whump-4-ever

[whump-4-ever]

One of my Kirk edits 😅❤️

[whump-4-ever]

Countdown: Chapter 5

McCoy breathed a sigh of relief as he finished running the tricorder over Jim again, more than happy with the results. Only six minutes had passed since he'd given him the opramozine and the readings were extraordinary. His vitals were stabilizing at a fairly rapid pace, most notably his temperature and his breathing. The fever was already close to breaking (it was now at 102, the lowest it had been, and continuing to drop with each minute that went by), and his inhales and exhales weren't labored anymore, nor did they came with a wheeze, gasp, or gurgling noise. His blood pressure and heart rate had mostly returned to normal, too, still slightly off but definitely improving. It was all very promising, and an indication that the medicine was curing him.

In the back of his mind, the Doctor realized that the improvement in Jim's breathing could also be due to the tri-ox compound, but because everything else was getting better too, he had a good feeling it was the opramozine doing its' job. It made him want to jump up and down with joy, but at the same time, he didn't want to get too excited yet, afraid that if he did, something else bad would happen and the celebration would be for nothing.

False hope, whispered a voice in his head, one that was not his own. At least, he didn't think it was his own, but maybe it was. Either way, it haunted him, doing its' best to convince him that Jim would start declining again. Despite his attempts to ignore it, he couldn't deny that there was still a lingering fear that the Captain wasn't better, that he'd suddenly get worse again, and he was painfully aware that if that did happen, he'd have no way to save him this time.

McCoy shook his head to clear it of all the negativity then glanced up at Spock, who was still cradling the Captain in his arms, holding him protectively, like a mother shielding her infant from any harm that might come to it. It made the Doctor smile, seeing this. It really showed how much Spock cared for Jim. He could deny it all he wanted, but McCoy knew how much Jim meant to him. It was evident not only in the way he was holding him but also in the way he continued to watch him very closely, seeming to study his every breath, as if he would stop breathing if he looked away for even a second. McCoy also noticed how there was a whisper of worry outlining Spock's face, one that would've been undetectable to anyone outside their circle (that circle consisting of himself, Spock, and Jim.)

"He's healing," he told the Vulcan, hoping to ease the remainder of his fears, despite still struggling with some of his own. "I'd like to run a few tests to confirm it, but it looks like he's on the road to recovery. Let's get him back to Sick Bay. I can monitor him better there." McCoy's smile from earlier morphed into a smirk. "Would you do the honors, since you're already cuddling him and all?" He gestured to the two of them with his free hand as he spoke, his tone playful which implied that he was teasing.

Spock, however, didn't pick up on that and proceeded to respond seriously.

"Cuddling is for humans, Doctor. You have to remember, my actions are purely logical. I have no capacity for such feelings," he said as he got to his feet, taking extra care to ensure that the Captain's head had enough support. It still lolled around a bit with the movement, but Spock made certain it was as stable as it could be by situating it in the crook of his elbow.

If McCoy wasn't mistaken, he'd sounded a little defensive. That meant he'd struck a bone, had hit him right in his insecurities, but the Doctor decided to let it go, just continuing to smirk knowingly and shaking his head, as the two of them made their way toward Sick Bay. ----

Though he made the utmost effort to conceal it, Spock felt helplessly restless as he ever-so-gently laid the Captain down on the nearest biobed, a gnawing desperation to see his friend awake, healthy, happy, and back in command swirling like a black hole in his gut. He realized that it had only been fifteen minutes and thirty two seconds since the Doctor had given Jim the medicine but he wanted him to wake up. The only thing keeping him even remotely sane was the steady rise and fall of Jim's chest. He watched every single breath with eagle eyes, scared that if he looked away he'd miss something important.

After a little while, though, Spock found his gaze wandering to the Captain's face. He drank in each individual feature one by one, captivated by how peaceful he appeared to be (compared to how he'd been) and realized with a soaring heart how much better he was doing, grateful that he was actually looking better, too, not just improving according to medical equipment. His skin had returned to its' normal color, and there were no longer any traces of pain or discomfort. Because of this, he was finally starting to believe that Jim would be okay.

"If you insist on hogging up my air space, make yourself useful," McCoy said quietly from behind him, pulling the Vulcan out of his thoughts. He'd momentarily forgotten he wasn't alone, so lost in his own mind that his surroundings had vanished. He turned his head to the side to see the Doctor handing him a dampened washcloth. At first, this confused him, but after another look at Jim, it clicked. There was still dried blood clinging to the Captain's lips and chin (it was still on his shirt, too, but that would have to be dealt with later with a change of clothes.)

Spock hesitantly took the cloth from him, unconvinced that he was the right one for this job, and began wiping the blood away. Despite feeling awkward about the whole thing, his movements were soft and delicate, like the Captain would disintegrate if he pressed too hard. Thankfully, the blood came off easily, and it didn't leave any streaks for him to have to go back and collect.

"See? You're a natural," the Doctor commented. "Maybe you should pick up a career in medicine. You'd be one hell of a nurse."

"Mmm," Spock hummed, handing back the dirtied washcloth once he was finished. At first glance, the hum came off as disapproving, but in reality, it was a distracted hum. The fluttering of Jim's eyelids had caught his attention.

Just a few seconds later, McCoy noticed it too and moved closer, both men eager to see their best friend regain consciousness.

"Jim?" ----

Jim drifted into a hazy, half asleep, half awake state to hear Doctor McCoy calling out. It sounded like his name, but because the words were muffled by a suffocating darkness that enveloped his entire being, it was difficult to know for sure. He wanted to reach out to it. Maybe if he could grab onto it, grab onto something, it could help pull him out of this void.

Another voice then floated into his ears, this one just the slightest bit closer.

"Captain?"

Spock.

Both voices came from somewhere close by, but they were lost somewhere in the dark, somewhere Jim couldn't quite reach, but he was determined to fight his way to them.

With every bit of strength he had (both mental and physical), Jim willed his arm to move, desperate for some kind of contact, begging for somebody to free him from this endless emptiness. When it did, relief sprouted in his chest. Within seconds of accomplishing this, he felt someone's hand intertwine with his, and suddenly the darkness dissipated, allowing him to peel his eyelids apart. It was difficult, and required a tremendous amount of energy, but they split, revealing eyes that were slightly unfocused but not glazed over anymore, a little glassy still, but from exhaustion rather than illness.

It took a few blinks for Jim to clear his vision from the blurriness of sleep, but once he did, he saw Spock and McCoy to his left, noticing instantly how Spock was the one holding his hand. This gesture was highly unusual for him, suggesting that he was more than relieved to see him awake.

"We…gettin' married?" Jim teased, his signature half smirk tugging at his lips.

Spock cleared his throat and immediately released his hand (and Jim was almost positive there was a flush of embarrassment turning his cheeks green.)

"I'm…pleased to see you looking well, Captain," the Vulcan replied, scrambling for the right words.

Jim's smirk grew. He glanced over at McCoy.

McCoy snorted, meeting his gaze.

"Don't let him fool ya, Jim," he said, leaning down a bit to pat Jim on the back a couple times before crossing his arms, eyeing Spock. "That's an understatement. He's been worried sick." The Doctor grinned. "I've lost count of how many times he's come in to check on you these last two days."

Jim continued to smirk while taking a moment to look directly at Spock.

"…love you too, Spock," he croaked softly, blinking sleepily. He fought back an enormous yawn.

"How do you feel, Jim?" McCoy inquired, gripping his shoulder in a caring manner.

"I'm…tired, but good. I think," Jim responded, focusing on him again.

"Well, I'm not surprised," McCoy began, releasing his shoulder. "Your body's been through hell." He paused for a moment before continuing, avoiding Jim's gaze and lowering his voice. "You barely made it through this alive."

Jim sensed the sudden heaviness of the Doctor's words. He could almost feel it, like a weighted blanket had been laid out on top of them. He was just surprised by how little he remembered. When he thought back on what had happened, some things were crystal clear, but putting those crystal clear pieces together didn't make sense, which meant there were pieces missing, pieces meant to fill in the gaps.

In an effort to retrieve those pieces, Jim opened his mouth and, with a wince, pushed himself upright, a flurry of questions sitting on his tongue, but McCoy cut him off before they could come out.

"If you're about to ask me what happened, I swear I'll have you hanging from the ceiling by your feet," he threatened, but without any real bite. Jim knew him well enough to know this was simply his way of covering up his fears. It was a testament to how bad his illness had been, how close he'd been to death. "If you cooperate, I'll have you out of here in three days, maybe two if you behave. Now lie down and rest. You need your sleep." McCoy pressed on Jim's shoulders with both hands, trying to lure him into sleep by getting him comfortable.

At first, Jim resisted, but then a huge yawn slipped out and he relented, allowing the Doctor to lay him back down. He really didn't want to sleep, he was itching to get back to the Bridge, but his body was protesting.

"I can see you're feeling better, stubborn pain in my ass," McCoy muttered as he stepped away to meet Christine, who'd just come into the room to give him results for the tests he'd run.

"Captain, I find your reluctance to rest while ill to be highly illogical," Spock said, cocking his head to the side slightly. "You're evidently tired."

Jim smiled, his eyes sparkling with admiration as he glanced over at his first officer.

"That I am, Spock, that I am," he murmured, his eyelids flickering shut as fatigue overwhelmed him. "Alright. Fine. You guys…" Jim was cut off by another yawn. "…win," he finished. He was asleep in a matter of seconds.

"Good news, Jim. Your test results just came back and they're-" McCoy started to say as he approached the bed again but immediately broke off when he noticed that the Captain was fast asleep. "Oh, good." He looked to Spock then, whispering, "The virus is almost completely gone. One more dose of the opramozine and he'll be good as new."

"Excellent, Doctor. I shall inform the crew." Spock got to his feet, giving the Captain one last look before making his way toward the exit. ----

True to McCoy's word, Jim was released from Sick Bay after two full days of recovery, or, more accurately, two full days spent cracking jokes and bantering with the Doctor (except during a few very brief naps.) McCoy had pretended like the behavior was driving him up the wall, throwing half-hearted threats at him every time he tried to get out of bed (and the one time he actually did get out of bed), but really he couldn't have been more grateful for it. It was a very welcome change of pace. A sense of normalcy had returned, and it was glorious.

Spock had come to check on Jim a few times too, but now that he was himself again, he had a hard time getting away with it. Jim had called him out on it several times, and his attempts to defend his actions had been quite humorous, leading to Jim and McCoy bursting into laughter more than once.

