Miss Chapel had brought. The grip was long, thick and rounded, but fit comfortably in his hand, and at the end it opened into a funnel-shaped, transparent mask. The device was smaller and less complicated than he had imagined a nebuliser, inhaler or whatever it was called to be, but he guessed that the medical instruments of this century all had one or two surprises to baffle you with. He still wasn’t entirely convinced that the thing could help him to get the mucus out of his airways, though. Besides, he felt stupid just looking at the device.

“Jim, believe me, it will help,” McCoy assured him. “I always use it on myself when I have a respiratory infection.”

“Your last remedy gave me an allergic reaction,” Jim reminded him, coughing into the crook of his arm.

“I was careless and it won’t happen again, alright? But I'll ask anyway: Are you allergic to salt?”

Jim furrowed his brows. “What?”

“Because I know full well that you like your steak flavoured, I assume, you’re not. The only thing you'll come into contact with is salt dissolved in water, simply called ‘saline’. Besides, you've already won the lottery once today. Twice is as good as impossible.”

“The probability of a rare event occurring is not affected by the occurrence of another rare event, so – ”

“Spock, did I ask for a lesson in statistics? No!” McCoy scolded the Vulcan who had stopped going from station to station, before turning his attention back to Jim. “Well, I'm going to put you on a twenty-minute session. The good thing is that Starfleet Command is running out of time and when you've finished, we'll even know if and when we have the talk or at least, we’ll know whether we can remove you from duty without any consequences.”

“To be exact, Starfleet Command has thirty minutes and forty-four seconds left to inform us,” Spock corrected. “So, Jim will most likely finish before the deadline.”

McCoy rolled his eyes as if saying ‘I can’t stand that Vulcan’s exactness’, prepared the device and pressed it into Jim's hands. “Well, let’s get it over with,” McCoy swung his leg over the armrest that didn't have the control panel on it and put an arm around Jim.

“Bones, what are you – ” A barking fit interrupted him, which he hastily covered.

“Inhaling has become a very complex procedure that requires some medical guidance. We don't want this to be in vain, do we?”

You’ll just get yourself sick, Bones, Jim thought, as he brought his breathing back under control. McCoy adjusted his hand on the grip and showed him how to put the mask on his face correctly. The glassy plastic stuck to his skin and enveloped his mouth and nose.

“Sit up straight, but don’t tense up too much.” McCoy tapped him in various places until he had assumed a posture that satisfied the doctor. “Lift the pressure off your chest. Shift your weight to the pelvic.”

Jim thought he heard soft giggles, but when he looked round, everyone was working intently at their stations. It was most likely his own mind that was laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. As if I couldn't sit or breathe properly! Jim pushed himself to the edge of his seat, put both feet firmly on the ground, and propped one arm on his knee to hold his head.

“That's good,” McCoy praised him. “Once the device is switched on, breathe as deep as you can, hold it for five seconds and then blow it out slowly. Repeat that for the entire durance of the treatment. You'll struggle at first, but over time you will get better at it. After that, you'll be able to cough up the mucus much easier. Believe me, it’s all for your best.”

It would be best if you finally shut up and switch on the device. Jim pressed his lips tightly together to keep the thought from leaving his mouth. He was grateful to McCoy for instructing him and helping him out, but at the same time it was tiring out his thread-thin patience. Jim wondered if his irritability was due to lack of sleep, the illness or the drug – or all three things combined.

“I'll switch it on then, if there is nothing left to discuss.” McCoy looked at him questioning, and for a second Jim feared he might have read his mind.

Jim shook his head, finding his bearings. Focus on the treatment, not on being angry. “I’m fine,” he muttered.

“Good.” McCoy pressed a button on the device. As something like sea air blew into his face, Jim tensed up. Then he remembered what McCoy had told him to do, took a deep breath and – the salty air irritated his airways and sent him into a horrible barking fit. He loosened his mask a little. “Bones, this isn't helping,” he gasped.

McCoy pushed the mask back into place. “It's unfamiliar at first, but you'll get used to it and then you'll start to feel some positive effects.”

Hopefully quickly, Jim thought, reluctantly turning his attention back to the treatment. He took another deep breath and held it for a second or two before coughing harshly. “Bones!” he croaked with tears in his eyes.

McCoy tightened his grip around him. “You can do it, Jim. Hold your breath a little longer. The cough will ease in a few minutes.”

Gathering his strength – and his will-power – Jim took another deep breath, held it and then exhaled it softly through his loosely pursed lips. He sniffled. As he had been too focused on his mouth breathing, he hadn't noticed that his nasal passages had cleared.

“Now, try to breathe in through your nose, hold for five seconds, then breathe out through your mouth,” McCoy instructed him. Jim concentrated on the instruction and after two or three repetitions, he realised that he was improving. The swelling in his nose disappeared somewhat and the urge to cough became less intense. His airways weren’t cramping anymore and his breathing changed for the better; it was no longer shallow and rapid. He wondered whether the real purpose of the treatment was to become aware of your body and breathing and whether the saline was just an excuse to make it sound medical. In any case, he did feel a little better – even if he wouldn't openly admit it to McCoy.

“Very good, Jim,” McCoy said after a while. “You're starting to get a hang on the proper technique. Keep it up for the next fifteen minutes.”

I only did this for five minutes? Are you kidding me?, Jim thought. He felt like he'd spent an hour breathing. He realised that inhaling was a very boring method of treatment, especially when it additionally required sitting still.

For the next few minutes – Jim hoped they were minutes and not infinitely stretched seconds – McCoy only occasionally corrected his posture or his breathing, but stayed seated next to him anyway – perhaps to keep him company or to enjoy watching the boredom consume Jim more and more. He wished that something exciting would happen.

A com channel opened with a whistle. “Lab to McCoy.”

The Enterprise’s still following my every wish, Jim thought, trying to not show his joy too obviously, because there was a chance it could be something serious.

“Spock, you take over.” McCoy jumped up from the armrest, walked to the bridge’s intercom and accepted the request. “McCoy here. What's up?”

The voice on the other end spoke too quietly for Jim to make out more than a murmur in the distance. He leaned in that direction until Spock tapped him on the shoulder, forcing him to straighten his posture. No, inhaling is definitely no fun.

“All right,” McCoy said suddenly. “Send it to me on the PADD. McCoy out.” Without revealing anything, McCoy walked over to his med-bag, pulled out his PADD and read so intently that the concentration erased all reactions from his face.

Jim let out a sigh against the sea air. Spock instructed him to be more mindful of his breathing.

I want to know what's going on! As if McCoy had heard his inner plea, he set the PADD down on a station table and walked over to him. He maintained a neutral expression for five seconds – as long as Jim held his breath – then a triumphant grin shifted his cheekbones. “You want to know what you've caught, Jim?”

“Yeah,” Jim pressed through the mask.

“Well, actually, it's not very funny and I probably shouldn't be telling you this in the middle of your treatment,” McCoy said, visibly forcing his expression back to serious.

“Tell me!” Jim urged, coughing. It echoed dully through the mask.

“Relax, Jim. Take deep breaths.”

“Bones!”

“I am interested to know what he had caught as well,” Spock said. “Because your reaction is very misleading, McCoy.”

“All right, all right, you impatient children.” McCoy clapped his hands and took a deep breath. “As I suspected, it's a new mutation, or rather a genetic fusion – specifically that of a rhinovirus, an influenza virus and a metapneumovirus, probably even of artificial origin. It really is – to use your choice of words, Spock – fascinating.”

Spock raised both eyebrows in controlled astonishment, while Jim coughed nervously. McCoy didn't notice their reactions. He seemed to have completely drifted off into his own little world of science. “You really caught all types of respiratory diseases! All those viruses are amazingly well researched, but the combination of them is obviously new. It’s a completely unknown, new type of virus with unique features, it simply cannot be natural caused, it must be artificial, and our labs may not have created it, but they discovered it first. That’s amazing!”

More than half the bridge crew were staring at McCoy in as much disbelief as Jim was. McCoy rattled on as if unaware that he was making himself the centre of attention. “I mean, this could be a significant discovery and enrich our research. Artificial virus creation – how many lives it could save!”

“And how many bioweapons can be created with it,” Spock interjected. He was the only one McCoy responded to.

“Spock, don't disturb my moment of splendour with such pessimism! Not everything that medicine produces is to be demonised – and biochemical weapons are banned in the Federation anyway.”

“Has it occurred to you that there might be such an intention behind the artificial virus you just ‘discovered’? In this regard, I would like to point out to you that someone must have known about it before us if it was artificially created, which you have emphasised several times. And even if you and our labs were the first to discover it outside its creation context, I see no reason for you to show exaggerated joy, doctor. You just uncovered an illegal activity. One that must be reported to the Federation immediately.”

“Don’t you think I know that, Spock?” McCoy grumbled, the joy still not entirely leaving his eyes. “You might be right in that what I’ve discovered may not be the penicillin in the petri dish, but it’s still good. Now that we know what we're dealing with, we can find a cure. We might have something in two or three days.”

Jim’s attention was drawn at the last words, but he continued to concentrate on his breathing as the urge to cough threatened him. It crept from deep within his bronchial tubes and soon engulfed his entire airway and throat. He heard a rattling that didn't sound healthy, and his breathing quickened. “Bones...”

“All that aside, I still have a patient.” McCoy turned to him, sat back on the armrest and knocked along his spine. “Don't worry, Jim. The mucus is just loosening up. Keep breathing, you'll get your chance to spit it out in a minute.” McCoy then leaned over and whispered to him so quietly that only he and a Vulcan could hear. “By the way, the lab diagnosed you with moderate bronchitis, probably related to the virus. We have to be careful that it doesn't develop into pneumonia.”

Jim nodded. He knew someone in the fleet who had died of pneumonia a year or two ago – they had been infected with an unknown virus as well and none of the synthetic antivirals had worked. The man died an honourable death in the sickbay of his constellation class starship. Jim didn't want to end up like him. At least he had the best doctor in Starfleet at his side. Jim grinned tiredly at McCoy. McCoy didn't smile back, and that was when Jim realised it was serious.

“I'll prescribe you regular inhalations,” McCoy continued quietly. “You know how to do them by now.”

Jim raised no objection. He had been coughing less in the last few minutes, most likely because his bronchial tubes were being moistened. Jim took another deep, rattling breath, held it for five seconds and – The lump of mucus blocked his windpipe and made him cough spasmodically. McCoy reacted immediately, knocking him on the back with a hard fist to help clear his airways.

Jim tasted the viscous lump on his tongue and was wondering if he had to swallow it when McCoy held out the bag for him to spit into. Jim shuddered as he realised that Spock was watching him.

“We should take him to sickbay,” Spock said.

“Oh, really?” McCoy replied sarcastically. “You think I don't know that myself? But the oh-so-evil command won't let him!”

“Why do we even care what Starfleet Command thinks of us?’ Spock asked a rare question. “I came to the Enterprise to carry out a research mission, not to see my captain suffocate in an attempt to save the universe.”

“Spock, McCoy,” Jim croaked after he had recovered somewhat from his fright and caught his breath. “You're not going to decide this over my head. I can handle it.”

“Jim,” McCoy started, but Jim cut him off with a sharp gesture of his hand. He almost dropped the device in the process.

“The inhalation has helped me a little, I feel better, and they only have ten minutes left to respond to our request anyway. Then I'll make good on my threat.”

“You're not finished yet, by the way,” McCoy interjected, straightening his mask. “Five more minutes and then I'll show you how to cough up the mucus properly.”

Spock turned away from them so quickly that Jim noticed. The Vulcan's cheek muscles twitched. Jim blinked as he thought he detected a subtle tremor in Spock. He subtly drew McCoy's attention to it.

McCoy let go of him and approached Spock cautiously. Jim concentrated on his breathing and watched them quietly.

“Spock,” McCoy whispered.

The man addressed stiffened his shoulders and pretended to be busy at a station that required no attention. McCoy stepped up beside him, put a hand on his shoulder and said nothing for five seconds – Jim let out his breath softly.

“It is not logical,” Spock said, the subtle tremor also in his voice but only Jim and McCoy seemed to take notice. The other bridge crew members were busy at their consoles, or at least acted as if the scene in their immediate vicinity was none of their business. “Why does Starfleet Command not let me have the conversation? I am a Vulcan, not a human. Under the current circumstances, I would be the more appropriate choice.” He did not shout, but his tone implied that he would have preferred to.

“Well, maybe the human wants to talk to a human,” McCoy said awkwardly, realising himself that it wasn't helping. “I don't know, Spock. I'm wondering myself what the point of all this is. I've read enough about Durama 78 to know that their situation is precarious; that they need help but hardly accept any because they can't give any themselves. That both the Romulans and the Klingons are threatening the planet and may soon take it over completely before we get a chance to stop them. If that happens, they have all our technology, research and whatnot! I don't know how the people on Durama 78 feel about this; what thin straws they are clutching at to somehow escape the situation. At the same time, I understand them too well... Their fears, their despair, and then again, I don't...”

“I do not understand it at all, McCoy,” Spock said, shaking his head as if he needed to get rid of an emotion. “I do not understand either side. Neither Durama 78 nor Starfleet Command, they are not behaving logically, which is probably why I cannot. And that is why I need Jim to – ” Spock looked at him, which made Jim attempt a reassuring smile. It only threw Spock off for a second before he turned his attention back to McCoy. “I need him because he can make me understand; through him I can judge their reactions. He is the mirror I read from, so to speak. At the same time, his condition requires medical attention only possible in sickbay, so it would be illogical to keep him here. I am torn as to whether I can manage without him or not. I cannot say for certain which course to maintain.”

“Thanks for telling me that, Spock,” McCoy said without irony. “I can see the dilemma now, and of course it isn’t an easy decision to make, but it's difficult enough as it is. We'll manage anyway.”

“Your optimism is neither logical nor helping, McCoy.”

“But it's the only thing I have to offer – besides shots and pills.”

Spock seemed to want to say something else, but didn't. As a silence spread between them that suddenly dominated the entire bridge, Uhura said, “Starfleet Command has requested visual contact.”

Time, which had nearly stopped, started to run. “Tell them to wait three minutes,” McCoy told her. “Jim's still being treated, and our Vulcan here won't have a moment's peace until he's done. Of course, don't phrase it that way, Uhura.”

“I will convey the message appropriately,” Uhura assured him and set to work.

McCoy turned back to Spock. “You know I'm not only the CMO, but also a psychologist, and mostly responsible for the health of our top department, so protocol compels me to ask you: are you all right, Spock?”

“I am not impaired,” Spock said, strangely avoiding McCoy's gaze. He stared over at Jim instead. “I am in satisfactory health and the slight doubts within me have no bearing on my actions or my ability to remain in command.”

“Spock,” McCoy put a hand on his shoulder. “The situation is incredibly stressful, not only for him, but for you as well. When this is over, I'd like to examine you in sickbay.”

Spock looked at him as if McCoy had asked him to strip off his skin and show what was underneath. “That will absolutely not be necessary.”

“That's for me to decide, Spock. I am, after all, the Chief Medical Officer.” McCoy suddenly dropped his seriousness and smiled. “Now tell me, Spock, how hard will you go against Starfleet Command?”

Spock hinted an eye roll and strode past the baffled McCoy to Jim. He eyes the device with a cool, enquiring gaze. “I did hear it correctly. The saline solution has run through. Your expertise is needed here, doctor, not there.”

“Damn it, Spock!” McCoy stomped over to them. “You dodge better than an old-timer in front of a deer!”

“There is a high probability that the driver would not see the deer in time and – ” Spock seemed to have realised that it had been a metaphor. He remained silent and walked to Uhura's communications station. This time he really had something to do there: he checked the message from Starfleet Command.

McCoy drew Jim's attention with a snap of his fingers. “Now don't doge me, too.”

Jim hadn't realised that McCoy had switched off the inhaler and removed the mask from his face – that was how well he was breathing now. “Bones, I want to…”

McCoy waved it. “No need to thank me, you're welcome. I'm glad you've got some healthy colours back on your face, even if there's still a slight flush on your cheeks. It'll hardly be noticeable on the screen, though.”

Jim groaned as he remembered that the transmission was fixed on the command chair. His options were: To stay seated and be seen as he was, or to get up from the chair and crawl into the camera’s blind corner. He chose the former because it was easier.

McCoy snapped his attention back to him. “God, your eyes are everywhere but on me! I wanted to show you some breathing exercises.”

“Can’t that wait until later, Bones?”

“I don't know, if later means after you've choked to death.” When Jim rolled his eyes, McCoy added, “At least let me show you how to cough properly.”

Jim spent the next minutes letting McCoy move him around like a puppet. McCoy showed him the angle at which he should raise his arm to build up enough resistance to cough without losing too much strength, demonstrated how to draw air from the diaphragm rather than the shoulders, and taught him how to suppress a cough gently. Jim had to admit that some of these methods were quite practical and he wished he had known them earlier.

“We're ready then,” McCoy announced, after Jim was already completely exhausted from the exercises. Uhura nodded and Spock joined them. Jim considered making room for him, but by then Spock was already sitting on the armrest, being mindful of the panel. The sight was on to behold: the tall Vulcan with his legs crossed, his hands flat on his lap and completely relaxed, as if he was preparing for a chat over a hot cup of coffee rather than a conversation with their authorities. Jim admired Spock's patience and nonchalance. He himself had sweaty palms and goose bumps, and huddled deeper into the blanket to keep both from showing it.

When McCoy stood behind them, the strange trio was complete.

***

Not one person, but three filled the projection on the wall screen. At the end of the conference table sat the admiral with whom Jim had already had the pleasure to talk to last night – Wiley Robertson, who suddenly looked thirty years older next to his two younger colleagues. His slicked-back hair took on a silvery sheen in the brilliant light and his wrinkles stood out more prominent. The woman next to him had hard, German features, blonde hair and blue eyes hidden behind artificially long eyelashes. The other man was ashen-faced, haggard, but had full, healthy hair that curled down to his shoulders. He was still just a freckled boy who had graduated from the academy not long ago and was nervously pressing his fingertips together. Jim almost felt sorry for him.

All three were in wine-red uniform, but had different numbers of badges. Robertson had the most, closely followed by the woman whose name – Annika Schröder – faded in, and Frederik Shiffer, the young academy graduate, had none.

Jim only had so much time to look the three of them up and down because they had fallen into a rigid shock at the sight of him. Slowly, however, they moved.

“We are very sorry about the circumstances,” Admiral Robertson said. It sounded mechanical, rehearsed, and Jim knew it was just a formality.

“Circumstances can't be changed,” Jim replied in the same monotone voice, “Get to the point.”

“Captain Kirk, we really are extremely sorry” – this time the admiral at least tried to sound honest, but it came off exaggerated – “We've read McCoy's report and now understand why you wanted to avoid this.”

“Pretty late for that,” McCoy muttered behind Jim, but nevertheless maintained his overly friendly diplomatic smile.

“On behalf of the entire fleet, we sincerely apologise to you for the difficulties – ”

Jim silenced Robertson with a sharp cut of his hand. “Stop it.” He was startled by how harsh his own voice sounded despite its brittleness, but he made no effort to change it. “You've put the entire Enterprise at risk and tied me to this chair and almost sent us into a war or something that threatens to become one, we don't know, that’s how little information you gave us. Besides” – he cleared his throat as his voice trailed off – “I'm still relieved of my command, so you'd better talk to the one who has it now.” Jim gestured at Spock to take over and leaned back, coughing. He noticed how the bridge members who were not caught on camera smiled at him or nodded in agreement. He didn't return their gestures: he hadn't said that to be praised for it. He had done it for himself.

Spock tensed beside him. His expression was somewhere between cold and reserved and radiated the Vulcan ideal even more than usual. At the same time, Jim noticed a dark shadow falling on Spock's face. It brought a frightening aura that intimidated poor little Frederick.

“As James T. Kirk has correctly stated, you have violated several rules of protocol, which, however, shall be the subject of a later court, which I shall request,” Spock said neutrally, yet with a menacing undertone. “Now we shall be discussing the situation with Durama 78. What is your information?”

The admiral, although of a calm and unflappable character, began to sweat and fiddled with the gold collar of his uniform. “Well, we have nothing. Well, not nothing, but...” He pointed to his colleague.

The woman – Annika Schröder – spoke with a heavy German accent. “Our research has shown that the interference is in all likeness not indicative of war activity, so – ”

“We have already learned that,” Spock interrupted her. “After all, we are in the orbit of the planet and have all equipment to scan and observe it.”

Admiral Schröder looked mildly disgruntled and refused to give any further information, so Robertson took over. “Such signal interference occurs quite frequently on Durama 78. They are one of the reasons why communication with the planet is so difficult. In the past, there has often been great disappointment among the inhabitants of Durama 78 because the Federation has not been able to reach them. Therefore, this time we want the conversation to take place as soon as the interference has resolved to show the good will that the Federation is waiting for the planet. That is why we gave the direct order for Kirk to stay on the bridge – to make that possible at any time. A mistake, I realise now, but one that can hardly be taken back. Surely you with your Vulcan logic will understand, Commander Spock.”

“No, I do not understand,” Spock said in a sharp tone. He leant forward, making the humans back away as if he was going to jump through the screen at them if he could. “If you knew about the signal interference, why were we not told in advance?”

“It did not seem important to us,” replied Admiral Robertson, the most composed of the three of them.

“You just did emphasise the importance those interference have in regard of Durama 78,” Spock insisted.

“Well, we did not think that – ”

“You expected it and still did not mention it until now, not in our previous briefings and not in the documents and not – ”

“I am sure there was something about it in the document! Read – ”

“I have read the document multiple times – twenty-three times to be precise. I can tell you every single point and say with certainty that there was no mention of the disturbances anywhere, not even hinted. I take that as an unforgivable sloppiness on your part.”

“Jesus Christ, Spock's tearing them apart,” McCoy whispered to Jim. “The one on the right looks like he's about to have a heart attack.”

“Silence, Bones,” Jim breathed back. And as a doctor, you shouldn't be wishing anyone a heart attack. But Jim couldn't deny the fact that all three members of Starfleet Command looked terribly nervous, as if they'd already been hauled into court.

“What are you accusing us of!” Admiral Schröder shouted, horrified and furious. “You have no proof and no right to go against us, especially after we helped you!”

“My arguments have been well-founded so far, but you are clutching at thin straws – an expression I learnt from a friend, by the way, which means clinging desperately to a hope. Neither despair nor hope is logical, so you should probably look for something else. Besides, I have to remind you that you have given us no valuable information but held it back instead.”

Next to Jim and Spock, McCoy straightened his full, proud height, given away who that friend was. Jim thought McCoy was enjoying the whole thing a little too much, although Jim was amused by the entire exchange as well. However, the seriousness of the situation prevented him from letting it be more than an inner feeling.

“What exactly do you want from us?” Robertson asked. His tone remained diplomatic, although filled with emotions.

Spock seemed briefly irritated by the change of course, but only let his friends know and continued unwavering. “An answer to the following question: when can we expect the interference to be gone?”

Starfleet Command, on the other hand, seemed to be utterly confused by Spock's change of course and showed it all the more clearly. “Well,” Robertson began, but then let his tongue fall flat.

“T-The disturbance could last for hours,” Frederick Shiffer suddenly spoke. Despite the initial squeak, his voice sounded deep and rough; a strange contrast. “I-In the past, some of them have lasted f-four hours, some even eight. Basically, it's hard to say for sure.”

“Wait, what?” McCoy said before Spock got the chance to answer. “You're going to make us wait here for another four, eight hours or ‘something’? Haven't you got anything more specific? I have a patient here who is definitely not – ”

“Bones.” Jim held McCoy by the tail of his Hawaiian shirt. The doctor looked ready to leap through the screen and strangle the three people with his own hands.

Spock rose from the armrest and for a moment Jim feared that he would have to use his other hand to stop his first officer from doing the same. But he should have realised that Spock was too rational for that.

“Do you have any data on the intereferences?” Spock asked calmly as he clasped his hands behind his back. Jim noticed that Spock's index finger was twitching – a subtle sign that he was holding himself back.

“Very few,” Admiral Robertson replied.

“Send us everything you have. We will try to calculate exactly when the interference will be over. I am sure that will come in handy.”

“Well, sure,” Admiral Robertson said, flabbergasted. Apparently, he had already seen himself hauled off to prison by two angry officers after a proper beating.

“And one more thing,” Spock continued. “If your apologies hold any meanings, you may also be kind enough to take back the direct order, so that Kirk must only be here when he is really needed. You have massively interfered with our plans because you failed to provide us with extremely important information in responsible time. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

The admiral did, in fact, seemed ashamed of himself: his face and that of his colleagues turned red, although with the woman, it was probably anger. However, she visibly restrained herself, realising that her rage was not appropriate in the moment, especially not in front of a Vulcan.

“We cannot take back the order,” Admiral Robertson said with an audible tremor in his voice. “It would be neither diplomatic nor tactical. There is still the threat of full-scale war. If we cannot convince Durama 78 to rejoin the Federation within eleven hours, the Romulans and the Klingons will open fire on us...”

An eerie silence spread as the admiral's words faded. Surprisingly, it was McCoy who broke it, showing little anger for once. “So, you held back that information as well? Regardless of your low morality, what if the interference isn't resolved by then? What if the conversation fails?” His voice turned quiet towards the end.

“Then the Enterprise should withdraw from the area immediately and hope to make it out alive,” Admiral Robertson said, shocked by his own words.

