[TWBI] Sick Jim
Title: Sick Jim
Series: That Would Be Illogical
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Rating: PG13
Length: 1,380
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Summary: This is not the first illogical action I have ever participated in because of James Tiberius Kirk. I doubt it will be the last. Masterlist
Previous: Second
Jim groans and sniffs as he grips my waist tighter. "What a time to be sick," he grumbles.
I brush my fingers through his hair, which had become oily and limp as a result of his illness. We have been lying in bed for most of the day after Jim became infected with a virus at the last planet. "It is rather unfortunate that you are allergic to the antidote."
He sniffs again. "Why'd it have to be during shore leave?"
"Fortunately, it is not obstructing your duty."
"It's obstructing the time I should be having non-stop sex with you." He sniffs a third time.
My eyebrow twitches in annoyance. I reach over and take a tissue, handing it to him. He takes it and makes a rather distasteful sound as he clears his nose before scrunching it up and throwing it across the room.
I frown slightly. "My Vulcan physiology may make me immune to your illness, but that does not mean I wish to clean up your messes."
"I was trying to get it into the trash can. My aim's just a little off 'cause I'm sick." he says, his voice muffled against my shirt.
"Considering the receptacle is on the opposite side of the room, I doubt that."
"Okay, so my memory's a little off too."
I sigh. "Because of your illness, I will not reprimand you further, but I ask you give me your tissues rather than throwing them onto the floor."
"Eww," he groans. "I can't just give you my dirty, snotty tissues."
"I will need to pick them up either way."
He shudders. "T-tissue," he says weakly.
I quickly hand him another and he sneezes loudly into it twice. He lifts his head to look at me. He is very pale. His eyes are puffy and his nose is red and sore. He sniffs but there is still some mucus dripping from his nose. I take his tissue and gently wipe it.
He frowns slightly, though it does not appear to be because I am 'mother henning' him. "I don'like being sick."
"It is not a pleasant experience," I say, taking my thumbs and rubbing his cheeks.
He closes his eyes and hums, leaning into my touch. He places his chin on my chest. "Feels nice," he mumbles. Jim shivers slightly and hugs me closer. "At least we finally found an illness that makes it better to touch you."
"Indeed."
"We could always just do it," he suggests, though half-heartedly.
"You are weak. And I would prefer to get as little nasal mucus on me as possible."
"Yeah, sorry for being all sick and disgusting and ugly-looking."
"There is no need to apologize," I assure him.
He gives a small grunt that I believe is supposed to be a chuckle. "Thanks for not refuting any of that."
"I believe it is acceptable for you to allow your appearance to be less than perfect when you are in such a miserable state. I will, of course, return to expecting high standards in your appearance when you have recovered," I tease.
"Of course," he mutters. "I had no idea you were so shallow."
I hesitate. His nasally voice causes me to be unable to determine if he was using sarcasm or not. "You are aware my fondness for you is not based on your appearance," I say, though it is implied as a question.
He peaks an eye open. "Yeah, I know. Was joking." His voice lacks the irritation many have when they need to explain such things to me, a fact for which I always felt grateful.
I nod.
"You know I only like you for your ears, right?"
I raise an eyebrow at him.
He smirks. "The eyebrows, too," he says before his eyelids flutter and I only just manage to hand him a new tissue before he violently sneezes. "Thanks," he grumbles. "I think you should burn this shirt when I get over this."
I look down at the cotton white t-shirt, which actually belongs to Jim, who made me wear it because he didn't want to get my not inexpensive clothing dirty. There are many dried mucus stains on it. "I agree. I do not believe decontamination would be able to fully neutralize the amount of hostile germs embedded in this clothing."
Jim hums and blinks slowly for a moment. "I'm hungry."
"Do you believe you can consume any sort of food without vomiting?" I ask, concerned. The last time he ate four hours ago, he had not been able to keep it in his stomach for more than 12.3 minutes before needing to rush to the bathroom.
He gives a half-shrug that could be mistaken for a minor twitch. "Dunno. I don'feel any better," he confessed. "But I'm really hungry."
I pause before giving a small nod. "Perhaps you can eat a small amount, and if you manage not to vomit for a period of time, you may try more."
"S'plan," he declares, but does not move.
I maneuver him to sit back against the headboard, the duvet covering his lap. I leave the bed and go to the replicator.
Before I can order, I hear Jim's voice call from the other room. "I want to chew."
