James Tiberius Kirk was having a very bad day.

For one, Spock and Uhura had formally ended their romantic relationship, and though they claimed to be perfectly civil, the tension was stifling. The whole crew could feel it, no matter how professionally they attempted to act. It was wearing on Kirk. What should he do? Should he reprimand them for this? Should he file official paperwork to Starfleet, alerting them that their relationship had terminated? No, he wouldn't do that. He didn't want to pose even the slightest risk of losing either of his officers. The crew of the Enterprise was a perfect team. They couldn't be separated.

For two, Jim had the most overwhelming migraine he'd ever experienced in his life. He sat in the captain's chair, hunched over, calloused fingers gripping short, flaxen hair. Eyes as blue as the sky were stormy with pain, squinting against the lights of the bridge. Really, they could all see just fine. Did it have to be so damn bright?

"Captain?" came a crisp, inquiring, but carefully detached voice. Kirk didn't even bother raising his head. A PADD was slipped into his limited field of vision. Paperwork of some kind. The young captain took it without a word and waved his hand in dismissal. A pause, then again, "Captain?"

"Yes, Mr. Spock, what is it?" Jim bit out through tightly clenched teeth. He managed to look up, ever so slightly.

Spock stood, as always, with perfect posture, his hands clasped behind his back. One dark, elegant Vulcan eyebrow curved upwards in a subdued show of confusion. Concern, too. At least, Jim wished it were concern. "Are you unwell, Captain?"

"No, Mr. Spock," Kirk said, leaning back in his chair and doing his best to appear the picture of health. He received another raised eyebrow and a curt nod in response. Then Spock returned to his chair at the science station.

Jim let out a sigh of relief. His hand came up to his forehead and his fingers rubbed delicately at his temples. Alpha shift was almost over. One more hour, and he could disappear to his personal quarters for a long, hot shower and an even longer nap. For the next ten minutes or so, he managed to keep that thought at the forefront of his mind, driving him to hold on to his sanity. But every moment his vision swam a little more, and his head pounded a little harder.

"Keptin?" Chekov's Russian tenor, as adorable as it was, shot through his skull with all the intensity of a lightning bolt. Kirk groaned, his entire world doing a sickening flip as he toppled from his chair. The bridge erupted into a chaos of startled shouts, which didn't help his headache in the least.

For an instant, blackness. Then there was a thud, ever so light, as light as a feather, as someone dropped to their knees beside him. Uhura, Kirk thought. She was dainty enough to be so graceful. But the masculine voice that sounded beside him proved him wrong.

"Ensign Chekov, alert medical," Spock said, his tone brisk and clipped, yet as emotionless as always. Jim expected to be left lying there until Bones made it up to the bridge, but instead, strong, warm arms lifted him as if he were no heavier than an infant. He turned his nose into the fabric of a shirt, and was met with the sharp, clean scent of his first officer. There was a whoosh as the doors of the turbo lift opened, and another as they closed. Soon they were moving.

"Captain," came Spock's voice once more. "Why did you not alert me to your state of unrest when I inquired? Such a decision was exceedingly illogical."

"It's just a headache, Spock," Jim replied, voice muffled by the blue science tunic.

"A mere headache certainly would not cause you such distress, Captain," Spock stated. "In any case, I'm sure Doctor McCoy will be interested to hear that you were in need of medical assistance and refused to seek it."

Jim let out a whine. "You two are tag-teaming me!" he moaned. "That's not fair!" He was settled onto a bed in sickbay, but found himself reluctant to leave the comfort of his first mate's arms.

"Stop your moaning, Jim," McCoy reprimanded in his gruff southern tone. "Hobgoblin, what the hell happened? Chekov said he fainted?"

"Affirmative," Spock said. "The captain lost consciousness for approximately ten point three seconds. Afterward, he was disoriented and nearly unresponsive. I thought it most logical to deliver him to sickbay immediately."

A perfect blend of irritation and bemusement crossed McCoy's features. "You know, just a 'yes' would've done the job." He readied a hypo and stabbed it into the side of Kirk's neck, causing the young captain to hiss in surprise.

"Damn it, Bones," Jim grumbled.

"Shut it, Jim," McCoy shot back. "I wouldn't have to give you any damn shots if you took care of yourself. We've talked about these migraines. When was the last time you ate?"

"Breakfast..." Jim muttered, rubbing at his sore neck.

"Breakfast when?" McCoy pressed, and when Jim looked away, he leveled the blond with a glare. "Jim," he warned.


"For God's sake, Jim! It's Friday! Augh!" The doctor, infuriated, stabbed Kirk's neck with another hypo. "You need to start taking care of yourself! Damn it, Jim, I'm a doctor, not your babysitter!"

"I know it, Bones," Jim sighed. "I know it…hey, what was that stuff? M'head feels fuzzy."

Bones rolled his eyes. "Just something to help you sleep. Goodnight, Jim."

Kirk's eyes drifted shut. "Night, Bones…" he murmured, and heard his old friend snort.

"Dumb kid."

Jim just smiled at that. "Night, Mr. Spock," he added, recalling the presence of his first officer. There was a moment of silence.

"Goodnight, Captain."