Jim's eyes suddenly welled up with tears, but he blamed it on the sickness, the tiredness and the small spark of despair cursing through him. He sniffled and managed to disguise his emotional outburst with sneezes. “Ackschuh! Ackschuuuh!” He grabbed a couple of tissues and wiped the fluids from his face before giving in to some barking coughs.

McCoy seemed to notice his storm of emotion and rubbed his back in a comforting manner. Even Spock took his seat back on the armrest and put a hand on his shoulder. Starfleet Command seemed to see for the first time – really see – how sick he truly was. He wasn’t just sick. He was at the end of his rope.

“Kirk, be honest with us” – Admiral Robertson's expression suddenly became as gentle as it had been last night – “can you do this?”

Jim hated himself for shaking his head.

“Can Commander Spock take over?” Admiral Robertson asked.

Spock bit his lower lip – a subtle sign of hesitation. However, nothing of it could be heard in his firm voice. “I will do the negotiations. We have fully prepared myself for this and my Vulcan way of thinking makes it easier for me to react to unexpected situations and find quick solutions. However, I need Kirk to represent me, that is what we have decided on long ago. It would just have been more beneficial if you had contacted us earlier instead of waiting exactly fifty-seven minutes and forty-five seconds. Then we could have prepared ourselves more adequately. The fact that the situation has developed as it has now is your responsibility.”

“I know,” Admiral Robertson said hoarsely. “I will take the responsibility for my action.”

“I expected that.” Spock seemed satisfied with the outcome of the conversation, but didn't reveal it to the other party. “Now send us all the data you have, no matter how small and insignificant it may seem. And be ready for us anytime from now on. We have waited enough.”

Jim noticed for the first time the dark circles under the admiral's eyes – in the eyes of everyone on the screen. Their faces were haggard and pale with fatigue. They were probably overwhelmed by the situation themselves and under as much stress as they were. It wasn't easy to keep an eye on hundreds of planets and assess every single development. In addition, Starfleet Command itself was subordinate to the Federation, which did not always share everything with them as well. Maybe they just had bigger things to worry about than protecting the Enterprise.

Are you really trying to sympathise with them, Jim?

It was a fact that Starfleet Command had endangered the Enterprise with their actions, and still did, and Jim was too tired to muster even the slightest bit of sympathy for that. He was sick, exhausted beyond what’s human and emotionally stressed – and he was still here, still working; sacrificing himself for the good cause of peace. The least he could have expected from them was their cooperation; that they would prove their good intentions by sending the data Spock requested and that they would answer to the court Spock had proposed.

Spock continued to talk to Starfleet Command, about data exchange and the possibilities of war and how to prevent it, but Jim noticed their voices fading further and further into the distance; how he was slowly drifting away. He had thought he would realise when he fell asleep, but...

All the lights went out. Darkness came for him and pulled him down.

Notes:

James T. Kirk learned the special ability "Inhaling". He is now a Pokémon.

Chapter 7: Out of Reach

“Jim. Hey, Jim.” Someone kept nudging his shoulder, then shook it. “Jim, wake up.”

Jim forced his eyelids open. The bright lights overwhelmed him and the background noises were almost unbearable – beeping, buzzing, humming, talking. At least the latter stopped when someone waved his arm. McCoy was bent over him, circling the medical scanner over him while holding him by the shoulder with his other hand. “Jim, your oxygen saturation is too low. That's why I woke you up. You need to focus on your breathing now.”

Jim realised that his breathing was shallow and rapid. Something was stuck in his lungs and wouldn't let him breathe too deeply. Panic started to spread through him. McCoy tightened his grip. “Jim, remember what I taught you. You can do this.”

Jim sat up straighter, drew air from his diaphragm and coughed in a controlled manner. McCoy knocked along his spine until the phlegm loosened. Jim raised his arm to a comfortable height and barked against it until it all came up. He spat it into the bag. His whole mouth tasted foamy-sweet mixed with a bitter liquid, burning all the way down his throat and into his windpipe. His nose was so blocked again that he couldn't breathe through it. But at least he was breathing somehow.

Completely exhausted, he sank back in his chair and coughed a few dry huffs into his scarf. “Is the conversation over yet?” he said breathlessly.

“What conversation?” McCoy asked. Then he seemed to remember. “Oh, you mean the one from two hours ago... And the one with the representative hasn't happened yet.”

“Two hours?”

“Yeah, you fell asleep, Jim. Gave the people from Starfleet Command quite a scare when you dropped like dead. I had to reassure them three times that you were alive. The five minutes afterwards were pretty funny.” McCoy left out the why, and Jim was still too out of it to question it. “Anyway, we left you sleeping, and I would have loved to leave you that peaceful for longer, but your breathing got abruptly worse. Apparently, the infection is spreading. Do you want to go back to sleep, Jim?”

Jim shook his head and forced himself a little more awake. “Can I inhale again?”

“Did the first time win you over that much?” McCoy smirked. “Sure, I'll get everything ready. Just try to wake up more.”

Jim realised that he was having trouble with doing just that; waking up. A foggy web had spun over his mind and every movement felt like struggling through heavy rain clouds. “Is that the rebound effect?” he muttered.

McCoy froze with the inhaler in his hands. “Jim, how are you feeling right now?”

“I don't know. Sick?”

“The drug only retains its full effect for four hours. It's quite possible that it has already reached its peak. Its effect will now gradually wear off and your symptoms will come back more strongly. To counteract this, I'll inject you with a painkiller and something to dispel the drowsiness, but it won't be quite as effective. But for now, the inhalation?”

Jim nodded. That was the most he felt able to do.

“Spock?” No one answered McCoy. “Spock, damn it, I need you here!”

“I will be right there, McCoy.”

Spock’s answer came delayed by seconds and sounded off, and left Jim puzzled. “What's wrong, Bones?” As hoarse as he was, he didn't think even Spock could hear him at that distance.

McCoy lowered his voice to a whisper. “He and Uhura are still trying to analyse the data they got from Starfleet Command. So far, they had no breakthrough. We still don't know much about those interferences, especially not when they will be resolved.”

“Is that why…?”

“No, or I don't know if he's frustrated about it. All I know is that Spock almost got into a verbal argument with Starfleet Command because he wants the order withdrawn that keeps you on the bridge. They've agreed to do it as soon as we can report back with specifics about the interferences, but as I said, we have nothing so far.”

“I see.”

“I think, he’s worried about you. Your condition has deteriorated further.”

Jim was about to say something, when someone interrupted.

“I am neither frustrated nor worried, doctor.” McCoy almost jumped out of his skin when Spock suddenly appeared next to him. Jim hadn’t noticed him approaching. “I was simply expecting some kind of pattern to become visible, but that is not the case. The interferences are completely random or the data from Starfleet Command is too incomplete. In any case, our own scans, which can only depict the current situation, have indicated that those interferences are likely caused by atmospheric conditions.”

“So, isn’t it good that we know that now?”

“I pointed out that so far it is only a possibility that –  ”

“If you've calculated that possibility, it's high.”

Spock continued without paying much attention to McCoy’s words. “It is just a possibility, nothing to present to Starfleet Command to convince them.”

“But – ”

“If this possibility turns out to be the real circumstance, it simply means that the interference will last long. We do not have enough meteorological data and too few experts on board to analyse it to be able to determine exactly when the weather on Durama 78 will improve. Weather can be calculated in probabilities, but not in certainties.”

“What is it you're trying to explain to us, Spock?”

“There is a thick fog around Durama 78 that will not clear in the foreseeable future. In your words, the situation is pretty hopeless.”

“Great!” McCoy shouted sarcastically, before holding whatever angry words were about to follow when he noticed the change in Spock. McCoy's expression remained hard, but his voice now resembled a soft curse. “It’s not your fault for finding only that. You and Uhura did the best you could have done, and that’s that.”

“I would have preferred to present a solution,” Spock said, sounding distantly sad.

Jim felt the sudden need to hug him, but shook the feverish thought out of his head. “You did your best, Spock,” he said instead, realising he was just tiredly repeating McCoy. He covered a yawn and rubbed the hot sand from his eyes, but the exhaustion did not leave him.

“The issue put aside for now, what do you need me for, McCoy?” Spock eventually asked.

“Can you look after Jim for a while? I have to go down to the labs and then to the briefing room, of course, under decontamination. The Federation has reacted surprisingly fast to my discovery of the unknown virus and they would like to have a short talk with me. I honestly don't want to, but I guess I cooked the soup, now I have to spoon it up, as we Terrans say. I’ll be fine, though.”

“Of course, I can take care of Jim,” Spock said.

McCoy smiled slightly. “Thanks, Spock, you're a help after all. If there's anything, call me via intercom, but Miss Chapel is still here as well. Just ask her if you need to know anything.”

“Yes. McCoy. I am aware of that.”

“Good, here's the inhaler.” McCoy pressed it into Jim's hands and went to his med bag. “Before that, however, I'll give you a few more shots so you don't go through hell in my absence.”

While Jim put the inhaling mask onto his face, McCoy stuck a hypo twice into his upper arm. He felt nothing and only knew it was over when McCoy pulled the injection device away. “I'll be out for a while. Stay strong, Jim.” With those words, McCoy underwent the decontamination process and disappeared into the turbolift.

Jim switched on the device and started inhaling. After a few minutes, he realised that although he was finding it easier to breathe and cough properly – now that he had learned some techniques from McCoy – his arms grew too heavy to hold the device in place. When it slipped from his trembling hands, Spock caught it and held it for him. For that, the Vulcan had to come closer. He sat down on the armrest – as McCoy had done the first time – and put an arm around him.

Jim leant back. Spock's robe was still so incredibly soft and warm. “Jim, your posture...”

“Let me...” He snuggled closer. “...just for a moment.”

“Jim...”

“Please... just a minute.” But Jim made sure this minute was long.

“Jim, sit up straight,” Spock said urgently. “Otherwise, your treatment will not have the intended effect.”

“It can’t be that bad if it makes me relaxed,” Jim rasped. “It makes me breathe better too.” Contradictory to his words, he let out a choking cough.

Spock muttered something that sounded vaguely like a Vulcan curse, while correcting his posture forcefully. It did hurt, but the loss of comfort pained Jim even more. He groaned. “Not fair.”

“Scoot forwards to the edge of your seat, feet straight on the floor, prop yourself up and concentrate on your breathing.” Spock tapped him in several places as McCoy had done, but this time Jim didn't give in easily. Jim threw him a sharp glance, just barely stopping himself from growling at his friend. Spock met him with the same cold determination. “McCoy has given you very specific instructions and I am here to make sure you follow them. You have been neglecting your posture. Also, you are not breathing correctly.”

“I don’t care,” Jim hissed, barking another fit. To improve his situation, he reluctantly followed the instructions. Spock moved with him to continue holding the device. He was still close, just a lean away...

“Jim.” At Spock's sharp tone, he straightened. “Why are you behaving illogically?”

“The drug makes me moody.”

“I am aware of that, but I was not referring to your unusual aggression.”

I am not - He was. Jim took a deep breath, held it for five enduring seconds, and exhaled it. He repeated this until he had noticeably calmed down. “I guess I just wanted to be a little more comfortable.”

If it had been McCoy at his side, he probably would have laughed at him, but Spock's face remained serious. “I understand. You wished to... But you must do your treatment properly first. When you are done, I willingly offer myself for you to cuddle.”  

“Is that a promise?”

“Vulcans do not make promises, see it more like a reward for exceptional performance.”

Jim's insides lit up all at once and excitement cursed through him. He could hardly wait for his treatment to be finished. But it was taking so incredibly long! He was acting like an impatient child waiting for Santa Claus to arrive. Damn, Jim, focus on the task ahead. And like that he turned back to the serious, hard-working adult he was.

When the saline solution had finally run through – he could tell because the air from the device no longer felt salty and the sound changed – Jim spat a disgusting amount of mucus into the bag, while Spock took care of the device. When they were done with their respective tasks, Jim leaned back, completely exhausted. He had almost forgotten his ‘reward’ until Spock wrapped both arms around him and held him close. Groaning, Jim allowed himself to be enveloped by the pleasant warmth. He relaxed without wanting to.

“Say, was there really a problem with the replicator?” Jim eventually asked.

“What gives you the idea so suddenly?”

“Well, because your robe is almost conveniently comfortable.”

“Are you thinking that I am only wearing it so that you would be more comfortable when we are cuddling?”

Jim gave an approving hum.

“I am not wearing it for that specific purpose, but I can at least assure you that all the replicators are working properly.”

All at once, Jim jerked up. Spock held him tightly and urged him to lean back. “So, what’s your true reason?” Jim asked, before another thought occurred him. “Wait, why’s Bones in a Hawaiian shirt then?”

“I have no explanation for that myself,” Spock replied. “It is hard for me to believe that he is now attending an official Federation meeting in unauthorized clothing.”

“I would have liked to have been there just to see the face of the representatives and that of your father.”

“Right, Sarek is attending as well,” Spock mused as if he hadn’t realised.

“Do you perhaps want to go and say a quick hello or whatever is the Vulcan equivalent?”

“I think I rather stay with you.” Spock rested his chin on his shoulder. Their cheeks touched; they were about equally heated.

“You're not exactly following quarantine protocol,” Jim remarked, his smirk twitching against Spock's cheek. “Isn't that illogical?”

“It does not matter anymore,” Spock breathed against his ear. “In any case, I will decontaminate myself right after this. Besides, it is logical that you need some closeness from a friend – you are not well.”

“You're right about that, Spock.” Jim refrained from sniffling as long as they were touching, even though his nose was running. Spock handed him a tissue and Jim wiped his nose until he was tempted to just blow into it – even if it was only to ward off the urge to sneeze. “Sorry, Spock,” he breathed in a congested voice, after he had done it. “I'm sure the experience isn’t pleasant for you. I’m literally a mess right next to you.”

“It is not a matter of whether I find it pleasant or not,” Spock said, “but to assuage your concerns: I am neutral about this as long as you do not cough or sneeze directly on me. I would find that a bit bizarre.”

“I'll try not to, but no guarantees.”

“That is well enough for me.”

Jim cuddled with Spock for a peacefully silent while longer, until the stimulant McCoy gave him earlier helped him clear his mind… enough to pull away in a fit of embarrassment. Had he really just spent more than fifteen minutes in the arms of his first officer? In front of the entire bridge crew? Damn it…

If the bridge crew had noticed – and they certainly had – they were damn good at not showing it.

Spock got up from the command chair and stretched, his bones cracking.

“Sorry, that must have been uncomfortable,” Jim muttered.

“My body is in an acceptable state,” Spock replied. “I am going to continue my search for a pattern in the interference. Unless you need me...” His last words carried a subtle question.

“It's all right, Spock. I don't want to keep you from working. I'll manage. I think I'll get some more sleep.”

Spock nodded and returned to Uhura at the communications station.

The truth was, Jim was tired, but not tired enough to sleep. The stimulant worked incredibly well – as did almost everything McCoy gave him – and it made him believe he could leap over mountains if his body hadn't been so damn sluggish and weak.

Suddenly, a whistle rang over the noises of the bridge. Jim pressed the button out of reflex.

“Aye, Commander,” Scott's voice boomed out of the open channel. “Wance again, I wasn’t informed. It’s true that we're still orbiting the planet at impulse speed?”

“Kirk here,” Jim said. “And yeah.”

‘By Loch Ness, Jim! Ye sound... Sorry tae say that, but ye sound like jobby. Shall ye not be in yer bunk by now?”

“I'm waiting for my great show.” Jim at least tried to sound like he was smiling. “How are things in Engineering?”

“Nothing's happening down here. I'm bored to my grave!”

That makes two of us, Jim thought.

“Seriously, Jim. How are ye?”

“Did McCoy tell you to ask?”

“Nah, asking out of my own interest. I worry whiles, and not just about the Enterprise, ye know.”

“I'm fine, Scotty.”

“Ye sound like a machine that's about tae give up for good.”

“I could really use a fix-up.”

“Too bad, can't be up there with ye. Aye, McCoy wouldn't let me...”

Jim could only guess the reason and he didn't ask out of politeness. He stubbornly kept believing that it was only because the chief engineer of the Enterprise was not allowed to fall ill as well, not because some entry in his medical file put him on higher risk than anyone else. “That's all right, Scotty,” Jim said. “I'm already glad to hear your voice.”

“Ye know, I really want tae give ye a hug, a big one, ye sound like ye need one.”

Spock raised an eyebrow at the words. Jim only then realised that the whole bridge was listening to their conversation. “Don't worry, I'm loved enough,” Jim assured, “I've got a great crew behind me and a very caring first officer.”

“Pointy-ear is useful for wance? That surprises me!”

Mildly offended, Spock turned back to the communications station.

“He does his job fascinatingly well.”

Scott laughed at the other end. “In that case, I'll let ye a rest a wee bit more and keep the engines running for ye all. Get well soon, Jim.”

“Thanks, Scotty. Kirk out.”

The com channel closed, and with it the boredom returned.

***

All the boredom was chased away in one fell swoop when the doors of the turbolift opened. “Goddamn it, Spock, your father is the most logical, cold and inhuman individual I have ever met, and despite that he is even less of a help than you are!”

“Specify, doctor.”

“What is there to ‘specify’?” McCoy stepped out of the turbolift, throwing wild gestures into the air. “I have just been interrogated by sixteen high-ranking, super-important authorities as if they wanted to squeeze me out like a palm leaf! As if I have any clue where the virus sprang from! As if know how it got on board the Enterprise or why, and how dangerous I judge it to be! As if I created it myself – which of course I was not accused of – but what am I? A doctor or the interplanetary hotline?! Didn't help that three had issues with their translators, one Tellian argued with his Andorian neighbor for the whole time I was supposed to be the one talking, and fifteen people regularly questioned my sanity, because what? I can’t hear anything about dress codes anymore! Especially not when I heard it in freaking ten different languages!”

McCoy took a deep breath, still gesturing, but everyone was so stunned into silence that he didn't have to worry about anyone daring to interrupt his rant. “And the one person I thought was on my side, because he knows me, remained completely uninvolved the whole time! Didn't say anything at all, didn't speak up for me, didn't even calm the crowd down, he just watched as they completely ripped me apart! Is that family of yours secretly made of sadists or is this the kind of gratitude you Vulcans give to someone who fucking saved your life with a complicated heart operation?!”

Spock waited, five, six seconds, until no more insults followed before he spoke. “My father is known to represent Vulcan composure at all times, with not the slightest deviation. He also rarely speaks when something is far from his expertise, and I think medicine falls under that. But you can be assured that he will give everyone a good telling off after the meeting. At least that was the case after every family dinner.”

McCoy blinked as if waking from a terrible dream. “Really?”

“I fear his words more than I fear any weapon.”

“If that's the case, maybe I don't hate him that much. They deserved it. Anyway, it didn't even go so badly. The Federation’s now busy tracking down a super-secret biochemical weapon laboratory in all the quadrants, and I’m off the hook. And if our labs finds the cure, I’ll even get a nice round medal.”

“And you’re still complaining, Bones?” Jim looked up as McCoy casually leaned against the command chair.

“Why should I? It’s better to get it off your chest, then make it build up your inner blood pressure.” McCoy crossed his arms, licking away the last of his spite. “It’s crazy to think that there’s someone out there creating artificial viruses against us, instead of with us. I would love to meet them, but really, that’s none of our business now. How did it go here? I was gone for quite some time.”

Jim opened his mouth for an answer, but only a barking fit escaped him. McCoy took the inhaler, shook it, then ran the medical hand scanner over his chest. When he stopped the whirling device, he raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You did a good job. Your airways are almost clear. You still sound terrible, though.”

“Thanks,” Jim croaked, before relapsing back into coughing. He took a deep breath to stop the attack, but it went on for a while. At least, he still had some of his breath left when he was done.

“That dry cough’s still persistent it seems.” McCoy listened to what the tricorder had picked up, but for Jim the beeping sounds just sounded like unreadable noises. “Definitely coming from your throat. Drink something and take another lozenge. Is everything else working?”

Jim took a few sips from his water bottle and popped a lozenge into his mouth, sucking hard on it. “The stimulant is working too well. I’m bored as hell.”

“Ah, yes, sorry about that. The drug’s so strong that you don't even sleep after being stunned by a red phaser.” Spock raised an eyebrow in McCoy's direction. “Of course, you still die, but, well, it was a figure of speech, and – Ah, well, Spock, are you trying to crack the pattern behind the interferences again?”

“I think we are about to have a breakthrough,” Spock reported, looking at Uhura, who nodded with an encouraging smile. “So, if you excuse me, McCoy, I have more logical things to do than to listen to your non-sensical talk.”

“Damn, did I do anything to piss that guy off or what?” McCoy said with a grin as Spock turned back to the station.

You just said a lot of things that a human would have killed you for, Bones. Jim shrugged with an innocent smile. “He’s probably just busy.”

“Did he at least take care of you while I got torn apart by council?”

The corners of Jim's mouth now shot up into a telltale grin. “You could say that. I was the one sending him back to his station, after…” Jim bit the insides of his cheeks, the grin replaced by burning heat.

“After what?” McCoy leaned closer, his eyes wide enough to swallow a secret, but his brows furrowed into questions.

Jim cleared his throat, turned away when it resulted in mild coughing and pushed McCoy away with an admittedly flappy gesture. “Nothing,” he grumbled when he had calmed. “He just helped me out with inhaling – like you instructed him to.”

“Ah, that explains your weird mood.” McCoy stepped back, but his grin revealed that he wasn't completely buying it. However, he dropped the issue for the moment, instead turned to the crew and clapped his hands to get them on call. “Hey, isn’t it already past time for lunch? Since Commander Spock is too busy to look after the physical well-being of his crew, your friendly, kind CMO takes it from here. Ladies and gentlemen, shall we order something up?”

There was lively agreement from all stations except the communications station, where Spock and Uhura were working so intently that they must have overheard – or rather chosen to ignore – McCoy. McCoy instructed Yeoman Rand to go round with a list on which everyone could enter their meal request, before returning his attention to Jim. “What do you want?”

Jim thought about suppressing his cough, as McCoy had shown him earlier, but instead decided to buy himself some time with a fit. However, he completely forgot to answer when he finally recovered.

“Jim,” McCoy reminded him.

“Huh? No, I don't need anything.”

“You do. Your circulation is still – ” McCoy seemed about to say something crude, but changed it, “ – on the brink of a disaster. You should eat something. Doctor’s order.”

“I feel sick,” Jim croaked.

“What, still?”

“It never got better,” Jim muttered, sniffling.

“Why didn't you tell me sooner? The tricorder can’t pick up on that very well!”

Jim shrugged. “Can't you just give more of those nutritional supplements?”

“There are reasons why a person can't just live on that. Your chewing muscles need to be stimulated, your stomach needs something to do! I'll give you a hypo for the nausea and then I'll order you a proper meal. Last chance to state a preference.”

“Bones, I don't have one,” Jim said. Just the thought of his favourite food made him nauseous.

McCoy let out a prolonged sigh, administered the hypo and dropped the empty syringe back into his pocket with a clack. “Chicken soup fine with you?”

Jim looked at him with an arched eyebrow. “That's food for sick people.”

“You're sick. So, you agree with me?”

“Do I get a choice?” Jim muttered, before swinging his arm up and abruptly leaning forward to catch a gag. He shuddered horribly as the acid, not quite having reaching his mouth, ran back down his gullet. Now, he was convinced that he definitely did not want to eat anything.

“No, you have none, Jim.” McCoy’s voice was stern, but the circles he rubbed on his back were gentle. “Believe me you’ll feel better after eating.”

How? Jim asked no one in particular. Instead, he leaned into the offered comfort, closing his eyes, until the anti-nausea drug chased away the worst of the queasy feeling. He heard shuffling nearby and opened his eyes to see McCoy step away, then hesitate as Miss Chapel held out the PADD for the wish list.

Jim found himself almost reaching for McCoy in that second, longing for the tenderness of his hand, his gentle touches, his non-medical attention, but of course he held back. Still, McCoy seemed to notice, because he turned back to him. “Put chicken soup and whatever you can think of for me on the list, Chapel.”

“Very well, McCoy.”

“What’s wrong, Jim?” McCoy asked in a low whisper when he was close enough.

Jim watched as Miss Chapel scribbled their order on the PADD, then walked over to the communication stations, lightly tapping Uhura’s shoulder to get her attention. Uhura took it with a smile, the disappointment momentarily fading from her eyes. As she wrote something down, Miss Chapel did just the same with Spock, but this time her expression turned even gentler. It ignited the spark of hot emotion in Jim, which he hastily suppressed before he had to feel it; before he knew what it truly was.

“Jim?” Jim flinched as McCoy touched his shoulder. Then, McCoy seemed to notice what he saw. “This makes me a bit jealous as well,” McCoy admitted in a whisper. “Or it will make me, let’s see.”

Like partners in crime, they both watched the exchange between Miss Chapel and Spock. Spock turned at her first touch, his face betraying nothing, not even surprise. He said something to Miss Chapel that was too quiet to understand, then Miss Chapel said something back that was just as hard to hear, but looked like protest. Spock ducked his head slightly, then took the list from Uhura and wrote something on it before asking loudly if everyone was through. No one objected, so Spock handed the PADD to Yeoman Rand, who was walking past. She walked on with Miss Chapel, but stopped at the next intercom while Miss Chapel returned to a station. Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to have happened.

“Damn, I am jealous,” McCoy muttered under his breath. “It only took her half a minute to convince him, whereas I would have needed twenty. At least I convinced you.”

Jim made a vague sound that leaned more towards disapproval.

