Tactile Healing
By Alone Dreaming
Rating: K+ or PG for injuries and a word or two
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek. If I did, this would not be posted under fanfiction.
Warnings: Mild Spock/Uhura moment, Vulcan rage issues, a few words, injuries
Author's Note: Unfortunately, unless my life changes radically in the next few weeks, this will be my last piece until Christmas. Real life has kicked me in the butt and insisted it's time to get back to business. So enjoy this bit—written pre-life coming to get me—and live long and prosper, folks. It's been great writing for you. Hopefully, I'll come back after the semester ends.
Despite the advanced technology that he is so thoroughly blessed with, Doctor Leonard McCoy has always believed in the necessity for tactile healing. The fact is, people need to be touched as they recover from illness or injury, and though he could avoid a lot of the tapping, patting, checking and probing by using his tricorder or the various scanners he has available to him, he tends towards the old fashion side of things. Sure, he'll use the tricorder first, scan the person's entire body but afterward, just to be safe, just to assure, he'll run his fingers over bruises, feel for a pulse, lift eyelids; it lets the patient know that someone's there, lets them realize that it's not just a man with a machine but a doctor. And doctors, by necessity, are not only grumpy, ornery bastards (at least, all the good ones are) but also human beings who can be related to. He's not a soft, cushy creature-- when he's annoyed, he pokes much harder than necessary-- but physicality is something he will not deny anyone even the Vulcan, sitting before him now.
He does not move overmuch or grimace or complain; he just waits patiently, his left arm cradled to him and enough bruises peppering his body that he actually appears green. McCoy runs a scanner over his body, noting the fractures in the arm and two cracked ribs as well as a hairline brake of the cheek bone. Deep tissue and muscular bruising; Spock's acquired a bone bleed in his upper thigh that will need to be watched but will probably self-heal. He'll have the knitter put on that too if need be.
Pushing the scanner aside, he reaches out, preparing to double check his findings as he always does. His fingers get within inches of Spock's body when-- and this is shocking to McCoy, who's never seen this sort of behavior from the usual stoic Vulcan-- Spock cringes back. Perhaps cringe is a strong word but there is a noticeable hesitation towards being touched. The Vulcan leans away, grimacing at the pain it causes him but obstinately refusing to allow McCoy to touch him. McCoy knows he could easily reach out and grab Spock, forcing the Vulcan to give in but he doesn't. If the damn hobgoblin doesn't want it, he won't get it and that's that. He'll just have to pray the machine's not wrong and he's not internally bleeding. It's no skin off McCoy's nose though he feels the creeping annoyance eating at him and knows if he's missed something, Jim'll probably be pissed.
"I swear I don't have cold fingers," he says, trying to joke which he's not very good at. He's good at bitching people out and bitching Spock out has never gotten him anywhere.
Spock does not twitch his eyebrows or even make eye contact. "Explain."
"You seemed reluctant to let me finish the check up," McCoy replies. "I'm just saying, I don't have cold hands. Nothing to worry about."
A frown, "I do not understand the reference."
"Never mind," he sighs. "Listen, Spock, I want to get your bones knitted and have some of those bruises tended. Before that, I need to make certain there's no internal bleeding. If you could--"
"Doctor, I am certain the readings from both your tricorder and the scanner have sufficiently discovered the extent of my injuries," Spock snaps. There's a definite fluster about the half-Vulcan that he's only seen once before, back with the destruction of Vulcan. Desperation; he can see desperation lingering in those eyes. "I would request immediate attention so that I can return to duty."
It's McCoy's turn to do the eyebrow raise. "Spock, you aren't going anywhere right now. You probably aren't going anywhere for at least another twenty four hours so you better be damn well prepared to make small talk and sit. I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker, and you are dealing with some serious injuries."
The look Spock sends him would kill a lesser man but luckily, he's fairly immune to killer looks; between his ex-wife, who is still known for sending a nasty glance his way, Jim in a bad mood and Chapel when she's on one of her whirlwind rampages, he gets almost one a day. Still, his stomach drops a bit and he fights the urge to take a step back. This look is threatening, frightening and all together unnerving. While perfectly controlled, because Spock rarely ever loses control, it's got enough emotion in it to put an extrovert to shame.
It leaves McCoy wondering what is happening down on that planet, what did happen to land Spock in here. He's currently foggy on details, the only information he has being what he's seen himself and the half-hearted recounts from an equally confused Sulu. Thirty minutes previous to this moment, McCoy received a disoriented Vulcan as a patient with no ideas as to how he'd come across his injuries except that it had a) been on the current away mission and b) probably been doled out by the native population. That, and he knew that James Kirk, for once, had not come to harm yet as Sulu said that Scotty told him that the transporter team had seen Kirk drop Spock off before being beamed back to the planet.