When the time came for Jim to return to duty, everyone was ecstatic. Uhura even leapt to her feet when he stepped onto the Bridge and assumed command. Seeing him alive and well lifted the crews' spirits, a smile on each of their faces as he took his place in the Captain's chair and threw out orders. It was like he'd never left.

"Steady as she goes, Mister Sulu. Ahead warp factor one."

[whump-4-ever]

Countdown: Chapter 4

-

Jim jolted awake with a gasp as a surge of adrenaline suddenly pulsed through him, his eyelids flying open and his heart rate skyrocketing. Tendrils of anxiety shot through his entire body, first sprouting in his chest before spreading into his limbs, drowning him in panic. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out what exactly was happening, why it was happening, or how to stop it, but he understood that it wasn’t normal. It was honestly quite scary (though he would never say so out loud.)

He thought back on what had occurred in the past 24 hours, sifting through his memory banks, searching for any files that could lead him to an answer, but he couldn’t find much. He had a vague recollection of a mission to Morthoros and delivering medicine, but that was it. Anything after that was fragmented, shattered into bits and pieces, bits and pieces that were much too small to make sense of, and he couldn’t be sure what was part of a memory and what was just a splintered, incoherent thought.

All he really knew for certain was that his body hurt all over. He was also short of breath, lightheaded, dizzy, and he just couldn’t think straight, but he chalked all of these symptoms up to anxiety (not remembering that this exact scenario had played out about a day and a half ago, where he’d blamed his ailments on anxiety only for him to find out he was actually sick.)

The Captain, with great difficulty (and a pretty powerful wince), pulled himself into an upright position. The movement clearly didn’t sit right with his body because it caused his vision to blur. Thankfully, though, the blurriness faded after a few moments. Once it did, he instantly recognized the walls of Sick Bay.

Why am I in Sick Bay?

He didn’t know. He surmised that there was a good reason, but that reason was lost on him. It was possible he was in Sick Bay because he was sick (duh), but he didn’t exactly feel sick. Just…..off. Uneasy, too.

Something’s wrong, but what?

Jim scanned his surroundings carefully, looking for anything suspicious, hoping for a clue as to what the hell was going on. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but he just knew something was wrong. He could feel it in his gut.

The Captain very shakily slid out of the biobed, so caught off guard by how unsteady he was on his feet that he had to grab onto the mattress until he could regain his balance. It took a moment, but once he accomplished that, he made his way over to the exit, stumbling the entire way, and proceeded into the hall.

I have to get to the Bridge, see what’s going on.

His most important job and main role as Captain of the Enterprise (aside from seeking out and learning from new life and new civilizations) was maintaining the safety of the ship and its’ crew. If they were in danger, and he wasn’t there to fix it, anything that happened to them would be on him.

Jim only made it a little ways away from Sick Bay before he began to feel weak, his head buzzing and his ears ringing. It was so overwhelming that he had to brace himself against the wall in order to keep himself from collapsing. He was even more lightheaded, dizzy, and out of breath now that he was walking, but he knew he had to keep going. Something told him his crew was in trouble, and so he only allowed himself a minute of rest before continuing onward toward the turbo lift.

Once he finally made it, having to use the wall the whole way there, he let out an involuntary sigh of relief, but just before he could activate the sensors to open the doors, a chilling, all-too-familiar voice echoed from behind him.

“Hello, Captain.”

Jim, still holding onto the wall, very slowly turned himself around, his eyes widening at the person standing just a few feet away.

“Khan,” he whispered, his gaze hardening in a glare.

Khan said nothing. He just smirked and started to chuckle maniacally as the Captain’s knees buckled beneath him, unable to hold his weight anymore. He hit the floor with a thump and quickly faded into unconsciousness, Khan’s laughter following him into the dark.

——

Spock wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected to find when the doors of the turbo lift slid open, but it definitely hadn’t been to see his captain only a foot or so away from him, on the floor, collapsed against the wall.

He’d just received an alert from Doctor McCoy that Jim was suspected to be caught in a hallucinogenic episode and had run off. Last he’d heard, Jim had been asleep, having drifted off again after a brief awakening after his lukewarm bath. Spock knew from his brief conversation with the Doctor approximately two hours and forty seven minutes ago that the Captain had already experienced one of these episodes, so, from a logical standpoint, it was a good assumption that he was having another one.

Why else would he have left Sick Bay in such a hurry?

What the Vulcan was really curious about was how it had transpired, Jim managing to escape Sick Bay. How had Jim even been able to stand up in his condition, let alone walk out of Sick Bay? And without Nurse Chapel or Doctor McCoy noticing? Spock didn’t know, but he’d kept that question to himself and had proceeded to search for him. Logic (like always) had taken over his thought processes and advised him (with great urgency) that locating Jim and returning him to Sick Bay was the best (and most important) course of action.

No time for side questions, that voice in his head had chastised him. The voice speaking was, without a doubt, the part of him that had been raised in the ways of a Vulcan, the part of him taught that logic was the end all be all. The other part of him, though, the human half, had been overwhelmed with fear, and a growing concern that maybe they’d run out of time. If the Captain was having more hallucinations, that meant the fever had gone up again, and if the fever had gone up again, that meant he was getting sicker.

McCoy, during their most recent talk, had let Spock know that the cool bath had been successful in lowering the fever and that the application of cooling rags following the bath had helped keep it that way, but only for a few hours.

He’d been on his way to Sick Bay anyway when he’d gotten McCoy’s message, so the change in plan didn’t really bother him. He’d actually been quite grateful for an official excuse to see his friend. He just wished it was under better circumstances, wished it was due to an improvement in his condition, not a decline.

Ever since Jim had fallen ill, Spock had been checking in periodically, making all kinds of excuses for why he was doing so and insisting that these check-ins were for professional reasons only, but he sensed that everyone around him had started to pick up on the truth, especially McCoy. The Doctor had commented on it quite a few times, seeing right through to his human half. He was worried, very worried, and it didn’t take a genius to recognize that.

He got the impression that McCoy didn’t blame him, though. Nobody did. Everyone was worried about the Captain, stuck wondering if this was really it, if this was really the thing that would kill him. After everything this crew had been through, it was hard to imagine that a virus could be what took him in the end, but, regardless of how unfathomable it was, their reactions were perfectly normal. So was Spock’s, despite his tendency to deny feeling such a way. The only one blaming him for his reaction was himself, because he was a Vulcan, and Vulcans weren’t supposed to care beyond the point of logic, yet he did, and he couldn’t fight it. Not this time.

If the USS Ferocity remained on schedule, then it would be there with the opramozine soon, but that didn’t make Spock feel much better, given the fact that 1): there was no guarantee the medicine would cure the Captain (his immune system could reject it, as McCoy had stated earlier), and 2): he was currently unconscious at his feet.

With haste (and an ever-rising apprehension in the pit of his stomach), Spock knelt beside the Captain, placing two fingers to the carotid artery in his neck and holding his breath. Even if he’d wanted to (and he definitely didn’t), he couldn’t have described the amount of relief he felt when a slightly rapid yet strong pulse beat back against his fingertips, but that relief began to dissipate just seconds later when he noticed the shallow, labored breaths entering and exiting the Captain’s lungs, concerned about how there came a harsh rattling sound with each inhale and exhale, almost like he’d breathed in water and was asphyxiating. He also noted how his face and neck were completely drenched in sweat, so much so that the collar of his Starfleet uniform was soaked through, causing the fabric to stick to his skin, turning its’ color from light yellow to dark yellow. This, the Vulcan deduced, was confirmation of an increase in temperature. As for his breathing, Spock was uncertain of what was going on there, some kind of fluid in the lungs, perhaps, but he was no doctor, and he did not have any medical equipment with him, so there was no way for him to know for sure.

Spock quickly scrambled to his feet and over to the nearest intercom.

“Spock to Doctor McCoy.”

The reply was instant.

“McCoy here. Mister Spock, please tell me you’ve found him.” McCoy’s voice was strained with worry, and a touch of guilt (Spock didn’t pick up on it though. His alien half didn’t leave much room for interpreting emotion, especially when it came to speech.)

“Yes, Doctor. I have located the Captain. Deck 5, near the turbo lift. He is unconscious, breathing but with great difficulty. I suspect fluid in the lungs.”

“Try and keep him upright. It should help him breathe,” McCoy instructed him.

“Will do, Doctor, but I suggest that you make haste.”

“I’m on my way. McCoy out.”

“Spock out.”

Just as their exchange ended, Jim drifted back into a hazy, half conscious state, a wet cough escaping him. Spock immediately tore away from the intercom and rushed back over to him.

“Captain?” He asked as he dropped to his knees, watching intently as his friend’s eyelids parted just a sliver (seemingly at the sound of his voice), assessing his level of awareness and watching for any signs that he was still hallucinating.

“….Sp-Spock?” Jim croaked, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a swallow.

Recognition, he observed. A good sign.

Their gazes met for a moment, and as Jim’s eyes slowly widened he could see how they were slightly crossed, as if he was too exhausted to focus them.

“Sp-“ Jim fell into a violent coughing fit before he could finish, nearly gasping for air in between each cough, wheezing desperately as his lungs struggled to pull in oxygen. To Spock’s horror, with several of the coughs came a few globs of blood. They spewed out of his mouth and down his chin, staining the sweat-slicked skin in crimson red splatters.

The source of the rattling, Spock realized.

“…..Sp’ck…’m…s-s’rry….” Jim gurgled as more blood dribbled out of his mouth, the noise originating from deep in his throat. Concerning, to say the least.

“I would advise you not to talk, Captain,” the Vulcan said calmly. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, unsure of how to comfort people in times like this. “Doctor McCoy is on the way.”

“…..I-I’m….” Jim trailed off (appearing not to have heard him), his eyes beginning to roll upward, toward his skull.

“Jim!” Spock shouted, catching the man with both hands as he slumped to the side. ‘Try and keep him upright. It should help him breathe,’ McCoy’s words echoed in the back of his mind. He repeated them to himself several times in an effort to focus his attention on the present, to ward off the panic brewing in his gut. Panic wasn’t something he was too familiar with (it took him a little by surprise that he was experiencing it now), but one thing was certain: he found it less than desirable and willed his Vulcan half to take control so he wouldn’t have to feel it.

Jim blinked once, then twice, his eyes slowly rolling back to their normal position, almost as if he’d begun to pass out and then somehow yanked himself back into that partially conscious state.

“…..’m sorry, Sp’ck…” Jim rasped. He stared up at his friend, his jaw flexing like he was trying to say more, but nothing else came out, then he swallowed again, and Spock recognized that this was because he was attempting to rid his airway of the blood. Not only was it disrupting his ability to speak, it was also turning breathing into an arduous task.

