martian, oh he's after us

[perform_admirably]

By the time that Jim manages the both of them into the hospital and straight past the complaining triage nurse, it is, almost undoubtedly, a good thing that Spock is leaning more than a little of his weight on Jim's shoulder, feeling unsteady in the knees, with twitching and cramping in his toes. The cab-ride there had not been long, but long enough for Spock's fever to rise. Enough to tip the scales on an already unbalanced mind.

He barely has the prescience to ask for the man he's come to see - the only man in Darrow General he will allow to see him, whom he trusts for good reason. That, he manages. That, and little else.

The past three minutes have been a hazy string of arguments, one-sided, between Spock and Jim, and Spock and random passersby, such that it may even have been ideal for Jim to have stunned Spock. Except that Spock is still the best account of what might be wrong with Spock. The words he's managed in Standard since being half-dragged through the sliding glass doors are few and far between.

Ripping away from Jim's arms, he grabs a passing male nurse by a shirtful of his scrubs, pulling him near with anxious, fearful eyes.

"Tsi-veh OChase re? Re?" He gives the man a small shake. "Doctor Chase re?"

Comments

[to_boldly]

Jim bounces off the wall with a dull thud and grabs for Spock, too slow to stop him snatching up the nurse Jim only just finished convincing to find Dr. Chase for them. "Spock," he says, projecting the calm he's only just hanging onto when he peels Spock's hands from the poor man's shirt.

"He's getting Chase for us, remember? Just let him go and - " From the corner of his eye, Jim sees someone rounding the corner, and rather than the security he'd feared, it's, "Dr. Chase!" Jim widens his eyes, doing his best to impart the severity of their situation with just a look, but likely one eyeful of Spock is all the doctor will need to throw normal admitting procedure to the winds. "We could really use your expertise."

[theorized]

It's already been a long day, but Chase's job isn't one with flexible hours and he quickly heads down to the front lobby after briefing his team on their case — one that they'll have to fly blind, if House's tip about the man waiting for him is accurate. When he arrives, Chase finds Spock and Jim tangled up with one of the nurses, who looks shocked and confused as he tries to back away from the pair. The aggressive behavior is completely unlike Spock, which only serves as further cause for concern.

Ushering both of them towards a pair of chairs by the side of the hall, Chase guides Spock to a seat. "Please hold still," he instructs Spock, pulling an electronic thermometer out of his pocket and taking a reading.

"Patient presenting with high fever and tachypnea," Chase declares, quickly slipping the thermometer back into his pocket to keep the nurse from seeing. He reaches for Spock's wrist, glancing at his watch; it's hard to feel for the pulse, and Chase remembers that Vulcans' pulses run fast. The exact vitals he recorded at their last interaction aren't at top of mind, but if any of the nurses manage to slip by and take a reading, Chase wants to keep consistent. "Tachycardia, and low systolic blood pressure. We're admitting him," he tells the nurse, who appears on the cusp of protesting for a moment before thinking better of it and quickly turning. "And I need a bed."

Breathing a small exhale before turning to look at the pair once more, Chase's lips press in a thin line. "Talk to me. How are you feeling, what symptoms have you seen, when did this start?"

[perform_admirably]

With Jim at his side, intentionally projecting a sturdy frame of calm, Spock lets himself the disgrace of clinging to it desperately as Dr. Chase prods with thermometer, palpates for a pulse. It isn't how it is supposed to happen, he thinks, but can't quite fully grasp what it is that's diferent. He's reminded of the med bay, but can't recall in his confusion that Darrow lacks all of the technology of the ship.

He groans with irritation at the questions being asked, but at the very least, tries to answer without relying utterly on his Captain to be his mouthpiece.

"Hiccups," he says, words slightly clipped. "After noon. I left work early, to tell the Captin that ... it was wrong.

"Where is McCoy?"

[to_boldly]

"He's busy elsewhere right now," Jim tells him, brushing a soothing hand against Spock's knee. Squeezing, he tells Chase, "It started right after he ate lunch, he brought it himself from home. I've asked him a few times but he can't remember what was in it. His confusion's getting worse and worse, and he's never hot like this. His resting temperature is usually around 90 degrees."

Looking both ways down the hall, Jim leans in, "Do I need to tell you his blood's gonna come out green, because that is not a situation we need widely known." There's no point in healing Spock, after all, if he's going to be carried away by xeno-hungry scientists right after.

[theorized]

"I'm already familiar with what his vitals are when stable and with, yes, the color of his blood," Chase informs Jim with a quick look, keeping his voice adequately lowered to prevent anyone from overhearing. "Trust me when I say that I have that amount under control and know exactly what to do to keep this contained."

He abruptly stops speaking when Spock's body gives a small jolt, diaphragm seizing in a hiccup.

"If it started right after he ate lunch, then I need you to go retrieve whatever you can of his lunch. Remains, searching through his refrigerator, anything that might give a hint as to what he ate. It's a whole lot better than running through an entire list of fruits and vegetables to try and think of a likely allergy, though I'll do whatever I can to manage the symptoms."