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Spock is sick.
His skin burns green with fever, and he thrashes in Jim’s arms, eyes darting beneath double lids. He’s reverted to Vulkhansu in his delirium.
Jim is terrified.
He sleeps with Ivrila on one side and Spock on the other, and he knows that they’re both fading. He hugs Spock close to him, buries his face in dark hair, hand over the alien heartbeat. Waits for the day that he’ll wake up to feel nothing.
“Jim…” Tommy sits across from him, Kevin on his lap and Djinon asleep with his head on his shoulder.
“Yeah?” Jim keeps his voice soft.
“You don’t…” he won’t meet his eyes, “they’re not gonna make it.”
“Don’t say that.”
“You know it’s tr—”
“Shut up!” Jim snaps, and Spock whimpers, fist clenching in Jim’s shirt. Jim shushes him, stroking his hair with a shaking hand. Tommy sighs.
“Fine,” he says, “fine. I just…don’t want you getting hurt, Jimmy.”
“I know,” Jim whispers. He looks at Ivrila, watching her chest shiver with faltering breaths. Feels the golden breeze that is Spock’s mind brushing weakly against his own. “I’m just…I’m scared.” Tommy scoots carefully closer to him.
“Yeah,” he says, “me too.”