“I see no logic in expressing guilt, Captain,” Spock said. The illogic of his friend’s sentiment would have confused him had he not been aware of his current state. “You have done nothing wrong.”

“…h’ve t’…s-stop…Khan…”

It was definite now. He was most certainly hallucinating. His use of Khan’s name, in Spock’s eyes, confirmed that, because Khan wasn’t here.

“….’s m-my fault. Khan….have t-to….get….th’ Bridge….” the Captain’s sentences were broken, only pieces of his thoughts being put into nearly incoherent words. He squirmed weakly in Spock’s grasp, trying to sit up so he could then get to his feet, but Spock’s grip was too strong (even under normal circumstances, he’d have been unable to escape. Vulcans were so damn strong, and definitely much stronger than humans. It was one of the smaller things that made him such a valuable first officer.)

“Jim,” Spock stated firmly, using his abbreviated name in the hope it would get through to him even in the midst of his fever-induced hallucinations, “Khan is not here. You’re hallucinating.” Straight to the point, as always.

“….n-no,” Jim groaned, shaking his head. His whole body began to tremble due to the tremendous amount of strain these misplaced emotions were putting him through, so overwhelmed by fear and confusion that it was physically taxing him, and he had no energy to spare. Spending any extra could even prove dangerous.

Spock scooted forward until he was nearly behind the Captain, then he carefully pulled him into his arms, cradling him close. He wasn’t 100% sure what he was doing or why he felt the need to do so, but he’d seen others do it many times. The gesture, to him, appeared to be some sort of a hug, and he knew that hugs were something humans did to comfort someone in distress. It made him a bit uncomfortable, all of this touchy, feely business, but his feelings didn’t matter right now. What mattered was keeping Jim calm until the Doctor arrived, and if this is what it took to accomplish that, he was going to do it. He knew that allowing his friend to panic, allowing his illness-driven delirium to run wild, would only complicate things further.

At the contact, Jim sighed, the tension in his muscles melting a little and the tremors lessening slightly. His eyelids flickered shut, too, and his head lolled to the side (as if too heavy to hold upright) until it came to a rest on Spock’s shoulder.

“Jim?” The Vulcan asked quietly, shaking him a bit. There was the faintest hint of fear in his voice, hidden beneath several, very thick layers of monotone, but it vanished when the Captain opened his eyes again moments later. When he did, Spock got a close-up view of their bluish-green hue. He was grateful to see them, unsettled, however, by their glassy, glazed-over appearance. They looked worse than before, much worse.

“…..Sp’ck...” Jim choked out. He lifted a trembling hand and curled his fingers into the fabric of Spock’s shirt, gripping it weakly.

“I’m right here, Captain.” Spock held him a little tighter, getting the impression that the close proximity was, indeed, helping to induce a state of calm in his friend.

Jim peered up at him, his lips slightly parted as he attempted to resupply his lungs with the air they so desperately craved.

Spock used the crook of his elbow to elevate his head a bit further in the hope that McCoy’s earlier instructions would apply and help him breathe.

“…..’m s-scared, Spock,” Jim whispered, even more blood bubbling up in his mouth. There was so much now that it had dripped onto his shirt, leaving splotches of red on it.

The admission frightened the Vulcan. Never in his life could he have predicted hearing those words come out of Jim’s mouth.

Where is the Doctor? It shouldn’t be taking him this long.

“Doctor McCoy is on his way. Just hold out a little longer,” Spock told him.

The Captain suddenly went limp against him, his head rolling backward and lolling limply. At the same time, his fingers uncurled from Spock’s shirt and his hand slowly slid down his chest.

“Jim!” Spock yelled, shaking him in an effort to elicit a response, attempting to bring him back to consciousness, but it failed. The Vulcan, with great despair, then noticed (and felt) that the Captain was barely breathing. “Jim!”

“Spock!” came a new but familiar voice. “I’ve got the opramozine!” Doctor McCoy announced as he rushed up to them, a hypospray gripped firmly in his hand. “God, Jim,” he whispered as he dropped down beside them, no doubt catching sight of all the blood. He wasted no time in giving him the drug, pressing the hypospray to Jim’s shoulder and administering the opramozine. Once that was done, he quickly prepared another hypospray, this one a dose of the tri-ox compound.

Several minutes passed. They both waited with bated breath, uncertain of how it would play out, unsure of their Captain’s (and best friend’s) fate. This was the moment of truth. Would the opramozine cure him, or had he been sentenced to death?

[whump-4-ever]

I'll never understand shaming WITHIN the whump community. No you're not a "fake fan of whump" or "weaker" than other whump fans because of your squicks. No your blorbo doesn't have to be chopped into little bits and blended into a smoothie for it to really be whump. Yes you can like whump and still like fluff, fix-its and wholesome fandom content.

I thought we knew better than this, y'all. Support all whump fans, we're a community after all

[whump-4-ever]

Countdown: Chapter 3

-

Jim groaned softly as he slowly drifted back into consciousness.

The first thing he became aware of was the sensation of something cool and damp dabbing at his skin in various places, particularly on his cheeks, forehead, neck, and chest. On one hand, it was soothing (whatever it was), a pleasant contrast to the fire raging inside him (the one melting his internal organs with a vengeful, merciless passion.) On the other hand, the coolness of it sent chills down his spine, making his whole body quake and quiver with each and every touch. He couldn’t decide if he liked it or if it was making him feel worse.

The last thing he remembered was vomiting up every bit of food he’d ever eaten.

How long ago had that been?

It seemed like it had just happened, but, taking into account how stiff and sore his muscles were, he supposed he’d been lying in bed for quite some time. Why else would he be this sore?

He peeled sticky eyelids apart and, through blurry vision, was greeted with two silhouetted figures on either side of him, their outlines defined by the bright lights shining overhead.

The figure on his left moved closer to him upon noticing he was awake. In an effort to clear the fuzziness from his field of view, Jim blinked a few times and, like a camera lens focusing on its’ capture point, his eyesight sharpened. Suddenly, he was able to see who was there with him. It was Doctor McCoy and the nurse, Christine Chapel.

When had she gotten here?

“Jim?”

“Bones…” Jim murmured, glancing up at his friend with exhausted eyes. Though his vision had returned, centering it on anything was difficult.

Christine smiled when he spoke, her gaze going back and forth between him and McCoy, monitoring him while also waiting to see McCoy’s reaction to his return to consciousness.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Jim,” McCoy said, confirming his suspicions that he’d been asleep for a long time.

But for how long, exactly?

“You’ve been out for nearly twelve hours,” the Doctor went on, as if reading his thoughts.

Jim was astonished.

Twelve hours?!

Maybe that’s why his muscles felt as though they’d been ripped apart and sewn back together with staples and string, because he’d been in this damn bed for a whole twelve hours! He knew what he was feeling couldn’t be a result of the fever, because this type of pain was different, not the achy, throbbing kind you get from a high temperature but rather, the kind you get from exercising a muscle you hadn’t used in a while, similar to what you’d experience after falling asleep on your arm but with the added soreness of an overworked muscle.

“It was touch and go there for a while,” the Doctor continued, his words heavy, giving Jim reason to believe that something bad had happened in those past twelve hours, but he couldn’t quite figure out what, “and your fever hit 109°. But you’re doing a bit better now. It’s back down to 105°, and you’re coherent, which is a huge improvement from earlier.” McCoy paused, dropping his gaze downward for a moment before looking at Jim again with a faint smile. It had that hint of worry in it like before, and, judging by the way his friend seemed reluctant to continue and had briefly turned away from him, the Captain deduced there was a lot more to be said, a lot more that had been left unsaid, and he was determined to get it out of him, one way or another.

“….happened?” He asked, but talking required energy that he just didn’t have. Despite having been out for twelve hours, he was so tired. Everything felt heavy, like his body was made of lead, and there was this drowsiness surrounding the edges of his consciousness, almost as though he’d been drugged, so instead of speaking, he used body language to express the urgency of his question, widening his eyes and lifting his eyebrows to convey a sort of desperation, hoping the Doctor would pick up on it.

McCoy sighed heavily, silently admiring (but also hating) Jim’s persistence.

I expect nothing less from you, Jim. You’re always so determined. It’s honestly one of the things I love and hate about you, he thought to himself, fighting the urge to comment on it. Commenting would only encourage him to do it more, whether the comment was positive or negative.

“What……h’ppened?”

“Alright, Jim. I’ll tell ya, but then you’re going to rest. No exceptions. Got it?”

McCoy was met with a nod. He sighed again, shuddering as he thought back on those last twelve hours, remembering all too well the incident that had frightened him the most.

*Twelve hours earlier*

The Doctor rushed over to Jim’s bedside the second he heard his friend whimper, having been just a few feet away helping Christine with the wet rags and cooling blankets, getting them ready for use.

“Jim?” Concern began to creep up on him upon hearing the whimpers. It wasn’t often that he witnessed the man in such an incoherent, emotionally vulnerable state of mind and it worried him.

“No…” the Captain groaned. He was curled up on his side with his knees to his chest, shaking uncontrollably as fever chills assaulted his fragile body. “No…”

McCoy very carefully wrapped a hand around Jim’s bicep. “Jim,” he repeated, a bit firmer this time, trying to get through to him but without too much force.

Jim flinched at the touch as if it had burned him, his eyes flying open.

“No! Don’t!” The Captain snarled angrily, yanking his arm out of McCoy’s grasp and glaring at him with wild eyes.

“Jim, it’s me. It’s alright,” the Doctor said softly as he retracted his hand. The last thing he wanted to do was upset or scare him.

“N-No!” Jim repeated, shoving McCoy away from him with an amount of strength someone as sick as him would not have been expected to have.

McCoy recollected himself and then took a step back, holding his hands up in surrender, trying to show that he wasn’t a threat.

“Jim…” the Doctor spoke slowly, hesitantly, treading lightly in an effort to control and not further escalate the situation.

Jim suddenly sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, gripping the edge of it with both hands. His mouth hung open as he drew in rapid, shallow breaths with so much force that his chest heaved with every inhale, each one so labored that even his shoulders moved. Bead-sized droplets of sweat covered his flushed pink face, his hair plastered to his forehead. That wild look in his eyes intensified when McCoy shuffled just the slightest bit closer, making him look like a caged animal trying to escape.

