Unburdening

By Swiss

The cycle of numbers were a constant flow on a cool blue panel, flicking over the view screen at a speed that would have outpaced all but the most agile of human minds. "Bunch of gobbledygook," the doctor had once muttered after taking a glance through the viewer, but it was nonetheless the pace to which Spock was accustomed.

But not today.

Drawing himself up from the panel, Spock ran his fingers briefly over the inner curve of his eyes. They were burning, and he found that the display on his monitor blurred with the strain.

The cause was not unknown to him. Vulcan physiology allowed him to function without rest for four point three days without a discernable loss in efficiency, yet it had been six days since he last found any meaningful or restorative repose, and the deprivation was beginning to tell.

Eyes roving over the instrumentation of his station, Spock pondered the cause of this recent deficiency. It was not a crisis keeping him awake, not even his "damned stubbornness", as his human colleagues were sometimes wont to call his stick adherence to duty. No, in this case, the problem was more straightforward.

He could not sleep.

The catalyst, he knew, was almost certainly the lullaby. There were still several Vulcans on board, in the care of the Enterprise crew until which time they could be transported to safety. Returning to his quarters one evening, he had happened to overhear a young mother chanting one of the ancient memory-poems of his race to her infant. The rhythmic, soothing words resonated strangely, speeding up Spock's heart rate. It had brought to his mind images of red soil, fine as sand, and heat that burned the same color.

Since then, he had not rested well.

Nor was it something that he could speak of with Nyota. His gaze slid around the command bridge until it hesitated over the communication console. There, he could see her straight back, the elegant curve of her neck. But imagining the understanding in her eyes… Already, she reminded him too strongly of another woman whom he strongly admired.

Had admired.

This could not go on. He had duties to perform, and this restiveness was beginning to affect his performance. Soon, he would find himself forced to remove himself from service once more, and that was a shame he did not want to repeat. 'No,' he finally decided. 'I am suffering from a medical problem.'

Which left him with little recourse but to seek out Dr. Leonard H. McCoy.

It was not difficult to locate the doctor. As one of the Enterprise's senior officers, his location was continuously logged by the computer. What was peculiar, however, was the fact that he was still present in the medical bay in spite of the late hour. Unexpected though it was, it was also convenient. Only essential personnel moved about the ship during gamma shift, and the corridors were all but disserted as Spock made his way to sickbay.

When he entered, the sterile treatment center was a low hum of subdued noises. The lighting was dim where beds were occupied, and the entire area was endued with a sleepy, nighttime quality. There was only one visible presence, standing with his head angled over a PADD. The loose medical tunic he wore seemed overly casual with its abbreviated sleeves, yet the man's posture was rapt with concentration, his brow furrowed.

At the sound of the doors activating, the doctor looked up. There was a fleeting change of expression as the identity of his unexpected guest registered. Surprise, Spock categorized the emotion, recognizing the symptomatic widening of his eyes, the slight parting of his mouth, and the query implied in the higher inflection when he muttered, "Spock?"

It was a very brief reaction, however, for the next moment his expression rearranged into its more customary scowl. His timber was likewise steady and regular when the doctor inquired, "What can I do for you, Mr. Spock?"

Spock stood awkwardly just inside the door, hands folded carefully at the small of his back, and fought not to sway as a fleeting sensation of vertigo swept though him. Fierce, Spock sorted out the most appropriate adjective for this man before him. Though Dr. McCoy did have surprisingly stable eyes for a human – hazel, and therefore more lightly inflected than any Vulcan, but also not unfamiliar. Not startlingly alien as the captain's flashing azure could be.

"Are you going to make me repeat myself?"

For a moment, Spock was uncertain as to what the doctor was referring. Only after a momentary hesitation was he able to recall the man's original inquiry. It is the weariness, he reasoned. My thoughts are disordered, my memory effected. Yes, he decided, it was right that he had come here.

McCoy gestured further into his domain, and when Spock made no further explanation or immediate movement, he gave a heated exhalation and strode forward, towing the Vulcan away from the doors as he declared, "For the love of God, come in before you fall over."

Unnerved by the contact, Spock nonetheless allowed himself to be steered away the doors, which shunted closed with a soft hiss as his body mass cleared the sensors. "I have come to request a consultation," he finally managed to find words for his request.

