Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek, I just play with it. If the current owners would like to donate it to me, however...

-o-o-o-o-o-

To my old readers: Thank you for sticking around. I know this is quite a bit different from the first version, but I hope you'll find this an enjoyable read nonetheless. Let me know what you think.

To any possible new readers: Welcome. I'm sorry if I manage to traumatize you.

And a special thanks to WeirdLittleStories, who proofread the first chapter for me. I know I've been repeating 'thank you's' a lot but... thank you.

Whether it was due to an instinct much older than the man himself or simply because of his exceptional work ethic, Spock managed to hide almost all signs of illness for good three days until his poor appetite and unusual lack of energy began to attract attention. It took quite a bit of persuasion – and eventual blackmailing on Doctor McCoy's part – to make Spock report to sickbay and get himself examined, and once he finally did, it became apparent that he should have done so a lot sooner.

Captain Kirk stood by the door, arms folded across his chest, listening to the Chief Surgeon's irascible rant, to which Spock only responded with silence. According to McCoy, the Science Officer was running a fever and was developing symptoms similar to those of a flu. A quick check on Spock's medical records revealed that he had not been recently vaccinated against the most common Vulcan viruses, and having spent a weekend on his home planet had undoubtedly exposed him to immunological challenges he hadn't come in contact with for quite a while. As Spock took this opportunity to sit up and to leave the biobed he made a slightly disgruntled remark that perhaps Kirk and McCoy shouldn't have forced him to take the shore leave he had initially refused.

"If you want an apology, forget it", Doctor McCoy grunted and sauntered to his desk, setting down his PADD and giving the Vulcan officer a stern look. "Now, you'll be on sick leave until I say otherwise. I don't want you running around and prolonging whatever it is you've got."

So far Kirk had remained quiet, but decided that it was as good a time as any to ask questions, seeing as Spock probably wasn't going to do it. "It's nothing serious, though, is it?"

"I don't think so, but I'll take some of that green blood of his and test it, just to be sure."

"A saliva sample would most likely be sufficient, as it seems that this is an infection of the upper respiratory tract", Spock objected, but was forced to clear his throat before continuing. His voice was always a bit husky, but now it sounded unusually gravelly. It was obvious that his throat was getting increasingly sore. "But since Doctor McCoy is a splendid example of human malice-"

Bones perked a sardonic eyebrow and interjected before the Commander could insult him any further. "So you're saying that spitting into a cup is somehow less degrading to you than giving a few drops of blood?"

"This is hardly a matter of dignity, Doctor. I simply don't understand your desire to use such invasive methods, especially when less invasive alternatives are available."

"Slitting your jugular for a blood test would be an invasive method", the physician was quick to retort. He was not in the mood for any of this. "Unless you want me to do that, you better roll up that sleeve."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Even though he would never admit it – even to himself – Spock had all morning been plagued by something that had an uncanny resemblance to enthusiasm. It was hidden under his cool, stone-faced surface, but hiding the problem didn't seem to get rid of it; the feeling was still there, subtly forcing him to quicken his pace as he made his way down the corridor.

For a week he had been forced to be completely useless, and now he was eager to get as much done as he could to make up for his absence. And there was certainly not a lack of things to do; as soon as he had been seen out and about he had suddenly been needed absolutely everywhere, even though his actual shift didn't start until later. But he wasn't complaining; being ridiculously busy was always better than laying in bed one day after another, not being allowed to be helpful.

The Science Officer was constantly receiving greetings, even from the crew members who usually didn't acknowledge him in any way when simply walking past him in a hallway. It seemed his presence evoked delight, for some reason. True enough, he had spent the past week mostly in his quarters recovering from his bout of flu, but it still baffled him why such a short period of absence earned him so much attention. But humans were an odd bunch, he had learned, and he assumed that their emotional response to his return was simply yet another species-specific trait.

As Spock stepped through the doorway to the galley he was almost deafened by the loud hum of voices. It was a few minutes past 1200, and noon was always an excruciatingly noisy time of day, as most of the people in daytime shifts were taking a lunch break. This included a certain command-gold-wearing officer as well, Spock noticed; the Captain was sitting alone in a corner table, blankly staring at a plate of food in front of him and appeared to be in deep thoughts. This evoked subtle curiosity in the Vulcan, for James Kirk wasn't known for spacing out at random moments.