“I…..I have to get back to the Bridge…” Jim panted, looking back and forth rapidly, like he was searching for something, before blinking furiously, as if fighting to keep his eyes open. His head was hanging low, as if it was too heavy to hold up, and all traces of hostility were gone in a matter of seconds, making room for what could only be described as hysteria. “You d-don’t….understand.” He shook his head. “Khan is….back.” The Captain, with every word, spoke breathlessly, nearly gasping for air as he sat, perched, on the edge of the biobed. “We’re all in…..danger.”

McCoy was painfully aware that there was no real danger (at least, not the kind that the Captain was referring to.) Khan most certainly was not on the ship nor anywhere near it. Jim was simply suffering from his illness, lost in a haze of pain and fever. He was delirious (that much was certain), and handling delirious patients was a delicate matter. It required a unique skill that many did not possess. Fortunately, the Doctor did possess this skill, thanks to practice (and, since he knew the Captain personally, he had an advantage. Not much of an advantage, but it would still help him get through to him in his feverish frenzy.)

“We’re in danger!” Jim yelled, but his tone didn’t match his face. He sounded angry, but he expressed panic. His eyes were open so wide that the whites were showing, and his eyebrows were so raised that there were several lines of wrinkles on his forehead. He appeared to be flip flopping between emotions, having trouble deciding which one was how he truly felt. To many, this display would stir up a lot of questions, leading most to believe the Captain was on drugs or just straight up crazy, but McCoy instantly recognized the behavior, knowing it to be symptoms of not just delirium but a specific kind of delirium. It was a condition known as fever delirium, a condition in which the individual suffered from acute confusion and an altered mental state due to a high internal temperature. It was typically characterized by changes in attention, thinking, and awareness that would often times result in combativeness and agitation.

He’d been afraid of this, sickeningly aware of its’ likelihood of occurrence given how high Jim’s temperature was, but he had really, truly hoped it wouldn’t happen. He didn’t like seeing his friend this way, torn down, stripped of who he was and replaced with a stranger, all due to contracting a virus as a result of helping alien life forms.

Was this how he was to be thanked for his selflessness?

The universe worked in mysterious ways. If this was supposed to be a ‘thank you’, McCoy didn’t want it.

“….have to….Bridge…..K-Khan…” Jim trailed off, starting to fall forward, and for the third time in the last twenty four hours, the Doctor had to catch his friend before he could hit the floor.

“Easy, Jim. Just take it easy,” McCoy soothed as the Captain slumped right into his arms, remaining calm and collected in the hope that it would help Jim do the same. “In your absence, Spock’s in command. He’s got everything handled. You, on the other hand, need to stay put.” He tossed his head over his shoulder before ordering, “Nurse, please assist me.” He grunted as he attempted to lift the Captain back onto the bed, failing miserably. He was too heavy.

“No!” Jim wailed, latching onto the Doctor’s shirt with an iron grip and pressing his face into his shoulder. He was shaking uncontrollably, and McCoy was certain he felt tears seeping into the fabric of his uniform. After several moments, his shoulder became damp (a mixture of tears and sweat.)

With Christine’s help, he managed to situate the Captain back on the bed (despite him fighting them the entire time) but couldn’t get him to lay down. He absolutely refused to let go of McCoy.

Even in the times the Doctor had witnessed his friend delirious with a fever, he’d never seen this. Jim had never been so scared that he’d refused to relinquish contact with him.

“Jim, I’m not leaving. It’s okay.” The Doctor unconsciously started rubbing his back in a comforting manner. While doing so, he looked to Christine and whispered, “Prepare a sedative. We’ve got to get his fever down now, before this gets any worse, and we can’t do that when he’s hysterical.” He then glanced up at the monitor on the wall, seeing how his temperature was now 109°.

She nodded and left to fetch him what he’d requested.

“C’mon, Jim. You’ve gotta let go of me so I can help you feel better. You’re-“

“No! No, no, no!” Jim wept, his grip on McCoy’s shirt tightening for a brief moment before releasing completely, his hands sliding downward until they were sitting limply in his lap. “…..h’ve t’ g’t…..Br’dge…?” The words were so slurred now that they were nearly incomprehensible. “….th’….Br’dge-“ The Captain’s whole body suddenly stiffened, a low, half moan, half choking sound squeezing its’ way out of his lungs and cutting off his incoherent mumbling.

McCoy grabbed onto Jim’s shoulders and pushed him upright just a little so he could see his face, see what was going on.

“Jim?”

Just as he gained view of his face, Jim’s eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he started convulsing violently, so violently that it shook the bed. When he took a breath, it made a gurgling noise, as if he was asphyxiating on some kind of liquid.

“Jim!” The Doctor exclaimed.

He acted quickly, immediately recognizing the signs of a seizure and switching into doctor mode. As gently as he could, he maneuvered the Captain so he was lying on his side. This would help prevent him from choking on saliva, or vomit, if he were to throw up.

“Here’s that sedative you-“ Chapel started as she reentered the room, but McCoy interrupted her.

“Get it over here! Now!” He snapped, holding his hand out for the hypo. The second she offered it to him, he took it and injected its’ contents into a vein in Jim’s neck, begging for it to work. This kind of sedative was a benzodiazepine. Benzodiazepines (thankfully) could be used in emergency situations to stop seizures as well as treat anxiety or put someone under before surgery (before the actual anesthesia.)

To his despair, the convulsions not only didn’t stop but increased in intensity and frequency the longer the seizure went on. The medicine didn’t appear to be working. That gurgling sound continued to rattle deep in the back of his throat with every inhale (a sign that his breathing was impaired), and foamy saliva was starting to bubble up in his mouth, accumulating in the corners and dripping down his chin. The skin of his face was turning gray as well, his lips and fingertips tinged a light blue (another sign of low oxygen.) This, the Doctor knew, was normal for a seizure but it was frightening to watch.

“God, Jim,” McCoy whispered as he administered a dose of the tri-ox compound, to help him breathe, then he gave him another dose of the sedative. Why none of these medications (except for the tri-ox) were having an effect on him, why none of them had had an effect on him from the moment he got sick, he didn’t know for sure, but he suspected it was in relation to his immune system. When so thrown out of balance like this, immune systems would end up perceiving everything as a threat, even things that were meant to help it. If that was what was going on, all he could do in terms of treatment was mitigate the symptoms until he could kill the virus, and he could only kill the virus with opramozine. Even then, it was possible that Jim’s immune system would see the opramozine as a threat, too. That meant it might not work. It meant he could really die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“The sedative seems to be kicking in now, Doctor,” Nurse Chapel said quietly as she observed the way the tremors were lessening, their strength dwindling gradually, going from violent, sporadic jerks to light twitches.

‘Maybe there’s hope after all,’ McCoy thought optimistically. A shadow of doubt still haunted him, but he did his best to suppress it.

The seizure, after a total of nearly 13 minutes, finally came to an end.

“Alright. Let’s get him comfortable and start applying those wet rags and cooling blankets. His fever’s 109°. It’s a miracle he’s not dead already,” McCoy said as he and the Nurse gently rolled the Captain onto his back. McCoy kept his palm at the point where Jim's neck and skull met, keeping his head from lolling around limply as they moved him into a better position, then he helped Chapel place the wet rags and cooling blankets on his forehead, neck, and chest and a cooling blanket over his legs and waist . “If these don’t start lowering his temperature within the next fifteen minutes, we’re gonna have to put him in a lukewarm bath.”

She nodded. "Will he be alright, Doctor?" She questioned him, cocking her head to the side slightly as she did so.

"I don't know, Christine."

The use of her first name alarmed her, urging her to say more, but a voice coming through the intercom stopped her.

“Bridge to Sick Bay.”

It was Spock.

"Keep an eye on him for a moment," McCoy said, then approached the intercom.

"Sick Bay to Bridge. McCoy here.”

“Doctor, I have just received word from Starfleet Command. They have deemed our situation as ‘urgent’ and, after sending out an emergency alert to all nearby ships requesting delivery of opramozine to our location, the USS Ferocity is en route. We should expect its’ arrival in approximately fifteen hours, thirty two minutes, and eleven seconds,” Spock informed him.

“Thank God,” McCoy muttered. “The Captain’s in real trouble, Spock. He needs that opramozine. His fever won’t come down. It’s now at 109°, and I’ve tried everything except a cool bath.”

“Do what you must, Doctor. Our Captain’s life is of the utmost importance.” Spock was known for stating the obvious, but it still ruffled McCoy’s feathers every time he did it.

“You think I don’t know that?” He barked, short-tempered. After drawing in a deep breath, he apologized, realizing that he’d momentarily lost his patience due to stress. “Sorry, Spock.”

“It is quite alright. I’ll see to it that they arrive on time. Spock out.”

McCoy then moved back over to Jim, locking gazes with the Nurse.

“The cool compresses are working. His fever’s dropping,” she told him, gesturing to the monitor.

Jim’s temperature had gone down to 109.2° (from 109.6°), but that was still much too high.

McCoy sighed deeply. “It’s not enough. We’re gonna have to put him in a cool bath. It’s the only thing we haven’t tried.”

The Nurse nodded. “Okay. I’ll go get the tub ready.”

———

The Doctor exhaled heavily as he sat on his knees at the edge of the tub, running the hand-held medical tricorder over the man lying half submerged in the water, unexpectedly quite pleased with the readings. He and Nurse Chapel had placed Jim in a lukewarm bath only about twenty minutes ago, and his fever had already gone from 109.2° to 107.8°. It was promising, and a good indication that if they kept him in there, his fever would continue to go down, to the point where it was no longer a threat to his life.

At least, that was the goal. There was no guarantee, of course, that it would drop that much, but so far, the results were very encouraging.

The problem was that Jim was fighting the sedative, fighting to regain consciousness. McCoy wasn’t sure how he was doing so (especially in his condition), but he did know that he couldn’t give him much more, not until what was already in his system worked its’ way out, and that would take another three to four hours. He could technically give him another dose or two, but then he’d run the risk of overdosing. If McCoy was being honest with himself, he’d prefer to save that couple of doses in the event Jim had another seizure, but saving them also came with risks. Saving them could mean he and the Nurse were in for a bit of a hassle. Coming out of sedation in and of itself had less than desirable effects on a patient’s awareness and mood. Add on top of that recovering from a seizure AND suffering from a scary high temperature and you get an extremely combative, agitated, and confused patient, not to mention the Captain was being forced to sit in a cool bath when his body was overheating. That probably didn’t feel too great on his scalding skin, and in his altered state of consciousness, he probably wasn’t able to understand why it was happening, just that it was miserable. If he started fighting them in an attempt to escape the discomfort, it could end badly, not only because the overexertion could cause his fever to shoot up again but also because he could hurt himself (or one of them.)