The doctor responded by perfunctorily taking hold of the pulse points in the Vulcan's wrist in a business-like way that nonetheless had Spock fighting not to recoil. The doctor's touch was cool and sure, his expression taking on the assessing aspect of a trained medico. Though it did flicker in slight exasperation when he had to prompt, "Well, tell me what's wrong Spock."

Trying to ignore the doctor's proximity, Spock replied, "I have been restive recently, and it has begun to affects my sleep schedule."

"And by 'affect' you mean that you haven't slept at all in a while, right?" There must have been a slight elevation of his shoulders or some other near imperceptible tell that indicated tension, because McCoy sighed. "Your eyes are bloodshot, and even with your impeccable control, your lids are drooping. Irregular arrhythmia that responds to sound, muscle tension, a marked trembling in the extremities." He gave the offending appendage a quick squeeze before finally releasing the pale wrist. "Hard to deny your physiology, Spock."

The Vulcan blinked. "What is your suggestion, then, doctor?"

"When Jim struggles with sleep, I usually assign a prescription, but I don't suppose that would interest you."

Indeed not. He would not accept a chemical solution if there were any other available option.

"Why don't you stay here overnight," McCoy finally decided, and when the evident disapproval surfaced, he added, "As a scientist, I'm sure you can appreciate the need for more data, Spock."

The appeal to his nature as a logical being was unexpectedly nettling. 'I'm becoming irrational,' he censured himself. Irritation was illogical, especially when McCoy was merely performing his job proficiently.

"I would not be opposed to this," he agreed. It wasn't entirely the truth, but he was learning more about obfuscation with every day that he passed as the first officer of this vessel.

Spock stretched out on the long, raised pallet, easing the lean muscles in his back and legs with a deliberate, disciplined control. Closing his eyes, he attempted to allow a light meditation to seep over him, willed the calm that might allow him to sink into a natural sleep. Lifting, drifting , floating…

A grunt broke through the practiced litany and it was only then that Spock realized he wasn't being left alone in the biobed with its lullaby of beeping sensors. Immediately, his muscles contracted and he struggled to push his torso upright, nerves tingling. "Doctor, what is your intention?"

There was an uncharacteristic note of disorientation in his inquiry, a fact that did not escape notice. But though it registered clearly in McCoy's expression, he did not mention it. Instead, it was with perfect logic that the man reclined into the fiberweave of his appropriated chair and explained, "Observing."

"I believe the machines are fully capable of making the appropriate observations."

McCoy scoffed. "Believe it or not, Mr. Spock, there are still some things that machines aren't able to do as well as people. And for the medical profession, that goes double."

Spock was not inclined to agree with the doctor's statement, but, nonetheless, he was aware that his instinctual flight response had been eased by the doctor's reasonable rejoinder. He was, indeed, within his rights as physician. Spock forced himself to lie back as directed.

However, if rest had seemed unattainable within the privacy of his own quarters, then having an audience only made the situation even more untenable. He shifted, intensely aware of the hum of the equipment, of the texture of the fabric supporting his body. Involuntarily, his eyes twitched open.

"With vital signs like that, you'll never get to sleep." McCoy's voice almost startled him, a testament to how frayed his nerves had become. "Heart rate elevated, respiration normal. You're operating at full speed, Spock."

Tersely, the Vulcan responded, "I am well aware, doctor. I, too, can read a display panel."

"Irritability is a symptom of sleep deprivation, you know," the doctor responded. He had reacquired his PADD sometime during Spock's interval of uncomfortable fidgeting, but now he let it fall to his lap. His free hand traced the line of his jaw, which was lightly stubbled, and for the first time, the First Officer thought to consider just how long McCoy himself had been on duty.

Everyone had been working double shifts since Narada, and the medical bay was particularly understaffed.

Nonchalantly, as though only mildly interested, the doctor mused, "Insomnia usually has psychological causes. Stress, for example. Or if a person is having vivid dreams, nightmares, say."

Spock interrupted him, staring at the ceiling. "Vulcans do not dream."

"I wasn't talking about a Vulcan, now was I?" McCoy rejoined. "I was talking about the unique conglomeration of genetics that is you." He paused long enough for his words to sink in, and then he reclined far enough to make the seat protest. "Come on, Spock. I'm your doctor. Are you going to be upfront with me, or are we going to keep playing games."

