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Spock got a glass of water and brought it over to the bed. He set it on the table next to it. He sat on the edge of the bed and reached over to wipe the sweaty hair off Jim’s forehead.


Jim smiled faintly, weakly.

“I have called for the doctor.”

“I’ll be okay, Spock. Just the flu.”

“Nevertheless, he will check you.”

“’Kay. Sorry about your birthday. Not much of a celebration.”

“That never mattered to me,” Spock assured him. “I only want you better.”

“Still. I love you.”

“I love you, my Jim. Rest now.”