But it's all hearsay and completely useless; for all he knows, Kirk could be bleeding out upstairs, Spock could've fought the Easter Bunny and the planet they visited could be populated fully by Jello. He was not debriefed on this away mission and now, has no time to figure things out. He's a doctor, damn it, and he has a job to do.
He just wishes, right now, that Spock would stop looking at him like that, or if he so insists on doing it, give him reason for the action. "Do we have an understanding?" he asks, trying to use words to cover up the wriggling in his stomach.
"Affirmative," Spock replies stiffly. His eyes drop back to his feet and McCoy feels like he's just kicked a particularly nasty puppy. The guilt, while unnecessary, is undeniable. He hates himself for it. "I would request that you begin your healing techniques now so I may use my own to further the impact."
He's now burning to ask what's going on but knows better than to push. "All right." But he does not move. "I'm--"
What? Sorry? He isn't sorry because he hasn't done anything wrong. He's well within his rights as CMO to forbid an overachieving first mate from returning to his post. He hasn't personally caused the Vulcan any harm, as tempting as it is, and he is giving him proper medical care. The typical bit of comfort he tried to give was not only rejected but rejected in a way that he did not expect and McCoy does not have many more options. If the patient doesn't want to be touched, doesn't want to be spoken to and doesn't feel like expanding on why to either, there's little he can do. There's no reason for him to say anything to Spock when he comes right down to it. But if that's true, then why is he having such a hard time moving? "I'll be back."
He moves quickly, retrieving items he'll need, items he might find use for and stops briefly to see if M'Benga might take over the patient only to discover that M'Benga is now in surgery and will not be available for an undisclosed amount of time. He considers handing over Spock to Chapel, only to find that she's running between the sick bay and the landing pad in order to help with the transportation of injured personnel. The other nurses are busy and he's not comfortable foisting Spock off on them, anyway. Reluctantly, he returns to the bedside to find Spock still in the same position he left him, his eyes directed at the floor. The only difference now is his injured limb is splayed on his lap while his free hand is squeezing the edge of the bed. McCoy immediately notes the darkening, fresh finger prints engraved in the injured arms skin and leaves his tools on a nearby table to assess the damage more closely.
"What happened?" he demands as he approaches, reaching out in instinct only to remember that Spock does not want to be handled at the very last second.
Spock does not grimace, does not look up. "I momentarily lost control of my emotions. It is nothing to be concerned about, Doctor." His fingers twitch violently against the bed.
"Momentarily lost control of your emotions," McCoy echoes, his ire building rapidly. "Damn it, Spock, you may have displaced the bone!" He takes up the scanner again. "Why in God's name did you do that?"
"The injury has not worsened due to this treatment," Spock replies, his voice steady but his body language the opposite. "There is no reason for your outburst."
"Hell there isn't." Though, Spock appears to be right. He does not find anything worse than superficial bruising. The bone hasn't shifted nor has it splintered. "I don't know what's going through that hobgoblin brain of yours but get a grip on yourself, man. You want out of here, then you need to heal. End of story."
Before either of them can say another word, the doors of the sick bay are opened again and this time, it's James T. Kirk hobbling in, howling about being fine, but allowing for Lieutenant Uhura to support him over to a bed. The Captain's scraped up, bruised, dirty but not severely injured or half as angry as he's attempting to appear. Uhura is equally dusty with a myriad of minor injuries but she's walking okay and is well-enough to be drawn between amusement and extreme worry. As soon as Kirk is seated and railing at a nurse, she backs off and starts in McCoy's and Spock's direction, her face wilting with every step she takes. McCoy blinks at her then looks back at Spock who has gone ramrod still, his posture rigid. By the time Uhura arrives, McCoy now has a Spock statue who does not blink, barely breathes and seems, if the scanners are telling him right, to be going a bit shocky. Uhura reaches out to him without pausing her movements and seizes his good hand. She coaxes the fingers to unclench and presses the forefinger and center against two of her own. There are tears in her eyes.
"It's okay," she whispers. "I'm okay."
And Spock relaxes, his eyes flickering across her face, down to her torn clothes and her haphazard ponytail. He does not pull his fingers away. "I saw you die," he says simply.
"I fell," she replies. "Kirk saved me." Her free hand rests on his cheek while her other still remains with two fingers pressed into Spock's fingers. "It's okay. I'm okay."
Spock leans forward a bit so their foreheads touch and McCoy feels that he's interrupting a particularly intimate scene. Spock's injuries can wait, for a bit, so he backs away and watches in glimpses. The two of them do not speak anymore, do not kiss traditionally, merely keep their hands and foreheads together. It all comes back to touch, he decides as he goes to relieve the nurse from Kirk. Touch can heal just as much as knitter, can diagnose just as well as a tricorder; it just has to be the right person doing the touching.