“Jim, what's – ” McCoy stopped himself, but it took Jim a second longer to understand why. Jim hastily wiped away the tear that had sprang from nowhere. Then he looked up at McCoy with a tired smile, not finding the strength to say anything. “Hey, Jim, what do you need?”

Jim took a deep breath, then shrugged as he looked away. McCoy sat down on the armrest, wrapping his arm around him. “Need some more comfort?”

“Don't hug me, Bones,” Jim managed to say, his voice sounding strange, but not from sickness. “It's just...” He named the first worry he could think of that had nothing to do with the scene. “What if I throw up? I really don't want to throw up in front of everyone.”

“You won't, I promise. And even if it happens, you have a bag, you have me and people who will be understanding.”

“Not helpful.”

“Jim, what's this really about?”

“Nothing, just me and another inexplicable mood swing.”

“It's the drug. You're pumped full of the stuff. It makes you feel weird.”

“Yeah, I'm feeling weird.” Jim considered giving in to the temptation of leaning against McCoy, but straightened up before his body got a chance. “Go away, before I make you sick.”

“Still worried about that?” McCoy put a hand on his back, rubbing it like he did before. “Just let me have those rare few minutes with my favourite patient.”

Jim tensed up, squinting his eyes. I'm sorry, Bones.

“Jim.” McCoy put his other hand on his shoulder, leaned forward and rested his head between Jim's shoulder blades. One hand held him, the other gently stroked the back of his neck. Jim felt the goose bumps, the tingling sensation that spread throughout his body. “I'm here for you. I'll always be,” Bones whispered into his shoulders. “Even when your pride rejects me.”

“I know,” Jim whispered back. He wanted to express gratitude, but he couldn't. He felt he would be dishonest if he used the words. He didn't feel like being grateful. He felt like nothing.

“Bones, I'm fine,” he said with barely a breath. The next moment, a coughing fit erupted out of him, forcing McCoy to pull away. He continued to rub his back until he recovered.

Jim looked up at him and McCoy looked back. ‘Are you really all right?’ his eyes seemed to ask. Jim hinted at a ‘I should be’ and leant back in his chair. The blanket rustled as McCoy draped it neatly over him. ‘I trust you for now,’ McCoy's lips formed breathlessly, ‘but I'll always be near you if you need me.’

Jim smiled, though a sad thought rushed through his mind. I guess I'll always be out of your reach.

Chapter 8: Hope

Less than a quarter of an hour later, various food parcels materialised everywhere on the bridge. Every meal arrived fresh and warm with astonishing accuracy near the person who had ordered it. Soon, a colourful cloud of smells spread across the bridge – everything from exotic bobitie, the South African national dish, Asian noodles – but Sulu had hamburger steak – and the medical-smelling Vulcan plomeek soup. At least Jim imagined that it smelled quite interesting on the bridge. There was also the chance that the air filters took care of it, he couldn't tell because his nose was still blocked. He tried to sniffle it clear, but it was useless.

“Ackschuh!” When he looked up from his sneeze, a steaming bowl of chicken soup appeared on the panelless armrest beside him, glistening from the transporter beam. He looked past it to McCoy, who was glancing round in all directions. “Where did they put mine... I don't have a station! Jim, did my food end up with you?”

“I just got the soup,” Jim croaked, but by then McCoy was already pacing up and down.

“Probably not, because of the infection risk. Goddammit, if they sent my food down to sickbay, what a service...” He headed towards the turbolift when Miss Chapel grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Shields,” she said, pointing to the food parcel one station further.

“Shields?” McCoy blinked at the nurse as if she were the crazy one. “Have I ever had anything to do with the shields station? Why the hell did my food – ”

“Maybe shields for protecting? Doctors heal?” suggested Yeoman Rand, who stopped by them with an exotic-looking plate of noodles.

“Great, now you have to solve riddles to get something to eat here.” McCoy stomped over to his food parcel and opened the metal container. “I hope I got something nice and...” McCoy suddenly fell silent; whatever was inside was satisfied him. “Jim, stop watching me despair and eat your soup.”

“Fine,” Jim grumbled. The soup didn't whet his appetite, but he took it on his lap anyway. At least it warmed him up. To keep up appearances, he dug the spoon into the thick, herb-green broth, but he couldn't find the motivation to start eating.

McCoy approached him with a plate of plain, green salad. “Want to trade?” he joked with a deadpan look.

“No,” Jim said, stirring his soup.

“Planning to let the soup grow cold?”

“TAB’s keeping it warm.“ It was a very weak attempt at a joke and McCoy didn’t laugh.

“It’s supposed to be in your mouth, not wrapped in your blanket! Are you still feeling weird?”

“Weird I always feel, but I guess, nausea’s gone.” Jim kept staring at his soup, waiting for his mouth to water in anticipation, but it did not happen. “I’m just not hungry, Bones.”

“It'll come when you eat. You haven't had anything for days. Do I have to feed you?”

“If you do that, I'll chase you off the bridge.”

“Chase me? You won’t have the strength for that if you don’t eat.”

“I’ll command you of the bridge,” Jim corrected.

“You don’t have the authority for that. Besides, I've fed worse patients a meal and let's say they still hate me for that. Do you want to hate me, Jim?”

Jim gave McCoy an ugly look, then reluctantly moved the spoon to his mouth. The broth was warm and felt pleasant on his tongue, but otherwise it tasted anything but good. He grimaced. “Why does it taste funny?” 

“Because you’re sick,” McCoy explained as he slowly shoved a piece of lettuce into his mouth. He pulled a similar face. “Or maybe, the food replicators are down as well. Goddammit, why doesn't it even have sauce?” He gulped it down and cleared his throat, before raising his voice. “Anyone else having issues with their food?”

“No, sir,” Sulu immediately said, the gourmet expression and the ketchup stain on his lip proving the truth. Chekov, digging into his own food, also shook his head. The others showed similar reactions.

“So, we’re the only ones?” McCoy let out a dramatic sigh as he stared down his plate.

“I'm pretty sure the soup is delicious, I just can't taste it,” Jim said, hesitating before taking another spoonful. It was still the same experience. He lowered the spoon and leaned back, coughing a fit. That was another reason why he didn’t like eating while sick. Although the warm steam did loosen some of the phlegm, it also irritated his airways, and sometimes it got so bad that he started gagging, which fortunately didn't happen this time. Instead, he just had a persistent coughing fit that only brought him close to vomiting.

“Jim, I know that because of your…” McCoy stopped himself, searching for a better word.  “…condition, it’s hard, but you need to eat something. You’re growing weaker by the minute. How will you last the negotiations?”

“I don’t know… Hungry?” Deep down in his stomach there was an empty hole that made itself known with pain, but he was simply missing the appetite and the motivation to fill it. He tried to, but just one look at his food was enough to make him groan.

“Alright, Jim, I won’t force you for now. It will stay warm for a while, eat in your own pace, but promise me to eat.”

“Yeah, Bones,” he croaked. “Now be happy with your salad.”

McCoy reluctantly set about eating his salad, while standing next to him, and they both silently agreed not to watch each other all the time. If there was one thing Jim didn't particularly like, it was being watched as he struggled with his food. Whenever McCoy wasn't looking, he took a spoonful of his soup. It became a kind of game, though not a particularly funny one. The soup still tasted awful and made him cough nastily.

Eventually, McCoy had finished his salad when Jim’d had maybe ten spoonfuls of his soup. McCoy put his plate down at the shield station, but didn't return to him immediately. His attention was on a certain someone else who was working tirelessly at a station on the other side of the bridge. “My dear Spock, have we made any progress with the interferences? How many hours do we still have to wait?” The humour in his voice implied that he wasn't expecting a serious answer. He reacted all the more surprised when Spock gave him one.

“Exactly three hours and fifty-seven minutes with a deviation of zero-point-five.”

“What, really?”

“The deviation is probably more like zero-point-seven.”

“That's not what I mean. You really found out when the interference is resolved?”

“Yes,” Spock said calmly. “At first I thought there was no pattern, because I mistakenly assumed that the disturbances occurred randomly. But then Uhura told me to follow my instincts, and so I investigated the atmospheric composition together with Chekov. Apparently, the atmosphere contains fine traces of a metal that blocks all signals. Based on the few meteorological data available to us, it was easy to determine exactly when – ”

“Enough, Spock, you're drifting into areas beyond my comprehension. I think I've made out what I wanted to know: The interference is over in three hours something. Right?”

“Yes, ‘something’ like that.”  

“Awesome! That means we can finally take Jim to sickbay and simply come back here later.”

“No,” Spock said. “There is a slight chance that I have miscalculated and because Starfleet Command has still not taken back the order – ”

“What is that probability?” McCoy waved his hand away as Spock opened his mouth. “No, don't say anything. I know it's less than one per cent. You never miscalculate, Spock.”

Spock closed his mouth again.

“I want to stay here,” Jim caught himself saying before he fully realised it. “I mean, it can't do me or anyone else much more harm than it already did anyway.”

“You're just afraid I'll lock you in sickbay,” McCoy said. Despite his smirk, it didn't sound like a joke.

Jim shrugged. “It just seems like too much trouble. I've just made myself comfortable here. I’ve got a blanket, tea, soup.”

“The soup you’re not even eating!” McCoy reminded him, before shaking his head. “Are you really sure you don’t want to go down with me for a while?”

“I’m not sure, Bones,” Jim said honestly. “All I know is that I'd be refusing a direct order from the authorities, putting the rest of the crew in danger if I wandered through the corridor, decontaminated or not, not to mention the trouble I'd cause you or Spock.”

“Jim – ” McCoy and Spock said at the same time, then stared at each other in mild bewilderment. They did an awkward you-speak-first-thing, before Spock resigned, letting McCoy do the talking. “Jim, you’re not causing me – us – any trouble.”

“I can accompany you down if you want to,” Spock added.

Jim shook his head. It wasn’t just that. He simply didn't want to abandon his chair, the familiarity of the bridge, the comfort he had found. But he feared even more that if he gave in now, he would no longer have the strength to carry on.

“I want to stay,” Jim said convincing enough that he believed himself, even though he knew the truth – or didn't know, that was the real problem. “It's only logical, isn't it?” He looked to Spock, hoping he would make him feel better about his decision.

“Both options have their benefits and drawbacks, but I think you've made the most logical decision for yourself.”

Jim nodded, then turned to McCoy, who crossed his arms in front of his chest, putting on an extra grumpy face. “What do you want to hear from me, Jim? I’m not gonna tell you this is logical, because I don’t believe in the Vulcan logic. I only believe in my human instincts.”

“And what do your human instincts tell you?” Jim asked.

“That you are a grown man who can make his own decisions. If you're so convinced that this is the right place for you, I won't go against you. Sickbay may has more to offer, but it probably lacks some things in return. I'm fully behind you, I've assured you of that this morning.”

“Thanks, Bones.”

“But I still have to ask everyone here,” McCoy raised his voice so that everyone could hear him. “Is it okay with you all that we continue without changing shifts?”

“Well, I'm fine with it,” Sulu said. “I mean, there's not that much to do today anyways.”

“You're only saying that because you just have to stare at this display all the time. I've had to look at meteorological data for far too long just because we Russians invented the weather.” Chekov grumbled. “Other than that, I totally agree.”

The murmur that followed sounded universally positive.

“I suggest we perhaps extend the break,” Uhura said, stretching in her chair.

“Yeah, good idea. I'll get that authorised,” said McCoy, to which Spock raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“I was just wondering if that falls under my responsibility.”

“My rank is high enough, don’t worry. Besides, ensuring the well-being of the crew is definitely one of my duties.”

“I understand. If necessary, I will sign off any of your decision in that regard.”

“Alright, good to know.” McCoy raised his hands as if they were parting after a peace accord. “Now then, Jim, you have the last word.”

I don't know if it's a good sign that Spock and you are in agreement. Nevertheless, Jim cleared his throat, straightened his posture and said in the most authoritative tone he could manage. “The captain approves.”

***

By now, most of the bridge crew members were busy eating or chatting with each other. The mood reminded Jim of the one during their usual half-hour break that was often used for shift change. Now, it got extended to one hour and without people walking in and out. It tuned everything quieter, more subdued; crockery clanked carefully, conversations were merely whispers, and the machines adapted. It was still lively, but in a kind of pastel.

In the meantime, McCoy had ordered something more rich of protein. Jim didn’t envy the juicy, crispy chicken on his plate; he barely managed the lean, soggy pieces swimming in his own soup.

“Alright, Jim, I was patient with you, but this worries me.” McCoy said, lowering the nibbled bone. “You eat like – I know, you’re sick and afflicted with your condition and not particularly feeling well, but it’s just odd when I usually see you eat twice as much as you should. Hell, I had to put you on diet once, because… Anyway, I might have to take you off it after you’re over this.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll soon be eating reasonably again.”

“I hope so.”

Jim tried to push another spoonful of soup past his lips, but a barking fit foiled his plan. He turned his face into the scarf, coughing until his airways felt raw. He took a few sips from his water bottle and waited until the burning in his throat subsided before trying again. Same experience, only this time he gave up.

McCoy did not force him, but accepted it with a grunt, before turning his attention to Spock. Spock was leaning against the other side of the command chair, watching the bridge with his usual calm. “I see that he has his reasons, but what is yours?” Spock didn’t respond or deliberately ignored him. McCoy sighed. “You didn’t spare your food one single glance. Do you even know where it is?”

“Science station,” Spock simply replied, without looking at him.

“If you know that, why haven’t you – ”

“Now that everyone is busying themselves with something else, I have to keep an eye on all the stations. The situation could change at any time, although I doubt Durama 78 has any serious war intentions, especially not towards us, because we may be their only…” Spock hesitated at the word, as if he were merely quoting it from a foreign language. “… ‘Hope’.”

“There, you just said it yourself, there's no need to be worried!”

“I am not worried.”

“You know how I meant it. Join us for half an hour, just don’t think about some catastrophe. Now eat something, Spock. After all, you're the one in command and you act according to – ” McCoy seemed to realise his mistake as Spock straightened up and walked away from them. “Damn it, Spock, that's not what I was saying! I just want you to relax, as well. Here, I've said it, now. I'm being pretty illogical, aren't I?”

McCoy's honest words fell on the Vulcan's deaf ears, which was strange, because Spock usually heard well. Uhura looked up at Spock and whispered something Vulcan to him, but Spock wasn’t much reacting to that either.

“Spock, if you don't want to be in command for a few minutes because you're too dutiful to eat, simply give it to somebody else for that time!”

“There is no one else, Leonard!” Spock turned so abruptly that the bridge became deathly quiet at once. Spock seemed to realise that he was showing too much of his emotions, as he struggled to regain his trained composure. His expression never for a moment lost its smooth, controlled features, but Jim – and McCoy as well – just knew that it was on the verge of derailing – and possibly the whole crew suspected it.

McCoy stepped up to him, his expression mirroring Spock’s. “There is someone, Commander. I – McCoy – am ready to take over.”

“Why?”

“What ‘why’?”

“State your reason, McCoy.”

“Well, I don’t want to be the captain, but I have the rank of an officer, and you have the authority to raise me to commanding position. Besides, I’m almost done with eating. So, convinced you enough, Spock?”

Spock's expression was as hard as ice. “You are temporarily in command, McCoy.”

“Oh lord, I hope we don't get into a war in the next five minutes, because then I'd be in conflict with the Hippocratic Oath,” McCoy joked. Some smirked, but no one laughed.

“This is kept off the records, though,” Spock said, walking past him to his plomeek soup on the science station. His robe flapped demonstratively behind him.

What's the matter with Spock, Jim wondered. He had noticed since yesterday that Spock's behaviour was somewhat different from normal; that he wasn't quite keeping his posture straight and that he was reacting more emotionally, although well hidden. But only now was the realisation truly manifesting itself. Jim wished he could do something for Spock, and a stupid idea, without a doubt fuelled by fever, occurred to him.

“I'll eat with you, Spock,” Jim said quietly, as if he didn't trust his own words. He really didn't fancy the chicken soup and he would have given anything to just tip it into the bag, but if it meant he could motivate Spock to eat something as well, even if it was only out of a sense of duty to him, he would compromise.

He should have realised that Spock would see through him. The Vulcan hesitated; it only showed in his gaze, which fell on him uncertainly. Just when Jim thought he was losing, Spock suddenly sat down on the armrest next to him with his bowl of plomeek soup and ate.

Spock looked so relaxed doing it that Jim had to put a spoonful of soup in his mouth to cover up his reaction. Why does he look so damn attractive? He blamed it on the fever.

McCoy was too busy keeping an eye on the stations to pay attention to either of them.

Jim instinctively moved a little closer until his shoulder and Spock's were touching. Spock did not flinch away, but seemed to lean in as well, however, without neglecting his almost straight posture. Jim admired him for it, because he himself was bending like no good and it was affecting his lungs. He coughed until his soup nearly came up.

Spock rubbed soothing circles over his back until he calmed down. Jim continued to eat. He literally had to force himself to put in spoonful after spoonful into his mouth so that Spock wouldn't stop doing the same.

Spock stopped eating so suddenly that the clink of the spoon against the bowl drew McCoy's attention to him. “Spock?”

“I cannot,” Spock said. Jim heard and felt the subtle tremor in Spock that went unnoticed by the others. However, Spock composed himself surprisingly quickly. “It is not my time to eat yet. I usually eat in the evening.”

McCoy furrowed his eyebrows, stepped up to them and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Spock, you've eaten with us enough times that I know that's not true. What's the matter?”

“Nothing is ‘the matter’. I just do not experience the need to eat anything right now. I am taking my command back, McCoy. I did eat something.”

And that something was still half more than Jim had managed. McCoy didn't seem to object and let Spock go back to making his rounds around the stations. For a moment, none of them said anything – only the bridge crew whispered quietly among themselves to keep the silence from becoming awkward. Even if they had heard everything, they pretended it was exactly what it was; private between the three of them.

“I suspected that something was wrong,” McCoy muttered under his breath, “but I’m only seeing it now. He’s sick.”

“What?” Jim said quietly, before deciding that he really had enough of the soup now. He poured the rest away and McCoy didn’t stop him.

“I’m sorry, Jim. I think he’s infected. See, Vulcans have a habit of suppressing pain and discomfort – it’s practically instinct to them. It’s simply how their brains work. He probably doesn’t know it himself, but I did notice. His behaviour is just atypical, he’s having trouble with his posture and covering it up with his robe, he’s just… You know, I can just feel that something’s breaking through from time to time, call it my medical instincts or just how well I know him.”

“No, McCoy, your perception is inaccurate.”

McCoy jumped aside and grabbed his heart to calm its loud beating when Spock suddenly appeared beside him. “Jesus, Spock!” he gasped, startled. “And what do you mean?”

“I am aware that I am not functioning as usual. I have taken notice of the change, but that is all there is to it.”

McCoy recovered from the fright, but his emotions were as fierce as ever. “That's exactly what I mean, Spock! You sense something and you dismiss it as if it is nothing!”

“It is nothing, doctor. Nothing that concerns you.”

“It does concern me. I’m the CMO and your friend, even if it’s hard to believe.”

“I believe you, but I still am of the opinion that I do not require you – as a doctor, I specify.”

“So, you need me as a friend?”

“I do not think I am in the need of a friend right now. I just intended to stress that I can handle the issue myself.” 

“Your healing trance is all very well, but it's not exactly practical on a starship,” McCoy said, his Southern accent thickening from suppressed anger. “You can't just put yourself into a dead-like state and heal yourself while you're needed as commanding officer and your shield – ”

Spock interrupted him with a long Vulcan term that had too many sharp sounds to memorise.

“Spock! I can't pronounce that technical term even if I try like hell, I just call it a shield. Anyway, your shield can't protect you permanently, it will eventually break.”

“It will not,” Spock said. A sharp Vulcan accent came through, but it softened with his next words. “I am fine, McCoy. I am not contagious either, as long as I keep up the…” He ended his sentence with that unpronounceable term.

“Are you sure?” McCoy asked with audible scepticism.

“If you really understood me and my nature, you would not ask,” Spock said, turning away. “Now, if you will excuse me – ”

McCoy grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back. “No, you're not excused yet.” The harshness in his tone subsided. “Do you need anything? Is there something specifically I can do to help you?”

Spock shook his head almost imperceptibly. “No, McCoy, but thanks for the offer.”

McCoy was so baffled by Spock's words that he let him go. Spock went back to the science station, which was currently unoccupied because Chekov was eating his lunch meal next to Sulu – some Russian national dish that Jim didn't recognise.

McCoy blinked away his sheer confusion. “Did he really just politely decline? Did I imagine that thanks from a Vulcan?”

“I think it was a tactical move to get rid of you,” Jim said, but he wasn't sure. It would be logical, at least. He bit down on his lip and suppressed a cough to give it some thought. Finally, he said, “Did I really get Spock sick?”

McCoy said nothing for a moment, biting bit his lower lip just as hesitantly. “Jim, I... I've been having a little bit of a sore throat myself.”

“What?”

McCoy shook his head as if to dismiss it. “I've been shouting a lot, not drinking much...” He fell silent. They both knew those were just lame excuses.

Jim buried his face into his hands, before shifting to cough into the crook of his arm. He pressed the fabric of his jumper so close to his mouth that he was sure barely a breath escaped. God, he didn't want to infect anyone. He didn't want anyone to go through the same ordeal.

“Hey, Jim.” McCoy rubbed his shoulder, then wrapped an arm around him. Jim instinctively wanted to free himself, but he lacked the strength – not physically. He let himself be pressed against the humanly warm body, while he was still barking incessantly. “Shh, take deep breaths, hold, exhale.”

Under McCoy's instructions, Jim gradually calmed down.

“It got you so fast...” said Jim, still breathless. McCoy continued to rub his shoulder, but this time it was purely for comfort. “I didn't mean to,” he continued to gasp.

“I know, Jim. I...” McCoy gave him a full hug – a firm and warm one, one that was proof of their deep friendship. “I told you I'd go through hell with you, and Spock's just accompanying us now.”

Jim let out a weak chuckle, because McCoy's humour made him, but it didn't sound happy. “And maybe the whole bridge crew, too? Then, the entire ship?”

“Let's just hope our decontamination measures are effective.”

“You didn't give me any hope about that this morning.”

“I know,” McCoy said, all humour gone, “but hope is the only thing we have left, so let's not give it up.”

Jim's laughter turned inward. It was so absurd! He'd been paying such close attention, hadn't sneezed on them, always coughed away from them – but yes, they'd been in close contact, he and McCoy, especially he and Spock. He had practically cuddled with Spock! Jim was annoyed at himself for being so careless. Just because he had believed that Vulcans were immune... Spock was still half-human! Ridiculous, just ridiculous.

Once again, Jim wondered whether he was the hero or the villain.

There was only one thing that kept him from despairing completely about all this, and he had his best friend to thank for it.

Hope.

Hope that it would end soon.

Chapter 9: Future

The break was over, and everyone had resumed their work at their respective stations. The only exception was Uhura, who had gotten up to offer Spock her seat at the communications station. She was now leaning against the science station. Spock sat down in the chair and prepared to receive the contact request that had been explicitly addressed to him. Apparently, someone had finally understood that Commander Spock was in command, but when Jim realised who the caller was, he wasn't really surprised anymore; it was only logical.

“This is going to be so awkward,” McCoy whispered with a grin. “And I'm looking forward to any minute of it.”

Jim regarded him with a crooked tilt of his head. “Still grumpy about your private conversation with the Federation Council?”

“You mean those sixteen torturers? He only has to talk to one of them, lucky him.”

“McCoy,” Spock called over from the comm station. “Would you like to participate?”  

“Definitely not!” McCoy said with conviction. “But turn on speaker so that everyone can hear, unless you want to keep the conversation a private one.”

“It is official,” Spock said, as if no further explanation was necessary. 

“Is it visual?” Jim asked.

“Yes, but do not be concerned.” Spock connected his PADD to the comm station, pressed a few buttons and switched cameras.

Jim could tell when the small light on the edge of the large wall screen went out. Never knew our PADDs could do that. He did not know that they had a camera at all.

“Look how he's making himself at home here,” McCoy whispered to Jim, “and still in his bathrobe. I think this is going to be a once-in-a-lifetime moment; he's going down in history!”

“Obviously because a certain doctor does not know anything about dress codes,” Spock threw back.

“I’m a doctor, not a – ”

“I am starting the transmission now. I request silence on the bridge.”

Everyone went dead quiet, even the engines and consoles. Jim elbowed McCoy in the rib, reminding him to behave himself. Not a second later, he himself turned out to be the one disturbing the silence with a heavy coughing fit. Thankfully, he got it under control before the connection build up with an audible click. Otherwise. he would have embarrassed himself in front of one of the Federation's greatest representative.

“Commander Spock,” the calm, cold, throughout logical voice rang through all the speakers on the bridge.

“Ambassador Sarek,” Spock replied, lowering the hand with which he had performed the Vulcan salute. Unfortunately, Spock was sitting so that his back was covering the image on his PADD, so Jim couldn't see the Vulcan ambassador… and he got distracted by the person next to him anyway.

McCoy pressed his hand over his mouth and visibly struggled not to burst out laughing. He already had tears in his eyes as he doubled over. Thank God Sarek can't see him either, Jim thought, silently reprimanding McCoy to stop. It wasn't Spock's fault that his father was the Vulcan ambassador and one of the most respected men in the Federation and that Spock had failed him because Spock had chosen a career at Starfleet Academy over studying at a Vulcan university. Neither of them was responsible that the cold tension in their relationship spread across the entire bridge, although their relationship had improved considerably in recent years.

