Disclaimer: Nope. Still not mine. But I promise, if Star Trek is ever mine, you'll be the first to know.

Summary: After the events of The Immunity Syndrome, Spock wants to know why McCoy didn't wish him luck. His simple question leads to a deeper answer than either man expected. No slash.

Feedback is always appreciated!

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LUCKY

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"Doctor."

McCoy started at the sound of Spock's voice. The Vulcan had been unconscious for some time after his return to the Enterprise, the combined strain of minimal life support and the amoeba's draining effect having taken a toll him.

Now, though, he was sitting up slightly and looking pointedly at McCoy.

"Yes, Spock?" the doctor asked, moving to the Vulcan's side. His eyes flicked over the readings on the monitor. Everything seemed to be alright.

"I would like to ask you a question," Spock announced.

"Go ahead."

"Why didn't you wish me luck?"

McCoy sighed. This was not a question he wanted to answer. "Is it really logical to dwell on something like that?"

Spock nodded slightly, though whether in agreement with McCoy's statement or in reply the doctor did not know. He spoke after a moment. "Consider it a failing of my human half, if you must, Doctor. But I should like to know."

"You said yourself that luck was only a human superstition."

"Yet you would not employ that superstition, as painless as it would have been for you."

"No, Spock," McCoy said. A thick wave of emotion washed over him suddenly, and he cast around for a place to sit. He continued slowly, pulling a chair toward the biobed. "No, Spock, you've got it all wrong. I didn't want to hurt you, although I didn't really realize that 'til later—I guess I spent a lot of time thinking about it when we thought we lost you."

He paused for a moment, swallowed, and studied Spock's reaction. The Vulcan's face was as expressionless as ever, but his gaze was full of an unnerving intensity.

McCoy went on. "I said it as soon as you'd gone. I wished the wall luck. I knew I should have said it sooner—but I when you asked me, that's not what I wanted to say to you. I mean…I didn't want to leave you to luck, Spock."

Silence fell, broken only by the thumping of the biobed's monitor, and McCoy realized that he'd admitted to Spock something deeper than the Vulcan had expected. Or maybe just something different.

Spock said nothing in reply. McCoy waited, and waited. Finally he decided that he had to say something—anything—to justify his confession and end the awkward silence. So he continued as if there had never been a pause.

"Jim can take care of himself. He gets hurt, I patch him up and he walks away. He takes care of us, even, more so than I've ever had to care for him. You're different. Sure, you've saved my life plenty of times. But I've had you in my care just as many. I'm responsible for you so often that it doesn't matter if you're on a biobed or off risking yourself on some ridiculous mission. It's my job to…protect you. And luck should have nothing to do with it."

McCoy stopped, suddenly aware that in trying to rectify his previous confession he'd journeyed deeper into the realm of Things Not to Say. "I'm sorry, Spock. I don't know what I'm talking about anymore."

"Do not apologize," Spock said calmly.

"Is that an order?"

"Perhaps."

McCoy sighed. "Well, did I at least answer your question?"

"Yes, Doctor."

McCoy stood. He had other patients to check on, files to organize and paperwork to do. He turned to go.

"And Doctor," Spock added, "Neither would I like to entrust your life to luck."

"That's good, Spock," McCoy said, and smiled. "Because neither of us is lucky."

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Was it too pointless? Too mushy? Please, let me know!