In the time since he's come aboard the Enterprise, Leonard McCoy has found most of the crew to be refreshingly accommodating. This is the difference, he supposes, between working on a starbase and a starship; all the patients are Starfleet personnel, and know better than to be rude or unprofessional with someone who is both their colleague and physician.
He might never be comfortable with star-travel in itself, but McCoy joined medicine mostly for the people, and fleet physicians will always find the most use in the field.
Still, while most officers seem to have meekly submitted to McCoy's new regime – the erstwhile Captain Kirk included, good for him – there's one slippery, stubborn man who keeps avoiding Sickbay appointments. More frustratingly, this habit seems to be completely deliberate, and he's also the individual McCoy really, vitally needs to see in his Sickbay.
"Mr. Spock!"
It's only because of careful observation – and experience accumulated over days of pursuing the Vulcan – that allows McCoy to notice the slight stiffening in the Commander's shoulders. "Doctor," Spock returns the greeting evenly. "I was not aware your work brought you into the astrophysics labs with any frequency."
"Very funny," says McCoy. "You know very well why I'm here. You've been avoiding your physical ever since I got this post, and I'm through with it. Four months! And Piper's files on you are horrible."
"Actually," Spock answers, "You have been aboard three Terran months, one week, and two days."
McCoy shoots him an annoyed glance. "What, are you going go give me the minute and hour, too?"
Spock opens his mouth.
"Don't answer that."
"I fail to see the need for a physical. I have maintained complete health since coming aboard."
"And if something does happen, how am I supposed to treat you without establishing a baseline?"
"My files should be more than adequate in that regard," Spock answers.
"Your files are outdated, Mr. Spock."
"I assure you that there should be no appreciable differences - "
"I think I'm the doctor here, thanks. And there are protocols to follow, anyway. I want to see you within the week. Make a time."
Spock tilts his head, and says nothing. McCoy doesn't give him the option of arguing, and leaves before he can really get mad.
He knew space was a bad idea.
"I don't understand you, Jim, I really don't."
"You don't understand Spock, you mean."
"Well, thank god for that."
"Bones." Jim looks exasperated. "Give him a chance, now."
"I'm telling you, Jim, if you've managed to wrangle some strange friendship with the man, all the better for you. You two need to work together, after all. But damned if I know why you're so determined for me to like the man."
"Friendship – ah, I think friendship embarrasses him." Though Kirk doesn't deny it. "But, you still need to talk with him more. You are my CMO. If you forget that, signing papers in Sickbay all day."
"Hmph."
"Which means you need to know the other senior staff," Jim continues stubbornly.
"The other staff, sure. Maybe not him."
Jim shakes his head.
"Especially Spock. I think you're both more alike than you want to admit, Bones."
"Now I know this job is getting into your head. How do you figure that?"
Jim smiles at him. "Why don't you try and find out?" he says.
McCoy's first impression of the bridge is that the place is going to make his eyes bleed, and basically, he doesn't think he's going to be impressed.
"Do you need anything, Sir?" asks Yeoman Rand as she passes him.
"Just observing, Yeoman."
Jim gives him a pleased, self-satisfied little smile. McCoy resists the urge to give him the finger in return.
"Scans showing signs of 18.80119% nitrogen," Spock's voice intones from the science station. "13.21004% hydrogen, 11.10003% nickel..."
Yeah, that level of detail isn't really necessary, McCoy thinks.
Then he frowns, because, no, criticizing everything the Vulcan does isn't going to help. Find out, Jim said. Well, fine. He can be open-minded. Sure.
So McCoy leans back – ignoring the curious glances he is garnering every time someone wanders onto the bridge – and watches how the crew interacts. There is a quiet, pleasant sense of efficiency, but everyone is relaxed, too. It's a good atmosphere, a comfortable atmosphere. He's sort of surprised, actually, because some of the officers here today are pretty young – the Enterprise's own captain included, if one wants to nitpick – and that sort of competency usually takes some time to establish. Maybe he should come to the bridge more often.
But it's interesting, too, to watch people interact with Spock. Because McCoy expects it when a Yeoman hands something to the Captain and beams under his smile, or when the officers at communications and the helm glance at him frequently for little looks of approval. Jim just has an air of charisma, a way of making people want to be around him and look to him.
But that comfort seems to extend to Spock, too. At one point the lieutenant at communications – oh, what's her name again? - ejects a square of data from her console, standing to move to where the Vulcan is bent over his scanner, and says, "Mr. Spock, I do believe you haven't looked at me once all day."