A food tray in his hands, the Science Officer approached him, head slightly tilted to the side as his dark gaze studied the man's face, looking for anything that could give him a heads up on his superior officer's mood. The Captain didn't notice him until he was close enough to set his tray on the table, and once he did he was given a stern look by his friend, who obviously had neither expected nor wanted any company. Kirk's hazel eyes lit up, however, as he realized who he was looking at.

"Afternoon, Mr. Spock. How're you feeling?"

"Very well, thank you", Spock replied promptly, giving the Captain a curt nod. "A slight soreness in my throat still persists, but I'm confident that it will subside soon enough."

"I'll take your word for it. Please, take a seat."

The Science Officer complied and gracefully seated himself across the table from Kirk, taking a sip from his glass of water as he waited for the man to pick up the conversation again. His patience was hardly even needed.

"I'm sorry I didn't have time to call on you during your sick leave. It's been a bit hectic without you on the bridge."

"Surely you kept the library computer station manned?"

"Of course, but you know how it is with people who don't have that much experience yet", Kirk assured, a carefree shrug raising his shoulders. "I swear, I spent more time instructing Ensign Leroy than actually doing my own job."

Spock tilted his head in approval. Leroy was a logical choice, even though the young man did occasionally lack confidence. "I assume that he eventually... got the hang of it?"

"Naturally, he's a lot smarter than I am", the Captain laughed and leaned back in his chair, idly playing with his fork. "Anyway, what have you been up to?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. I spent most of the week familiarizing myself with some Terran war-time literature."

"Heavy stuff, isn't it?"

"Yes", Spock agreed. He could see how some of the books he had read could affect the reader's emotions. But Spock himself was immune to such undesirable effects, of course. "I must say, however, that most of it is not a bad read."

"Bones is going to have a field day if he hears that you've taken a liking to Earth literature", Kirk teased his First Officer. McCoy would absolutely love to needle the Vulcan about it should he get the chance.

"I happened to recently notice that Doctor McCoy has been reading Vulcan poetry. I dare say that I might have the upper hand."

"I'll start selling tickets." Kirk lifted a glass of water to his smiling lips and took a sip, noticing the Vulcan furrow his elegant, arched eyebrows. For a brief moment he wondered what the cause might be, until he came to a realization that halted his movements; once again he had accidentally grabbed Spock's glass of water instead of his own. This was a recurring problem as both the Captain and his First Officer preferred to keep their drinks on the table between their trays, and for whatever reason Kirk was always inclined to take the one on the left hand side. "I did it again, didn't I?"

The spark of a repressed smile in Spock's eyes was a sufficient answer to Kirk's question. The Captain suspected that Spock found this particular quirk of his amusing, despite its somewhat troublesome nature. To a germaphobe it would be absolutely horrifying, of course, but neither Spock nor Kirk were particularly bothered by it, even though it tended to occasionally attract some attention.

Their easygoing chat was interrupted by Doctor McCoy, who seemed to appear out of nowhere and suddenly slammed his tray on the table next to Kirk, growling: "I told you ten times to report to sickbay before lunch, Mr. Spock, and yet you still didn't show up. Care to explain yourself?"

Spock raised his chin to gaze at the physician, head innocently tilted to the side. "Something requiring my immediate attention came up."

"Don't give me that crap when you don't even believe it yourself", McCoy barked and pointed a butter knife at the Vulcan. "You'll get your green-blooded behind to sickbay by 1300 or you can be damn sure that you're not setting so much as a foot on the bridge."

Kirk gave the Science Officer a disapproving look, although fighting the urge to laugh at the same time. Even though Spock was probably telling the truth, it was amazing how easily he made it seem like he wasn't, just to get on the Doctor's nerves. As amusing as their bickering was, the Captain's responsibility was to put an end to it. "Tell me, Mr. Spock, what was it that distracted you so?"

"A glitch in the main diagnostic system of the engineering section."

"And what did you do to resolve the issue?"

"Recalibrated the system. The problem appeared much worse than it actually was."

"How about that", the Captain said to McCoy, his tone slightly more assertive than necessary to cover his amusement. "It seems he really had somewhere else to be."

"He still needs to be examined so I can mark his sick leave as completed."

"Of course." Kirk shot a gaze at Spock, who seemed to already know what his new orders would be. "Mr. Spock, report to sickbay by 1300."

Spock's right eyebrow twitched upwards, and he didn't seem defeated at all. "Yes, sir."