When Ambassador Sarek spoke, the last of humour died and even McCoy kept a straight face all the sudden. Sarek didn't waste a second on making small talk, but got straight to the point. “The Vulcan laboratories are currently working hard to break down and analyse the virus structure with the help of Doctor McCoy's reports to eventually determine which laboratory the virus came from and who is responsible for creating it. At this stage, it can already be said with a significant degree of certainty that it is a biochemical weapon. In that sense, it was appropriate that you, Commander Spock, requested a trial against Starfleet Command, specifically Wiley Robertson, held responsibility for spreading the weapon aboard the Enterprise, unknowingly, but not less guilty.”

So, I'm a biochemical weapon now... The thought made Jim miss Spock's reply, if there had been one.

Sarek continued. “The Enterprise is requested to stop all research on the virus immediately – ”

“What?” McCoy burst out. Jim stared at him and even Spock turned quickly to shot him a glance that by Vulcan standard wasn't exactly friendly. McCoy hesitated, but didn't let it stop him. He continued to speak with guarded confidence. “We have the research rights. We discovered it first.”

“I have taken note of your agitation, Doctor McCoy,” Sarek replied calmly. “However, I must point out to you that because the virus was artificially created, it could not have been first discovered by the Enterprise. But that does not change the situation.” The father’s really sounding like his son, now. “The decision was solely made for the safety of the Enterprise, it is our highest priority to protect the crew and prevent a greater outspread.”

All at once, McCoy lost his repartee. Jim wondered if it was because Sarek exuded an aura of authority even when he wasn't actively trying, or because McCoy had learned that Sarek had very likely stood up for him after the Council meeting, or because Sarek, representing the Federation, was the only one taking the situation as seriously as it was; the first one not making them wait to be devoured by their miserable fate.

“I understand,” McCoy said, unusually reasonable. “Continue, Ambassador.”

There was a pause, as though Sarek was nodding. “Furthermore, it has been found that most of the current known protective measures are ineffective against the virus, such as the individual shields. However, decontamination provides at least minor protection. Are Kirk and all the people he may have had contact with already isolated?”

Spock provided the answer. “No, he is currently here on the bridge due to a faulty order, on which I have already sent a detailed report, which the Federation has certainly received by now.”

“It has been received,” Sarek confirmed. “And your lawsuit has been approved as well.”

Spock didn't show the slightest hint of complacency about his achievements, he might not have felt any at all, and instead continued in the same monotone voice. “Of course, we took action far earlier to minimize the risk of infection and in this respect, I would like to point out that Kirk did not behave incorrectly at any time, he was bound by his duty.”

If Sarek said anything in response, Jim didn't hear it because he doubled over into a coughing fit, which he tried to muffle with his arm. The barking was still loud. When he recovered, he realised that it had become silent, the conversation momentarily put on hold. Damn… Even Spock had turned, patiently waiting on him to catch his breath. Jim gestured at him to just continue.

Spock turned back to his father. “As I stated before the interruption, we have a detailed quarantine plan, which we have also submitted to the Federation. Everyone here is aware of the risk and takes full responsibility for it.”

“Your plan was a most fascinating read and very remarkable.”

“I worked it out together with Doctor McCoy.”

“We are aware of this. Nevertheless, I see certain traces of your diligence and coherent logic in it, and therefore no objections are raised. We will continue to give you a free pass, so to speak. After all, your assessments are mostly correct, Commander Spock.”

If the remark offended him, Spock didn't show it. Nor did he thank Sarek for the compliment, if it had been one. Their thoroughly logical exchange was fascinating enough on its own, but Jim was even more drawn in by those small flickers of a moment that proved their strong family ties. If McCoy noticed as well, he had chosen exactly such a less tense moment to enter the conversation. “Our quarantine plan aside, it's been covered decently for now, have they found out anything more about the virus yet?”

“A while earlier, it was tested and confirmed that Vulcans are immune to the virus. In this regard, some researchers have expressed profound confusion about your remark in the reports that mutations are possible. I am not very knowledgeable about medicine, so I may not be accurately reflecting the facts, but apparently mutation should not be possible if the virus cannot dock to the Vulcan blood cells at all. They are openly questioning if you perhaps made a mistake.”

“I am exercising my right to speak freely in the debate: No.” McCoy took a deep breath and continued. “I mean, we have Vulcans on board, especially in our science department, and they have also confirmed immunity status. My comment simply referred to the possibility of contagion and mutation in hybrids, say half Vulcan and half Andorian, or half Vulcan, half human or Romulan, who differ from Vulcans only by a hemoglobin factor.”

“As far as I am informed, there are no hybrids in the responsible research institute and if there are, they are not working on research related to the virus.”

“Ah, now I see why they think I'm illogical. I thought I was doing them a favor by pointing this out, alas, in vain.” McCoy put his hands on his hips, letting out a dramatic sigh. “Just to confirm once again, you took my – our – right to research the virus to keep us protected?”

“Yes, that is correct, and you have to admit, it is also the most logical decision.”

“I don’t care about any logic, I just care about my colleagues and friends being safe. By that, I mean, I take back my reproach. But keep reporting back to us.”

“At no time did I notice you behaving incorrectly, just a little too human for a Vulcan to fully understand,” Sarek said, almost sympathetically. “Obviously, our laboratory will report on the current status at regular intervals.”

“Are you working on a cure as well?”

“This is the next step and, of course, the Enterprise will be provided with a cure and vaccine as soon as we have developed it.”

“Great.”

“In that regard, should I pass on to our lab that both are also desired for hybrids, say half Vulcan half human as you gave as an example?”

McCoy was about to reply, but Spock interrupted abruptly. “I will tell our labs to stop working on the virus immediately and focus on other research. They are to send all their previous findings to the institute you named me.”

McCoy hastily replied, “Yes, please,” and then an uneasy silence spread on the bridge. This time it wasn't Jim who had triggered it with odd behavior. Looks fell on Spock, who must have realized that he had responded to something that had been said long ago.

Jim couldn't see, but sense Spock's discomfort, when the Vulcan said, “I am sorry. Proceed with the conversation.”

“I know everything I wanted to know now, and I've said my stuff,” McCoy said, looking the most skeptical. His look literally told, ‘We have a talk about that later.’ McCoy might have been impetuous in his emotions and open to complaining about anyone and everything, but he would never call anyone out, especially not in a situation like this.

“That would have been it from my side of perspective,” Sarek said, his next words carrying an unspoken question, “unless there are still uncertainties in any respect.”

“None,” Spock answered.

“Then I have a question for you, Commander Spock.”

Spock stiffened. “Yes, Ambassador?”

“What is your current condition? You do seem unusually distracted.”

Jim and McCoy stared at each other as if the father had found his lost son in the Bible tell. ‘He’s caring more than we expected?’ Then, Jim chided himself with a thought. It’s only logical that he cares. He does love Spock in his own way. We just don’t understand. But now they did, or at least, Jim did. He couldn’t speak for McCoy.

They turned to Spock, who was taking his time with the reply. “My condition is generally acceptable. We have made great progress and are ready for the negotiations. Does that answer your question, Ambassador Sarek?”

“I assume it does.”

Jim and McCoy sensed the disappointment that Sarek skillfully suppressed. You could have just told him, Spock…But Jim guessed that Vulcans didn't even talk to their families about illnesses, problems or stress, and especially not when more than ten people were listening – and when they were using an official Federation channel, on top of everything else.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Spock asked, completely composed again.

“Just one more request,” Sarek said just as logically. “Would it be possible to speak to Kirk for a moment? He does not have to show up on screen if he does not want to.”

Oh damn, what does Sarek want from me? Lecture me for being here? Reprimand me for leaving everything to Spock? I’m as good as dead! Jim pulled the blanket over his head, hiding.

“If I interpret his action correctly, he does not want to be seen,” Spock said. Jim lowered the blanket just in time to see that Spock had turned to him and was forming silent words with his lips: ‘Should I politely decline for you?’

Jim shook his head, straightening his posture. He was still the proud James T. Kirk and he could hardly refuse if one of the Federation's ambassadors wanted to speak to him, especially on such an urgent matter. No matter what it means for you. “It’s okay,” he breathed. “Just no visuals.”

As Spock repeated his answer for Sarek, Jim realized that his voice was too quiet to be picked up by the standard microphone. He pressed the button on his panel and leaned over the microphone. “Kirk here. I'm listening, Ambassador Sarek.” And I'm ready for anything you throw at me.

Little did he know that he wasn’t.

Although neither of them could see each other, Jim just knew that Sarek’s calm words were directed at him. “I was made aware by my wife that it is customary for you humans to wish someone better health when they are not feeling well, so… Get well soon and a speedy recovery to you, Kirk.”

Heat inflamed Jim’s cheeks, and this time it wasn't due to a fever. He took a deep breath to suppress a cough and fanned himself to cool down. Good I didn’t put on visuals, I’m just embarrassing myself here.

Sarek continued. “Regardless of my personal concerns, I would also like to apologise on behalf of the Federation for the inexcusable actions of Starfleet Command towards you. The Federation Council will take disciplinary measures against the people responsible, but you are not forced to participate in any trial. Your primary concern should be to recover, not stress yourself. If you are not up to the negotiations, do not force yourself for our sake. The Federation will never go against the man who has so often secured the well-being of entire civilizations. We're on your side, Kirk. No matter what decision you make today, even if you step out or carry on, we back you up.”

Jim wondered, as he attentively listen to Sarek’s speech, how a Vulcan man could sound more sincere with his apologies and gratitude than a human admiral. Maybe, because Vulcans never apologise or say ‘thank you’, and if they did it the one rare time, it meant the whole universe.

His eyes were burning and his nose was starting to run, so he had to let go of the button. He couldn't let this man hear him sniffing pathetically and giving in to his human emotions. Not because he was afraid that Sarek wouldn't show understanding, he certainly would in his own way, but because Jim didn't want everyone to know how damn long he had waited for those words.

‘We’re on your side, Kirk. We back you up.’

It wasn’t him against the whole world, but the world for him.  

McCoy handed him a tissue, into which Jim blew his nose. When he had finished, he realized that Sarek had been waiting patiently on him. Either Sarek had sensed it or he was considerate for some other reason, Jim didn’t dare muse.

“It may seem a little inappropriate and presumptuous, but my wife and I would like to invite you, Spock and McCoy to our home for an informal dinner in our house once you have fully recovered and the situation is back under control. Of course, all members of the bridge crew will also receive appropriate compensation for their services, even though, judging by the reports, I estimate that they would have acted as they did in any way. Our thanks and apologies to them as well.”

A few of the bridge crew members clapped to express their enthusiasm, but Uhura made clear with a hand signal that this was not done in Vulcan circles.

Jim decided to speak for everyone instead, when silence had fallen again. “Thank you, Sarek, your words mean a lot to me and to everyone here.” He looked around at the approving faces, smiles and nods, then glanced up at McCoy and Spock to get their opinion before continuing. “We accept your dinner invitation and look forward to meet with you and your wife on Vulcan in good health soon.”

“We are looking forward to it as well.” For a second, it sounded like Sarek was smiling as he said that. “Well, if nothing comes up, I will disconnect. Live long and prosper, Kirk. You as well, Spock.”

Spock seemed too surprised that he wasn't addressed as Commander to respond in any way. Uhura took over for him. “Alright, we have taken note, sir,” she said, repeating again in Vulcan. That seemed far more polite than saying a simple goodbye.

As Spock unplugged his PADD from the station, McCoy stomped over to him while Jim was still too deep in thoughts to realise when exactly McCoy had left his side.

Without knowing, Sarek had given him hope; the hope that a happy, peaceful moment would follow after all the horror. They would sit at an ambassador's table, drinking excellent wine and eating vegetarian food, and their only concern would be how best to please Spock's parents; what table manners, what conversation topics, what compliments to the wife’s cooking – or the husband’s. Jim had once picked up that Sarek liked to cook for his wife, sometimes first-class dishes from Terran cuisine. Jim was looking forward to it more than he wanted to admit, despite the illness that still stood between him and the future.

Chapter 10: Reveal

Jim’s attention was suddenly turned to McCoy, because he was loud. “Spock, what the hell was that, interrupting me? That wasn't a personal affront to you, it was just – ”

“Leonard McCoy!” Spock rose so quickly from his chair that it tipped over. The loud clatter silenced everyone except the machines, which kept humming angrily.

For a moment, Jim was gripped by the very real fear that the situation could escalate, and he was ready to jump out of his own chair, no matter how much his body would protest.

But then he realised that Spock was frightened by his own action. Spock stepped back as if that fallen chair was a snake that had sneaked on him from behind and stumbled right into the arms of McCoy. McCoy held him. “Spock, it's all right,” he said very gently, considering that just a second ago his face had been furrowed with rage.

Spock returned to his cold, expressionless demeanor. In the background, Uhura picked up the chair and put it back in place. “Why did you tell him?” Spock asked. It was hard to tell what emotion resonated in his voice, but there was one; something between anger and sadness.

“I didn't tell him anything. If he knows, it's because he feels it, because – ”

“Vulcans do not feel,” Spock said coldly.

“Parents just know when something’s wrong with their children. Trust me, Spock, I have a daughter.”

Spock looked over at Jim, who had intended to stay out of the debate, but instead found himself nodding in agreement. Fathers just knew when something was wrong with their children. David... Jim swallowed the feeling, suppressed it. He was over it.

“I see,” Spock said, sounding generously confused.

McCoy eyed him, then furrowed his brown. “You're a little green in the face; increased blood flow.” He stepped closer, reaching out to him, but Spock smoothly dodged. “Spock, this is medical, don’t make me order you.”

“My mental shields are lowered,” Spock mumbled as if excusing himself.

McCoy took a deep breath, visibly controlling himself. “I'm calm, Spock. I make the contact brief, and I focus entirely on my work, or if you'd rather I use the medical scanner...”

“No. I have them up now.”

McCoy once again braced himself, before pressing the back of his hand against Spock’s forehead, then against his cheeks. Finally, he moved his hands behind Spock’s jaw, feeling for something. If Spock was made uncomfortable by all the touching, he only showed it subtly.

McCoy abruptly broke contact, lifting his hands in the air and jumping away some distance. “Damn, you're burning up!”

Spock flinched away in a less pronounced manner, muttering. “That is what you call brief?” However, he quickly regained his composure. “You are assuming I have a fever. And what was that about my lymph nodes?”

“You read my mind!”

“Unfortunately, I could not stop myself from picking up two or three of your thoughts. I am grateful to you that you did not burden me with your frustration as well.”

“But you sensed it coming...”

“Yes.”

“Damn it...” McCoy mumbled something so quietly that Jim couldn't hear it in the distance.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I did not take all your sensations, if that was your concern.”

“I knew it. They're breaking,” McCoy said, his Southern accent so sharply accented that it could have cut through Spock.

“What are you referring – ”

“Your mental control.”

“Back to your perception, doctor...”

“What? You're running a high fever, and your immune response is down, that’s it!”

“It is not unusual for me to grow a higher temperature, and if the other is about my lymph nodes, then the lack of swelling should...”

“I know they react differently! And they were swollen, barely noticeably, but they were.” Spock stared at him, perplexed. “Yes, Spock, I can keep things hidden from you as well. I'm not that much of an open book. Besides, there is no reason for you to ‘grow a higher temperature’ and ‘adapt’ would have been the better word, by the way.”

Spock's confusion grew so much that it turned his face into a blossoming flower. “I do not follow.”

“You Vulcans usually have a lower temperature than us humans, but the harsh climate conditions on Vulcan have taught you to adapt to the hot temperatures by raising your own, compensation or something. However, you have used ‘grow,’ so you made yourself aware that the rise is coming from inside your body. It is not triggered by any external stimulus.”

“There are other, internal factors that can trigger a rise of the temperature within me.”

“Yes, illnesses, for example.”

“But also...” Spock's uncertain gaze fell on Jim, who had leaned far over the armrest to get a better view of the scene. It seemed to be almost silently praying for his help, but at the same time restraint shone in those dark, cold eyes, as if they didn’t want to burden him. Jim gave a reassuring smile, ‘It's okay, Spock, I'm worried either way.’ Without betraying a reaction, Spock turned back to McCoy. “Stress. I am just stressed, McCoy.”

McCoy let out a short laugh; it was the kind that hinted at a triumph. He shook it off. “Yeah, Spock, that was illogical. You gave yourself away with that one.”

Both Jim and Spock were extremely confused, but McCoy didn't clear them up yet. “I'll give you one last chance, Spock. What's really going on?”

“I told you,” Spock said, sounding clearly annoyed.

“You tried to lie to me,” McCoy said with a cocky grin, his eyes narrowing to that of a sly fox. “But you shouldn’t have tried that with your doctor. It's well established that the Vulcan temperature drops under immense stress. You’re not just stressed, Spock, you’re clearly sick.”

Taking a sharp breath, Spock backed away, his face showing the full extent of how he was slowly realising his mistake. He opened and closed his mouth rapidly, but managed to say nothing. His straight posture sagged for the first time, it almost looked like he was cowering, but the others didn't seem to notice, or the bridge crew was damn good at pretending. Uhura had resumed her place at the comm station, pushing buttons and monitoring coms, paying no attention to what was going on behind her back. Right next to her, Chekov was taking an intensely long look through the science station's scanner. None of the others cast a single glance at Spock either, giving him much-needed privacy in this public place. It was only Jim and McCoy who saw it; how Spock was revealing a part of his inner self.

Jim was so ready to jump out of his chair and give Spock a hug, if he hadn't known full well how much worse that would have made it.

“Hey, Spock,” McCoy said, reaching out to him, then changing his mind. He extended his arm, holding it in the air a few inches away from Spock, as if protecting him from an invisible enemy, no, Jim realised, it is a touchless embrace. “Sorry, I overstepped it a bit there, I didn't mean to back you into a corner like that. I just had to make sure I got through to the truth. It's the only way I can help you.”

“I am fine, doctor,” Spock said, slowly bringing his facial expression back under control.

“You are not. Listen, Spock, I can give you an antipyretic, no problem, I actually have on that keeps the Vulcan temperature down.”

“I do not need it. The room is just a little colder than usual.”

“And you don’t want it a bit warmer?” McCoy asked gently.

Spock shook his head, turning away from the touchless embrace. “I have managed so far. I will manage more.”

“Spock, how long…”

Jim zoned out, when he realised something. The subtle tremors, the need for closeness, the comfortable robe, the heat of their contact, Spock’s overall strange behaviour… They had been there all along – the subtle signs of Spock being unwell. He had covered them up so well, it was the only explanation Jim had for not realising sooner, next to having been too wrapped up in his own discomfort to really notice. He’s been carrying it around since yesterday. I’ve infected him. I’ve done that to him. God, I’m so sorry, Spock.

When he zoned back in, he realised that Spock was intensively staring at him, like he was taking in each of his thoughts. To be honest, Jim hadn't bothered hiding his guilt.

“Spock, how long have you been sick?” McCoy asked again; apparently Spock had never given him an answer. “Spock!”

They were still watching each other intensely, as if a bubble had closed around them, shielding them from the outside world.

Then a coughing fit broke the magic. From its intensity, Jim sank into the blanket, still barking, and it took him a minute to recover. By then, Spock had turned his attention away from both him and McCoy. Only now did Jim realize that it had never been quiet on the bridge: the bridge crew members were talking quietly among themselves, creating a kind of rushing sea into which Spock's words sank into, reaching only those who needed to hear.

“Leonard, Jim, I have a confession to make.”

If McCoy was uncomfortable being addressed like that, it only showed in the way he crossed his arms, otherwise he was listening intently. Jim joined with his attention once he had his breathing under control.

“I have been sick for a while. I am probably the one who infected Jim...”

“How long?” McCoy asked. There was no emotion in his tone and his expression only vaguely hinting at sceptic.

“Three days and fifteen point one hours.” Spock did not take his eyes from the far distance. “However, I cannot be entirely sure when exactly it started because…” Spock hesitated, like he was thinking about a truthful translation for words that had no suitable equivalent in their shared language, then picked up his sentence again. “Because my Physical Shielding For Everything That Needs To Be Suppressed did not fully go up, rather masking it.”

McCoy let the information sink in for a moment before speaking. “Spock, you didn't infect him.” He turned briefly to Jim as if sensing his guilt. “And before you two go ahead and blame yourselves even more, let the doctor clear things up: You probably both caught it from an external source on your last planetary visit. Ever heard of incubation period? Yes, I know you do, Spock, but I'll say it again for Jim and to specify my point.” McCoy put his next words in quotation marks with his fingers. “‘The period between exposure to an infection and the appearance of the first symptoms.’ You both showed symptoms at the same time, not at different times, so you can't have infected each other. I, on the other hand, only showed symptoms today, so it's very likely that I got infected a few days ago.”  

“Sorry, Bones,” Jim croaked.

Spock did not apologise but gave McCoy a look that probably meant something similar in Vulcan culture.

McCoy heaved a sigh. “I just wanted to set an example, not elicit apologies out of you.” A small smile softened his features. “I don't blame you at all, I'm a doctor, I'm the first one to catch it when there's an outbreak, it’s the risk that comes with the job. But you now make me happily speculate which of you I have contracted it from. I bet I caught it from you, Jim, when I examined you for your first symptoms three days ago, then again, I was in close contact with you all the time, Spock.”

“McCoy, may I remind you that my...” Spock used the long, Vulcan term, “also prevent me from passing on my condition? I most likely have not infected you.”

“You were concerned about having infected Jim, so I conclude that you are not sure. We'd better check that out later. But I correct my previous statement: I definitely caught it from Jim.”

Jim didn’t know what else to say, so he repeated himself. “I’m sorry, Bones.”

“You couldn't have guessed it, Jim. I'm actually glad you consulted me for a little sore throat instead of running across the ship with what at best could have been a cold and at worst could have been a biochemical weapon, yeah, we've all heard it.” McCoy briefly turned to the bridge crew, but they didn’t act like being addressed.

“Yeah, I know the protocol regarding suspected infectious disease and I never intended to put my ship in danger,” Jim grumbled, burrowing himself deeper into the blanket. “See, where it got me…”

“Jim, stop it,” McCoy said annoyed, but the twisting of his mouth revealed that he meant no offense. “You have no reason to drown yourself in guilt, it was Starfleet Command's fault, you didn't do anything wrong, the Federation has confirmed that as well.”

“I know, but still…” Jim raised his arm to block a cough that turned into a long, hacking fit. It sent burning pain all the way to his heart.

“All right, enough excitement for you. Sit back and relax. You've put enough pressure on your airways with that awful posture.”

With a frustrated sigh that chased him into another coughing fit, Jim leaned back in the command chair. He grabbed his water bottle and took a few sips while McCoy and Spock walked over to him. It probably hadn't helped that he'd had to speak to them over a distance all this time.

“Damn, you're staggering.”

Jim licked the water from his lips, looking up at McCoy, who was holding Spock lightly by the arm.

“Your perception must be deceiving. I am not staggering.”

“Yes, you are, a bit, at least. Actually, I think I'd like to reschedule your examination to now.”

“That is illogical, doctor.”

“Oh, is it?” The sarcasm was already on its way. “I don’t know, you seem sick, maybe you know, it’s actually quite logical for a sick person to go to sick bay.”

“If you have such a need to rip the skin off my body, I am sure you also find a way to do it here.”

“Unfortunately, no. The devices I brought with me are not adjusted for Vulcans and apart from that I would like to run a few tests on you. They can't be done here.” McCoy furrowed his eyebrows. “Are you worried about spreading the virus?”

“Concerned,” Spock corrected. “We do not have the certainty that I cannot transmit it. They are lowering.”

It only took McCoy a second to understand what Spock was referring to, while Jim wouldn't have guessed it in a lifetime if McCoy hadn't spelled it out. “Your shields.”

Spock gave a curt nod.

You two understand each other better than you think, the sudden thought occurred to Jim, followed by a frustration he could not put into words. Then he realized that it might have been envy, but why? Because McCoy was able to better reach Spock? Because he could actually help him? Because there seemed to be no place for an ignorant, cranky person right between them? God damn it, Jim, the sickness is messing with your head. Jim closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself.

“Jim?”

“Hm?” Jim blinked his eyes open at McCoy. He must have drifted off for a few seconds, because he remembered McCoy and Spock had been talking, but he didn't remember about what. He sat up properly to make himself more alert. “What is it, Bones?”

“Get some rest if you need it. I was about to ask you a question, but I guess, it became unnecessary.”

“Just ask,” Jim said, “or I’ll stay curious forever.”

McCoy opened his mouth to say something when Spock interrupted him. “I still have the right to decide for myself.”

“Oh, well, I've already made that decision.” McCoy ran his fingers through his hair, which had become disheveled, probably from the many times Spock and Jim had pushed him to the limits of his patience. “Jim, I just wanted to ask you if it's okay if I accompany my stubborn patient to sickbay and stay there with him for a few minutes, and if you look the other way if I might have to resort to violence and blackmail for that.”

“Sure,” Jim muttered, without giving it much thought. God, why was he suddenly so apathetic? He wasn't overly tired, his fever should be under control and the pain was barely noticeable. The only thing he felt was cruel boredom.

“Are you sure sure?”

Jim gave him an eye-roll. “Yeah, Bones.”

“Fantastic!” McCoy clapped his hands. “So, Spock, are you ready, then?”

“I have never given my consent. Forcing me would violate various regulations and would also be an inhumane method that you do not usually advocate.”

“Nor is it humane to let you suffer, Spock. And I've just gotten permission from our captain to use any means necessary.”

“You, with your bare hands against my Vulcan neck grip?”