Spock keeps his eyes fixed over the scanner, and holds out one hand. "Statistically unlikely."
She looks at him with exasperation, dropping the square in his hand. "Why, you could make a girl feel just unloved, Mister Spock."
McCoy almost lets his jaw drop as he realizes what's happening.
Is she flirting with Spock?
And on the bridge, no less?
He sneaks a glance to the center chair. Jim is half-watching, a tiny smile curving at his lips, but doesn't seem particularly interested in the exchange. McCoy turns back.
"Unloved, Lieutenant Uhura?"
"Oh, yes. Wouldn't I be more interesting to look at than a few stars?"
"I sincerely hope there are no visible scientific anomalies on your person, Lieutenant."
McCoy stares.
He isn't sure, but. Is that a joke?
Uhura gives up with an exaggerated sigh. "You're no fun at all, Sir."
Finally, Spock glances up. "Thank you."
McCoy chokes.
And Jim glances back at him, eyes dancing as Uhura cheerfully circles back to her seat.
So, alright, McCoy thinks. Maybe he still has a few things to learn about the Vulcan.
McCoy's in the recreation room the next day when he walks past two officers who make something of an odd sight.
One, a lieutenant in science-blues, has his head cradled in his arms and is making low sounds of distress. McCoy doesn't recognize the man; so, not a medical officer. He would be concerned, but a snickering ensign wearing yellow is sitting right next to the lieutenant, putting his shoulder with mock sympathy.
McCoy approaches. "What's going on with him?" he asks.
The lieutenant raises his head, then promptly drops it to thud loudly against the table. He groans loudly.
His friend laughs without sympathy. "Belsy just had his brain broke, Doc. And he lost a bet. As of today, there is now a way to input weather patterns into a machine and have it spit out the exact configurations and dimensions of a single snowflake in a given location."
"Doesn't make sense," Belsy is muttering miserably. "The shape depends on so many factors... Dust and environment as the snow falls... Buffeting winds... you can't do it, you can't..."
McCoy notices tiny, strange slides on the table in front of the two, frosted over. "Is that..."
"Captured snowflakes, yeah. Beamed up using very, very careful transporter technology to confirm the hypothesis - "
"Doesn't make sense - "
"Oh, shush," says the grinning ensign.
"Is there... any practical use to that? At all?" asks a baffled McCoy.
"Nah," the ensign dismisses. "I mean, there might be a paper in it. And I guess school kids on earth might find it cool, or something."
"Nice to know the Enterprise's resources are going to such good use."
"Oh, it was only a side project."
"Two days!" Belsy wails.
"Belsy said it couldn't be done," the ensign confides. "...It might have been interpreted as a challenge."
Okay, that's a little impressive.
"Now poor Belsy lost the bet, and the guy looks as Vulcan-smug as he ever gets - "
"Wait." McCoy blinks rapidly. "Vulcan – you're not talking about Commander Spock, are you?"
Belsy makes a muffled sound into the table.
"You really should have known better," is all the ensign sighs.
Now that McCoy pays attention, it occurs to him; the entire Science department adores Spock.
This is something of a strange revelation, but perhaps understandable, because their adoration is muted and discreet. In the halls, they smile at Spock when no one else does; he does not, of course, smile back. They approach him whenever he doesn't seem busy, asking eagerly for his input on this or that project; and would he possibly like to join them for a discussion about the latest paper on anti-microbial agents harvested on Suranis IV?
No one, though, tries to ask him about anything personal, or invite him to anything that is not duty-related. He has the distinct feeling, though, that this is not because they would be opposed to it, but because the idea wouldn't even occur to them.
"I think friendship embarrasses him," Jim had laughed a few days earlier. Maybe this, fondness and respect from his own subordinates, would embarrass him too. Maybe they know that.
Maybe McCoy is the one missing something, here, because he's starting to think he's the only one who doesn't see something in the damn Vulcan.
Two days later, McCoy thinks Spock isn't getting the hint.
"When I said 'make an appointment', I wasn't exactly implying you should take your own sweet time doing it, Mr. Spock."
"I fail to see any urgency in the matter, Doctor.'
"The 'urgency' is that I need to know if your ticker is due to go, and also I need to get some readings so I actually know what to do if it does."
Spock has the gall to just arch an eyebrow, studying McCoy as though he is being entirely unreasonable. "Surely you studied Vulcan physiology at the Academy, Doctor?"
"I learned about Vulcans. I didn't learn about whatever you are."
Spock looks at him. "I assure you, I am intimately aware of the discrepancies of my physiology."