-o-o-o-o-o-

It took Kirk a good couple of minutes to figure out where he was and what had happened as he woke up in the middle of the night, tangled in his sheets and sweating up a storm after having an exceptionally distressing dream involving Bones in a bloodied butcher's apron and Spock with a pair of antlers sprouting from his head. Why his brain would generate something so thoroughly unsettling remained a mystery, but the Captain suspected it might have something to do with the sickening headache throbbing on his forehead. His limbs felt sore and almost too heavy to lift, but the nausea swelling in the back of his throat forced him to kick the duvet off of himself and stumble out of bed. Usually he was able to navigate his quarters in the dark with absolutely no difficulties, but now he he bumped into every possible piece of furniture on his way to the bathroom and had to feel the walls with his hands to find the door. Turning on the lights made his head split and he had to lean against the sink as a sudden wave of dizziness rushed over him. A quick look in the mirror confirmed that all color had escaped his face, and his forehead was glistening with sweat.

As he sat on the floor, gagging and dry-heaving with his aching head halfway inside the toilet bowl, Kirk began to realize that perhaps he should consider giving Bones a call, just in case. The dizziness and headache were getting worse, and the haziness of his vision didn't seem to be going away, either. He was starting to feel incredibly cold, and he could see the muscles of his exposed arms quiver under his skin as his body tried to create the warmth it apparently thought it needed. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't think of a time he had felt as horrible as he did now; something was seriously wrong, and he needed to let someone – anyone – know before he simply keeled over.

Getting out of the bathroom to use the intercom proved to be significantly more difficult than Kirk had anticipated. His legs didn't seem to have sufficient strength to carry him, and the floor felt like jelly under his feet. He could feel himself slipping in and out of consciousness as he scrambled towards his desk, with only the power of desperation at his side; if he didn't get the message through to someone who could help him, he could be in an even worse state by morning. And the worst part was, he couldn't figure out what was happening to him; just a couple of hours ago he had felt completely fine, but now he was certain he was going to die. Kirk's legs gave out just as he reached his desk, but somehow he managed to punch the button to open a frequency. He called out the first name that came to his feverish mind and waited for a response for what felt like a very painful eternity. His grip on the edge of the desk was beginning to slip, and he knew he didn't have much time until he would be inevitably embraced by unconsciousness. Spock's sleepy voice was rich with concern as it came through the intercom, and the Vulcan was very quick to ask if something was wrong.

"I might be in trouble", Kirk said, and gave up the fight.

The next time he regained consciousness, Kirk was being peeled off the floor and flung over a pair of shoulders much narrower than his own. His eyelids were too heavy to open, but the lingering scent of a familiar aftershave was enough to identify the person carrying his limp body through the dimly lit room. He could hear the door to his bathroom open, and the bright light seeped through his closed eyelids as Spock carefully stepped over the threshold and slowly set the Captain down onto the cool tiles. A pair of standard issue Starfleet boots clacked against the floor, and the water was suddenly turned on in his shower cubicle. Kirk wanted to give his First Officer a hint that he was awake, but the white-hot pain every single effort to move sent through his head forced him to lay still. As Spock grabbed him under the arms Kirk managed to force a pained groan out of himself, to which the Vulcan simply responded with a quiet apology.

The Captain was too confused and delirious to even question why his friend dragged him into the shower. The water raining on them was cold as ice and immediately made Kirk shiver, sending intense signals of pain throughout his nervous system. A soft noise escaped his throat as his head dropped back, against the warm shoulder of his First Officer. He was faintly aware that Spock was sitting in the shower with him, holding him in a somewhat upright position, arms protectively wrapped around his exposed shoulders.

Despite being immensely uncomfortable, the freezing water seemed to be helping; Kirk could feel some strength return to his body and was finally able get his eyes open and gaze at his pointy-eared guardian angel. Spock's dark hair was beginning to curl from the humidity, and his uniform was already soaking wet and clinging to his body. He couldn't quite see it through the feverish haze clouding his vision, but Kirk was certain that the look on his friend's face was that of genuine worry. It was an oddly comforting sight. Content that he was being taken care of, Kirk turned his head to the side and let his scorching hot forehead rest against his First Officer's jawline.

Spock suddenly perked up a bit which momentarily confused the Captain, but as Doctor McCoy stormed into the room it became apparent that the Science Officer's sensitive ears had picked up the footsteps of the approaching physician. For a split second the Doctor simply stood there and stared, baffled by the scene in front of him until he jumped into action.