McCoy grinned as if challenged. “Well, Regulation 65 says that if the ship's CMO doesn't think the person currently in command is fit enough... Oh, I'm sure you already know that, shall I write the report then?”

Spock let his fingers crack and because McCoy couldn't read from his face - and neither could Jim - if he was serious, he took a step back.

“If you do that, Spock, there's all the more reason.”

Spock lowered his hand. “I was only joking,” he stated with a deadpan look. “Regulation number 34 states that the commander in charge has supreme command and has the right at any time at his own discretion to override the duties of others crew members.”

“And Regulation 34 point 2 says that the CMO also has this override when there is a crisis on board. We have one. Even though I think we can keep Jim amused for a very long time by throwing around half the rulebook, which he also knows by heart, perhaps we should play with our cards face up now. Sounds logical, doesn't it? I'll even start. I'm concerned about your health and would like to carry out an examination on you for less than half an hour. After that, I'll release you.”

“I am concerned about the health of everyone on the ship. Me walking the halls would put them at enormous risk.”

McCoy blinked at him. “Oh, did I forget to mention that? I've secured us a direct route to sickbay, in case I need to get Jim there fast. Sickbay is well prepared for the virus. My team knows about it and will withdraw while we're there. Good we’ve talked about that. So, what do you say now, Spock?”

“You surprise me, McCoy.”

“That was the original plan,’ McCoy said with a smile that grew proud. “Sometimes my diligence can equal your logic.”

“I would not that it does, but I will go with you, doctor.”

“Finally!”  McCoy expelled a breath of triumph. “I was beginning to think I'd call my whole team here. That would have been risky.” McCoy turned to him, ignoring Spock’s protest forming. “Jim?”

“You want me to join your celebration?” Jim croaked in a voice that sounded almost murderous.

“No,” McCoy said with a sharp emphasis of skepticism. “You’re allright? You turned awfully quiet, not even a cough.”  

“Just moody.” Jim snapped himself out of his weird mood. “Just go with Spock. I’ll be fine.”

“If you say so. You know, you can always call us over the intercom if something comes up; if you don’t feel well.”

“Then, we would be constantly on call,” Jim joked weakly.

“Ah, at least, you’re showing a reaction again. Anyways, we’ll be gone then. Stay strong, Jim.” McCoy was already making his way to the turbolift when he suddenly turned back sharply. “Oh, actually, can you give me one of the lozenges?”

Wordlessly, Jim handed him a blister with one single tablet, before taking a full blister from the packet. McCoy and he popped a lozenge into their mouth at the same time, as if toasting for a drink.

McCoy pulled a face. “They’re not really helping,” Jim agreed with a nod. “Anyway,” McCoy continued on his way. “Spock and I will most likely be back in half an hour. Miss Chapel, supervise him. Anyone else, stay away from him, but keep an eye out for him.”

Miss Chapel nodded her understanding and the bridge crew members gave a uniformly positive response. Spock followed behind McCoy. “I just remembered that our research rights for the virus have been revoked. We should not – ”

“Have you passed on the order yet? No, you haven't. We can let the labs know after they've analyzed your sample. If the interplanetary police comes after me, fine, but I won't pass up the chance to examine an infected hybrid. The Vulcan lab thought that possibility was ridiculous!”

Spock almost let out something like an annoyed sigh, and said nothing in return. They reached the turbolift, but they were stopped again – by Sulu.

“Wait! Who's in command now?”

“First one to ask,” McCoy replied before Spock had a chance to raise his voice. “Well, congratulations, Sulu, you've got the conn.”

With those words, McCoy stepped into the turbolift, followed by Spock. As they disappeared behind the closing doors, Jim felt lonely for the first time; just as lonely as he had been in the last few days he had spent quarantined in his quarters. He had communicated with the bridge crew via the computer, but it hadn't been the same as direct contact. The situation now was better in the sense that he could feel the people around him; that he could hear and see them. But without his two friends who were the only one allowed near him, he felt like he was left alone, like an animal in a cage surrounded by spectators.

Then he began to notice them; the gazes of the bridge crew looking after him. Nobody moved from their station, but they kept letting him know that they were there; that they were especially there for him. Yeoman Rand placed a hot steaming cup of tea on the floor and pushed it carefully with his foot until it reached him. Jim picked it up and took a few sips, even though he wasn't really the wait-and-drink-tea guy. Not at all.

As he continued to watch them, Jim slowly came to a realisation. Even when a distance separated them, they stayed together. This illness might make him weak, tired, grumpy, feverish and above all, contagious, but not lonely.

And he became even more aware of this when a comm channel suddenly opened up, a voice reaching him from down below. “Hey, Jim, how ye doing?”

Chapter 11: Extra - Boredom

Notes:

This is a little extra chapter that isn't in the original German version. Enjoy!

“Hey, Scotty.” Jim greeted back. Then he remembered last time and motioned Uhura to turn the conversation private. If Scott had wanted an official talk with the entire bridge crew, he would have started differently. “Did McCoy tell you to ask?” Jim rasped into the microphone on his panel.

“Na,” Scott's voice came only from the speaker near his seat. “How come ye always think that?”

“You just called perfectly. Too perfectly. McCoy left this moment.”

“Didn’t know about that. He left ye? Is pointy-ear at least still with ye?”

Jim licked the hesitation from his lips. “Spock and he are out doing some tests.” He didn't feel in a position to reveal more, and Scott seemed to understand.

“Aye, I see. All on yer own then. How much langer do ye have?”

“I don't know. A few more hours until the talk takes place. Is there a particular reason why you're calling – if it wasn't McCoy's scheme?” Jim added with a quiet chuckle that triggered a coughing fit. He turned away from the microphone, barking heavily into his arm, before taking a few more sips of the tea to calm the irritation.

“Engeering’s oan regular break. Thought I check oan ye.” Jim looked at the chronometer, the time was about right. Why am I so skeptical anyway? “If ye’d rather not be bothered by that auld Scotsman, ye can just end the call.”

“Ah, no, sorry, I'm just a bit weird.”

“Weird?”

“Grumpy, moody, just the sickness.” And an experimental drug. “If you can live with that...”

“Sure. Ye can’t be worse than a Brit.”

“Oh, let's not find out.” Jim suddenly found himself smiling and growing in confidence. “Scotty, would you mind if we turned on visuals?”

“Ye do realise this an aural com link?”

“Do you have your PADD with you?”

“Sure, but - Ah, ye desire a video call?”

Jim suddenly got the feeling that he was the only one who didn't know that the PADDs had such a function. He was all the more eager to try it out, even if now wasn't perhaps the best time. Oh well, he was bored anyway. “Yeah, let's try it.”

He heard shuffling on the other end and went to look for his own PADD. It was leaning against the foot of his command chair, so he leaned over and promptly fell into another coughing fit. Holding one arm in front of his face, he fished for his PADD and straightened himself up just in time for the coughing fit to end. Let's see if my feverish, oxygen-deprived mind can figure out how it works.

“Ah will ca' ye then.” Less than half a minute later, a message appeared on his PADD. In-Coming Video Call from Montgamery Scott. To his amazement, all he had to do was press ‘Accept’, just like on his computer. His finger hesitated for a second. “Just a heads up: I might look shocking.”

“Aye, that’s the least of my worry.”

Jim took a deep breath, suppressed a cough and dropped his finger onto the button. Immediately, an image opened up, setting into motion. Scott took a seat on a low console in the engine room, a sandwich in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. Behind him, the warp core rotated in slow motion, but the sounds were filtered out. A few redshirts worked in the background, but paid no attention to what Scott was doing.

A broad but sympathetic grin crossed Scott's European features. “A wee bit too close.”

Jim shifted his position so that the PADD's camera caught him in half-portrait. He leaned back, wrapped in his blanket, teacup on his lap.

Scott's grin grew even wider. “Great, that looks good. Ye too.”

“Lies run on short legs.”

“Ye, but ye can still be fixed.”

Jim found himself laughing, and had to stop as a cough shook him. He didn't let on for a second how much his diaphragm was hurting.

“Actually, I have a reason tae call. I wanted tae ask how the food transfer was received.”

Jim mimicked Scott’s grin. “I suspected it was you at work. Everything arrived here in top condition. McCoy did complain that his food had ended up with Shields, though.”

“Aye, ye can never please that doctor. Should I have sent it tae Sickbay instead?”

“Why Shields?”

“Well, Shields is right next tae Yeoman Rand's station, who's good friends with Miss Chapel, who in turn... See that logic?”

“Don't let him know that you made that decision based on logic. He thinks it was...” Jim took a deep breath, “metaphorical,” he just managed to say before another coughing fit took his breath away. When he recovered after a strenuous minute, he emptied the teacup before taking a few more sips from his water bottle, which felt light. Two more sips and it was empty. He exchanged a glance with Yeoman Rand, then rolled the bottle over to her. Miss Chapel sanitized it first before Rand refilled it at the water dispenser.

“Took yer meds?”

Jim's attention flew back to Scott. “Yeah, and not just my regular ones,” he said quietly, though he doubted the bridge crew had such bad manners as to eavesdrop on their conversation. Suddenly his full water bottle bumped his foot. He picked it up and mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ in Rand's direction. She winked at him.

“We people with pre-existing conditions don't hav’ it easy,” Scott said.

“Yeah, can we talk about something else?”

“Sorry, totally forgot that – ”

Jim waved him off. “Can you give me a full report on the ship?”

“That bored are we already? But sure, I can.”

Scott began to give him a particularly detailed report, starting with the condition of the warp core, the warp nacelle, the engines, the impulse regulator, then continuing with the power reports on all decks, shield and weapon status and ending with the general morale of the crew. All the excessively long sentences only summed up one thing: everything was well.

Although this was a cause for delight, it only brought another wave of boredom for Jim. He stifled a yawn.

“Ye know, I can tell ye a few stories about Scotland if ye prefer.”

“Ah, don't bother.”

“I know a few good jokes too, including some dirty ones.”

“I don't feel like laughing.”

“I can keep talking tae ye about anything.”

Jim suppressed a sigh that would only have triggered another fit. “Scott, no, I – Sorry, I'm bad audience.”

There was no frustration on Scott's face, just kind understanding. “Ye don't hav’ tae apologise. Do ye want me tae end the call?”

Jim felt a sudden surge of panic, not understanding where it was coming from. “No, I... I don't know what I want.”

“Silent company, then?”

Jim nodded. He sat up a little straighter for better airflow and drank water to ease the urge to cough that was building up in his airways. It still got worse, and he was increasingly succumbing to coughing fits that just wouldn't stop. He didn't have any issues with breathing, they were just annoying. His only distraction was Scott, who was chewing his sandwich, occasionally turning to the other engineers to shout some order to them.

Eventually Scott questioned with a look to see if it was okay to talk, and Jim nodded. “Ye know, the crew is pretty worried about ye, in a sweet, friendly way. Haven't heard anything proper from ye in three days, they all assume ye're fallen ill.”

Jim hadn't necessarily kept it a secret, but he hadn't made it official either. From one day to the next, he had announced that he would be working from his quarters for a while, and, with a few exceptions, had the important announcements broadcast by bridge crew members.

“None has any idea of the epidemic that we may be facing. Oan the one hand, that's good, because everyone’s calm, but somehow it's also eerie.”

“I know exactly what you mean, Scotty.” It felt like steering the ship into an ion storm, quietly, without anyone suspecting anything.

“They'll all find out efter today anyway, won't they?”

“Yeah, obviously.” It wouldn't go unnoticed that the entire bridge crew would soon be quarantined, and with the rumors already circulating, it wouldn't take a highly complicated calculation for everyone to know. News spread around the ship faster than a virus.

“For some reason, people still assume you'll be doing the negotiations. Maybe it's because I'm still sitting in the engine room instead of being with ye. They all wish ye success.”

Not just Spock or McCoy. Not just the bridge crew. Not just the Federation. But also the entire crew. Everyone.

We back you up.

Jim took a hitching breath, then pressed his lips tightly together, his eyes swimming.

“Sorry, too much information? Too much pressure? Ye know ye don’t hav’ tae…

“It's okay, Scotty. It's all good. Thanks.”

“Jim?”

Jim pressed his arm against his nose, catching a sneeze. “Hikxsch!” He hoped it was enough to explain the tears in his eyes.

Scott wasn't fooled, but he played along anyway. “Allergic tae encouragement?”

“Could be another one of those rare allergies.”

“Gosh, ye had an allergic reaction?”

Jim nodded and caught the next sneeze with a tissue, blowing into it. “Earlier, not too bad, McCoy was right there.”

“Good, we don't need that experience from two years ago again.”

Jim didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the memory. Unknown planet. A rare allergen. (Who was allergic to this one flower that bloomed only once every thousand years and was a harmless sanctuary for the inhabitants?) And an emergency transport past midnight. Scott had seen the worst of his endless sneezing attacks, watery eyes and persistent coughing fits, and he had also seen the worst of a distressed Spock trying to help. Scott had spent the minutes long after his shift had ended with him, while Spock had had to beam back to the planet – until McCoy finally arrived with the redemptive hypo in boxershorts.

Jim had owned Scott an explanation that he couldn’t give until after his two-day stay in sickbay, and in one lunch break a week afterwards, he'd let Scott in on his secret. He was the third and last person to learn about his medical history.

Scott had handled it calmly and told him just as casually about his own pre-existing condition.

Different diseases, but both easily treatable in this century and no obstacle to their profession, but nevertheless silent allies of suffering.

Jim gave him a weak, tired smile. “Yeah, let’s hope I’ll make it out with just one day in sickbay.”

“I would come visit ye.” Scott seemed to realize his mistake, “I mean, as soon as the quarantine is lifted. Actually, video calling is an option. I won't be far away tae get ye through the nights.”

“You've already gotten me through this horrid string of bore– ” He fell victim to another hacking attack, twisting to cover it with an arm.

“Damn, ye must really muffle every one of yer coughing fits there,” Scott said in dismay as Jim gradually recovered – and immediately succumbed to another barking fit.

Jim nodded with tears in his eyes as he drank his bottle half empty. “Now, they’re contagious,” he breathed out, his voice broken to a rasp. A wave of exhaustion gripped him, but it was only the strain from endless coughing.

Scott seemed to notice. “Get some rest, Jim. The break's nearly over. People are rushing back. I've got some work tae supervise. Impulse doesn't bring much trouble, but better safe than sorry.”

“Sure thing, Scotty. Thanks for – ”

In the background, Jim picked up on conversations.

“Is Mr. Scott talking to the captain?” said an Ensign with a young voice.

“What a creative use of the PADD!” Another one marveled.

“Surely, I haven’t heard anything from our captain in a while. He must be busy with preparations for the big talk with Durama 78.” A female voice rang out.

“He's so admirable!” said another woman, who immediately lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. “They say he may be unwell, but he's still doing his best up there, for the sake of making peace with all planets. It motivates me to do my best today too!”

“Yes, me too!”

Scott rolled his eyes and stood up. The whispering fell quiet immediately, only a few surprised “Mr. Scott!” rang out.

“Well, my dear children, ready tae learn how tae oil a running machine?”

He glanced briefly at Jim, forming a silent ‘Until later’ with his lips, before making a smooth hand gesture and – Call Ended.

Jim blinked and mimicked the hand gesture. His PADD showed him that it still had to be programmed for hand gestures. I should take an advanced course on the use of PADDs, or at least let Spock or Scott show me the ropes someday. Then Jim looked at the clock display. He had been talking to Scott for a while. 

He had almost forgotten how bored he had been exactly half an hour ago.

Chapter 12: Breathe

It’s been a while now, Jim thought, as he shifted his gaze to the turbolift that was not on the move. Yeoman Rand and Miss Chapel had filled his water bottle again and rolled it to him. He picked it up and drank against the cough that just wouldn't stop.

“Are you all right?” Miss Chapel inquired. “No noticeable constriction of the airways? Are you getting enough air?”

Jim looked at her. He had completely forgotten that there was a fourth person who knew about his condition just because she was McCoy's assistant. He had nothing against the woman, but he could feel the frustration growing inside him. “Yeah, I'm fine. Don't ask,” he said more harshly than he intended. Miss Chapel seemed to understand, though, because she only gave him a friendly, concerned smile, which upset him just as much.

With a sigh that tortured him with a fresh fit of coughing, he leaned back in his chair, curling up into his blanket. He must have fallen asleep without knowing, because a coughing fit shook him awake. His PADD, which had slipped close to the edge, showed him that five minutes had passed. To spare another PADD a tear, Jim put it back down on the floor and decided, damn, they’re taking their time down there.

Jim leaned onto the button of the intercom. “Kirk to sickbay.” He had to stop himself from finishing those few words with a cough.

“McCoy here. Everything alright, Jim?”

Inwardly Jim exhaled, but outwardly he gave in to a fit of coughing. “You're taking quite a long time,” he wheezed when he had some breath back.

“I’m treating Spock right now,” McCoy said. “Finally convinced him that it’s illogical to walk around with a fever of forty-point-one.”

“What?” Jim breathed.

“It doesn’t kill a Vulcan, but still. We don't want the copper in his blood to melt at some point.”

“The copper in my blood cannot melt. You should know that as a man of science.”

“Goddamn, he’s getting on my nerves, Jim. He talks into my treatment every five seconds just because he thinks he knows better!”

“I understand my body better than the anatomy books do.”

“And I studied the subject!” McCoy snapped back, then took a sharp breath and continued complaining. “I miss you as my patient, Jim. At least you didn't lecture me on the sustainability of the individual ingredients in my remedies.”

“I was just saying that – ”

“Yes, Spock, I'm aware that the leaves don't come from happy plants because they're grown artificially under poor cultivation conditions. That's the second time you've told me that.”

“Is Spock all right?” Jim asked cautiously. Impatience and stubbornness were not part of Spock's usual demeanor, and their banter seemed more intense than usual. 

“Yeah, I just brought his mental shields down, and now he's... He'll be fine, but damn, he's worse than you when you're drunk.”

“I usually fall asleep immediately.”

“Yeah, right. You're easy, Jim, he's the complete opposite.”

“McCoy, I am not intentionally getting on your nerves. Your hectic thoughts are just throwing me off my guard.”

“And I've touched him a few too many times...”

“I see,” Jim said, no longer able to hold back his cough. It had been a losing battle from the start. He at least tried not to cough into the microphone, but what came through was enough to make McCoy curse hell, God and whatever else.

“Goddamn, inhale. Don’t say you’re not noticing that.”

“What? It’s just a persistent dry cough.”

“Your airways are so blocked with phlegm, they are literally begging to be cleared.”

How can you tell from the distance? Jim cleared his throat, then succumbed to another fit. Now that McCoy mentioned it, he actually felt it; something was stuck in his airways, irritating them constantly. “All right, you've convinced me.”

“Easy, is what I'm saying. Easy I wish was the Vulcan. Anyway, can you do it alone or do you need my assistance?”

“I think I can manage.” Jim noticed that Miss Chapel already put on some medical gloves to take care of the inhaler. “I’m getting help.”

“Christine?” McCoy guessed correctly. “Reliable staff I have there. Good, I’ll leave you to your treatment, then. We should be back in ten minutes. Hopefully, I see you under the mask then!”

“Yeah, Bones. Don’t argue too much with Spock. Kirk out.” Jim straightened up in his seat and watched Miss Chapel prepare the device; how she dripped the saline solution from a crystal-clear ampoule into the device, which settings she chose and how she attached the mask. Maybe he could do it himself next time.

“Can you catch?” she asked suddenly. Her voice was professional, but the hint of a grin twitched on her lips.

“Yeah,” Jim said, getting ready. Miss Chapel threw it on his lap with pinpoint accuracy and he caught it with both hands. He put on the mask, turned on the device and started to inhale.

Take a deep breath, hold for five seconds, exhale… It became a kind of mantra that gave him strength and gradually eased the urge to cough. However, it also brought back the boredom. Jim's fingers hovered hesitantly over the panel, then he decided to just leave it. Scott was probably too busy instructing the young ensigns. Impulse speed gave them enough time to try out things that weren't possible in warp, and Jim didn't want to deprive them of a rare chance.

With a prolonged sigh, Jim leaned back in his chair. Miss Chapel indicated with a stern face that neither was allowed. God, she got her diligence from Bones... Jim sat up straight again, concentrated on his breathing and handed himself over to horrible boredom. He watched the bridge, but there wasn't much movement. Uhura was pressing a few buttons at her station, apparently still trying to reach Durama 78. Sulu kept an eye on the ship's displays and chatted with Yeoman Rand about nothing in particular; fencing matches, shore leave and haikus. The security officer was playing chess against the computer. Miss Chapel's attention was entirely on Jim and his treatment.

Only Chekov wandered between the weapons and science stations. When he looked up from the latter's scanner, his eyes met Jim's and the Russian grinned. “Need some entertainment, Captain?”

Jim tilted his head to indicate interest and put an effort into bringing a casual smile to his lips. “Do you have any to offer?”

“Well, I know a few Russian legends. I can tell you some.”

“Wouldn't that distract you too much?”

“Don't worry, the sensors aren't showing anything exciting anyway and I can do both. So, shall I?”

Under normal circumstances, Jim would never have agreed to this – Russian legends did not exactly fall within his area of interest – but he was so desperate for a distraction that he would have listened to a philosophy professor preach about the end of the universe. Chekov's stories, however, were more like a reading lecture about Baba, Snegurochka, Jack Frost and many other names that Jim could neither spell nor remember.

What Jim understood in the first second, however, was that all these fairy tale characters had left a deep impression on Chekov – he spoke of them with the enthusiasm of a nerd, his Russian accent more pronounced than usual. Jim was strangely reminded of his younger self back in his academy days, when he had once again discovered an exciting book from the 21st century and expressed his fascination with strung-together sentences, too many adjectives and an extravagant choice of words in front of his only half as interested friends.

To be honest, Jim couldn't quite follow Chekov's explanations, but it calmed him down to listen to the voice full of youth and innocence. It filled him with a strange sense of satisfaction. He closed his eyes and tried to use his imagination to lend images to Chekov's word, but he didn't quite succeed. Maybe because he didn't really have an idea of Russia; maybe because his head was pounding too much or maybe because one half of his brain was still busy with conscious breathing.

“Sorry, Captain,” Chekov interrupted himself. “It must be boring.”

“No, no,” Jim assured him, opening his eyes as if he had awoken from a dream. “I'm just not at the top of my game today.”

“Oh, come on,” Chekov said with a wide grin. “It's obvious you weren’t listening.”

“I was,” he objected. I just can’t remember a single line.

Before Chekov could say anything, Sulu joined their conversation. “Shall I tell you something about Japanese fairy tales instead? But I only know the one with the peach.”

“A peach?” Chekov asked incredulously.

“It was pregnant.”

Chekov's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets and his mouth dropped wide. “Chto?”

“Momotarou?” Jim guessed, while Chekov shook his head and turned back to the science scanner, muttering something about his fairy tales only being about humans, not weird fruit.

“Ah, you know it, Jim?” Sulu said.  

“Yeah, I stumbled across it once,” Jim said. ”Quite a popular story, isn't it?”

“Yeah, it even reached me on the other side of the planet. Ah, you know the legend about the cranes?”

“If you fold a thousand, you get one wish.”

“Yes! My grandfather told it to me before he...” Sulu grew quiet, a faint smile coming to his lips, as if he was remembering something that was both painful and beautiful. Jim sympathised with him.

“So, how is it that you don't know a single Russian fairy tale, but you know all of the Japanese ones?” Chekov asked, curiosity and anger battling in his voice.

“I accidentally read a book about it,” Jim replied, coughing. It developed into a hacking attack that sent stabbing pain through his diaphragm.

Miss Chapel stepped up. “I hate to interrupt your conversation, but Kirk, your posture.”

With a groan, Jim sat up straight and focused on his breathing. He was quickly getting bored again.

“We have a pretty educated captain,” Sulu said, focusing on the readouts again.

“Who doesn't know a single thing about Russia,” Chekov muttered.

“Chekov – ”

“I didn't mean it like that, Captain!”

“Can you recommend me a good Russian book?” Jim cleared his throat. “Preferably with a translation in Standard?”

“War and Peace by Leo Toistoi,” Chekov said as straight as a shot.

“Already read that one.”

“What?”

“It's a classic. Anything modern?”

“Hmm...” Chekov thought about it a little longer. “Metro 2033? By Dmitry Glukhovsky.”

“Sounds good.”

Jim grabbed his PADD and surprisingly found the book in their library. He downloaded it.

Chekov stared at him as if he had launched Moscow into space. “What are you doing? You don’t have to because of me…”

“Chekov, is it so hard to believe that I like reading?”

“No, after all you've told me,” Chekov admitted. “You have to tell me what you think, though. I found it hard to understand the first time I read it.”

“I will. I'm looking forward to it.” Jim gave him a small smile and Chekov returned it shyly before turning back to his stations. He decided to let the boy work and instead devoted himself to the new reading experience.

However, he only made it to page five, until things became exciting on their own. The turbolift doors hissed open and two arguing figures stepped out, or rather, one man was complaining loudly, the other reacted coldly.

“I will never use xenogenic turmeric root or synthesized elderberry or whatever from sad plants again, so stop lecturing me about it like my horrible biology professor who was an ecologist through and through!”

“I never said that you should stop – ”

“Yes, you did, five times!”

“I was under the influence of your strange treatment methods. Whatever I said was not an expression of my logical thinking.”

“Yes, but it sounded logical enough to drive me up the wall.”

“You were not ‘driving’ on the wall, Leonard.”