So really, McCoy had to choose one, neither of which were great. After thinking it over for several minutes, he decided to hold off on more medicine. It was, in his opinion, the lesser of the two evils. It probably wasn’t going to be easy, keeping Jim calm, because, let’s be real, getting him to stay put even under normal circumstances was a challenge, but he’d rather deal with that than another seizure and having no method of stopping it.

“Doctor McCoy,” Nurse Chapel said as Jim’s eyes slowly opened.

McCoy, at the sound of her voice, snapped back into reality. He moved to place his hand on Jim’s shoulder but quickly stopped himself, remembering what had happened last time. He decided he’d wait and assess his level of coherency before touching him, so as to avoid conflict.

“Hey, Jim. It’s McCoy. Can you hear me?”

Jim tossed his head to the side and squeezed his eyes shut tight, not appearing to have heard his friend. He fidgeted restlessly in the tub, kicking his feet a couple times and causing the water to slosh around (looking almost like a toddler throwing a tantrum.) Tears began to leak out from underneath closed eyelids, leaving behind warm, salty streaks as they streamed down his face.

Chapel, before McCoy could stop her, extended an arm and cupped Jim’s cheek in her palm, using her thumb to wipe away every tear in her reach as they fell.

The Captain’s eyes reopened at her touch, and for a moment, McCoy held his breath, his heart racing as he waited to see what would happen.

To his relief, Jim didn’t panic. Instead, he seemed to relax, his eyelids flickering shut again after a second, his head going heavy in her hand.

“It’s okay,” the Nurse cooed softly.

There was, as McCoy saw it, a motherly feel to her demeanor, an aura of warmth and tenderness surrounding her. It reminded him of how grateful he was to have her as his assistant. Comfort wasn’t necessarily something he struggled with, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t happy to have help in times like these.

“…’s…c-cold,” Jim slurred, his eyelids pulling apart again. A shiver wracked his frame as he spoke, seeming to assault every muscle in his body.

‘Damn it,’ McCoy cursed silently. Shivering was counterproductive right now. It would undo all of their hard work. Everything they’d gone through, everything they’d put Jim through, to lower his fever, would be for nothing if he started shivering now.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. Just a little bit longer, okay?” Chapel said, watching the Doctor as he scanned the Captain again.

“His fever’s now 106.2°. It’s not as low as I’d like it to be but if he’s shivering, we can’t keep him in the tub.” McCoy shook his head. “That benzo I gave him slows activity in the central nervous system, that’s why it inhibits seizure activity, so how is he shivering? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Could his immune system be rejecting the medicine?” The Nurse inquired.

McCoy nodded. “Given that he’s fighting the sedative effects, I’d say that’s the most probable answer.” He glanced down at Jim and muttered, “You don’t do anything halfway, do you?” He sighed. “Alright, let’s get him out of there.”

----

As the flashback ended, The Doctor realized just how grateful he was that it was over now. Even with everything he’d seen as a doctor, watching his closest friend go through something as traumatic as hallucinations and seizures was one of the worst things he’d ever experienced. He could only imagine what it’d been like for Jim, if he even remembered it.

“You had a seizure, Jim, but I think you’ll be alright now that your fever is down.” McCoy didn’t feel the need to give him the details. There was really nothing to be gained from telling him about the delirium, the hallucinations, or the bath. It would only embarrass him, especially if he knew that both McCoy and Nurse Chapel had seen him without any clothes on (even though they were in the medical field and had seen it all before.)

Jim was stunned. He had no recollection of any of this.

A seizure?

So that’s why his muscles were so sore. That would explain the drowsiness and trouble speaking, too. Seizures, even after they were over, could cause quite a lot of disorientation while the brain recovered. Sometimes, Jim knew, this disorientation and sort of ‘off’ feeling, could last for up to 24 hours following a seizure, sometimes longer. Of course, the fever could also be to blame, but it just felt different. It was hard to explain, but it was like his mouth wasn’t connected to his brain, like speech was a foreign concept, and the exhaustion he felt was somehow much worse than it’d been before.

“We have opramozine on the way. It should be here in the next three hours.” McCoy smiled at his captain, finally feeling like things were going to be okay. “You’re gonna be okay, Jim.”

Jim gave the Doctor that half grin he always gave, and, despite everything, tried to talk again, tried to tell him he was alright, but all that came out was a jumbled mess of syllables.

“….hnggffff….”

That wasn’t what he’d meant at all.

“Jim, for God’s sake, quit that! You’ve been through hell and back and you’re still trying to talk. You’re unbelievable, you know that?” McCoy scolded him, crossing his arms and glaring at him disapprovingly. He leaned in close, taking on a quieter but much more serious tone. “You’re still very sick and you need sleep. Close your eyes or I’ll close them for you.”

Jim attempted to protest but his body seemed to sing at the prospect of sleep. No matter how badly he wanted to stay awake, he just couldn’t keep his eyes from closing. Within minutes, he found himself obeying McCoy’s orders, dead asleep.

[whump-4-ever]

Countdown: Chapter 2

-

McCoy was leaning over Jim when Spock entered Sick Bay, having just administered another dose of medication.

This was his fourth attempt at lowering the fever (his previous attempts had failed miserably, which had forced him to continue trying different medications in the hope that one of them would work, eventually.) With each attempt, he’d used an NSAID. NSAIDs were a type of drug known for their extraordinary ability to lower body temperature as well as reduce inflammation and alleviate pain, but they hadn’t had an effect on the Captain’s condition thus far, and that left McCoy with a deep sense of dread. He was running out of options. He couldn’t just keep pumping Jim full of medicine, either. That could be dangerous, especially with how reactive his immune system was.

“What has happened, Doctor?” the Vulcan asked as he approached the Captain’s bed, observing his commanding officer’s half open, unfocused eyes. “Captain?”

Jim didn’t answer. He remained still where he was laid out flat on his back on the biobed (well, he was still except for the tremors that rippled through him every few seconds, tremors that were so violent they nearly shook the mattress.) The expression on his face was still as blank as it had been when McCoy had saved him from collapsing nearly thirty minutes ago.

"What is wrong with him, Doctor?" Spock questioned.

Spock, while it didn’t quite make sense to him and his logic-based mindset, knew it to be highly unusual for Jim to show no emotion and to not acknowledge the presence of his two closest friends. He always acknowledged their presence; whether it be in the form of a vocal greeting or something as subtle as a glance, there was always recognition, but right now, there was none.

To Spock, the fact that Jim’s eyes were open indicated that he was conscious, but, taking note of the way he wasn’t reacting to anything around him, it seemed most logical to assume that he was unaware of his surroundings; unresponsive, he believed, was the correct term.

“He’s sick, really sick. His fever’s so high he’s hardly conscious, and with each passing minute, he’s becoming more and more unstable. His respiratory rate, heart rate, and blood pressure are all rising and none of the medicines I’ve given him have had an effect on lowering them. I’m running out of options, and I can’t keep flooding his system with NSAIDs or he’ll be at risk of an overdose. It could even put his body into shock if I'm not careful.” McCoy paused for a moment, sighing and shaking his head. “I don’t give a damn what Starfleet says about humans being unaffected by the virus. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s got it. It was right after he got bit that he started displaying textbook symptoms of Morthorosian’s Bite, but we’re out of opramozine which means we’ve got to get to Starbase 11 as soon as humanly possible,” he continued, turning his head to the side to meet the Vulcan’s gaze.

Spock remained silent, eyes still fixated on the Captain who was still unresponsive. He would never admit it out loud, and he, quite honestly, was disgusted with himself for it, but this worried him. A lot. He could lie to everyone else, cover it up with words and a vacant face, but he couldn’t lie to himself. Emotions were a part of him and they always would be (and maybe he’d just have to learn to accept it.)

Frustration bubbled up inside McCoy at Spock’s apparent lack of concern for their friend (unaware of the inner turmoil currently raging within the Vulcan), his blood simmering with anger. He gave Spock an incredulous glare, his eyes wide and the veins in his neck bulging.

“Nothing we have on hand is working, Spock!” the Doctor whisper-yelled impatiently, careful to keep his voice quiet so as not to startle Jim in his fragile state (just in case he could still hear them.) “We need more of that damn opramozine and we need it now! His fever’s already way beyond dangerous, and the higher it gets, the more likely he is to suffer complications. I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer not to witness the frying of our captain’s brain.” McCoy’s last sentence was dripping with sarcasm (he was known for weaving sarcasm into everything, but especially in serious situations), but there was a layer of perturbation hidden beneath it.

McCoy, of course, was very aware of how all Vulcans disregarded emotion, but, knowing Spock was half human and having known him as long as he had, it was obvious he could feel, at least to an extent (no matter how hard he tried to hide it, and how good he believed himself to be at hiding it), and, often times, it irritated McCoy to no end when he refused to let it show (even though he knew his upbringing and that he’d been taught that logic was the center of all things, the only thing that mattered.)

“I do not see how an elevated body temperature could 'fry' a brain, but in any case, I will chart a course for Starbase 11. Do what you can for him, Doctor,” Spock replied, then he exited Sick Bay without another word. He’d cleverly disguised it beneath a monotone voice just as he always did, but the reason he’d left so abruptly was so he wouldn’t risk being seen expressing fear for his captain.

Every time Spock felt even the slightest bit of emotion, shame would come in to wash the feelings away, but then he’d feel even more shame in response to feeling shame, because shame itself was an emotion, too, and emotion was illogical, frowned upon by all Vulcans and seen as a weakness (especially by his father.) It was a vicious, tormenting cycle, one he doubted he’d ever fully escape, no matter how much logic he fed into it.

But even with all of these thoughts whirling around inside his head, his inner voice scolding him for allowing his feelings to overwhelm him, worry for Jim continued to eat away at his heart. It almost made him sick to his stomach. Was this what humans went through on a daily basis? If so, he was pretty certain he didn’t want to be one.

Jim was easily the closest he’d come to having what would be considered a friend, and the thought that he could lose that was unbearable. Perhaps this was the true reason why Vulcans despised emotion. Maybe it had little to do with logic and everything to do with how much feelings could hurt, how detrimental painful ones were to one’s health.

Spock shook his head briefly as he made his way to the Bridge, his attempt at pulling himself together before one of the crew saw him. Under normal circumstances, it wasn’t difficult for him to suppress his feelings and do what needed to be done, but these were not normal circumstances. It was Jim, and whenever it involved Jim, everything changed.