"I've got a gurney waiting in the hallway. Help me carry him."

With the help of McCoy, Spock dragged Kirk out of the shower but refused any further assistance and picked the Captain up, determined to carry the man by himself. Kirk didn't really mind; he just hoped that they would soon stop tossing him around as it made him feel even worse. A wave of nausea was again rising in his throat, and the dizziness and headache were quickly returning. He could hear the two other men talking – no, arguing – as he was carried into the corridor and lowered onto the gurney. He was sure he even heard Spock raise his voice, but before he had time to concentrate on it he was greeted with the hiss of a hypo, and the voices around him rapidly faded away as he was engulfed in merciful darkness.

-o-o-o-o-o-

As Christine Chapel handed him a towel, Spock initially wanted to refuse it. There were more important things on his mind than his hair dripping water onto the sickbay jumpsuit McCoy had so kindly given him to replace his soaked uniform. It wasn't until Chapel threatened to blow dry his hair that Spock finally accepted the towel and loosely wrapped it around his neck, all the while blankly staring at the stray microtape on the Doctor's desk. Even his patience had its limits, and he wished the physician would hurry up and come to tell him what was wrong with the Captain. The Science Officer had a fairly strong suspicion as to what it might be that had made his friend so terribly ill, but he tried not to dwell on it too much until he had some sort of confirmation. Speculating without any actual information was not only illogical, but also completely useless.

As Doctor McCoy finally sauntered into the office it took all of Spock's self-discipline not to bolt out of the chair and demand answers. The Doctor took his sweet time as he circled the desk and took a seat across the Science Officer, all the while nervously fiddling with a stylus and not once raising his frosty gaze from the surface of the desk.

"The good news is that his temperature seems to be stabilizing. Hopefully we won't need the cooling blankets for much longer."

"You seem to be implying that there are also bad news."

"Yes", McCoy said and leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully pursing his lips. "The thing is, I haven't found what caused such a violent immune response. I'm still waiting for the results of the blood tests but the initial examination showed nothing out of ordinary. Except for the fact that he's only barely alive."

"Has he regained consciousness?"

"He's anesthetized, so no. I thought it might be for the best since any amount of stress could trigger the fever again."

"Indeed", Spock agreed reluctantly. "I assume you will re-evaluate the need to keep him unconscious once the cause of the illness has been confirmed?"

"Of course, but while we know absolutely nothing it's better if he's out cold."

Spock was forced to yield to the logic of this, no matter how little he liked it. But he didn't give McCoy the courtesy of responding.

"I don't know what else to tell you, Mr. Spock. Right now we'll just have to wait."

"I trust you will share all further information with me?"

"I thought it was obvious", McCoy grumbled dryly. "Listen, why don't you go get a couple more hours of sleep? I might actually have something to tell you if you came back later."

Spock could feel himself digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands as he complied, coldly wishing the physician good night and briskly marching out of the Chief Surgeon's office. Despite the Science Officer's best efforts to rid himself of all emotion, discontent was prominently present in him as he made his way through the sickbay. He had always been protective of the Captain, but this time it was very different. Something closer to possessiveness had flared up in him; it burned in his chest like glowing-hot iron and coursed through his veins like venom, reaching every cell in his body and fighting fiercely against his steely self-control. If his suspicions were proven right, it would mean that all of this was his fault, and the least he could do to make things right was to make sure that Kirk survived. But how was Spock supposed to do that if he wasn't allowed to stay by the Captain's side?

The Commander was already halfway outside the door when he heard McCoy running after him and calling out his name. Not even a title, just his name. Spock spun around with perhaps slightly too much eagerness in his movements, but it seemed the Doctor didn't even notice. The look in his blue eyes was a cocktail of surprise and concern, which was already enough of a reason for the Science Officer to follow as the physician briskly walked to the computer. There was an unmistakeable sinking feeling in Spock's stomach as he approached, and the usual green tinge of his skin escaped his face as he saw what was on the screen. His blood ran cold as he realized he was looking at a heavily magnified picture of the very same virus that had been found in his own blood a week ago.

"It was supposed to be a strain that can't infect humans", McCoy muttered, mostly to himself. "I checked three times."

A quiet "indeed" was all Spock managed to say.

No matter what people said, he didn't enjoy being right so often.