McCoy let out a sigh that covered every shade from frustrated to completely done with the world. “In case your logical mind didn’t catch it, we're back on the bridge.”

“I am aware of that, Leonard.”

“Then stop calling me Leonard!”

“What exactly do you have against your first name?”

“Nothing! It's just creeps me out when you call me that on the bridge.”

“Just me?”

“Argh, everyone, I mean!”

“And what exactly does a location have to do with how you react to your own name?”

“Look, we all call each other by our last names here, it's just a bit more informal today because Jim’s – Oh, why am I even trying to explain it to you, you won't understand my feelings anyway!”

“If you put it like that, then no.”

“What if I suddenly told you that I like – “ McCoy stopped himself. “Please just call me McCoy like everyone does here.”

“I understand, McCoy.”

Jim welcomed them both with a smile under his mask. “Well, Spock, McCoy, how's it going?” he breathed.

McCoy gave him a death stare before shifting into strict doctor mode. “First, sit up straight, Captain, and don't waste so much breath. Second, I survived that green-blooded catastrophe of nature. I've got him fixed up for now and the additional tests showed that only the human component in his blood are affected, no mutation – for now. Which means we only have one Vulcan to worry about.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “You do not have to ‘worry’ about me. After the hypo you gave me, my health has improved considerably.”

“You just got an antipyretic and now you act like it cured you! You're sick under your shield, Spock, probably just as much as Jim.” McCoy turned his face into his arm, cleared his throat and coughed.

“Maybe we should take care of you, doctor,” Spock said.

“Getting ‘concerned’ because of a little scratch in the throat? That doesn't seem logical to me.” McCoy used Spock's favourite choice of words. Spock raised his other eyebrow at that, but didn't comment.

“That’s how it started for me, by the way, Bones,” Jim said, “and now look where it's got me.” He was referring to his general sickness, the inhalation, and the fact that he was sitting in his command chair on the bridge with a damn contagious respiratory infection.

“At least I'm not the captain of this starship, just the CMO.” McCoy stepped up to him and tapped his back. “Now sit up straight. Feet parallel on the floor and slide forward to the edge. I wouldn't be surprised if I'm hoarse by the end of the day just because I have to shout the same instructions at you again and again.”

In order not to drive the doctor further to the brink of despair – and possible be responsible for the loss of his dear voice – Jim decided to follow the instructions. However, McCoy always seemed to have something to complain about; back not straight enough, shoulders too tense, breath held a second too short. Jim had thought the purpose of the treatment was to help him, not to drill twenty minutes of body awareness into him.

“Jim, you know I'm only doing this to help you,” McCoy said, most likely picking up on his frustration.

“I know,” Jim breathed through the mask, suppressing a cough. “I guess I’m just craving for the comfort I’m missing.”

“You don't have it easy.” McCoy grabbed him by the shoulders and straightened them. “You'd have every right to lie in a warm, soft bed and rest properly. Instead, they keep you here in this chair.”

“At least it's cosy,” Jim said with a shrug and sniffled. His nose was tingling. He took off the inhalation mask and fired a sneeze into the crook of his arm. “Acksh!” And another one. “Acksch!” He sniffled his nose clear as best he could and put the mask back on to keep it that way.

“Bless you, Jim,” McCoy said.

“Bit too late to turn me holy, eh?” Jim tried with humour, but McCoy just rolled his eyes.

They didn’t pick up on a previous topic and Jim was too focussed on his breathing to start another conversation. Jim silently kept reading until the saline solution was used up and Jim switched off the device. He immediately started barking and McCoy held out the bag for him to spit the mucus into. By now it seemed routine to Jim – he wasn't even ashamed of the noise he was making anymore.

When he had recovered and his airways were noticeably clear, he searched for Spock with his eyes and found him next to Chekov at the science station.

“Did you find out if he’s contagious?” Jim whispered to McCoy.

“In fact, he is,” McCoy replied just as quietly, “but only slightly, it has no statistical relevance, to borrow his words.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, his shields are back up again, protecting not only him from feeling any of the illness, but also others from his viruses. In addition, the virus is mainly in his blood, and he has no symptoms that could pass it on. Besides… Ever wondered why there are never any epidemics or pandemics reported on Vulcan?” Jim shook his head. “First of all, the Vulcans would never tell us. Secondly, they not only exercise perfect control over their minds, but also over all their bodily functions. I knew that before, but I only just realized how much Spock controls his breathing, even when he speaks – not a single breath hits you! So, for my theory – ”

Spock cleared his throat audibly.

Jim furrowed his eyebrows as he gave McCoy a look. Does your theory still hold up?

McCoy groaned, stomped over to Spock and pulled him away from Chekov by the shoulder. “Spock, wouldn't you rather join us sick guys in the middle?” he asked with a forced smile.

“I should be at the science station, watching the activities on the planet,” Spock replied calmly.

“Yeah, Chekov’s taking care of that. You should focus on commanding. Commanding is in the middle.”

“Then, my place would be in the captain's chair, but it is occupied. It would be more logical for me to be – ”

“Are you just not getting my implications or are you deliberately ignoring them? Spock, you’re sick, you’re contagious, so stop being around people!”

“Have we not just established that – ”

“I miscalculated! Again! But in my defense, you Vulcans always leave me guessing.”

“I am careful, McCoy.”

“You just – ”

“I did not.”

“You didn’t even let me finished my sentence!”

“I could sense what you wanted to say.”

“So, your shields are – ”

“One more word and I shall invoke Regulation 55 to order you off the bridge.”

“What, Spock?”

Spock stared at him and it was clear that he was serious. For once, McCoy said nothing in reply, realising that he couldn't win the fight if Spock stepped way over a line.

Jim decided to intervene. “Spock, the armrest is still free.”

“Captain, are you suggesting that I should – ”

“Yeah, come to me, Spock. To your friend, Jim.” He cleared his throat. I hope that didn't sound too imposing...

To his surprise, Spock walked to him and settled down. His Vulcan robes draped white and blue across the armrest all the way to the floor, blending into the clinical white of Jim's blanket. For a moment it seemed as if Spock wanted to lean on him, but he kept his posture straight. Jim wondered if it was because of the lowered mental shields, or something else, that Spock made no attempt to cuddle him. Maybe it was because McCoy was watching.

By now, Spock must have suspected how McCoy felt about him.

Jim swallowed the strange lump forming in his throat and concentrated on Spock's breathing instead. He couldn't deny that he was curious to see if there was any truth to McCoy's theory. And indeed, Spock was breathing so shallowly and calmly that it was hard to tell if he was doing it at all. Jim started to envy him for that control, until Spock suddenly coughed behind closed lips. Jim flinched in surprise, not having expected it, and McCoy, who was back at their side, frowned.

“Spock, you are aware that – ”

“Yes,” the Vulcan replied before McCoy could finish his question. “If you will excuse me for a moment…” Spock turned his head away from them, raised his arm smoothly and let out exactly five sharp pronounced coughs. Jim was astonished by the fact that they sounded absolutely controlled and not the tiniest bit phlegmy, before he himself lapsed into a far more unrestrained coughing fit. McCoy rubbed his back while pointing the medical hand scanner at Spock.

“No phlegm, no inflammation, your lungs are in near perfect condition.” It sounded negative coming from McCoy's mouth. “How do you do that, Spock? And can you teach us the trick, too?”

Spock lowered his arm and turned back to them as if nothing had happened. “I was taught these techniques from an early age. I doubt you have the hereditary ability and discipline to learn them, especially in such a short time.”

“That's too bad,” McCoy said. “Are you all right now, though, or do you need a back rub as well?”

Spock furrowed his eyebrows almost resentfully before saying with a small sigh. “I would prefer not to be touched right now, especially not from you. Besides, it was just a mild irritation.”

“Mild irritation, huh? And then you still fuss over me when I clear my throat!”

“I – ” Spock put his hand over his mouth as he let out a cough that sounded far from controlled. It sounded painful and made his perfectly straight shoulders slump. When he stopped after long seconds, his cheek muscles twitched and took on a slightly greenish colour, as he started at his hand as if it got burned. “That came unexpected,” he muttered with a rasp in his voice.

“Don't use your hand next time, Spock,” McCoy said, his voice lacking teasing. He handed Spock a disinfectant wipe and made a visible effort to minimize contact rather than extend it to comfort. “Seems like you've reached the point where your shield can no longer compensate. Do you need a lozenge?”

“I do not have a sore throat,” Spock said.

McCoy immediately shed his previous gentleness. “You and your bloody non-existent sense of pain!” He bridled, possibly because his own sore throat was bothering him. “These things don't just help with pain, they also help ease the coughing, at least they should. They don't actually do anything, they're just for the feeling – ah, forget it, Spock. Being nice is in vain with you.”

“Doctor, you are confusing me. I – ” For a moment it seemed as if Spock wanted to admit that he wasn’t in the best state of health; that McCoy should stop teasing him, but something held Spock back, probably his trained restraint. But Jim understood. He leaned his head against Spock and nudged him gently, making it clear that he was there for him. The next second, he realised his mistake.

“Sorry, Spock, I didn’t mean to – ”

Before he could pull away, however, Spock wrapped an arm around him and held him close.  So, I'm the exception to the no-touching rule? Jim thought. The next second, Spock gave him a confirming look. God, he can read my mind, I hope it doesn’t bring up something embarrassing like... Jim tried to shield his thoughts. Spock loosened his grip slightly.

“Do not be concerned, I will not be listening.”

McCoy gave them a look like What the hell is going on with you two? Then, he surprisingly said, “Can I join in? I could use a hug, too.”

“May I kindly remind you that it would be illogical for you to take the risk of cuddling two contagious people, after the other thing we have established?”

McCoy pursed his lips and Jim gave him a look. Care to tell me, Bones?

Grumbling, McCoy crossed his arms in front of his chest and shrugged. “I tested myself for the virus as well and the test turned out to be negative. I am not infected. Maybe it’s some mistake, I can't explain it myself. Well, maybe I can. I probably caught the common cold and the virus just thought: ‘Well, that body already got something, so I’d better stay away.’ It’s just a theory, though.”

“So, you’re not sick, Bones?”

“I am sick, not just with that virus. Spock’s test was positive-negative, by the way. Isn’t that much more interesting?”

“Nah, that doesn’t come much as a surprise,” Jim said, suppressing a yawn that then took over his whole face. He wasn't actually that tired, but then somehow, he was... It was strange: his mind was awake, but his body was exhausted.

“Anyway,” McCoy said, ignoring his obvious fatigue. “We've got another two hours or so...” This time McCoy even paused for Spock to correct him, but the correction didn't come. “Spock?”

Spock blinked his eyes open. Neither of them had seen him closing them. “In exactly two hours, the intereference on Durama 78 is expected to be lifted and the conversation can take place.” Spock ended his speech with a small cough which he covered with his arm this time.

“I suggest you two rest until then,” McCoy said.

Jim had no objections, so he made himself comfortable at Spock's side. Realising that he was practically abusing his first officer and commanding officer as a pillow, he detached himself and sat up straight, then leaned back in his chair.

Spock made no move to stop him. He was too focused on collecting his spit to argue against McCoy. “I do not need rest. My health is acceptable.”

“Acceptable is not good and you seem a little tired to me, Spock. Your reactions are coming delayed.”

Spock raised an eyebrow and now Jim noticed it too: Spock was actually reacting to everything a few barely noticeable seconds later. “The illness perhaps is affecting my abilities slightly, but it should not pose any issues.”

“But it will cause me problems if I have to get two overtired officers off the bridge afterwards. So, take our captain as an example and relax – meditate or something.”

“I cannot.”

“Huh?”

“I cannot do it in front of this many people,” Spock explained. “I need complete silence and no distractions.”

“Oh...” McCoy thought for a moment. “Do you want to hand over command to me again and retire to your quarters for an hour?”

Spock shook his head almost imperceptibly. “I will hand over command to Uhura. Your duty, McCoy, is to take care of Jim. But I will probably go and gather my strength for a while. I assume the quarantine extends to the officers' quarters as well?”

McCoy nodded. Spock stood up and gave Uhura a look before leaving for the turbolift. He decontaminated himself first, though.

“Is he all right, Bones?” Jim asked quietly.

“I don’t know. Something’s breaking in him.”

“McCoy, you are bound by medical confidentiality.”

“We don't have anything like that anymore since the general research law – “ McCoy realised that Spock was just stalling for time with a pointless argument. “Now go get some rest, hobgoblin. The corridors are safe. You're safe.”

Spock eyed him with a raised eyebrow, then stepped into the turbolift. As the doors closed and the elevator whizzed away, McCoy continued in a grumpy voice. “He’s getting worse and he is turning more and more into a prime example of his impetuous ancestors. I don’t know how to help him because he just won’t let me! Besides, he seems to have picked up on my feelings…”

“You mean…?”

“Don’t make me say it, Jim.”

Jim kept quiet, watching McCoy as he leaned against the command chair with a sigh, his gaze distant. “There are three rules for dealing with a sick Vulcan. First, stay logical. Two, hold back your emotions while treating them. Third, they draw tighter personal boundaries than humans. Fourth, you have to accept that they perceive things differently, pain and discomfort and...” His lips formed a four-letter word that he didn't voice. Instead, he sighed again. “I don't think I've followed a single rule, and I've even broken the most important of human doctors: Keep your distance and stay professional.”

“He's your friend, Bones. It's hard,” Jim reassured him.

“I just can’t seem to crack him,” McCoy said, sounding affected. “One second I think I know him, understand him, then he startles me with something unexpected. Again and again. Four years... All the research, all my time on Vulcan, all the time I spent with him, treating his wounds, his illnesses, his problems... And yet I feel like I'm still at the beginning. Why?”

“I get it, Bones,” Jim said just as sad. “I thought all the chess games and combat training had brought us closer, but well, I could tell all along that something was wrong, but not what. You saw right through him. You...” Jim took a deep breath and expelled it with a cough. “You know him, Bones. What's more, you have the medical expertise. You sent him away because you know what's best for him: being here is stressing him out, and...”

“Yeah, Jim, maybe that was my intention, who knows. But you understand him just as well.”

The two looked at each other, realising something neither of them was revealing. Jim averted his eyes as a persistent cough claimed him.

“What are we doing here anyways?” McCoy sounded like he was shaking his head to get rid of some thoughts. “You should be resting and I should probably tell the labs to stop researching the virus. Spock forgot.”

“I already relayed the information when you two came back to the bridge,” Uhura told him. “The labs are now working on other research.”

“Great, thanks, that saves me the work.”

With nothing much for him to do, McCoy’s attention fell back to him; after all he was his patient. “You need a pillow to get more comfortable?”

Apparently, McCoy had noticed him shifting. “Yeah,” Jim rasped. “I don’t take a human one, though.”

“I wasn’t about to offer me, you know?” McCoy said with a wry grin, then looked around. “Do we have a pillow here?”

Miss Chapel threw one to him. McCoy wasn't so skillful at catching, and so, it landed at his feet. He picked it up, thanked her sarcastically and shoved it into Jim's back. Jim slumped down, resting his head on it. “Will you wake me up in an hour or so, in case I fall asleep?”

“Of course,” McCoy assured him. “I'll also wake you if you threaten to suffocate again.”

Jim grimaced horribly. “Don't remind me.” Then he closed his eyes and levelled his breathing.

Take a deep breath, hold for five seconds, exhale...

Why did the moment seem like one for him to catch his breath? As if he had sprinted a long marathon and finally got a break. Yet the most difficult stage was still ahead of him. The negotiations with Durama 78 would take place in less than two hours – if the atmospheric interference, which was also blocking their signal, had cleared by then. Spock was not quite fit, nor was McCoy, although they both looked and acted like the prime example of health next to him. How much longer did they have before they would all crumble into a heap of misery together?

Take a deep breath, hold it for five seconds, exhale...

He couldn't let himself down – he had to play the brave, strong captain who wouldn't let any illness throw him off his game. At least that's what he would have to look like in front of the representative of Durama 78. Here, on the bridge, he was just Jim, but later he would be James T. Kirk.

He needed this moment to prepare himself. To embrace his fate and that of the whole world, which lay in his hands. By now it was no longer him against Starfleet Command. The Federation was on his side, appreciating his diplomatic skills and trusting that even in sickness he could turn the tables. And he would make sure the tables showed peace.

Take a deep breath, hold for five seconds, exhale…

Now he was deeply relaxed. His thoughts came to rest. His body went limp. He let himself sink into the warmth of the blanket, getting completely enveloped by it, and soon drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Take a deep breath, hold for five seconds, exhale…

It might become his last great moment.

Chapter 13: One Hour

An elbow nudged Jim out of his little nap. “Hey, Jim,” came McCoy's soft but firm voice.

Jim blinked away the drowsiness, looking around to orientate himself – He was half lying in his command chair on the bridge – and sat up straight. The leaden heaviness only slowly left his muscles, and his head throbbed dully. Dizziness spun his thoughts, and he groaned until they came to a chaotic halt. Why….

Remembering in panic the reason McCoy had woken him up before, Jim checked his breathing. His nose was hopelessly blocked, and phlegm hung so thickly in his throat that his breath came out shallow and fast. But he was breathing and convinced that he would be for a while. “What is it, Bones?” he croaked. The words loosened the phlegm and sent him into a violent barking fit that burned all the way to his lungs. He spat into the bag.

McCoy waited patiently for him to finish. “Sorry, but you asked me to wake you after an hour. I even gave you some extra minutes.”

“How gracious.” Jim grumbled, rubbing the last traces of sleep from his face. “What time is it?” He glanced at the chronometer to answer the question himself, but all he could make out were blurry numbers. He squinted his eyelids, but that didn't make them any clearer.

McCoy gave him a moment before he told him. “Sixteen hundred half or something.” McCoy glanced at the chronometer himself. “Sixteen hundred and forty, to be exact. Are you having trouble with your sight?”

Jim blinked his eyes fully open, so surprised he was by McCoy's perceptiveness, then he relaxed. McCoy was a doctor; it was his job to interpret strange behavior in his patients and surely his fainting spell wasn't the first one McCoy had witnessed. Since he was aware that McCoy already knew, he merely shrugged in response to the question.

“Your circulation seems to be collapsing and if I can tell without a tricorder, then that's saying something. Here, drink.” McCoy handed him his full water bottle. It felt heavy in Jim's hands, but he unscrewed it and put it to his mouth. Thirst overcame him the moment the water made contact with his tongue, and he greedily drained the bottle until he drowned himself into a coughing fit. He just so managed not to choke by swallowing first and coughing after.

McCoy rubbed his back throughout the fit, took the nearly empty water bottle from his hand and, after Jim had calmed down from the attack, said, “And you should definitely inhale again.”

Jim caught himself asking, instead of protesting, “Can I prepare the device?”

McCoy didn't object, but handed him the inhaler and a vial of saline solution. Jim wondered if he should have thought about his question before asking it and decided not to repeat his mistake. He eyed the inhaler for half a minute, considered his question carefully and then asked it. “Where do I put it?”

McCoy opened a flap on the holder that Jim hadn't noticed before and showed him where and how the liquid was inserted. When Jim had squeezed the last drop from the ampoule into the device, he put on the mask and inhaled. “What's the ship’s current status?” he asked the crew, feeling like the captain again for the first time in ages.

“Nothing has changed, sir. Our signal is still not coming through,” reported Uhura, who still seemed to be in command. Wait...

“Thank you.” He then turned to McCoy to whisper. “Where's Spock?”

McCoy shrugged cluelessly. “Not here yet. And Jim...”

Jim let out a frustrated grumble, scooted closer to the edge of his seat and straightened his posture to show he could do very well without doctor's orders. He took a deep breath, held it for five seconds and blew it out gently. He repeated the exercise. It helped clear his mind. “Have you already tried reaching him?” Jim finally asked.

“No, I didn't dare. He gets very annoyed if you disturb him in the middle of his meditation, and I think he already hates me enough after our little trip to sickbay.”

Jim raised an eyebrow as Spock would have done.

“I mean the Vulcan equivalent of annoyed, of course. Haven't you ever noticed how his cheeks grind when you get him out of his Kathera for no logical reason? He looks so damn ready to tear you apart with his teeth!” Jim shook his head; he had never noticed. However, he had never disturbed Spock while meditating, either. “Besides, there wasn’t really a reason to contact him. Nothing really happened in that hour and I trust him. But you're actually right, Jim, we agreed on an hour and it's not like him to be late.” McCoy turned to the communications station. “Uhura, can you open a private com channel to Spock's quarters for us?”

“Visual?” Uhura asked.

“Damn, I wouldn't get rid of the nightmares. No, just audio.”

“Then I will call him via his personal communicator,” Uhura said, before adding with a grin. “But you’re gonna be the one to deal with his bad mood, doctor.”

“Still better than being in command.”

As the com channel opened with a whistle, all conversations ceased and the engines hummed more quietly. “Bridge to Spock,” Uhura spoke over the calm.

Jim leaned back in his chair until he remembered he wasn't supposed to and sat up straight again. Next to him, McCoy straightened his own posture as if he were once again facing the Federation Council, ready to tear him apart.

Nothing happened. The silence stretched on.

McCoy cast a questioning glance at Uhura, who silently let him know that Spock had accepted the call. “Uhm, Spock?” McCoy said. The nervousness made his greeting sound lame.

“Huh?” came a soft noise from the speaker, followed by the rustling of multiple blankets. The bridge crew exchanged surprised glances. That didn’t sound like Spock at all.

“Goddamn, were you actually sleeping?”

“No,” a tired voice breathed.

“So, you were meditating, lying in bed. I won’t apologise for waking you up, then.”

“What do you want, Len?”

“Uhm…” McCoy was struck speechless as dark spots formed on his cheeks, looking less like angry roots and more like embarrassing buds. Jim couldn't blame him: Sleepy Spock with his rough, raspy voice had a certain appeal... God damn it, Jim, this is not the time for this! Something’s obviously wrong! However, he couldn’t help his own cheeks growing warm.

“Leonard, why are you calling me? Is something wrong with Jim? Have I miscalculated the inference? Is the conversation about to take place?”

McCoy caught himself again. “No, Spock, it’s just – ”

“Then, why in the name of Vulcan are you calling me?” As Spock raised his voice towards the end, it faded into persistent, harsh barking. Jim was reminded of how he had been the previous evening; completely exhausted from his duties, with a stuffy nose and an incessant cough, just wanting to hide from the entire world. He had a suspicion that Spock had just reached that point.

McCoy seemed to notice it as well, his voice turning gentle. “Spock, are you all right?”

“Do I sound all right to you?”

“You sound like you came down with the worst of the sickness. Want me to check on you?”

“No, leave me alone, Leonard!”

A click thundered over the bridge as someone apparently closed his communicator a little too fast. “He broke the connection,” Uhura explained unnecessarily. She turned to them, shadows of concern coloring her face even darker.

“Chert voz'mi, what was that?” Chekov blurted, his face contorting into a grimace of shock.

“I've never heard our First Officer speak like this,” Sulu said, more baffled than shocked.

The ensigns focused on their stations as if they had someone standing behind them with a whip, and even the security officer twisted the corners of her mouth in uncertainty. Yeoman Rand was flinching like she had been back then when Jim had gotten a little too loud around her. Only Miss Chapel didn't seem very impressed by Spock's behavior. “It's almost like back then,” she said.

Jim had to remind himself that very few people had actually seen Spock in Pon Farr back then. In fact, it had only been the three of them, as Spock hadn’t let the others neither see nor know.

“His shields are down,” McCoy said, “I should go and see him.”

As McCoy stormed toward the turbolift, Uhura suddenly spoked up. “Spock is trying to reach us. On Visuals. Shall I accept?”

“Of course!” McCoy yelled, turning to the wall screen.

Uhura furrowed her eyebrows very Spock-like, then pressed a few buttons.

They were prepared for the worst. Then a cheerfully bright room manifested itself. The camera was focused on the bed, with Spock sitting bolt upright on the edge. Only the gesture with which he smoothed a boisterous strand of hair hinted at something unusual. Otherwise, Spock looked like his usual pale and emotionless self. “It was illogical of me to break the connection, I realised. Why exactly were you calling me?”

“We were wondering where you were,” Jim breathed with a tired smile. It was reassuring to see that his first officer had regained his composure, even if what he had heard seconds ago was still in the back of his mind. He’s not fine.

“The hour is long past,” McCoy specified, the hardness of his expression reflected in his voice. “You're already ten minutes over.”

“Oh,” Spock said without much reaction. “I must have lost track of time. Unless I am urgently needed, I would take a few more minutes.” He dug his front teeth in his lower lip, as if holding back from a human apology.

“Sure, Spock, do you need anything?” McCoy asked.

“I am fine. Do not be concerned.” Spock's voice dropped back to a tired rasp at the end. “Five minutes. Then I return to the bridge.”

Jim wanted to have told Spock to take all the time in the world, after all, they had roughly an hour left, but a cough stopped him. By the time he recovered, Spock had already ended the connection less dramatically. The silence on the bridge continued long enough for Jim to hear his own inhale, hold and exhale.

“Will he be fine, Bones?” Jim finally asked.

“First of all, sit properly again, you look like you’re melting in your seat,” McCoy said. “And secondly, I don’t know!”

Jim straightened up and coughed against the airflow of the mask. “He wasn’t in mediation, was he?”

“Obviously not.” McCoy sounded like he would have preferred to shout, but either he was tired or his sore throat was forcing him to speak less loudly. “He was sleeping just like you, only he was probably snoring less.”

The warmth on his cheeks turned into heat that burned his whole face. “Was it that bad?”