I hesitate, taking a moment to realize he is telling me to not get soup. "What is it you would like to chew?" I ask, only having ever heard of chicken noodle soup as the Terran stable food of the ill.
There is quiet for a moment. Jim sneezes. "A grilled cheese sandwich. And tomato soup."
I turn and open my mouth to tell him that he cannot chew tomato soup, but I decide against it. If he wished for tomato soup, I would oblige him. Even if it contradicts his previous statement.
Once the replicator sounds, I take the food and bring it out to him. I sit on the edge of the bed and place the tray on the nearby nightstand. He looks at it blankly for a long time, as if deciding whether he actually wishes to eat it, before he takes one half of the cheese sandwich and dips it into the soup, thereby answering my question as to why he wanted it. He takes a large bite. Then another.
Before he can take the third I reach out and stop him from dipping it in the soup. "I believe you should allow the food you have already ingested to settle before eating anymore."
He gave me a look that told me he was still really hungry and I suppressed the urge to indulge him. He should not be eating any more whether he is still hungry or not.
"Do Vulcans ever get sick?" Jim asks, putting his sandwich down.
"Of course, although my copper-based blood makes me less susceptible to the same illnesses as humans with iron-based blood. It is true vice-versa. Therefore, unless I am directly exposed to an illness that can infect me, it would not last long enough among this human-majority crew to reach me. It only appears that I never become ill."
"Lucky," he mutters. "I should go live with Vulcans."
I raise an eyebrow. "I do not believe you would be able to live among only beings that do not feel emotions."
He smirks weakly. "I couldn't live with them, or they couldn't live with me?"
I tilt my head. "That is a valid argument."
Jim opens his mouth to speak again but stills, a frown forming on his face as he looks straight ahead, although not focused on anything. He suddenly makes a loud groan in the back of his throat. I quickly rise and help him to the bathroom just in time for him to empty the newly eaten contents of his stomach into the toilet. I rub his back consolingly, thankful that my Vulcan physiology does not allow me to vomit, or the sounds may have prompted me to involuntarily choke.
He holds tightly onto the cistern of the toilet. "I don'like being sick," he mumbles.
I lean forward and kiss the back of his sweat covered neck, making sure to not inhale the unpleasant fumes of the contents of the toilet. "I do not like when you are sick either."
Next: Sick Spock
Series: That Would Be Illogical
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Rating: PG13
Length: 1,380
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Summary: This is not the first illogical action I have ever participated in because of James Tiberius Kirk. I doubt it will be the last. Masterlist
Previous: Second
Jim groans and sniffs as he grips my waist tighter. "What a time to be sick," he grumbles.
I brush my fingers through his hair, which had become oily and limp as a result of his illness. We have been lying in bed for most of the day after Jim became infected with a virus at the last planet. "It is rather unfortunate that you are allergic to the antidote."
He sniffs again. "Why'd it have to be during shore leave?"
"Fortunately, it is not obstructing your duty."
"It's obstructing the time I should be having non-stop sex with you." He sniffs a third time.
My eyebrow twitches in annoyance. I reach over and take a tissue, handing it to him. He takes it and makes a rather distasteful sound as he clears his nose before scrunching it up and throwing it across the room.
I frown slightly. "My Vulcan physiology may make me immune to your illness, but that does not mean I wish to clean up your messes."
"I was trying to get it into the trash can. My aim's just a little off 'cause I'm sick." he says, his voice muffled against my shirt.
"Considering the receptacle is on the opposite side of the room, I doubt that."
"Okay, so my memory's a little off too."
I sigh. "Because of your illness, I will not reprimand you further, but I ask you give me your tissues rather than throwing them onto the floor."
"Eww," he groans. "I can't just give you my dirty, snotty tissues."
"I will need to pick them up either way."
He shudders. "T-tissue," he says weakly.
I quickly hand him another and he sneezes loudly into it twice. He lifts his head to look at me. He is very pale. His eyes are puffy and his nose is red and sore. He sniffs but there is still some mucus dripping from his nose. I take his tissue and gently wipe it.
He frowns slightly, though it does not appear to be because I am 'mother henning' him. "I don'like being sick."
"It is not a pleasant experience," I say, taking my thumbs and rubbing his cheeks.
He closes his eyes and hums, leaning into my touch. He places his chin on my chest. "Feels nice," he mumbles. Jim shivers slightly and hugs me closer. "At least we finally found an illness that makes it better to touch you."
"Indeed."
"We could always just do it," he suggests, though half-heartedly.