There was little he could do about it. Something about Jim’s life being in danger affected him in such a way that keeping his emotions in check was damn near impossible. Even if he could maintain composure in front of the crew, he hadn’t the ability to stop himself from feeling the fear and the worry, deep inside.

Logically, Spock knew the best chance Jim had at surviving this was getting to Starbase 11 as soon as they could and receiving a treatment course of opramozine, but if they couldn’t reach their destination in the next two days at the most, he would either die or become so sick that treatment wouldn’t be enough to save him.

He was painfully aware of this, of Jim’s odds, and he wasn’t happy about it. Like most things, he had extensive knowledge of the virus, its’ origin, its’ symptoms, how deadly it was, the fact that opramozine was the only known cure, and that if they didn’t treat it in time, its’ victims would succumb to it, though in front of the Doctor, he hadn’t made this knowledge known, mostly because, from a logical standpoint, that knowledge wouldn’t have changed the situation. It wouldn’t have changed that Jim was in “hot water”, as humans liked to say.

It wouldn’t have changed that Jim really might die.

Spock sighed softly as he stepped into the turbo lift. He wasn’t one to believe in miracles, but he’d be lying if he’d said he wouldn’t be grateful to have one now.

——

"Pointed-eared hobgoblin,' McCoy muttered just as Spock left.

Jim suddenly, unexpectedly, let out a shuddering groan, his eyelids fluttering slightly above tired eyes, a minuscule amount of recognition flashing within them for a brief moment before the glaze took over again.

“Sp’ck…?” he slurred, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed dryly. This was a somewhat delayed reaction to having heard the Vulcan’s voice just moments ago (no doubt this delay was a result of the fever, the high body temperature wreaking havoc on his brain.)

“Jim?” McCoy leaned over him again, laying a hand on his shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. A flicker of hope ignited in the old man’s chest and he couldn’t help but grin just the slightest bit as he encouraged his friend to speak again, knowing the Captain was at least somewhat cognizant, “Can you hear me?”

Jim’s eyes sluggishly rolled in the direction of which the voice had come. His head followed.

“Jim?” McCoy said again, his grin widening.

“B’nes…” the Captain slurred, mirroring the old man’s smile with a sloppy, slightly delirious one.

Any acknowledgement Jim had of his environment was an improvement, and any improvements were better than none, which is why McCoy was so happy (even though the accomplishment appeared minor.) As a doctor, he’d been trained to see and appreciate even the smallest victories, especially in a workplace where death was something he had to witness often, more often than anyone should ever have to.

“B’nes?” Jim repeated, a bit louder this time and still smiling.

It was then that McCoy saw Jim for what he was, rather than what he made himself out to be: a very ill, very vulnerable young man, one with a golden heart and a beautiful soul, one who deserved (and desperately needed) all of the love and kindness in the universe. In times like these, it was hard to imagine that someone at his age was responsible for running an entire starship and commanding the 430 people aboard it.

“Yeah, Jim, it’s me. I’m here,” McCoy said softly, unaware of the lines of fear riddling his face, lurking most prominently on the outer edges of his smile and the wrinkles in the center of his forehead. “How do you feel?”

Jim’s smile faded when he took in the Doctor’s expression.

“How….b-bad?” he croaked, ignoring the question. He knew his friend well. He knew what the crease in his forehead meant. Even in the haze of the fever, he saw it: the concern. The worry.

It’s bad, real bad, Jim realized.

Just as the thought occurred, a horrible, throbbing pain made itself known, as if to confirm it. This pain was no doubt due to his high temperature. What stumped him, though, was how he hadn’t noticed it until now. It was a pain so deep that it seemed to settle into the very marrow of his bones, infecting every cell as it spread throughout his muscles, consequently causing them to tighten and spasm.

As more shudders wracked Jim’s frame, he grit his teeth together and squeezed his eyelids shut, the shaking only amplifying the pain.

McCoy frowned.

“Are you in pain, Jim?”

Jim, once the pain subsided a bit, opened his eyes again to look at his friend.

“I’m fine, Bones,” he lied through slightly-clenched teeth, not wanting to worry him more.

McCoy couldn’t be fooled though, not when Jim’s pulse sped up in sync with each shudder, an indication that he was, indeed, hurting.

“Jim, anyone with eyes can see that you’re in pain. I know you’ve got a tendency to downplay your ailments for the sake of the crew- hell, even when you were stabbed by that Orion during our journey to Babel, you tried to play it off like it was just a scratch- but right now, you’re very sick and you need to let me take care of you. It’s my job.” McCoy’s tone was gentle but firm, his words mostly coated in kindness but seasoned with something akin to a mother scolding her child. “On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it? And please, for my sake and yours, don’t be giving me that ‘I’m fine’ bullshit, because we both know you’re not.”

McCoy knew better than to take Jim’s word over his own observations when it came to his health, and he wasn’t letting him get away with it. Not this time. He was a doctor, and he’d be damned if he just sat back and let his best friend suffer when there was a chance he could do something to fix it.

“Eight,” Jim murmured, deciding that he was too exhausted to argue (another telltale sign that he was only getting worse.)

The Doctor’s lips pulled into a thin line at the admission, but he forced himself to nod.

“Jim, there’s one last medication I can try. It’s the strongest we have, an NSAID, just like all the others, but they haven’t worked yet. If this one doesn’t work, do me a favor and tell that virus to take a permanent vacation, will ya?” He said as he put together yet another round of meds.

McCoy wouldn’t dare tell Jim, but at this point, he had his doubts. The only medicine proven to treat and cure this virus and all of its symptoms was the opramozine.

As he administered the drug, McCoy took notice of the enormous build up of sweat on Jim’s cheeks and brow, more than unhappy about the pinkish-red appearance of his cheeks. Everywhere else, though, he was deathly pale.

Jim gave the Doctor a small half smile before repeating his question.

“H-How bad is it?” His voice was taut with barely-masked torment.

McCoy sighed, not in the least bit surprised by his friend’s persistent need to know, from a doctor’s perspective, how serious the situation was, “It’s not good, Jim. If this doesn’t lower that fever, we’re gonna be in some real trouble. There isn’t much more I can do without risking an overdose. We really need more opramozine, but we don’t have any left. We’re on our way to Starbase 11 to get more. Just hang in there a little long-“

 

McCoy broke off as Jim suddenly bolted upright and leaned over the edge of the bed, vomiting up a stream of stomach acid and bile, and whatever remained of his last meal.

“Easy, Jim. It’s alright,” the Doctor soothed. He placed a palm on the back of his neck in an attempt to comfort him during the unpleasant experience, but in the midst of his attempt at comfort, his concern grew. He didn’t like that there were specks of red mixed in with the vomit on the floor.

That’s really not good.

It was common knowledge that this virus was capable of causing some pretty worrying symptoms, especially one as worrying as throwing up blood, but actually seeing it was a whole different story. It made McCoy’s heart sink.

There truly wasn’t much else he could do in terms of actual medicine, but, if this last one didn’t work, he could try cooling blankets and wet rags. As ancient as those techniques were, in times where medicine failed, they may come in handy. He’d do anything to get that damned fever to come down, though he didn’t want to break it completely if he could help it. A fever was the body’s way of killing foreign entities, so, from his point of view, it was necessary, but not at such a high temperature. If he could get it to around 101-102, or even 100, that would be ideal. But if it came down to it, and it was a choice between having a life-threateningly high fever and not having one at all, he would, of course, choose the latter.

The vomiting continued for several minutes, very few pauses in between each violent heave, the entire ordeal draining every last bit of energy Jim had.

Tears began to stream down his face, against his wishes, as desperation for relief welled up inside him.

Please, God, just make it stop. Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop.

Jim hardly ever found himself begging for anything, but right now, he just felt so sick, and so he was down on his knees at will, repeating the same phrases in his head, over and over like a prayer, hoping someone or something would hear it and answer.

Just make it stop!

His muscles ached in protest from the force of the retching, his lungs screamed for oxygen, and his throat stung from the stomach acid. He couldn’t breathe. Good god, he couldn’t breathe! Every time he tried to take a breath, another heave interrupted him. He involuntarily let out a groan, white-knuckling the mattress of the biobed.

It didn’t take long for his vision to start swimming, and at the same moment, lightheadedness made an appearance, threatening to drown him in darkness. He could feel himself beginning to fall forward, but even with his efforts to cling to the bed, he couldn’t keep himself steady.

“B’nes?” he murmured, sounding much weaker than before. He was still trembling too, but it wasn’t just from fever chills anymore. Instead, it was fever chills combined with the strain of vomiting, keeping himself upright, and being awake that caused him to tremble, all of them adding up to a body that just couldn’t function properly, a body so overworked it could hardly keep going. Maintaining consciousness was an arduous task to say the least.

McCoy recognized this, recognized that it was a miracle Jim was even responsive at this point, let alone awake (a Morthorosian would have been comatose by now, so it was a wonder that he was still awake, maybe a testament to how resilient a person he truly was), but the way he swayed even while in bed, and the way each blink lasted longer and longer, was confirmation of how exhausted and close to passing out he was.

“B’nes?” Jim repeated, his voice quavering. Thankfully the vomiting had ceased, but now they were left with the aftermath. “….’m gonna….” his eyelids flickered shut before he could finish.

The Doctor quickly grabbed hold of Jim’s forearm with his free hand, steadying him, then removed his other hand from the back of Jim’s neck and used both to pull him to his chest, catching him before he could go tumbling out of the bed and onto the floor.

“I’ve gotcha, Jim, it’s alright,” McCoy murmured as Jim slumped against him, completely unmoving except for the shallow, rapid breaths entering and exiting his lungs and the tremors that continued to ripple through him.

“Jim?” McCoy asked him softly, though he was confident he already knew the answer. It was no surprise when he didn’t receive a response, but it still worried him enough to where he glanced up at the monitor on the wall.

The readings were unnerving to say the least. The Captain’s temperature was now 107° (he could even feel the heat radiating off of him through the fabric of his shirt) and he didn’t miss how his oxygen levels were beginning to drop whilst his respiration rate was still rising, signaling that he wasn’t breathing well.

To McCoy’s dismay (though he wasn’t exactly surprised), that last dose of medication hadn’t made the slightest difference in the sense of the fever, just like the ones before it. Maybe it had helped with the pain, but there was no way to really know until Jim regained consciousness. There were ways of checking even while a patient was unconscious (anesthesiologists did it for a living), but everything was off due to the severity of the virus. No matter what the result turned out to be, there was no guarantee it would be accurate, so it was best to just wait until he came back around.