“Oh, I was still able to concentrate on the displays,” Sulu assured him with a kind smile.

“Your nose is just blocked and you're congested, so that's perfectly normal,” Miss Chapel said. “And I’m sure Spock was snoring a little bit as well.”

The others were too worried about Spock to pay any attention to his embarrassment. Jim tried to shake off the heat, but it lingered on his face, so he left it alone. There were more important things to focus on. “Uhura, can you contact him again and tell him to get some rest? I can manage without him. Make it a direct order if necessary.”

Uhura and McCoy both looked at him as if he had broken some law he didn't know about. “Do you want to hurt his pride, sir?” Uhura asked. “Vulcans have a very strong sense of duty. You would upset him if you kept him from it, no matter what condition he's in. I don't like it either, but...”

Making note of Uhura's words, Jim looked to his friend for some medical advice. “Bones?”

“Yeah, Jim. She got it right. It would put him under mental stress. Then again, it would be the same on the bridge. All I can tell is that if you force something on him, you only make it worse. I know it’s hard, but don't make the same mistake I did, let him decide.”

Jim took a deep breath, held it a second too short and made it a sigh. “Alright, it would be hypocritical of me anyway.” After all, Spock had also approved his decision instead of forcing him to rest, which he wouldn't have found in his bed anyway. In fact, Jim regretted being on the bridge just as much as he didn't regret it, and he understood very well that there was no solution to this dilemma, especially not one that anyone but oneself could provide.

“By the way, why do you know so much about Vulcans, Uhura?” McCoy asked suddenly, one eyebrow arched in skepticism. “I've seen you around Spock a lot lately.”

“Oh yes, he and I started a little music project after our shift, me singing and him playing the harp. Afterwards, we often talk about our different cultures.” The smile on her lips revealed how much she enjoyed it, until her eyes told something else. “It makes me sad now, though, that he's not well.”

“I understand,” McCoy said, sounding strange, as if his thoughts were stuck in a bitter bog. “So, another rival...”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Ah, oh, nothing. It was just a slip of the tongue...”

“Are you accusing me of not being professional?” Uhura asked hesitantly.

“No, Uhura, I'm sorry. It's just...”

Everyone stared at McCoy. After all the concern over Spock, they were in desperate need of a distraction and unfortunately, he was the perfect one. “What?” McCoy exclaimed. “Am I not allowed to keep track of who all is in love with Spock so I can...” He closed his mouth and grumbled something behind closed lips as he realised he'd given himself away. Oh, Bones...

“Wait...am I missing something out here, or...? McCoy and Spock, but...” Chekov shook his head as if the whole world had suddenly shut out Moscow.

Sulu leaned back in his chair with a broad grin. “Are you crushing on Spock, doctor?”

“No, of course not, God! He and I have a deep rivalry, and no, Sulu, I know exactly what you're going to say, but we're not the Enemies to Lovers trope from some manga!”

“You're quite the tsundere,” Sulu said.

“I'm not a – whatever! And I don't have a crush on Spock either. Does anything even remotely hint at that possibility?”

I have quite a bit of evidence that goes hard against you, Bones. But Jim decided to hold back, partly because he had to concentrate on his breathing. Somehow his chest felt a little tight.

For a moment there was silence on the bridge, then Sulu began to list quietly. “You're always together, you argue like an old married couple, you're both senior officers in a science department... Shall I go on?”

McCoy's cheeks twitched as he was about to give in to either anger or a confession. It was a mixture of both. “Look, I didn't want to give this away, but I was just trying to be considerate. Now, if there was…. Let’s say… a hypothetical person who felt something for Spock that I don't think is possible, because he's cold-hearted and annoying and takes everything too literally and don't get me started on his other thousand flaws, well, I might still want the two of them to get together. Help them, that would make me happy.”

“And you wouldn't happen to be that hypothetical person?” Sulu asked.

“I just literally stated all the reasons why I'm not. Besides, you all forget that I'm married and have a daughter.”

“Well, when you put it that way...” With a shrug of indifference, Sulu turned back to his station.

Jim wondered if he had been the only one who had seen McCoy's gaze switch between Uhura, who had turned away from the whole conversation to work at the communications station, and Miss Chapel, who had seemed strangely absent. He had also noticed that McCoy had never looked at him, excluding him as this hypothetical person. Was it because McCoy was still convinced that he was straight; that all the moments between them had been purely on the joking side of friendship? Were they really?

For a long time, Jim had believed that he only liked women, above all the Enterprise. That had never changed over the years. For a while he had even thought he would never be able to commit to a steady relationship – so many had failed, a heart could only break so many times – but there had been those many small moments of doubt. He had never paid much attention to them, until now. Until he had fallen asleep in Spock’s presence, cried in his arms, cuddled with him, almost mind-melded… And all the while had felt a certain prickle. Was it just the fever? Or was it the miracle drug? Or was it because the extreme situation triggered some equally extreme feelings in him?

No. It wasn't the first time he had felt that way about Spock. In the four years he had known Spock, it had slowly built up, and he had faced the question more than too often: Could he start a serious relationship with Spock? His first officer, damn it! A man who only got sexually aroused once every seven years – but hey, maybe that wasn’t true – and above all his best friend who should be just that: His best friend, the one he trusted the most. Like Bones…

That's how the argument inside him always went. It never ended in a definitive answer. Not a yes. And not a no. A vague in-between.

The fact that he was even thinking about it at this moment made the heat pulse even stronger. It burned into his eye sockets and into his vein, which throbbed violently against his temple. Jim rubbed it as he groaned into the mask, and then reminded himself not to let himself hang like that, but take deep breaths, hold them, exhale…

Gradually, everyone turned back to their tasks and a comfortable calm returned to the bridge. Jim looked towards the turbolift, but it wasn't moving. When he looked at the chronometer, he was no longer surprised: only three minutes had passed. Inhaling seemed to stretch time, or something was wrong with his perception: somehow, he felt as if he was stuck in eternity while everything around him was racing.

McCoy returned to his side, clearing his throat to draw his attention.

He wasn't sitting up straight, was he?

“You're divorced, in case you've forgotten,” Jim whispered.

“Yeah, but if it kills the curiosity, I'll put up with my non-existent wife a little longer. Well, Jim, your posture...”

Jim made no move. He couldn't even tell what was wrong with it even if he could focus.

“Shoulders too tense, back not straight, your feet aren’t on the ground, and if you slump forward just a little more, your lungs won’t have any room to expand.”

As if on cue, Jim succumbed to another barking fit that briefly robbed him of his strength. Take a deep breath, hold it five seconds, exhale… The coughing continued and interrupted his routine.

“Jim,” McCoy grabbed him by both shoulders and pushed him back, then turned his head towards him. Jim groaned because it was pulling painfully at his lymph nodes and because he didn't want to face McCoy right now.

McCoy let out a horrible curse, which Jim deliberately ignored. “You're scarlet in the face!”

Yeah, spill out my obvious feelings… Jim forced himself to correct his posture and take concentrated breaths instead of continuing to indulge in his embarrassment. But... God are my feelings that permanent?

Suddenly, he had the handheld medical scanner whirling over his head. A near-shrill beeping sounded, which McCoy immediately stopped as Jim tensed against the pain it caused. “Jesus Christ, when did your temperature get above forty?”

“What?” he breathed. He was too surprised to actually sound surprised.

“How are you feeling?” McCoy asked, eyeing him with a mixture of seriousness and panic. Jim shrugged his shoulders, which McCoy pushed down. “Just give me any feeling,” he urged.

“Heated,” Jim muttered as his body slumped down once again. He lacked the strength to straightened up. “I wasn't aware of my fever…”

“Shhh, Jim,” McCoy silenced him, his voice soft, but firm. “You couldn’t tell because of TAB. It dulls your perception. I should have taken your temperature more often. I don't know how long it's been rising... Maybe that's why your circulation has collapsed.” McCoy adjusted something on the blanket – that thing has buttons? – and put his inhalation on hold to make him drink something. “I'll give you a hypo,” McCoy said as he stepped away to get to his med-bay.

Jim emptied half his water bottle, put it down within his reach and slipped the inhalation mask back on, because he felt he could hardly manage the urge to cough without it. He relapsed into another nasty fit which caused the mucus in his airways to rattle.

“Damn, you're getting worse fast,” McCoy cursed as he approached him with the filled hypo. Its contents shimmered in a pale yellow.

“It's not that bad, Bones...”

“You realise you're talking feverishly?”

“Well… No.”

“Just stay with me, okay?” McCoy jabbed the hypo into his arm. “Focus on inhaling. Take a deep breath, hold it for five seconds, exhale…”

Jim followed the instructions, his breathing steadying. Until that moment, he had not realised that it had been shallow and quick.

Maybe my love for Spock is just a morbid fever after all, the feverish thought occurred to him.

McCoy pressed the back of his hand against his forehead and kept it there before moving down to his cheeks, sparing his aching lymph nodes. “Jesus, you're burning up terribly! The antipyretic should kick in in a few minutes.” There was more than concern in McCoy's gaze – a secret.

“What is it, Bones?”

McCoy blinked, as if fighting off a wave of fatigue. “I'm afraid that is a sign that you've developed pneumonia. Inhaling just delayed it. Damn!” McCoy turned away as if to hide his emotions, but they were creeping audibly into his voice. “If the negotiations don’t happen in the next hour, I'm taking you out of here. No more hesitation. No compromises.”

“Bones – ”

“No, Jim. I have watched you suffer enough. Actually, if you really have pneumonia, I rather want you in sickbay under ventilation and with appropriate therapy. Otherwise, I can no longer rule out consequential damage. We're still in space, damn it. Our bodies are under enough strain, despite the life support systems.”

Jim found himself no longer protesting. Instead, he remembered the guy of the fleet who had died of pneumonia. He hadn't been a very old man – someone his own age who had served on starships for decades and had only taken command of a constellation class starship for four years. He had been a very fair, strong and above all capable captain who had been late for treatment because he had preferred a peace conference over a visit to sickbay. Why did it seem to Jim that someone had already written out his story for him?

Am I going to fill the place of this person I only knew in passing?

He simultaneously broke out in a sweat and shivered – and almost found himself nodding at McCoy’s words, almost begging him to take him off the bridge, but then the spark of something convinced him otherwise. “Just give me this one hour, Bones, with the full risk,” Jim said in a breathless voice.

“Goddamn, and I’m just giving you that damn hour, but not a second more!”

Notes:

Unrelated to this story, but tomorrow, as a littel Christmas present, I will publish a Star Trek oneshot featuring Spock and McCoy (and Jim in the background). So, look forward! And merry Christmas to all who are celebrating! ^-^

Chapter 14: Now

The antipyretic was working faster than expected and he was sweating like crazy in his thin jumper under the blanket, which felt neither too cold nor too warm. Jim wiped the drops from his forehead with his wet sleeve, smearing them even more, as he groaned from the weird feeling that the fall in his temperature was giving him. McCoy joined him on the armrest, stabilizing his position with one arm wrapped around him and holding the device as it slipped from his slick fingers. Jim leaned against him, head on McCoy's shoulder, and for once McCoy didn't point out his posture. “I’m sorry, Bones…”

“You have every reason to.”

“I've found out who you love.”

“Jim, you're talking deliriously.”

“I'm sorry he isn’t – ”

“Shhh,” McCoy silenced him. “I don't care if my feelings stay one-sided, right now all I care about is that you're okay. I just want you to be okay.” McCoy squeezed him tighter and Jim allowed the cold body to burn against him.

The urge to cough grew constantly, despite the inhalation, which he still laboriously applied. He tried to pull away from McCoy, but McCoy wouldn't allow him to, and eventually he found himself coughing against his shoulder with only the plastic mask between them. Each cough shook him, putting strain on his muscles and tearing through his diaphragm.

“Breathe, Jim,” McCoy whispered, then repeated it louder, but it barely reached him over the noise.

Take a deep breath, hold it for five seconds, exhale…

Another barking fit seized him as an irritation surged from deep in his lungs, burning down his airways and setting his throat ablaze.

“Jim, exhale!”

But he couldn't. Something was blocking his windpipe. His airways constricted to the point of obstruction and the air he couldn't expel almost burst his lungs. Damn, was the only thought that reached him.

Fortunately, McCoy was able to finish it for him. He moved immediately, changing his grip around him and applying pressure in a way that Jim didn't understand, but helped him. Jim at least tried to get himself into a respiratory facilitating position, but it was paralysing when you knew you were only getting enough air because your nose wasn't still completely blocked.

“Miss Chapel, beta sympathomimetic inhaler!” McCoy shouted over the panicked rush of Jim’s breathing. Miss Chapel ran to them, distance rules briefly broken, and handed McCoy a blue, L-shaped spray with which Jim felt vaguely familiar.

McCoy ripped the cap off the mouthpiece and shook the spray. “You know how it goes.” It wasn't a question and Jim didn't answer it. He prepared himself as McCoy took away the inhalation mask and held out the mouthpiece. He closed his lips tightly around it and waited for McCoy's signal to force the air into his lungs. “Breathe now!”

With all his might, Jim took a deep breath and tasted bitter particles on the mucous membrane of his mouth, which travelled through his throat to his lungs. On reflex, he wanted to cough them up, but McCoy told him to hold his breath. Although everything inside screamed to disobey, the small rational part in him trusted McCoy and won over.

“Now breathe out gently through your closed lips,” McCoy instructed.

Jim did just that and felt his muscles relax; his airways opened up and he found it easier to fill and empty his lungs with air. He turned away and used the technique he had learnt to retch up the phlegm. The mucus shot up so abruptly that he didn't have time for the bag, catching it with his sleeve. On the yellow fabric glistened thick, white lumps with a strong greenish tinge... and a rusty brown sheen of blood. When the realisation hit him, his vision flickered black, but he kept conscious. He had seen enough blood – on himself and others – not to faint. Even if that seemed like the easier solution at the time. Just give up...

But a thread-thin resolve held him together.

McCoy took note of the blood without expressing anything, then grabbed him by the arm that wasn't soiled. “We'll give you another dose just to be on the safe side. Want to do it yourself?” Jim nodded and McCoy handed him his emergency spray.

Jim sat up straight and put the mouthpiece between his lips. It worked almost like his regular medication, except that he had to put a lot more pressure on the trigger and almost messed up the timing to inhale because of it, but he somehow managed it.

Take a deep breath, hold it for five seconds, exhale… He remembered how he knew the technique before and why it came so naturally to him. That's how you use an emergency spray.

Completely exhausted, Jim slumped back in his chair, barking wearily into the tissue McCoy handed him. He didn't bring up any more blood, but as he wiped his sleeve, the deep red smear confronted him once again with the truth that he already had.

Pressure built up behind his eyes, tears spilling over. Pressing his lips together, he let out quivering sobs without making a sound. McCoy rubbed his shoulder until he recovered from the shock. It was dead quiet on the bridge, only the stations beeped and something roared in the background, but the humming of the engines drowned it out. Everyone stared at him, even though it was clear from their faces that they didn't want to crowd him like that.

“You have asthma?”, it finally rang through the dreadful silence.

“Sulu, he's in shock...” McCoy said quietly. 

Ironically, the question snapped him out of it. “Yeah,” Jim breathed. “Mixed asthma, worst form. Since birth. I'm sorry I didn't tell you.”

Loud dismay and protest spread across the bridge. “Goddamn it, don't apologise!” he heard Chekov say first. “Your medical history is none of our business.”

“Exactly,” Uhura said softly. “It doesn't change anything whether you have a chronic illness or not.”

“I'm surprised,” Yeoman Rand spoke hesitantly. “Because I was so close to you, and I never realised it.... Your frequent throat-clearing, your pauses when you speak, it all suddenly makes sense.”

Jim cleared his throat, coughed, but said nothing. Not yet.

“We won't tell anyone,” One of the Ensigns said, and her friend nodded.

“No one will hear from me either,” the security officer assured him with a tiny smile. “I'll give it a security level.”

The only ones who didn't say anything were McCoy and Miss Chapel, who had known about it long before.

Jim shook his head, unable to speak for a moment, not knowing how. He took a deep breath, held it for five seconds and blew it out gently. “I should tell everyone. If I'd had an attack and McCoy hadn't been there...” He didn't finish the sentence, but everyone knew what was implied. He almost led everyone present into a helpless situation, because he hadn’t prepared them for such an emergency. He hadn't even been actively carrying his emergency spray. What would they have done?

Damn it, Jim, you knew it could have happened, you felt it, and still you got careless – at the expense of your crew.

Loud protests rang out again; nobody wanted him to feel guilty, he could make out. McCoy cut off the noise before turning to him. “It's your decision, Jim. And shit like that happens, whether doctors are around or not.”

Yes, but this isn't the public, it's a damn starship. And there was no such thing as an ambulance to save him.

In the cruel silence that returned, the doors of the turbolift burst open like a bang. Jim caught a brief glimpse of the chronometer before a white streak rushed to his side, gasping almost as breathlessly as he had a few minutes ago. “McCoy… Did he have…” Spock looked around, realising that everyone seemed to know. “Did he have an asthma flare-up?”

“Yeah, your ears picked that up correctly,” McCoy said with a small sigh. “Did you get so worked up in the turbolift? Calm down, I don't need you to get one of your seizures now.”

“I have taken my medication for today,” Spock said, steadying his breathing and returning to his usual calm, logical self. “What about him?”

“He had had his emergency spray, he’s getting over the shock and…” McCoy whirled the handheld medical scanner over Jim and looked at the tricorder display. “He's stable for now.”

“I understand.” Spock turned to him, his expression softening, though nothing on his face changed. “How are you after that, Jim?”

Jim waved him off, indicating that he was fine. He didn't feel like talking right now, he was tired, and on top of that he was in a strange mental state, as if he wasn't quite there. His thoughts closed around him, but they made no sense; they were like an incomprehensible noise that dulled everything else; the spider's web from his nightmares.

Spock approached until he stood before him as a white-blue shadow and reached out to him, his fingers extending. At the last moment, he hesitated, lowering his arm as if he lacked the strength or motivation to follow through with his action.

Jim appreciated the gesture, the humble attempt, though he doubted any of Spock's techniques would have pulled him out of his mind’s trap.

Spock opened his mouth, but McCoy seemed to already suspect his question. “It was a pretty bad one. He’s just very exhausted, the attack probably caught him unexpected and took a lot out of him. Give him a moment. How are you, Spock?”

Spock ignored the question, his gaze trapped between Jim and the distance. “He has not had a serious attack in two years. Did the illness cause it?”

“Most likely a combination of stress, general exhaustion, the high fever and yes, the sickness on top of that, but – ”

“A high fever?”

“Yeah, his temperature went up again. Forty point seven, but – ”

“Why have you not taken him to sickbay yet?”

“I gave him an antipyretic. And goddammit, I'm going to take him there right now, if you stop interrupting me for once!”

Spock flinched, but did not step away, and kept silent.

Jim slowly recovered from his daze as he felt his temperature reach a stable level. “Bones, you promised me an hour.”

“Yes, Jim, but you just had –  ”

“Don't decide that because of my asthma. It's not an obstacle. It doesn't change anything.”

“It's gotten out of control.”

“That won't happen again. I'll keep my emergency spray with me. And that's my last word on the matter. I need some rest.”

“Yeah, in sickbay, hooked up to a vital signs monitor and oxygen supply.”

“I'm feeling better already.”

“Only as long as the medication works.”

“One hour, Bones.”

“Goddammit, you're getting on my nerves!” McCoy turned to his other patient as he realised that this one was being too stubborn, his grin almost like that of a maniac. “Now, Spock, how are you doing?”

Jim only now noticed that Spock's hair was slightly disheveled because it hadn’t been used to running. On his robe, large creases marked the spots where the mattress had pressed against. Spock combed his hair smooth with his fingers and neatly pulled at his robe. “You should not take your frustration out on me, McCoy.”

“I am not – ”

“I can sense it. At the same time, I am made aware that you are actually generously concerned about me, but it is unnecessary.”

“If you're telling me my thoughts, then I probably have every reason to be worried.”

“My mental state is within functional parameter as is my physical one.”

“And how are you, Spock?” McCoy asked sarcastically.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “What do you – ”

“Oh, you know exactly what I mean by my question. I don't want to hear your logical assessment; I want to know how you feel.”

Spock raised his other eyebrow as well and took a step back as if McCoy had attacked him. “I do not understand,” he said slowly, as if he assumed that the words would reach McCoy better that way.

“Well, let me help you out. We called you, you woke up from your blissful sleep and you sounded sick, really sick. You still sound a bit hoarse and stuffed up.”

Huh? Jim hadn't noticed anything amiss about Spock, except that something about him had seemed out of character. But now that McCoy mentioned it, he heard the subtle sniffles. Spock was practically standing next to his command chair and all Jim perceived was a slight, barely noticeable obstruction in Spock's nasal breathing. He wondered how McCoy could have picked it up faster, since he was standing a good distance away on the other side of the command chair. Wait, Spock's shields are down... Did the two of them establish a subconscious link?

Spock sniffled and now Jim actually heard it; the congestion pressing down on Spock’s words. “I was not able to suppress all the symptoms. However, I did shield the most unbearable. And regarding the other...” Spock fell silent for a brief moment, before continuing. “My Kathera must have pulled me into a deep state of relaxation, of which only the whistle of the intercom got me out.”

“No, Spock, you were simply exhausted, completely worn out. That’s why you fell asleep. Your body’s fighting an unknown virus – even if you hardly realise it yourself.” McCoy walked over to him and pressed the back of his hand against his forehead. “At least your fever hasn't returned yet. You're just humanly warm. Anything else bothering you that isn’t obvious?”

Spock backed away as if to escape McCoy's care. “Nothing is bothering me.”

“Yeah, asked the wrong question. What are your symptoms?”

Spock hesitantly took another step back as McCoy approached once again. “My nasal membranes have swollen unpleasantly, there is an uncharacteristic stinging in my throat and I am experiencing a mild headache.”

“Any other pain or aches?”

“No.”

“Are you tired?”

“Not quite so. As I said, I was just too deep in my Kathera – ” 

“Well, Spock, we don't discuss that anymore.” McCoy took another step towards him and this time he noticed as Spock was obviously dodging. “Say, why are you avoiding me?” 

“I am not – ”

“Going away from me,” McCoy corrected, obviously annoyed at how literate he had to express himself. “You're keeping your distance. Exactly a meter and a half, I see.”

“The last I knew, you did not have the virus, and I am contagious, so – ”

“I literally had Jim cough all over my shoulder just a few minutes ago. There's no hope left for me – not that you ever believed in it, just the probability. The probability is one hundred percent if that calms your logical mind.”

Spock didn't object him; it was further proof of how bad he was truly feeling. Then, he suddenly said, “I take it you have come to terms with your feelings, then?”

Jim swore it got extra quiet on the bridge all of the sudden. Most of the people here, including him, had recovered from the fright of his attack and had turned to their duties, but now their attention was back to the middle.

McCoy didn't miss it. “God! I've talked enough about my feelings. But yes, I have finally realised that I am hopelessly in love with someone who’s never going to return my feelings! Heard it? I’ve just admitted it now and – ” McCoy turned his face into his shoulder to muffle a cough. After that, his voice went scratchy. “You're all forgetting that I'm sick as well, so stop bothering me for once.”

The bridge crew turned back to their tasks without commenting, leaving the three of them to their private conversation.

“If it is not to rude for me to ask, why do you believe that this someone will not return your feelings?” Spock asked with something like honest interest glinting in his eyes.

“Because I just know.”

“You know they are loved by many, and you are too selfless to get involved.”

“Stop it, Spock.”

“I am sorry, Leonard.”

 McCoy's eyes opened to something that sparkled crystalline in their rims. He quickly wiped them away with his hand before using his arm to catch a sneeze. “Hegkxsch! Damn…”, he said with a sniff. “You're triggering an unpleasant reaction in me. Don’t apologise. It’s not your fault.”

“I am aware of that. However, through my involvement in the situation, I am partly responsible for the fact that you got into this unpleasant situation in the first place and apparently also for the fact that your illness is getting worse.”

“I'm fine, Spock.” McCoy grabbed a tissue and blew gently into it, before disposing it in the bag and disinfecting his hands afterwards.

“Do you perhaps would like to talk about it?”

“No, you're definitely the last person I want to talk to about love. It's the worst nightmare I wake up to some nights.” Realising that was probably the most generous comfort Spock had ever offered to anyone, McCoy dropped his surly attitude, changing to something equally honest. “I mean, no, thanks for the offer, but I have enough things on my mind to keep me distracted. Like taking care of you two. That actually brings me to… Jim?”

When McCoy moved his hand up and down in front of his face, Jim realised that he had zoned out during their conversation as if it had not involved him.

“Huh?”

“You're still with us?”

“Yeah, just...” A sharp coughing fit knocked the words off his tongue. I didn't have much to offer, except the things you don't want to hear, Bones.

“Save your breath, Jim.” McCoy said, as if to confirm his thought. He pulled out the handheld medical scanner, but unexpectedly pointed it at Spock. The device made the most alarming noises, causing a few of the bridge crew to turn round. Miss Chapel frowned, her reaction difficult to interpret.

“Your readings are as disastrous as ever,” McCoy said, stopping the device and looking at the results on the tricorder. “Give me a moment to convert the output into something I can work with.”

“Shall I help?” Spock broke his own set distance to look over McCoy's shoulder at the display.

McCoy turned away from him. “No. You're my patient.”

“I think I can assess my own body best.”

“Spock, let me work. Keep an eye on Jim.”