"You are weak. And I would prefer to get as little nasal mucus on me as possible."
"Yeah, sorry for being all sick and disgusting and ugly-looking."
"There is no need to apologize," I assure him.
He gives a small grunt that I believe is supposed to be a chuckle. "Thanks for not refuting any of that."
"I believe it is acceptable for you to allow your appearance to be less than perfect when you are in such a miserable state. I will, of course, return to expecting high standards in your appearance when you have recovered," I tease.
"Of course," he mutters. "I had no idea you were so shallow."
I hesitate. His nasally voice causes me to be unable to determine if he was using sarcasm or not. "You are aware my fondness for you is not based on your appearance," I say, though it is implied as a question.
He peaks an eye open. "Yeah, I know. Was joking." His voice lacks the irritation many have when they need to explain such things to me, a fact for which I always felt grateful.
I nod.
"You know I only like you for your ears, right?"
I raise an eyebrow at him.
He smirks. "The eyebrows, too," he says before his eyelids flutter and I only just manage to hand him a new tissue before he violently sneezes. "Thanks," he grumbles. "I think you should burn this shirt when I get over this."
I look down at the cotton white t-shirt, which actually belongs to Jim, who made me wear it because he didn't want to get my not inexpensive clothing dirty. There are many dried mucus stains on it. "I agree. I do not believe decontamination would be able to fully neutralize the amount of hostile germs embedded in this clothing."
Jim hums and blinks slowly for a moment. "I'm hungry."
"Do you believe you can consume any sort of food without vomiting?" I ask, concerned. The last time he ate four hours ago, he had not been able to keep it in his stomach for more than 12.3 minutes before needing to rush to the bathroom.
He gives a half-shrug that could be mistaken for a minor twitch. "Dunno. I don'feel any better," he confessed. "But I'm really hungry."
I pause before giving a small nod. "Perhaps you can eat a small amount, and if you manage not to vomit for a period of time, you may try more."
"S'plan," he declares, but does not move.
I maneuver him to sit back against the headboard, the duvet covering his lap. I leave the bed and go to the replicator.
Before I can order, I hear Jim's voice call from the other room. "I want to chew."
I hesitate, taking a moment to realize he is telling me to not get soup. "What is it you would like to chew?" I ask, only having ever heard of chicken noodle soup as the Terran stable food of the ill.
There is quiet for a moment. Jim sneezes. "A grilled cheese sandwich. And tomato soup."
I turn and open my mouth to tell him that he cannot chew tomato soup, but I decide against it. If he wished for tomato soup, I would oblige him. Even if it contradicts his previous statement.
Once the replicator sounds, I take the food and bring it out to him. I sit on the edge of the bed and place the tray on the nearby nightstand. He looks at it blankly for a long time, as if deciding whether he actually wishes to eat it, before he takes one half of the cheese sandwich and dips it into the soup, thereby answering my question as to why he wanted it. He takes a large bite. Then another.
Before he can take the third I reach out and stop him from dipping it in the soup. "I believe you should allow the food you have already ingested to settle before eating anymore."
He gave me a look that told me he was still really hungry and I suppressed the urge to indulge him. He should not be eating any more whether he is still hungry or not.
"Do Vulcans ever get sick?" Jim asks, putting his sandwich down.
"Of course, although my copper-based blood makes me less susceptible to the same illnesses as humans with iron-based blood. It is true vice-versa. Therefore, unless I am directly exposed to an illness that can infect me, it would not last long enough among this human-majority crew to reach me. It only appears that I never become ill."
"Lucky," he mutters. "I should go live with Vulcans."
I raise an eyebrow. "I do not believe you would be able to live among only beings that do not feel emotions."
He smirks weakly. "I couldn't live with them, or they couldn't live with me?"
I tilt my head. "That is a valid argument."
Jim opens his mouth to speak again but stills, a frown forming on his face as he looks straight ahead, although not focused on anything. He suddenly makes a loud groan in the back of his throat. I quickly rise and help him to the bathroom just in time for him to empty the newly eaten contents of his stomach into the toilet. I rub his back consolingly, thankful that my Vulcan physiology does not allow me to vomit, or the sounds may have prompted me to involuntarily choke.
He holds tightly onto the cistern of the toilet. "I don'like being sick," he mumbles.
I lean forward and kiss the back of his sweat covered neck, making sure to not inhale the unpleasant fumes of the contents of the toilet. "I do not like when you are sick either."
Next: Sick Spock