As for the breathing difficulties, a dose of the tri-ox compound might do the trick (and if not, he could always try putting him on a respirator, but there was no telling if that would help either, and that option also came with the risk of Jim fighting him. Jim was known for his stubbornness, especially when it came to shit like this, but perhaps it would be different this time, given the circumstances. His fractured consciousness might give the Doctor an advantage in this case, but it could also have the opposite effect and make him even less cooperative than usual, possibly making him more prone to agitation because he was confused. It was a gamble really, but if it came down to it and he deemed it necessary, he’d use it.)

After a few moments of consideration, McCoy opted for using the tri-ox compound. He decided to wait and see if any further intervention was required. Maybe the tri-ox compound was enough. Maybe he wouldn’t need to intervene any further.

Realistically, though, the Doctor knew the opramozine was his only real hope for an actual solution, but they were still nearly two days away from Starbase 11, so he would have to make do with what they had, try everything in the realm of possible (and everything in the realm of the impossible too), at least for the time being, at least until something worked.

Though if he couldn’t lower the fever within the next couple of hours, Jim could suffer permanent damage.

“Alright, let’s get you back in bed.” McCoy grunted with the effort of moving Jim back onto the mattress. “You need to eat more salad. You’re heavy,” he muttered, but there was nothing but affection in his tone. This was his way of saying ‘I care about you and I’m worried about you. Please just hold on’, but only those closest to him would know that. Most people would see the comment as offensive, wondering how he could possibly be talking about his weight in such a serious situation.

When several minutes had passed, McCoy reevaluated Jim. The fever still hadn’t gone down and he was still plagued with horrible chills, but, to his amazement (and joy), the tri-ox compound had done its job. The Captain’s breathing was slower and less labored, and his blood oxygen level (Sp02, in medical terms) had risen considerably, having gone from 84% to 95% (between 95% and 100% was “normal”, and anything below 80% or so was life-threatening.) He really couldn’t believe his eyes, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“That’s it, Jim. Now let’s get that fever under control.”

McCoy then made his way over to the intercom.

“Sick Bay to Nurse Chapel.”

“Nurse Chapel here. I was taking that break you requested. Is it the Captain? Has something happened?” She was doing her best not to panic, afraid that something bad had happened in her absence, but bits and pieces of it were slipping through. She honestly hated taking breaks, even when Doctor McCoy insisted on her doing so. He’d been quite adamant about it, assuring her that he could handle things for a few hours while she got some rest. She’d exhausted herself treating the Morthorosians and he’d almost demanded that she get some sleep. Of course, McCoy had exhausted himself too, but seeing as he was Chief Medical Officer, she had a hard time telling him no (even when she knew he needed rest just as much as she did, if not more, given his age.)

“Now calm down. You’ll burst a blood vessel. The Captain’s condition is still critical, but he’s stable for now, but I need you to fetch me some cooling blankets, a bin of water, and some towels. We’ve got to get his fever down.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be right there.”

McCoy walked back over to Jim’s side, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“I swear, if you and that pointed-eared hobgoblin don’t quit putting me through all of this nonsense, my hair’s gonna go white within the next year,” he muttered.

[whump-4-ever]

Countdown: Chapter 1

Hello all! This is my first Star Trek fic ever so I'm still learning the characters and how to write them (Spock is definitely the hardest for me to write. I love him to death but man, he's just so difficult. Much respect to the writers of the show and, of course, Leonard Nimoy for his amazing acting xD) It's also been at least six years since I've written a fanfiction so I'm a bit rusty. Just bear with me while I get back into it :) ---

James Kirk was no stranger to nightmares. Quite the opposite, in fact. They were a rather frequent occurrence, so frequent that he may have even considered them a friend if not for the complete and utter terror and countless sleepless nights they brought with them.

Normally, these nightmares followed a particular theme or pattern, one where he either relived past failures to keep his ship and his crew safe or witnessed possible future failures in the same category.

Tonight's nightmare, however, was different; not different because it woke him up (most of them pulled him out of sleep), and not different in the way it made him not want to sleep again (they, often times, left him dreading even the thought of sleep), but different in the sense of its subject.

That subject? His death.

Usually, these nightmares involved him sitting on the sidelines, watching helplessly as his mistakes led to the destruction of his ship, the death of his crew and his friends, but not this time. This time, he himself had been the one dying. Even with as many nightmares as he'd had, they'd never been about his own death, and that left him with a deep sense of unease, almost as if something bad was about to happen.

Or maybe it was just his anxiety. He hoped it was. It was common knowledge that these nightmares caused Jim a decent amount of anxiety (there was no denying that; everyone he worked closely with knew it, could recognize the signs, even when they didn't acknowledge it. McCoy often urged him to talk about them, trying to convince him that in doing so, he might lessen the frequency of their occurrence or maybe even stop them altogether), but they never caused him so much anxiety that they also induced trepidation. This one had, and that was what worried him (but that worry could also just as easily be a build up of suppressed anxiety, so it was hard to know if there was any truth to the feeling or not.)

He remembered the part that had woken him up. How could he forget when it had caused him so much distress? The scene kept playing over and over in his head, like his brain was picking it apart piece by piece, desperate to make sense of it, as if understanding it would silence the ever-rising apprehension in his gut, but the more he ruminated, the worse he felt about it.

Jim found himself in a cave, Spock and McCoy at his side. Spock's eyes were glued to the tricorder and McCoy's were locked on Jim in a hard glare (the glare he tended to give whenever someone said something implausible.)

Their only source of light came from the nearby entrance, a single, golden ray mixing with the violet crystal of the cave walls to create an eerie, purplish-yellow glow.

"I'm alright," Jim said, eyeing McCoy and giving him a soft smile to mitigate the glare. "There's absolutely no reason to worry." He waved his hand dismissively, but McCoy clearly didn't miss the sweat glistening on his skin and the way he was starting to sway where he stood.

His friends remained silent for a moment, his words earning him nothing but a raised eyebrow from Spock and a more intense version of McCoy's glare.

"Yeah, and I'm a stripper," the Doctor muttered.

Spock lifted his head to look at McCoy. "I fail to see how the act of removing one's clothes pertains to the situation, Doctor."

McCoy met Spock's gaze with a grin, Jim momentarily forgotten. "It's called 'sarcasm', Spock. It's something we humans use to convey annoyance or sometimes make a joke."

"Mmm," the Vulcan hummed as he returned his attention to the tricorder. "That is most illogical."

McCoy was about to respond, but before he could, Jim groaned, his face contorting as jagged jolts of pain zigzagged through his skull.

"Jim, are you alright?" McCoy asked, the concern in his voice quickly returning.

Jim started to sink to the ground just moments later without a reply, or even a sign that he had heard his friend's question.

Thankfully, McCoy, with his trained medical eye and many experiences in the medical field, saw it coming just in time to spring into action, swooping downward and catching him mid-air.

"….B'nes…?" Jim slurred as McCoy carefully eased him to the ground.

"Jim," the Doctor scolded him softly, his expression matching the concern in his tone as he glanced down at the Captain. "I knew you were sick, Jim. Why don't you ever listen to me?" McCoy's words implied exasperation and held a hint of an 'I told you so' attitude, but Jim knew where his heart really was. He was worried.

Jim, from where he lay flat on his back, glanced up at McCoy with glassy, unfocused eyes.

"B'nes," he repeated, vocally impaired by…..well, he didn't know what, but it scared him. Fear gripped him at this sudden inability to speak properly, anxiety welling up in his chest. There was a thick coating of phlegm in his throat that screamed that something was wrong, that something bad was happening, but he opted to suppress this feeling just enough to keep it off of his face, intent on keeping it a secret for as long as possible (but he knew his friends would see through him eventually; they always did.) "….'m fine…."

The Doctor frowned at him while quickly whipping out the tricorder and scanning him.

"Don't you give me that. You're sick and you know it. Now just lie there and let me do my job or I'll have you confined to Sick Bay for the next three months," he threatened, but there was no real bite to it.

McCoy gave Spock a brief glance as the Vulcan sank to his knees beside the Captain. Only when the scan finished did he focus back on Jim.

"Your heart rate, blood pressure, and temperature are all elevated, and they're steadily increasing as we speak," McCoy continued.

Jim's lips parted in preparation to spout another bullshit reassurance, but nothing except a soft grunt came out. That frightened him even more, speech nearly foreign to his mouth, but the panic didn't fully seize him until he tried to suck in a breath and realized he couldn't.

His muscles then locked up, every single one of them, from his face and neck to his legs and feet, tightening, spasming, behaving so erratically they were preventing him from breathing.

"Jim!" McCoy shouted.

Jim's body convulsed violently, his vision starting to fade, and somewhere nearby he heard the low drone of Spock's monotone voice, but he wasn't able to make out what he said.

Seconds later, just as the convulsions squeezed a strangled cry out of his lungs, everything went black.

That was when he'd jolted awake, flying into an upright position as his heart pounded furiously against his ribcage, bouts of adrenaline pumping through him.

Even now, nearly an hour later and sitting on the edge of his bed with his legs hanging off the side, just the memory of it, of remembering that he'd wanted to respond to McCoy but having been unable to, of remembering how it'd felt to have his muscles not only refuse his commands but also squirm beneath his skin in such a violent manner, of remembering what it'd been like to suffocate, was enough to send chills down his spine (of course, he'd been deprived of oxygen before, but not like that, not in that way, and not without some kind of warning.) It all felt way too real, almost like dejavú, like he'd seen it before, somewhere.

The Captain shook his head to rid himself of the remnants of the nightmare, longing to forget it all and go back to normal life, but he quickly learned that no amount of head shaking would quell the growing sense of dread in the pit of his stomach (not to mention the motion had produced a brief wave of dizziness, but because it subsided so quickly, he paid it little attention.)

With a grunt of effort (and mildly surprised at the aches of protest in his muscles at the movement), he rose to his feet. The sudden change in position unexpectedly brought the dizziness back with a vengeance. It crashed down on him, hard, and dark spots formed in his vision, staying there for a good fifteen seconds or so before slowly dissolving.

I'm just tired from lack of sleep. It's nothing, Jim thought, but he was finding it difficult to convince himself, especially when he felt himself starting to shiver.

Something in the back of his mind, perhaps the voice of logic (but it could have also just as easily been anxiety whispering nonsense) told him what he was experiencing was a more immediate threat to his life than sleep deprivation, but he opted to ignore it, hoping that it really was just anxiety,beggingfor it to be.