Spock didn't allow himself to sigh, but his strained breathing revealed that he would have liked to. He leaned against the edge of the armrest and neither of them made any attempt to get close. Jim didn't feel like physical contact any more than Spock did. He didn't know if that was a sign of whether he was getting worse or better.

While McCoy mumbled quietly to himself as he analysed the results, Jim played with the emergency spray in his hand, then put it down beside him and blew his nose instead. He was breathing far better than before and it also helped that his nose remained open, although every breath burned everywhere, especially in his lungs. He let out a few sharp coughs that weren't too violent to attract attention.

Jim had expected them to be overly worried or even scared that he would be constantly getting those attacks now, but apparently they were more chill with it than he was.

It had been almost fifteen years since he had told anyone about his medical history for no particular reason; a friend at Starfleet Academy whom he trusted deeply enough to share. Not long after, that friend started to keep a watchful eye on him, asking him daily how he was doing, whether he could breathe well and whether he had taken his medication for today. Then his friend actively interrupted his training because he was afraid he might strain himself into an attack, controlled his meal plans and even asked the instructor to make an exception for him because of his disability, even though Jim did not need one; never wanted one, never saw his condition as a disability in the first place. Eventually, this friend tried to convince him to give up his career because space held so many dangers for someone like him; too many unknown planets and no highly developed medical care like on Earth; he would practically be handing himself over to certain death. (Weren’t they all really? Apart from the fact that asthma, no matter how bad it was, as long as it was properly treated, was not an exclusion criterion for assuming a command position; many captains before him had it, even his predecessor Christopher Pike).

Anyway, at some point his friend had become his disability and he had distanced himself to live his life the way he wanted to, even if it meant making the decision to hide a part of himself that he neither liked nor hated from others. That was the most the condition limited him.

Thinking back on it now, he had never been angry with his friend because he knew it wasn't malicious intent, but came from a place of honest concern. It hadn't helped either of them that this friend had been in love with him, only wanting the best for him without seeing what that was for him. In that respect, Bones is different... McCoy had immediately understood what the condition meant to him and had treated it exclusively medically. And even Spock, who at first had reacted insecurely because of his own ignorance of human pre-existing conditions, had quickly realized what he needed and didn't need in this regard. The two of them had never treated him any differently, and at the same time he was safe in the knowledge that they knew how to help and be there for him in an emergency.

Miss Chapel had only ever treated it as her job dictated and Scotty had not reacted strangely at all. And now he wondered...

Has anything changed in the last decade? Are we finally being understood?

Has the time come where I can open up, embrace my true self and present it to the world without being judged for it?

“Well,” McCoy said, pulling him out of his shallow thoughts. “I hate to say this, but you're right, Spock. Apart from your cold symptoms, you're fine, at least as far as the tricorder tells. Of course, that doesn't mean you're truly fine, not by any means, and I'll keep an eye on you, but for now, I consider you fit enough to handle the negotiation meeting on your own.”

Jim listened up at the last words, knowing what was implied. “Bones –  ”

“McCoy – ”

“Shhh, Jim,” McCoy silenced him with a wave in his direction before turning to Spock. “I gave you a happy message, so don't give me any protests.”

“Whether your message makes me happy or not has no bearing on whether I...” Spock let his sentence trail off, apparently thinking it too illogical. “I had no intention of protesting, but offering to help you get Jim to sickbay.”

Not only Jim, but McCoy was openly shocked. “What?”

“He has pneumonia, McCoy. I am aware that for humans, it is a serious, sometimes fatal – ”

“Wait, what, how – I haven't made an open diagnosis yet.”

“I am picking up a distinct rattle and whistle in his breathing, which, if I am correctly informed, is a clear sign of advanced pneumonia.”

“You walking stethoscope... It could just be his asthma. I'm the doctor here.”

“The cause of his breathing problems has no bearing on whether he belongs in sickbay or not. In any case, I have come to the conclusion that it is now the most logical decision from a medical point of view.”

“I know, Spock! I just don’t want to know!”

Spock tilted his head as if asking a question.

McCoy continued. “If he really has advanced pneumonia, that means I failed. I wanted to give him the chance, I still want to, but I can't if I know now. I'm sorry, Jim...”

“No, Bones, no apologies. I'm staying regardless.” He wasn't supposed to have that determination anymore, it was as good as gone, but they were so close to reaching their goal... Just one more hour... All the preparations, all the effort of his friends, all the waiting would be for nothing if he didn't keep going until the bitter end.  

By now, Jim was aware that only the unfair pressure was keeping him here, that his self was already crumbling, wishing for a bed and less excitement. A release from all the stress. But was that even possible?

He would never find peace until the possible war was over.

“Jim, you’re not – ”

Jim ignored McCoy's protest to turn to Spock. “Can you really say with one hundred percent certainty that I have pneumonia?”

“No,” Spock gave the answer he had expected. “I have no medical training for that. I can only make assumptions based on my knowledge, even if the probability for the case in question is very high, in my estimation.”

“You both know I have a scanner in my hand?” McCoy held on to the small device, his tight fist trembling. “I only need one setting to safely know.”

“Then your dilemma can be prevented by not using it, McCoy.”

“I know.” McCoy took a deep breath, turning to Jim. “You know what that means?”

“I already told you, I'm taking the full risk.”

“You could fall into critical condition at any time now, not to mention long-term damage if you don't get treatment in time.”

“You're going to fix me.”

“You have too much faith in me.”

“If there's one doctor I'd trust with my life, it's you, Bones.”

McCoy's eyes twinkled like stars behind a gloomy night sky. “Jim... You don't know what you're doing to yourself... what you're doing to me, to us.”

“I do, and I'm sorry, Bones, but this is my decision. I want you to respect it.”

McCoy blinked away the rough emotion, nodded with his head lowered and put the medical scanner back in his pocket. “One hour,” McCoy said quietly. “That's all I can give you.”

“Thank you, Bones, and I am aware how much you're sacrificing to – ”

McCoy waved him off, stepping away from them, probably to get himself together.

“In fairness, I should perhaps mention that there is still the possibility that I miscalculated the interference,” Spock said suddenly. “It could take longer than an hour.”

“You won't have miscalculated...,” McCoy said, but it lacked his usual fierce conviction.

“In my current condition, I might have...” It sounded like a sad admission.

“Even now, you're still damn close to perfect.”

“No,” Spock said, his voice serious and without emotion. His eyes jumped to a display that was noticeably changing. “I did miscalculate. The atmosphere is changing... Now.”

McCoy turned to him abruptly, his whole self too shaken from shock, surprise and relief to say anything at first.

Notes:

Unfortunately, work and uni demanded a lot from me and I'm currently struggling a lot with editing the last chapters of this fanfic. I'm planning to get them finished someday, but it will take some time.
For anyone who cannot wait or want to know how the story ends, I provide the link to the German version that is only slightly different than the English one and still gets regular updates as the German version is finished.
Thank you all for your support so far! We'll get to the end eventually!

https://www.fanfiktion.de/s/6703c5070005cf0f2455aeb3/1/Das-Un-Wohl-eines-Einzelnen

Also, on a side-note, this is perhaps my favourite chapter. I just love the 'Jim has asthma' headcanon and if everyone knows or has written a fanfic about Jim having asthma, please recommend it to me! I would love to read it!

Chapter 15: Wait and Drink Tea

The moment repeated itself, this time in slow motion. The single word from Spock's mouth stretched and McCoy turned quickly, but still slowly enough that Jim could see a thousand emotions dancing in his face, one overwriting the other. It was hard to tell exactly what he was feeling, except everything at once – a perfect snapshot of Jim's inner chaos.

McCoy's cheek muscles twitched, unable to settle on a smile, as he opened and closed his mouth rapidly for words he couldn't find. When the strongest of emotions calmed, his words came both hesitant and forceful. “You mean… Now as in now?”

Spock didn't answer him, visibly overwhelmed.

“Spock! Is that – “ Full of enthusiasm McCoy grabbed him by the shoulders as if to hug him, but Spock jumped back as if he'd been struck with a bolt of lightning. The reaction snapped McCoy out of his emotions. “Damn, I’m sorry, Spock, I totally forgot that – ”

“Too much love.” Spock shook his head at each word, battling the sensation and winning over it with rigorous self-control. “Tell me in advance next time, and all I said was that the atmosphere is changing now. It does not mean...”

Disappointment flattened McCoy's features. “So, I guess I celebrated too early.”

“Yes, it will certainly take minutes before our signal comes through.”

All at once, McCoy's face brightened again. “Mere minutes?”

“Minutes,” Spock confirmed. In the corner of his eye, he saw Chekov rise from the weapons station, but Spock gestured for him to remain seated. Spock himself walked to the science station, leaning over the scanner. Nothing showed that he had been emotionally and physically unwell a moment ago. He looked the same as always, apart from his robe, which was hanging down in large, tired folds.

After half a minute, during which Jim muffled a persistent coughing fit, Spock looked up, his face revealing nothing. “The fog is dissipating, the metal components are slowly but steadily decreasing, and unless I miscalculate again, our signal will break through in exactly twenty point five minutes. Durama 78 will most likely succeed in establishing a contact one and five minutes earlier than us.”

“What’s the probability?”

“Seventy-three point two for the first option and eighty-four point seven for the other, McCoy.”

“That's almost double assurance!” Spock seemed to get what McCoy meant, because he didn't correct him, but let the man have his joy for once. “So, just to make sure, we've got something like fifteen to twenty minutes and then it's practically certain that we'll have the talk?”

“Practically yes,” Spock replied.

“And then this whole nightmare will finally be over?”

“Very likely.”

“'Good gracious!” McCoy spread his arms to the sky, then his eyes fell on Spock. “Can I hug you now?”

“No,” Spock said with pursed lips as he turned away from him. “And there is no cause for celebration yet.” He raised his voice to a calm but powerful level. “Everyone, it is finally time. Please stand by and await my instructions.”

As it became quiet, faces full of determination turned towards the middle. Spock straightened his posture, cleared his throat and became the commander who Jim thought was a perfect mirror image of himself. “Sulu, bring us closer to the planet, then maintain standard orbit. Chekov, watch the planet and assist Sulu, but stand by for weapons at all times.”

“Aye, Commander,” Sulu replied, hands on the console.

“Yes, sir.” Chekov stepped up to the science station, head bent over the scanner as he named the coordinates to Sulu.

Spock spoke over them. “Uhura, prepare everything for a contact from as well as to Durama 78, and open us a comm channel to Engineering in half a minute, priority level 5.”

“Understood, sir.” Uhura turned to her station, hand on her headset.

“Ensigns, keep an eye on the readouts, shields will only be raised in extreme emergencies and under my explicit order.”

“Of course,” said the yellow shirt at the Shields station, and her shy friend agreed with a nod.

“Lieutenant Thompsen, raise security level for the bridge. Yeoman Rand, prepare our PADDs. And McCoy – “ Just as Spock turned to the person next to him, his voice died away into a terrible croak, followed by a somewhat desperate gasp and an uncovered cough. Despite his obvious attempts to keep his breathing under control, more coughs followed, turning into a fit. Spock doubled over, face buried in his arm, as what seemed to all outsiders like an uncontrolled force of nature shook his stiff frame. The noise almost drowned out the whistle of the intercom.

“Aye, that sounds rough,” the Scottish voice boomed above them, before waiting in silence for the fit to end.

Spock sniffled after recovering, eyes wet from the strain. “Scott, the conversation will take place in less than twenty minutes. Have the engines ready. At any time, there may be sudden turning maneuvers or warp operations. I... “ Spock's breath hitched. “I leave you free to act. Hikxscheh!”

“That was ye, Spock?” Scott sounded too shocked to address him with his title.

Spock opened his mouth to reply, but another sneeze demanded his attention. He muffled it to near silence with his sleeve before relapsing into harsh barking.

McCoy, who had held back so far, knocked him on the back. Spock flinched briefly, but didn’t pull away. “Yeah, our commander’s sick as well, Scotty,” McCoy said before handing Spock a tissue. Spock took it, turned away and spat phlegm into it.

Just as Spock had recovered, Jim started coughing and far worse. He sat up straight, drew the air out of his diaphragm and barked into his arms until he managed to control the fit.

“And this’ Jim, I assume. Bloody hell, that sounds like yer...”

“Asthma, yeah, just had an attack, worst is over, though,” Jim replied a little breathlessly.

Scott let out a curse that didn't come through clearly. “Ye guys need support up there?”

“No,” Jim said.

“That would be illogical,” Spock replied, his voice hoarse and brittle. “You are more useful down in Engineering.”

“Oh, I love ye both too,” Scott said. “But seriously, I'm gonna take over command as soon as ye're done with the world-saving act, no arguments, got it?”

“Yeah.”

“We will talk over this later.”

“Ain’t I looking forward tae our discussion, pointy ear. But maybe the doctor will beat me tae it...”

“Obviously,” McCoy said.

“Anyway, I've received yer order. I'll follow it. Good luck up there and don't ruin my babies if ye can!”

Spock signaled Uhura to end the connection and succumbed to another bout of coughing.

This time McCoy refrained from touching him; it was unnecessary, as Spock recovered within seconds. “What order did you want to give me, Spock?”

“Just do your job,” Spock said, the air of authority gone. “Just take care of us.”

“Gladly.” McCoy said with an amused grin, pulling out the medical scanner and circling it over Spock's chest as the Vulcan muffled yet another coughing fit. “Your congestion isn't that bad, so why?” McCoy looked up at him skeptically.

“My throat is pretty dry, it is – ” Spock coughed again, his cheeks slightly greenish from the constant exertion. 

“And then you're still shouting orders here! Have you had anything to drink at all?” McCoy raised his hand before Spock got the chance to interrupt him. “And yes, I know you Vulcans can go days without water, but you're sick, Spock.”

“I could not find the time.”

“Really? Even I managed to drink something in between.”

Jim glanced briefly at Miss Chapel, who nodded in confirmation. He wondered how much of what was going on around him he had missed because of his illness. Spock's next coughs drew Jim's attention again. They sounded just as dry as Jim remembered his once had been. He barked wetly into the crook of his arm, the phlegm rattling in his airways before he exhaled with a wheeze.

“I'll get us some tea,” McCoy said, but when he turned around, Yeoman Rand was already standing by with a tray and three steaming cups. McCoy and she performed an awkward act of keeping the minimum distance as she handed it over. “I've got your PADD here too, Commander,” she said. “I'll slide it over.”

As Spock leaned down for it, he sneezed, “Hikgxsh!” followed by a barely audible Vulcan curse muttered under his exhale.

Yeoman Rand flinched as if it had been directed at her. “Uhm, Jim, eh, Kirk, yours...”

He's as hard to get used to as I am, huh? Jim flashed her a reassuring smile, silently confirming that his PADD indeed was with him and mouthing a ‘thank you’. She nodded and moved back to her station, looking more relaxed.

Not a second later, a teacup hovered in front of him. “Here you go, Prince Charming,” McCoy said teasingly.

Jim took the warm cup in his hands, the smile growing against his softening cheeks. “Thank you, Bones.”

“Damn,” McCoy clutched his chest as if his heart was about to leap out, “if you keep up that smile, you'll win over the representative straight away.”

“Maybe that's the plan,” Jim said, now grinning, before taking a sip of the tea. It was pleasantly warm, soothing his sore throat, even though he was still coughing from the inflammation in his airways. He had to be mindful not to choke.

For the first time in hours, Jim felt good, really good, mentally and even physically. Relief flowed warmly through his body, his muscles relaxing. Looking around, Jim noticed a change that he couldn't immediately put into words. It was as if the bridge had awoken from a long sleep, jumping into action. Stations beeped, switches lit up, machines hummed their readiness, people talked, voiced expectations and hopes filled the room with a lively energy. And Jim sat in the center of it, carried away by a storm of something to which his whole body was responding. He let out a laugh mixed with a cough, closed his eyes and buried his face in his arm as something hot formed on his cheeks, shaking his head as if caught in and released from disbelief. God, it feels so good, like I'm coming home after an exhausting journey. I’m finally home.

Jim peeked up over his arm at McCoy, who was staring straight ahead with a dreamy gaze, as if looking at paradise. Moisture glistened on his cheeks, his lips curved into a contented smile that Jim found cute. Jim wished he could have captured the moment, but McCoy turned to him, fantasy gone and reality back. “Is there anything else I can do for you, my friend?”

“No,” Jim said, “although I think I'd like to inhale again.” McCoy didn't even try to hide his surprise. “Come on, Bones, I just don't want to end up coughing in front of the representative, you know? And maybe it'll help me deal with the inflammation.”

“I don't mind,” McCoy said, preparing the device. “Just when did you start taking care of yourself?”

“Hey, I am a responsible person.”

“You're sitting in that chair.”

“So what?”

“I don't know if that's responsible or reckless. Well,” McCoy shrugged and handed Jim the inhaler. “Ten minutes, Captain. Don't let me down.”

“Never.” Jim traded the empty teacup for the inhaler, put the mask on and sat up straight. For the first time, McCoy hadn’t had anything to complain about, instead he nodded in satisfaction and looked around for his beloved-not-so-beloved Vulcan. Having escaped their sight, Spock stood beside the science station Chekov had just left, switching between his PADD and the scanner with something like Vulcan frenzy.

“You're doing better, Spock?” McCoy asked.

“There was nothing to get better from to begin with,” Spock said, without turning to them.

McCoy raised an eyebrow, the way Spock usually did. “You just showed a whole range of symptoms and they're still plaguing you as far as I see.” Jim noticed Spock's shoulders twitching at irregular intervals, shaking his whole form, but there was no sound – none that carried over the distance, at least.

McCoy stepped down to the station, standing behind Spock. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“Determining how the disturbance is resolving. See how Durama 78 reacts to it.”

“The computer can figure that out just as well. My goodness, have you ever heard of ‘rest’?”

“Obviously I have – ” Spock turned to him, his mouth closing as he realised McCoy hadn’t asked for a definition. “McCoy, we are mere minutes away from having a diplomatic conversation of immeasurable importance to the Federation, with the intention of preventing an intergalactic war. You can't expect me to ‘sit back and wait’.”

“I actually can,” McCoy said, gesturing at the medical badge on his uniform. “You actually ordered me to take care of you just a minute ago.”

“My mistake. I take back that order,” Spock said, turning back to his station. “There is too much for me to do to rest.”

McCoy looked as if he wanted to say something, but instead he examined the cup Spock had set down beside him. “You've hardly drunk anything. No wonder you're still coughing. Why don't you take a break and – ”

“McCoy, leave me alone. Take care of Jim, that's your job.”

McCoy took a deep breath, seemingly preparing himself for what was to come next. “Commander Spock, if you keep this up, I'll have you removed from the bridge.”

“By what authority and on what grounds?”

“As Chief Medical Officer, I will have you relieved of duty because you are a health risk to yourself and others.”

“I'm not, and it would be illogical to have me removed.”

“If you work yourself to death now, that would be just as illogical.”

“I will not – ”

“Yes, maybe you won't because you don't know such weakness, but you definitely won't feel well during the conversation if you stress yourself out like that. Why are you checking everything for the thousands of time?”

“Because – ” Spock pressed his lips together, muffling a cough.

“I can tell you why. You try to distract your restless Vulcan mind from the fact that you’re nervous.”

“Why would I be nervous when I am not even the one talking to them?”

“Because you're involved anyway. Because you took on a responsibility that not even an experienced human could handle and that would surely have driven some people out of their minds – I don't deny that you can do it, but you made this one – in your eyes – mistake. You miscalculated the interference. Now you think you've made more mistakes and you search for them like a man possessed. You question the perfection of your plan. You won't allow yourself to rest until you are 100% certain that nothing is going wrong, but you know as well as I do that there is no such certainty.”

Spock's expression turned dark. “Anything else, Doctor?”

“Yes, you feel left alone with it. Because you think you're the person who has to shoulder all the discomfort, but it’s not like that. Everyone has your back as well. So, come on…” McCoy spread out his arms.

Spock looked at him like a cat trying to understand what its owner was up to.

McCoy smiled softly. “With your shields down, you are flooded with all the feelings of the people around you. Their relief, their joy, their hopes, but also their fears, their worries... And you have no outlet for it. Let me be that for you. So come on, Spock...”

“It would be illogical...”

“Let's be illogical for this one moment.”

“I can't...”

“Then think of it as a medical treatment. A hug therapy.”

Spock raised an eyebrow questioningly, then took a step closer. McCoy wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into a hug that wasn't too tight. Jim watched as Spock leaned into it, resting his head on McCoy's shoulder and closing his eyes. He seemed to relax.

And just in that moment, Spock pulled away, almost hectically.

McCoy blinked in confusion. “What’s – ”

“I-In all likelihood,” Spock said, his breath hitching. “I’ll have to sneeze in five-point-two-seconds.”

“You know, I wouldn’t have minded if you – ”

“Stay away!” Spock said in an unusually desperate and loud tone.

McCoy raised his hands in mock-surrender and stepped aside. Spock took a step back as well, bracing himself against his station with one hand and raised his other arm at a perfectly straight angle. He turned his head away from McCoy and to the ground, letting out a sneeze so fine and controlled that it couldn't be heard. The second announced itself with a short gasp and reached a volume that could be described as comfortable. “Higxsch!” It was just a pitch too high. Spock let out a third, which was a mixture of both – quiet yet loud, unobtrusive yet attention-grabbing, controlled yet uncontrolled. It combined all the nuances of Spock. “Hegxschn!”

Spock lowered his arm, sniffling and his eyes watering. McCoy put a hand on his shoulder, which Spock didn't brush away. “How about you rest now and drink some tea? I think Jim would like that too.”

Jim smiled an inch too broadly in their direction.

Spock agreed with a nod, took his cup of tea and trotted after McCoy to the command chair. Spock grabbed a tissue and blew his nose as quietly as a snake crawling through underbrush. Jim took off the inhalation mask to let out a loud, chaotic sneeze himself, catching it with the crook of his arm. “Ackxschgn!” Sniffling, he put the mask back on. He took controlled breaths and waited for the salty air to clear the congestion in his nose.

Spock disposed of the tissue in the bag, sat down on the armrest of the command chair and sipped his tea. He looked anything but relaxed, although Jim couldn't say what gave that impression, because there was nothing outwardly showing it. An unfamiliar observer might even have said that Spock was the calmest of them all. The bridge crew was still preparing everything around them in orderly bustle.

McCoy leaned against the other side of the command chair, sipping his own cup of tea. “Well, isn’t that much better than worrying unnecessarily? No matter what happens, we will get through it somehow.”

Jim nodded although the question didn’t require an answer. If the screen had switched on now, Jim thought, they would have made an interesting picture: Him inhaling while being wrapped in a thick, white blanket next to an almost full bag of tissues, a sniffling Vulcan in a ceremonial robe on the left and a doctor in a Hawaiian shirt on the right – all waiting and drinking tea with a busy starship crew in the background. Jim only allowed himself to imagine the scene because he knew Uhura would let them know before the transmission started. And they still had time, at least a little.

The last minute of his inhalation stretched into infinity, but then Jim finally switched off the inhaler. His breathing wasn't exactly ideal – a thick congestion still pressed against the inside of his nose and his lungs rattled with every wheezy breath, but he was getting enough air, he could speak and would probably not succumb to a coughing fit every five seconds. He went into a violent barking fit after the inhalation, but it only brought up the residual mucus that had settled in his airways – this time without blood.

While McCoy tidied up the command chair, Jim turned to Spock with a straight face. Spock detachted his fingers – he had been meditating after drinking his tea – and opened his eyes when he noticed Jim's gaze. “Are you ready?” they asked at the same time. Jim smiled – Spock imitated it faintly.

Then Spock stood up. “All you have to do is concentrate on the representative and keep gaining a few seconds so that I can react accordingly. Can you manage that?”

“I think distraction is one of my new specialities,” Jim said, grinning to hide the fact that he hadn't wished he'd discovered the skill first in the presence of the bridge crew. The bridge crew were professional and would react calmly even if a murderer stormed onto the bridge, but it hadn't escaped his notice that they'd glanced over at him from time to time; that they'd waited until he'd recovered from a coughing fit before speaking and that if there had been serious work to be done, it might not have been done as effectively as usual.

Jim would make no secret of the fact that he was ill in front of the representative – that was pretty much hopeless anyway. He arranged the blanket over his shoulders so that it looked like a cloak rather than a hiding place, returning some of his dignity. He blew his nose with another tissue which he then passed to McCoy, before sitting upright. McCoy and Spock left the field of view of the screen transmission, but not his – they remained close enough for him to feel comforted by their presence.

“Durama 78 is contacting us,” Uhura announced. Everything went silent, even the machines. “Confirm request?”

“Confirm Uhura,” Jim said firmly.

“Yes, sir.”

Suddenly, a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as pure relief washed over him that the wait was finally over. The moment had arrived. The nervousness gave way to a small adrenaline rush that made his whole body tingle with excitement. He forgot his tiredness, the pain, his sore throat, the congestion and the urge to cough that had settled deep in his lungs. His mind was preparing to function; to succeed, and at the same time shutting out everything else.

Did he have a chance? Of course he did.

Would he get through it without complications? Absolutely.

Could he bring the peace the world wanted? Why was he still asking himself such questions? They were not an expression of doubt about the matter.

Jim's smile grew even wider, just an inch away from becoming a full grin, and he was convinced that he had never greeted a representative from any planet with such a charming and happy smile.

Notes:

This chapter went through so many revisions like none before and I'm still not entirely happy with it, but it's sort of a filler chapter anyway, so... Ignore my rambling XD