Though he would never have admitted it, Spock found that the rebuke annoyed him. Yet the somber, imploring gaze that the doctor was using called for honesty. The Vulcan found himself responding. Shoulders around his ears, he admitted, "I have found that lately my mind has been disturbed. Images. Impulses." He swallowed around the word – Feelings. It was implied. "During working hours, I find that I am able to keep my subconscious under control, but at night…"

Spock had steeled himself for some ribbing from the always provocative healer, and was somewhat surprised when the only sound that immerged from the doctor was a considering hum. It encouraged him to continue.

"As you know, I'm reluctant to take a sleep aid. I believe it will diminish my capacity to function as an officer of this ship." His head lolled to the side, averting his gaze. He did not add that the content of his dreams already made him feel unfit. They reminded him of his failings, and combined with his recent lack of rest, it was only a matter of time before it would begin to affect his performance.

After that, there was a time in which only the faint sounds of the sickbay were audible to Spock's ears; the ambient sound of working machinery, the whisper of recycled air.

When Dr. McCoy spoke again, he was quiet. "I'm not sure, in all that prodigious Vulcan education, just how much information you ever got on the connection between human psychology and physiology."

Uncertain where the man was going this line of conversation, Spock nonetheless volunteered, "Of course, I took the required courses on human biology. However, I freely admit that I am not an expert."

McCoy accepted the opening that he had been left graciously, indeed, more graciously than the First Officer would have countenanced. "I'm not sure how Vulcans process grief, but humans often experience great loss with physical symptoms. Among them troubled dreams." He let this hang in the air for a moment before he leaned forward and said, "What I'm saying is that such a reaction is symptomatic, physical. Normal."

Did he know the significance of his words? He had to know. But how could he have divined Spock's need for just such a reassurance? To know that he wasn't deficient in some way, that this troubled preoccupation of his mind was not because he was so ill-formed as to fall prey to a debilitating weakness.

Belatedly, it occurred to him that he was seeing another layer of McCoy: the physician, the healer, the counselor.

"And what is the treatment, then, for such a…disturbance?"

McCoy answered easily, as though offering advice he had many times before. "Time, rest. Fellowship." He reached out casually, as though straightening the ruffled sheet, but afterward he left his hand there. Spock could feel the heat of it, very near his own. Its presence was oddly soothing. "Most find that speaking with someone they trust helps."

"That is illogical. Speaking about unpleasant topics does not bring relief, it only forces one to relive difficult subjects."

McCoy only shrugged. "Counseling would certainly never take off on Vulcan; it involves too much frankness with feelings. Too raw. But the process itself is called unburdening, and among human beings, I've found it to be very effective."

"As a medical practice?"

The man nodded. "Among other things."

Spock took a moment to consider. In his memory were observations of human colleagues, peers, students, teachers, superiors. He had seen this before, this sharing of confidences, this seeking of nearness. At the time it had seemed like an almost primal instinct, a dance with which he had hitherto not had the schemata to appreciate or fully understand. It had even seemed superfluous, and totally alien.

He repeated, "Someone I trust."

"It's best," the doctor acknowledged.

"Such as a friend?"

"Or a doctor, if you'd rather. You know that, as a professional, I'm bound to confidentiality. And," he paused, just significantly enough for the sincerity in his voice to register. "I wouldn't think less of you, Spock."

It had been a night for weighted considerations, the placing minute weights on a metaphoric scale. McCoy waited patiently while his patient processed. Finally, Spock responded. "I will consider what you've said, Doctor."

"You know where I live."

That was all that he said, but Spock noted the way his eyes 'softened'. It was exactly that which his Vulcan peers had once accused him of – human eyes. Then the doctor reached for a silver hypo, into which he loaded a new cartridge with practiced deftness. "Now, how about a nice sedative to take the edge off?" he offered. "I promise you'll be up without side effects before your next shift."

Spock eyed the implement in the doctor's hand, his eyes narrowing. "Of course, by 'without side effects' you mean that your potion will leave me with merely a stomach ache."

"Naturally," McCoy answered, his fingers never pausing as they checked the dosage. "Damned unnatural copper-based blood – and that's just the Vulcan half! Whoever put you together ought to be shot."

"Doctor," Spock wondered. "Did you just insult my mother?"

McCoy snorted freely; a joke exchanged between them was a rare thing indeed. "You know, Mr. Spock, I think I might just get to like you." He placed the blunt tip of the instrument against his patient's neck. "Sweet dreams, now."

It was the last thing Spock heard as consciousness drifted away, easily, and – despite the doctor's parting idiom – without the fear of dreams.