Once he could see again, Jim made his way over to the tiny mirror in the corner of his room, his legs acting like jelly. It took a large amount of energy to walk, not only because balancing was difficult (what with the dizziness and resulting unsteady feet) but also because his body seemed to be made of lead.

He stumbled a bit as he moved forward, having to catch himself by slamming his palms against the wall.

Shit, Jim swore in his head, this is really bad.

He swallowed, stopping the train of thought before it could find its footing, refusing to let the fear control him.

No. I'm fine. It's just anxiety, it'll pass.

Jim drew in a shallow, labored breath and slowly lifted his head to look in the mirror. To his dismay, his face was flushed a pinkish red and dripping with sweat. The sight (combined with the shivering, dizziness, and weakness) only fueled the underlying belief that something was wrong.

You probably have a fever. You're sick, his inner voice told him.

At that, the fear he'd been fighting so hard to tame came flooding back, pulsing through him with a renewed vigor and sending spikes of panic throughout his body with every beat of his heart.

Then the dizziness returned, a possible sign of being upright too long (but also possibly a sign of high fever), and it brought back the dark spots in his vision as well as a harsh, high-pitched ringing in his ears, a sound that only grew louder each passing second.

Jim was on the verge of passing out, he could sense it, and he knew he had to call for help, but with how rapidly he was losing the ability to see and the strength to stay standing, he wasn't confident he could make it over to the intercom in time.

"Captain," came the unexpected echo of a voice from outside his quarters.

Its owner would've been unmistakeable had the Captain's hearing not been severely impaired by the ringing. He'd heard what'd been said, of course, but struggled to put a name to the speaker.

Jim didn't really care who it belonged to at this point. All he cared about was getting help (which was rather uncharacteristic for him and an even bigger indication that whatever was happening to him was serious.)

Now that someone was right outside his room, Jim changed direction, foregoing the intercom, and instead went for the button that would unlock the door to his cabin, fighting hard to close the distance between him and his desired destination. At this particular moment, afraid he would collapse before he reached the button (having expended what little energy he had fighting to get to the intercom), he regretted having locked his room earlier.

The brief surge of relief he'd felt at the fact that someone was nearby was quickly swallowed by more panic. He could feel the darkness closing in on him and he wasn't sure how much longer he could cling to consciousness, but someone was actually in reach, and that meant help wasn't much further. He couldn't give up now. He just had to unlock the damn door.

"Jim, it's McCoy," the voice continued when it was met with silence. "I know you're in there. Open up."

Thank God, Jim thought. Impeccable timing, Bones.

How had he not recognized Bones, one of his two closest friends? He'd know the Doctor's voice anywhere, so how had he not known it was him? It was more than frightening. He tried to cut himself some slack, realizing that the all-consuming ringing in his ears was the most likely culprit, but that didn't make him feel much better.

McCoy's next sentence was said in a quieter voice; not quite a whisper but close to it. "I know you don't like me fussing over you, but after that seizure-like episode you had yesterday while on Morthoros (and after nearly giving me and that pointed-eared hobgoblin a heart attack, whether he would admit to showing concern for you or not), it is my duty as a doctor and a friend to check on you."

Jim's whole body jolted at McCoy's words. As they were spoken, they flooded his memory banks with images of yesterday's mission to Morthoros, the events flashing through his head rapidly.

Starfleet Command had sent him and his crew to Morthoros with orders to deliver life-saving medicine to its inhabitants. Morthoros was a planet in the Alpha Quadrant of the galaxy, and the people of Morthoros, the Morthorosians, had fallen victim to a deadly virus. The virus had reportedly originated from the bite of an infected animal. This was considered a rare occurrence on Morthoros, and the virus, according to Starfleet, only infected Morthorosians. Because of this, there were no safety concerns regarding the Enterprise and its crew possibly getting bit themselves. Jim had been ordered to distribute the medicine to the Morthorosian clans across the planet and kill the infected animal in an effort to eradicate the virus (it, supposedly, could only spread through the bite, not from Morthorosian to Morthorosian, so the hope was that it would die with the animal.) Within about a weeks' time (it had taken a while for them to arrive because they'd had to first retrieve the medicine from Starbase 11, journey to Morthoros, travel to each Morthorosian clan and provide them all with enough medicine to cure the ones that were sick, and then locate and kill the infected animal), they'd succeeded, but in the process of killing said animal, Jim had been bit. He had been less than concerned about the bite after what Starfleet had told him about humans not being able to contract the virus, but now, he realized how wrong they were (and how little he could trust them.)

Now it all made sense, the nightmare, why it had happened, why it'd felt so real, and why he was feeling so sick, but why had he not remembered? How had something like this slipped his mind so easily?

"I may have cleared you from Sick Bay but I have my doubts on your condition," McCoy went on. "You're exhibiting signs of Morthorosian's Bite. The fact that your heart rate, blood pressure, and temperature increase in number every time I check them is a clear indication that your immune system's fighting something. I know they say humans can't get the virus but I know what I see. I might be old, and my eyesight isn't what it used to be, but I know when something's wrong, and if it turns out you truly are infected, we've got to head to Starbase 11 and pick up more opramozine. In case you don't remember, we used every last drop on the Morthorosians, and the longer we wait, the more dangerous the virus becomes. Now, let me in there or I'll walk in uninvited."

I remember now. I remember it all.

The Captain reached the button with seconds to spare, pressing it with just enough force for it to work.

"…Bones…" Jim croaked, but it came out as little more than a whisper.

"Alright, Jim, I'm coming in. You'd better not be indecent, though, as your doctor, I've seen it all before, so I suppose it wouldn't be the end of the world."

If not for the current situation, he'd have found it comical that McCoy decided to come in just as he unlocked the door. It was a good thing he did, though, because that was the moment Jim's muscles seemed to give up on doing their job, leaving his legs incapable of keeping him on his feet. He started to sink to the floor, but, somehow, McCoy managed to surge forward and catch him before he could complete the fall, just as he had yesterday.

"Jim!" McCoy shouted as the doors whooshed closed behind him, the Captain limp in his arms. "Jim?" He asked as he gently lowered his friend to the floor. Concern and worry coursed through the Doctor's veins when all he got in response was a blank stare. "Jim, can you hear me?" The Doctor placed one hand on Jim's shoulder, squeezing it lightly in an effort to elicit a reply (to no avail.) "Jim." McCoy shook him carefully, but it had no effect.

Jim could no longer make sense of what was going on around him. Everything looked blurry, sounded blurry, felt blurry, and he knew it wouldn't be long before he lost consciousness. The ringing in his ears was subsiding, but he suspected that was only because the darkness was closing in.

McCoy kept one hand on Jim's shoulder and used the free one to retrieve the medical scanner from his med pack. He ran it over Jim, no less than horrified at what he found.

All of his vitals were abnormal, much more abnormal than they had been just hours earlier. While that didn't really come as a surprise, he'd hoped that he'd been wrong, had hoped that Jim wasn't sick with a virus he shouldn't have been able to get in the first place, but the readings didn't lie. There was no denying it, especially with how high his temperature was.

That was McCoy's most immediate concern. Jim had a fever of 105F. That in and of itself was dangerous, but there was a good chance it would continue to increase. If he couldn't lower it (and soon), it could easily pose a threat to his life.

The Doctor rose to his feet and took a couple steps until he reached the intercom, flicking it on. "McCoy to Bridge. Spock."

"Spock here, Doctor."

"Spock, it's the Captain. Meet me in Sick Bay."

[whump-4-ever]

[whump-4-ever]

THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!!

Star Trek fans, I need your help! What episode is this picture from?! I can’t find it anywhere 😫

[whump-4-ever]

Star Trek fans, I need your help! What episode is this picture from?! I can’t find it anywhere 😫

[whump-4-ever]

trigger warning: mention of infant death and cannibalism (all fictional)

thinking about those times I wrote fics about stillborns and human infants being cannibalized in graphic details and how people were so mad at me they tried (and failed) to cancel me, despite the trigger warnings being stated very clearly at the beginning, and it’s still just so funny to me. would do it again.

to my fellow writers, you know you are doing it right if what you wrote shocked the audience.

you know you’re doing it perfectly splendid if what you wrote is so brutal and detailed that your audience told you they literally threw up.

be proud of yourselves for the impact your art has.

as long as your readers chose to read your work on their own free will despite the trigger warnings you gave them, you would never be in the wrong.

and no, there’s no such thing as ‘too far’, ‘too graphic’ or ‘too violent’ when it comes to any form of art. people can choose not to consume it, but if they do choose to consume it then they cannot blame you for being ‘too graphic’ as long as the warnings have been served properly and accordingly beforehand.

[whump-4-ever]

Sam Winchester- About a Boy (10x12)

[whump-4-ever]

i think what made the later seasons enjoyable to me was letting go of the idea that it was ever going to be comparable to the early seasons. i just decided to view it as its own separate entity and then was able to enjoy it for what it was. from a critical standpoint it’s not good but idk i still found tons about it to have fun with. and let’s be real if you make it 12-15 seasons into ANY television show you’re sorta beyond the “is this good” judgment. like by that point ur just in for life regardless of quality 🤷🏼‍♀️

[whump-4-ever]

When I see someone new to the Supernatural fandom spelling ‘Cas’ with the extra ‘S’

[whump-4-ever]

So I got this idea from a personal experience. It’s looking like we may no longer be able to afford a medication that I’ve been taking daily to help with my mast cell activation syndrome, and when I found this out, I had this thought in my head that, in a way, this is a form of torture, because it’s like allowing me to know what it’s like to feel better and then suddenly having it taken away. Like “haha, no, just kidding, you can’t have it anymore and you have to go back to the way you were without it”. And after having that thought I was like “hey, this would be a good whump prompt”, so here we are with this post 😂

Imagine Caretaker manages to get Whumpee, who’s chronically ill, a medication or some form of treatment that’s either really expensive or really rare that allows them to live a normal life, and then, just when Whumpee starts getting a sense of freedom (finally able to remember what it’s like to LIVE rather than just SURVIVE), Whumper comes along and somehow finds a way to take it away from them. The cruelty of that makes for some great whump content, and the possibilities of where it could lead are endless. Does this send Whumpee into a downward spiral of depression and despair? Does it ignite a fire inside Whumpee that won’t go out until they get their revenge? There are soooo many ways it could go

[whump-4-ever]

i wish tumblr let you like replies. sometimes i don't have anything to say and how else are my beloved mutuals going to know i saw what they said if i can't leave a little virtual heart sticker on their forehead

[whump-4-ever]

a very important message