McCoy grunts. "Well, I'm not. And how many times do I need to bleat about regulations? You can come down soon, or I can go to the captain about this. Your choice."
"I will make an appointment. You did specify to do so 'before the end of the week', and..."
"Yes, yes. Hurry it up, though, will you?" Grumbling, he stalks off.
Somehow, he doesn't think Spock will really come along so easily.
Though McCoy has done his best to familiarize himself with Spock's files – and, in fact, has almost obsessively studied the parts pertaining to his unique physical make-up, on the off-chance that something does go wrong with the man – he decides that he is not going to go into their hard-won appointment lacking in any knowledge, whenever that appointment might actually happen. Accordingly, he grudgingly sets aside some time after Alpha shift and sits down with the first officer's mammoth medical file on the computer before him. He's going to know everything about the Vulcan's history, dammit, and Spock won't have any reason for one of his snide little implications.
So he reads – memorizes, more like. But quite soon, something catches his attention. But it can't be right. The dates...
McCoy looks again. And, just to be sure, he opens a few links on his computer and examines the longer, more in-depth patient files from specific hospital visits. He doesn't, at first, really understand what he's seeing.
A lot of the medical history is classified or only available to access with permission of the Vulcan Science Academy. But the basics are available, and these are distinctly disturbing.
According to the file, more than three years out of Spock's first five were spent in medical facilities - "for observation", is the reason given on most of the forms. A few records talk of "comparing behavior to Vulcan norms". Others say he was there, "for the purposes of testing and establishing baselines of the subject's hybrid physiology".
- subject. Not patient. He doesn't miss that.
"I am intimately aware of the discrepancies of my physiology," Spock had said.
McCoy leans back in his chair and clicks slowly through the files, mind spinning.
When the week is up, McCoy appears on the bridge again, and announces, "I'm kidnapping your first officer, Jim."
Spock turns around in his chair, arching an affronted eyebrow. Jim glances back at the door, startled but amused. "Are you?"
"Someone has been skiving off physicals for... five months, now?"
"No," Spock mutters, clearly disgruntled by his inaccuracy. "Technically..."
"Five months!" McCoy insists, jabbing a finger. Jim laughs.
"That's almost impressive," he says, half-admiring.
McCoy glowers.
Noticing, Jim coughs sheepishly. "Take him," he says. Spock's eyebrows twitch. "Don't look at me like that, it's your own fault."
Setting his shoulders, Spock signals for a replacement, then steps away from his station and follows McCoy to the turbolift.
"That was quite unnecessary," he says, once the doors are shut.
"I found it very necessary," says McCoy, easing down now that they're alone. "But, I think you know why, don't you?"
Spock stoically glares at the doors, and says nothing.
McCoy half-expects the Vulcan to try and excuse himself before they reach Sickbay, but perhaps he is resigned by now. Certainly he follows along easily enough, and only glances around wearily when McCoy puts him in a private room for the physical, which is unusual.
"So I can turn the heat up," McCoy mutters, by way of explanation. "For your inconvenient desert blood," and Spock frowns but says nothing.
This done, McCoy turns, and addresses the Vulcan.
"I think we got off on the wrong foot."
An eyebrow slowly rises.
"I think," McCoy starts, awkwardly, "That maybe we just... need to... you know I don't really... I say things, but..." Aw, hell. He hasn't been so tongue-tied since Sally in sixth grade. Spock ain't nearly pretty enough for this.
The eyebrow is climbing.
Fine, then. He tries another track.
"...Okay, let's make one thing clear. I don't agree with the Vulcan philosophy. I often don't agree with you. Hell, I'm not very sure I like you at all. And I think your blood is weird. You know what else? I'm telling you that, to your damn face, and I'm also telling you that I respect what you do with your people, and I respect your work here, and I think I could like you if you got that stick outta your ass. Not that it should matter, because we ain't children, but I'm not going to hate anyone on account of their species... although I'll deny this whole conversation if you ever tell anyone about it."
He also says, "More importantly, Mr. Spock: if I do have a problem with you? You can be damned well sure I'll let you know about it. And, that being said, I will tell you right now that whatever issues you have with medical, I think you're being an idiot and you need to stop right now. You want me to keep quiet about your special-snowflake blood or promise not to run weird tests, I'll sign a non-disclosure and we'll call it good. So, do those pointy ears actually work? Or do I have to repeat myself?"
Spock stares at him.
"...I believe you have made yourself quite clear, Doctor."
"Good," McCoy snaps curtly, and jams a hypospray into his patient's neck. He relishes the commander's wince.
Damn Vulcan.